Autumn, my favorite season. And today there’s excitement in the air. Something’s up; something’s truly up.
The wind blew furiously, almost stopping George Turner in his tracks, slow as his pace already was. He hoped the neighbors weren’t watching. Here he was, 46 years old, a successful accountant, lugging a 10-pound block of clay from his expensive car to his expensive home in Upper Saddle River.
Why?
Well, my therapist suggested it, and since I’m paying her $220 an hour I might as well follow her advice no matter how crazy—crazy, that’s ironic—anyway, it might be fun. I haven’t done anything artistic since high school. So, why not?
Blustery wind stripped the trees of their leaves, evoking autumn memories: Rutgers tailgate parties with his former wife, Barbara, and their two kids; bicycle rides alongside the Saddle River bordered by gold-leafed trees; family outings to Tices’ farm where they bought pumpkins, drank apple cider—all you can drink— and ate fresh donuts, still warm, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar; tea with Barbara on their back porch as they watched a storm approach; reading the Sunday New York Times in bed together, taking long walks in the afternoon, a light supper in the evening, then early to bed and relaxed love making.
As he struggled towards the front door, he savored the seasonal change: the red berries on the Yew shrub near his front porch, the scarlet leaves on the august maple in the front yard. His architect had wanted sod and rhododendrons, but George said no. He wanted to preserve the tree.
Like a man appraising the slender legs of a tall woman, his gaze panned up its trunk to the crown. A sudden gust of wind sent flaming tongues spiraling away.
Take flight, yes, take flight. You’re free.
Higher still, seagulls peppered a sky filled with cumulous clouds. With wings spread wide, they soared in expansive circles. George wondered if, like sailors, they flew on windy days for the sheer joy of flying.
With a slight tip of its wing, one gull swooped down in a large curve, then it churned its wings, climbing back up again. George yearned to experience that kind of free flight.
Finally reaching the porch, he sat down the block of clay, then he rummaged in his pants’ pocket for the door key. When he opened the door and entered, there were no screams of greeting from the kids, no running up to grab hold of his leg, no kiss from his wife.
There was just Spike, an orange tabby, who didn’t greet him at all. He yawned and stayed curled on a stuffed chair in the living room.
George consumed a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a beloved Saturday lunch tradition dating back to his own childhood. He begrudgingly made a small salad, to appease the voice inside admonishing him to eat something healthy.
He poured himself a glass of Zinfandel and headed upstairs, down the hallway, past the master bedroom, to his study. The children’s rooms were all downstairs so their noise would not bother Barbara and George, or perhaps it had been the other way around. After all, if they could get past the evening’s argument, once in each others’ arms, the heat would rekindle.
God, these thoughts, these thoughts. Separation is not separation. She’s still here.
He cleared off the desk top and rested his wine on the corner. This would be fun, he reminded himself.
In the last 26 years, he had had very little of that, most of his time spent establishing himself professionally. Five years into his marriage, he realized with pride that he was earning more than his dad ever had. He lived in a bigger house too. Truly, he had made it. Yet his feelings were mixed. Something crucial had been left behind.
The wind howled like an abandoned dog. He undid the twist tie and opened the brown plastic bag, then he rolled up his shirt sleeves and dug in.
His hands recoiled from how cold the clay was, yet he sunk them in further. Out emerged a clump, and he sat it on the desktop. Sinking into his weathered leather desk chair with wheels, he took a sip from his glass. The desk lamp spotlighted the clay. Its shapeless form was the color of dried blood.
He leaned forward and with both hands rolled the clay back and forth, back and forth. He sat back again, took another sip and suddenly laughed out loud.
Boy, would my therapist love to know what the first shape I made was.
Quickly, he changed the phallus into a ball. Round and round, he rolled, engrossed in the task of producing a perfect sphere. He returned it to the desk, reached for more wine and leaned back into his chair. Turning towards the window, he gazed out at the sky.
Barbara and George’s glasses clinked together as they toasted. They were seated in a corner of Tammy’s Bar. Cigarette smoke, fog gray and velvety, laced itself about the room, curled around hard corners, hung suspended beneath a hanging light fixture and blurred neon beer signs, rendering an overall haziness to the bar.
Seated on barstools, two overweight women, shouted to be heard over the juke box. “What d’I say? Are you listenin’ t’me?” one woman slurred, peering at the other. With bored amusement, a young bartender watched as he held a glass over a spinning brush then dropped it into a sink filled with steaming hot rinse water. He grabbed another used glass.
Over in the back corner a feverish young man played pinball. He jiggled the machine hard, desperate to keep the ball rolling, then slammed his hand down on the glass when it tilted and the ball drained away.
The juke box played Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide:”
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well, I’ve been ‘fraid of changin’
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I’m gettin’ older, too
The wistful tune wove into one fabric the entire bar scene. George felt surrounded by grainy sadness.
He leaned over to Barbara and said, “Ya know what gets me? All I have to do is take half a step out of this scene, just kind of hover above it all, and look at everybody, including myself, and I see just how hard everybody’s trying. Everybody’s doing the best they can, but they’re still not getting what they want.”
Her powder blue eyes softened, and George noticed, for the first time that evening, she was wearing a powder blue sweatshirt.
“It’s a tough life, George.” Her look was warm like someone inviting another to share a winter cabin’s crackling fire.
George didn’t know why, but he felt like he was going to cry.
“Barbara…”
“George, do you know how important you are to me? How important this relationship is to me?”
He took her hand. “I love you so much.”
“I know that, but something’s missing.”
“Well, what the hell is that?” he said, feeling like someone just screeched-scratched the phonograph needle across a perfect moment.
“I’m not happy,” she said. She let go of his hand. “And I need to take care of myself.”
Back in his study, George sat his wine down.
Bad memory.
He shook his head and looked again at the ball of clay.
Now what?
He picked up the ball and rolled it back and forth between his hands. Then he poked two small indentations into it. Next he pushed in the sides towards the top of the ball producing a smaller ball seated on the larger one.
Eyes and a head.
And he was on his way.
Arms snaked out slowly finishing with hands like mittens. He shaped stump-like legs with feet that were flat and wide. George sat the figure up standing. He noticed its back was rounded, and he decided to keep it that way.
This thing will never stand up straight.
He smiled at that, then winced.
Picking up a nearby pencil, he poked in a belly button.
No genitals, but it’s gotta have a heart.
With great care he shaped a protuberance around the chest area in the shape of a heart.
He turned his focus to its head. Little outgrowths on each side of the large head became ears. From the initial indentations, he created huge eyes. Finally, he carved out an oval shaped, large mouth.
He sat his sculpture back down on the desk, grabbed his wine and leaned back.
God, you’re ugly. Your mouth wide open is eerie, like you’re screaming. A big hearted, belly buttoned, screaming child, I made that. How odd.
George finished off his wine and went downstairs for a second glass. He heard Spike thump down onto the floor and head toward the kitchen.
Did I feed her?
The wind shook the house. George quickened his steps.
Something’s up; something’s truly up.
Wine glass replenished, he returned to his makeshift art room and took a long look at his new creation. He set the piece on its side and flipped off the room light.
Nighty-night.
Without removing his clothes or washing up, he flopped onto his bed and fell asleep.
What was that?
He jerked upright. The clock on the night stand glowed 4:00 am.
Something’s up.
His heart pounded. He lay back down. The bed felt like an oven, and he threw off the covers. A large skylight overhead allowed heaven’s dome into the room. This was the bedroom of his dreams. A ficus, a veritable tree, stood in one corner. The bathroom had a two-person sunken tub with a two-way gas fireplace beside it that allowed views from the tub as well as the bed. It was a lovers’ paradise.
I wonder what Barbara’s doing right now.
He ached to pull her beside him.
What was that?
He bolted back up again.
There’s something in this room.
He sat motionless, listening.
Maybe it’s Spike. No, couldn’t be. He didn’t come back in after I let her out.
He must have dozed off. 4:41.
What a night. No wine for me tomorrow.
That sound, it was less something he could hear and more a sensation. His middle back tingled from its perched-up position on the bed board.
“YAH!”
Something whisked by his cheek. He felt it, whatever it was. Too large to be a mosquito or fly.
Maybe it’s a bat. Oh God.
He cringed at the thought of having to deal with it. Isn’t this why he paid the big bucks, so he could get away from wilderness problems like this?
The sound, like a soft whooshing, moved rapidly about the room, back and forth, back and forth.
Maybe it’s one of those seagulls.
He leaned over to the nightstand and lit a candle, evergreen scented.
From its amber light, he saw something flying. It was neither a bat nor a seagull. It was reddish in color. Flying around and around like it was enjoying itself.
Holy shit, that’s the goddam clay thing. This is crazy. God, get a hold of yourself. I must be drunk; I didn’t drink enough.
“WWWHHHHHOOOOOOOAAAA!”
He just came at my face. His mouth is wide open, laughing.
He pulled the covers over his head and worried about what to do next.
The 6 am buzzer on his alarm clock drilled into his head. Slowly, he pealed the covers back, sat up and looked around.
There was nothing. He grabbed the clock. If it had a neck, he would have choked it. After a few tries, he poked in the alarm switch.
All was quiet, save for the morning birds.
George arose and scampered down the hallway into his study. The creation was still there, still resting on its back, still silently screaming. George, naked, sat in his executive chair with wheels and lifted the empty wine glass in a vague tribute.
Later that day, he quit his job.