The Potter's Daughter (Literary Series) (2 page)

“Come on kids.
 
Let’s get to the pool before it gets too
late,” said Brian.

“It’s started snowing.
 
Look Mom, it’s snowing,” said Lily as Brian
shuffled the kids back out the kitchen door where large flakes were beginning
to fall.

“Indoor pool?” asked Abby.

“Indoor pool at the community
center, at the fairgrounds behind the Stone Tavern,” said Caroline.

“Willow Lake is booming, first fine
dining at the reopened South Point Inn, now a community pool.”

“All the amenities of the city.”

“And the kids are getting so
big.
 
I can’t believe it.
 
It seems like it was just yesterday you
were out to here,” Abby made a circle with her arms far away from her belly.

“I guess I was, and it feels like
yesterday,” said Caroline pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“So how are you and Will fairing
over at the studio?”

“Well, you know Dad.
 
He has a charming way of stressing me
out.”

“I’m really sorry about that hysterical
call before you left the city, I guess I kind of lost it huh?”

“No, I think I needed it.
 
It snapped me out of the state of denial
I was in.
 
I think I thought if I
ignored it, it would go away, but you were right.
 
He’s getting noticeably worse.
 
I called Dr. Roberts last week.
 
He said Dad’s tremors are happening more
often than he’s letting on, of course.
 
He suggested I start looking for someone to help him around the house.”

“Hmm.
 
What do you think about that?
 
I can imagine what Uncle Will
will
think.”

“Yea, he’ll hate it.
 
But I’m sure not going to hang around to
take care of him, and I can’t have him burdening you guys.”

“Oh, he’s not a burden.
 
It’s just been a little tough lately,
that’s all.
 
Hey, did you ever take
that Asian cooking class you were talking about?
 
I have all the makings for these
fantastic spring rolls.
 
Do you
mind?
 
I’m a bit behind schedule?”
 
Caroline pulled a plate of shredded
vegetables and a stack of wonton wrappers from the refrigerator and set them in
from of her cousin.

“Sure.
 
I’ll give it a try.
 
I never told you what happened in that
class.
 
I went to a few, but the
whole group, except the teacher, were married couples and I felt out of place.”

“Was the teacher cute?”

“He kept hitting on me.”

“Well?”

“Well nothing!
 
He was older,” Abby paused, “and I’m not
looking.”

“What do you mean you’re not
looking?”

“Just that, is that so bad?
 
Oh yum, give me a lick.”
 
Abby reached over Caroline’s shoulder
and dug her finger into the bowl of chocolate frosting her cousin had taken
from the refrigerator.

 
“No, of course not.
 
But you can’t stay single forever, that
small apartment of yours has to get lonely.”

“Yea,” said Abby in a singing
pitch, “but dating is really not going anywhere.”

Abby meant what she said about dating.
 
Though the city was chock full of
interesting people and she had tons of great friends, all of the men she dated
turned out to be flawed.
 
These
flaws usually became apparent when she thought everything in the relationship
was going well.

There was the graphic artist with
the chiseled chin and the hazel eyes that could talk about color and design for
hours and could have been a catch had he not had such a profane mouth.
 
The musician with the dark curly hair
and the thin frame that declared women were not capable of the passions
necessary to create true art, meaning that he thought women were inferior
altogether.
 
Then there was the
media exec a friend had set her up with, a philanderer that could not keep his
eyes, much less himself from wandering.

“All of the men I am meeting are
coming up losers,” said Abby.

“Hmm.
 
Well that’s lousy.
 
How are things at the Museum?” asked
Caroline.

“Well, actually pretty good,” said
Abby.

Abby was glad that Caroline had
changed the subject from dating to the museum.

Last Friday had been the most
incredible day at work.
 
Abby was
assigned the Renoir exhibit and her boss Olivia hinted that she would be up for
promotion when Olivia left for maternity leave.
 
Abby imagined herself a managing
curator.
 
She would wear her hair up
and abandon her plain ponytail.
 
She
could buy real cosmetics, discard her jumble of drug store brands, and carry a
proper handbag instead of her battered leather backpack.
 
She saw the promotion as an excuse for
her to get serious.

The new exhibit Abby had been
chosen to work on fascinated Caroline.

The Renoir exhibit would be a
premier show at the museum.
 
This
would be the third exhibit project for Abby and the largest.
 
The exhibit would feature over 100
paintings and drawings from Renoir and other artists representing the
development of impressionism.
 
The
project management for this exhibit would take months of planning, collecting,
and marketing.
 
To Abby, this was a
sign her career was definitely on track.

The girls chatted for some
time.
 
Caroline asked questions and
listened for details that she would never hear in discussions on the lake.
 
Coffee turned to chilled white wine as
they went on to talk about other artists they loved.
 
They talked until Brian and the twins
returned to dress for the party, and then they talked some more until they
themselves went upstairs to dress.

* * *
* *

On the western shore of Willow
Lake, three structures huddled amid the evergreens.
 
The shoreline studio dwarfed the tool shed
nestled in the trees opposite the lakeside yard and the main house stood
recessed between the two.
 
From the
house and the studio large bay windows peered out across the lake to the
eastern shore.
 
At the lakeside, a
weeping willow towered over the compound.

Kiln rooms added to the side of the
studio housed industrial electric kilns and gas-burning giants.
 
The old wood-burning kiln which Will
preferred stood half dug into the ground by the tool shed.
 
Despite the old kiln being Will’s
preference the oven did not get much use anymore.

Inside the studio were two large
tables with urns ranging in size at different stages of completion.
 
On the far wall were stacks of clay
sacks and the smaller tool and paint storage rooms.
 
The bathroom was in the corner.
 
Everything was coated in a fine layer of
clay dust giving the room a distinct grey accent.
 
Lined up and evenly spaced under the
large window stood five pottery wheels.
 
Sitting at one was Will.

Will had spent most of his
sixty-seven years in this greyed studio and was as much a part of the workshop
as the clay and urns themselves.
 
All of his memories came from this place.
 
Bellen hands had built the Bellen
studio.
 
Will had grown up in the
studio and there he had raised his children.

The potter’s wheel is where Will
felt most comfortable.
 
The wet clay
felt moist against Will’s hands lightly running between his fingers.
 
Delicately the clay was brought to life
by his seasoned touch.
 
Will had
learned how to be a potter from his father and in turn had taught his son.

For generations the Bellen name was
synonymous with hand crafted ornamental urns.
 
Since Will’s grandfather had built the
studio, trucks had come to Willow Lake four times a year to pickup urns ready
for consignment.
 
Will was proud
that Bellen urns had been taken as far away as China and India.

The urns were all of sizes and
degrees of ornamentation.
 
The
cremation urns were always in demand and there were standing orders with the
best interior design firms for several of the tall highly decorated urns to be
displayed in the lobbies of hotels, custom homes, or large city
apartments.
 
Some urns were special
order.
 
Will’s father used to boast
that President Roosevelt had two tall urns put in the White House that were
made with his own hands, the hands of a Bellen.

Over the years the highly detailed
urns tended to be more popular and brought in the most money.
 
Urns Will did not like that much because
he thought they appeared contrived.
 
Each grape vine, humming bird, and floral decoration was created with
such skill and artifice that they ironically lacked naturalness and
spontaneity.
 
Will’s favorite urns
were tall and plain.
 
That is what
he was about to create.

Though the shop had electric
wheels, for the tall urns Will always used the manual kick wheel with the pedal
on the floor just as his father did.
 
When Will’s son Michael was alive, the two would have competitions.
 
Will on the manual wheel and Michael on
the electric.
 
The contest was to
see which of the two could raise the clay to the tallest urn.
 
Will had played the same game with his
own father.

The clay Will was working with
started as a blob and was that no longer.
 
Will reached over to get the wet sponge while holding his other hand
effortlessly still on the side of the clay.
 
The wheel hummed.
 
The pedal pumped up and down.
 
Will’s upper body was postured
statuesque, the clay waiting to dance before him.
 
Will squeezed the sponge above the clay
as the water uniformly engulfed the form.
 
The time was right.
 
Leaning
into the wheel, Will put his other hand lightly to the side, beckoning his
partner.
 
The clay responded and
began to lift from the wheel, agreeing to join him.
 
Will led, the clay followed.
 
His right hand caressed below the rising
nape of the rim.
 
His left hand
stroked the side at the waist.

The clay began to dance.

If Will respected the clay, if his
hands were steady, the clay would become a tall plain urn.

* * *
* *

After Will finished the urn he
stood up from the kick wheel, turned toward the lake, and reached inside of the
pocket of his flannel shirt for a Camel cigarette.
 
Camel shorts without the filters had
been his cigarettes of choice for many years, yet after Emily died twenty years
ago, he switched to the light filters and then only smoked those sparsely in
the studio or at the Stone Tavern.
 
Will put the cigarette in his mouth then reached into his pants pocket
for his Zippo without removing his gaze from the frozen lake.

There were three snowmobiles
crossing the lake from Peters Beach, Will was not focusing on them.

Will’s mind was drifting from the
completion of the urn to the inevitable thought that he was capable of
completing a piece at all.
 
How
effortless the wheel had been for him, as throwing the clay had been countless
times before.
 
Surely the tremors
were no reason for everyone to be so concerned, he was after all as able bodied
as ever.

Just under six feet tall, Will was
as solid at sixty-seven as he had been at forty or twenty.
 
He was moderately stocky and shared the crystal
blue eyes and the sandy brown hair of every Bellen man before him.
 
Grey was the color of his hair now, yet
all there, and a color that blended well with his studio.
 
Will was quite proud of that.
 
A little grey did not debilitate him.

Will thought Abby was
audacious.
 
His daughter was always
welcome to her childhood home.
 
Taking time away from her job was a bit much though.
 
If Abby had her own issues to work out,
he would support her just as long as she did not project them on him.
 
Abby having an early mid-life crisis was
not his fault.
 
Abby did not have to
meddle in his life for distraction from her own.
 
Meddlesome is what they all were.
 
Little Caroline calling Abby in the city
burned him a bit too.
 
Abby should
be taking care of her life and he should be taking care of his.

Will threw down his half smoked
camel and crushed the tobacco on the dusty cement floor, his eyes still fixed
across the lake.
 
Shrugging off
thoughts of Abby and Caroline, he turned to one of the worktables in the center
of the room.
 
Under the worktable
were a set of cabinets that held dyes, sponges, and water bottles.
 
Along side of the supplies were two
bottles of red wine and some paper cups.
 
Will pulled a half bottle of wine out of the cabinet along with a paper
cup.
 
He opened the wine and filled
the cup.