Authors: Mark Nykanen
“Right,” Kerry agreed immediately. “Don’t worry, I can appreciate why you’d want to have some private space. I’ll do whatever you need. I’ve been really looking forward to this. Thanks.”
He left her then, and she got some eggs out of the refrigerator and scrambled them on the gas stove, the largest she’d ever seen in a private home, more like the range in the restaurant where she’d learned to smile for tips. She wolfed down dinner and executed a quick cleanup before heading directly to the master bath. The taps were sticky, and rusty water spilled out for almost two minutes before she put the plug in.
Even before it filled, she stretched out, letting herself luxuriate in the full length of the tub. Soon the water rose up over her entire body, and she grew groggy from the comforting blanket of warm water.
Half an hour later, she had to force herself to get out. Drying off seemed an ordeal, relieved only by the prospect of pouring herself into the four-poster bed.
She stared at the ceiling, remembering the night sky above a campsite she’d once made high in the Cascades. She’d lain on a soft pad of pine needles at ten thousand feet, and dreamed of Van Gogh’s brilliant stars all night long. Now, with legs as heavy as steel wheels, she fell into a sleep so deep that her only dream was of darkness.
The next morning she woke to the creaking of a door. She bolted upright, her eyes scouring the unfamiliar surroundings, but nothing was moving in the room. The door to the hallway and the one to the bath were closed, as she had left them the night before.
A metallic clang prompted her to throw back the curtains above the bed. Ashley Stassler was standing by the barn doors feeding a padlock through a hasp. With an angry expression, he slammed the
U
-shaped shackle shut with the heel of his hand. He looked around, his eyes alighting on the front of the house, though not with the imperious gaze she’d witnessed the night before. In its place she saw concern, and that made her wonder why he was locking up the barn. It had been open when she’d arrived last night. He’d been coming out of it when he said she’d
better
be Kerry Waters. She’d been planning to ask him if she could keep her bike in there. But his wary manner now made her uneasy, so when he turned toward her she instinctively dropped the curtain. She felt silly, certain she’d been seen. Oddly, she also felt warned.
She downed a quick breakfast, brushed her hair, and opted for a minimum of makeup: lip gloss, mascara. That’s all, and only in deference to a new gig. She’d dispense with the minimum as soon as she could. She wondered how long they’d work today, and whether she should give that guy Jared a call, plan a ride for later. He said he was leaving on Sunday. That’s tomorrow, she realized. What’s the big deal? she asked herself. Another cute guy. Moab, she guessed, was full of them, like all the other sports towns she’d heard about. She’d read a story in one of the magazines—
Shape
?
Cosmo
?
Mademoiselle
?—about the best place to meet cool guys, and sports towns had been at the top of the list. So it’s not like Jared was the only pair of buns on the block, but something about him turned her flywheel, made her feel “spinny.”
As she stepped on to the veranda, Stassler shouted from the door of the foundry,
“Hey, sleepyhead, let’s get started.”
“I’m coming.” She smiled and skipped down the stairs. The misgivings she’d felt when she first woke up burned away like a morning mist.
Stassler had already spread out several of the master molds for
Family Planning #8
, the repair work he’d told her about last night.
“Shit
does
happen,” he grunted, and she laughed. The word sounded so strange coming from Ashley Stassler. In some ways he seemed prissy, incredibly fastidious. She wondered if he was gay. She certainly didn’t sense any of the sexual vibe that most men give off. Of course, she was less than half his age. With the exception of some notable rock stars, that kind of age difference generally diminished her interest in a man, although she had found a couple of forty-year-olds appealing; but none she’d done more than kiss, and even then it had been out of curiosity rather than desire.
This morning, he explained, they’d prepare the master molds. That meant heating up wax and spreading a thin layer of it into each mold, then letting it cool.
“That’s the only way I use wax,” he said. “I sculpt with clay, and use the alginate to make an exact replica of the clay sculpture. The replica’s what I use to make the mold. That way I don’t have to take any chances with the sculpture itself. But the alginate,” he looked right at her, “is the key. It’s the only way to get a perfect impression.” He glanced at a tub of alginate on a nearby bench. “It’s what makes my work so special.”
She’d heard about alginate, the green stuff dentists use to take an impression of your mouth. The gunk that always made you want to gag.
“What I like about alginate,” he explained, “is that it captures
all
the details of a … my sculpture. When I’m finished, I want people to see the pores in the skin, the way a muscle or tendon rises. For that kind of work, there’s nothing better.”
Kerry loved this. This is what she’d dreamed it would be. Working by the master’s side while he went on about materials, his technique, his art, his vision. But that’s about all he said once they went to work. When she tried to prompt him with questions, he offered only the briefest replies.
After the first hour, the work became routine enough that her thoughts ambled along on their own, and they kept coming back to Jared, which annoyed her. Here she was with Ashley Stassler, and thinking about some other guy. Grow up, girl.
But at one o’clock, when he said they were through for the day, she burst out with a “Really?” appearing much more pleased than she would have wanted to let on.
“That’s it. We’re off tomorrow. I never work on Sunday. It’s not a religious thing, it’s just me.”
She nodded.
“Go have some fun. I’ve got stuff to do.”
“Do you want to see any of my work?” He hadn’t asked about her plans, and she’d been nervous about bringing it up; but Lauren had insisted she establish right away that this was a two-way street: her labor, his expertise.
He waved her away, saying, “Not today,” which would have made her feel like shit if her thoughts hadn’t already run to Jared.
She called him as soon as she walked inside the house. He answered on the first ring, and they made plans for an easy ride, a getting to know you ride, as Kerry considered it.
It took them about an hour of moderate climbing before they’d pedaled all the way along the banks of Onion Creek to a vast plateau, the whole of a gigantic ranch that had apparently been there since territorial days. The sun had played coyly with them all afternoon, but now broke through a wide opening in the clouds. The light looked like a brilliant, fibrillating column extending from the land to the sky itself. Big boulders rose to their left, and they climbed them until they found one they could settle on.
Kerry stretched out, letting the sun bake her bare legs and the rocks warm her back and bottom.
Jared sat next to her unpacking a baguette. He broke off a piece and offered it to her, along with wedges of Gorgonzola cheese and apple.
“How gallant,” she laughed.
“That’s not all.”
Out came a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “You’re too much. You know that?” she told him.
He liked hearing her say this. She could tell by his smile.
They toasted the ride, and then he said, “To you, too,” and they drank again.
The wine went straight to her head. She felt silly, giggly, and not at all like a riot grrl who could take control of any situation. She was still relaxing against the rock when he kissed her. She let him, and their mouths opened to each other as easily as the clouds to the sun.
She didn’t do anything but kiss him back. No hands in his hair or wrapped around his hips. No extra encouragement. She was perfectly content to kiss up here on the rocks, to open her eyes and see the sun, and smell his warm body, moist from straining after her for most of the ride. She’d let him take the lead as they started out from the highway, and for the first fifteen minutes had been happy to check out the hardest buns she’d seen in a long time; but then the competitor in her had come to life, the riot grrl who liked to lead, and who didn’t mind if the right guy got an eyeful of her butt in tight bike pants as she rose up out of the saddle to send extra power to the pedals. She passed him, getting keyed up from all that keen attention. Keyed up even more now that she was in his arms, tasting his lips, his tongue, sensing his titillation, and sharing hers too.
But she wouldn’t do
it
. In a weird way, the day was too perfect to screw up with sex. So when his hands fell to her pants, she clenched his fingers and said, “No, I don’t want to.” But she said it softly and she said it nicely, and he’d been trained well somewhere along the line because his hand rose back to her chest. She let him caress her for a few minutes more before he realized that, “No, I don’t want to” wasn’t going to turn into a boisterous roll on the boulders.
• • •
The ride back was a gentle downhill, which she was thankful for because after drinking the wine she’d discovered that her fine motor functions weren’t feeling all that fine.
She had him drive her to the gate, where they’d met earlier, but no farther: she didn’t think Stassler would appreciate any extra company. He helped her get her bike down off the rack, and promised to call her tomorrow.
“I thought you were leaving.”
“I was, but now I’m not.”
“Cool,” she said with a big smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Yes!
When she rolled back up to the house, Stassler was again exiting the barn.
“What do you have in there?” she said, out of breath but feeling as sprite as a wind-dancing dandelion.
“I’m trying to figure out what I can do with it.”
“We can keep my bike in there,” she joked.
He squeezed out a smile when she asked if she could look around. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Sure, but there’s not much to see.”
At any other time she might have sensed his reluctance, asked herself what was the big deal; but she still felt those endorphins pogoing around her brain like it was their very own mosh pit.
The barn was almost sparkling clean. The only odd business, as far as she could see, was the straw on the floor of each stall. What was the point? Stassler clearly didn’t keep horses. The barn didn’t look or smell like a horse had been in it for a long time. But those big piles of straw did look inviting, and when she reached the last stall she flopped backward onto the golden mound, the picture of youthful exuberance.
Stassler froze, then reached to help her up, as if she’d tripped.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Without waiting, he took her hand and pulled her up. They were out of the barn directly, as fast as if they were fleeing a fire.
She had the strangest feeling as she said good night and walked up the steps to the veranda. When she’d landed on the straw, it hadn’t been as thick as she’d expected, and she’d kind of bonked her butt on the floor. But here’s what was weird, it hadn’t really felt like a floor. It had felt like … what? she asked herself.
The answer came a few moments later as she entered the house: it felt hollow, like when you bump against a door.
I
T’S THREE IN THE MORNING
, and the air is as chilly as an ice chip. You’d never know it was May. Not even a hint of desert heat at this hour. Even the sage is sleeping. I can barely smell it (not like at midday when the sun seems to suck the scent from the sap). No dust either. Everything’s settled. Everyone’s asleep. Everyone but me. I’m lucky in that I don’t need much sleep. I can stand here and watch the way the darkness surges from the sky like the widest river in the universe, flooding the desert, the mountains, and every crevice and canyon, stripping them of their shadows and the simple condolences of light. But most of all, the darkness puts Kerry Waters to rest. Early to bed, early to rise. Such a wholesome girl. She sickens me. It’s difficult for me now to believe that I ever harbored libidinal intentions toward her, even though she was brazen enough to send me a photo, along with a letter filled with the kind of adulation that usually signifies a willingness on the part of a young woman to give it her all, if I will just be kind enough (please!) to take her under my wing. Rock stars aren’t the only ones who get groupies. It was reasonable of me to assume that Kerry Waters would do what so many other young women have done, and provide the stimulation that I otherwise pass up because of my cloistered lifestyle.
But then I had a bad feeling the minute I saw her. All that health and vigor, all that dirt and sweat from her bike ride. I suppose she thought she’d honor me with her body odor. She was as nervous as a child bride. “You must be Kerry Waters,” I said, though I wanted to add in those first few odoriferous seconds that her patronym would have served her better had it been Soap, or Lather, because water alone could never rinse away such rankness.
Worse even in my estimation than the body odor was Kerry’s ongoing good-girl enthusiasm. I could bear her earnestness as long as we worked in silence, and she didn’t try to thrust her prosaic attempts at sculpture at me. As part of our compact, I have to look at them, offer some insights, cast a couple of these trifles; but as soon as she started with her wheedling I could feel my patience wither. In comparison to Diamond Girl, she’s a chimp.
I walk into the barn, and take the stairs down to the cellar where my charges lie under Army surplus blankets.
“Wake-up time!” I shout, though they don’t sleep deeply anymore. Correction, all but Jolly Roger sleep uneasily and can be disturbed with the slightest noise. When he curls up, he snores and snorts through one hour after another.
But none of them knows if it’s day or night anymore, their circadian rhythms are all messed up. I wish I didn’t have to roust them because rest is as important as exercise when I’m trying to get them buffed out, but this is simply the best time to avoid the curious eyes of Kerry Waters.