Page 37 of Delay of Game
Slick slip coatedmy hands as I leaned over the lump of clay. My fingertips connected on opposite sides of the lump, and I drew it up, forming a small cylinder on the moving wheel.
“That’s good.” Gloria sat perched on a bench opposite me, urging me on. Her silver hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and a lock of hair fell onto her forehead as she pitched over her own creation to watch me. And Gloria didn’t make some barely centered mug. She muscled eight pounds of clay into a pot the size of Mila’s body. I doubted I could carry something that huge, let alone create it.
I dripped water from my sponge onto the clay, grey water spraying out of the splash pan and leaving another trail of dirty water across my apron. Undeterred, I dropped the sponge back in the tray and hovered my fingertips on either side of the cylinder. The laundry list of “easy steps” for throwing a pot replayed in my head. As I spackled wall dents and removed loose linoleum, I streamed every pottery video I could find explaining technique and suggesting projects. The calm instructions set to ASMR-quality videos of clay molded into mugs, plates, and bowls left my head swirling.
My fingers grazed the cylinder, thumbs locking together as I lifted the clay up. My forefinger skittered along the exterior of the clay, not nearly wet enough to move it easily. I removed my hands too fast, introducing a wobble. Dunking my hands in the water, I slid my palm down the exterior, attempting to fix the dent my dry fingertip left. Instead, I moved the dent to the rim, exacerbating the wobble. I pressed my foot down, intending to slow the wheel but instead speeding it up. In seconds, the cylinder collapsed, spraying chunks of clay into the pan.
“Well, boo,” I swore under my breath.
Gloria chuckled. “Isn’t that how it goes? On the plus side, you centered it well and had a nice first pull.”
“This gets easier, right?” I asked, scraping leftover clay off the bat.
She shrugged. “I still have days where I can’t throw, drop finished greenware, sacrifice pieces to the kiln gods. You just learn not to care so much, and you’ll appreciate the pieces that come out all the more for it.”
“Do you have any other tips?” I’d whittled a pile of wedged clay balls down to one and only had two wobbly bowls to show for my effort.
“Think less. Let your hands do the work.”
“Easy for you to say.” I laughed, smacking my last ball onto the bat.
I centered the clay and opened it up. This time, I wet my hands and closed my eyes as I pulled the sides up, keeping my focus on the feel of the clay rather than a specific technique. In three pulls, I had a small cylinder. Unsure of what to actually do with the cylinder, I compressed the rim and experimented with changing the shape. With steady fingertips, I pushed the bottom of the cylinder out.
Slowing the wheel to a stop, I sat back to admire my creation. The pot-belly bottom extended further on one side more thanthe other and the compression at the top was too drastic for a mug and not drastic enough for an effective vase, but I liked it just the same. Maybe it’d be a wonky soup bowl.
“I love the shape,” Gloria cooed even as she threw a near perfect lid for her giant pot. “It’s got character.”
I fought back a self-effacing urge to say it looked awful. Because it definitely did. “Thanks.”
“Trim the bottom a bit before you wire it off.”
A good suggestion, considering I had at least half a pound of clay billowing out underneath. I restarted the wheel and carved out the bottom.
“Does that mean you’re coming back tomorrow?” Gloria asked as I lifted the bat off the wheel.
“Maybe. Probably.” I set my bowl on the drying rack and made my way to the sink. The clay washed off my hands, and I coated them with lotion.
“How’s Mercy doing? Think she’d be up for some company?” Gloria grabbed a wire and separated the lid from the bat in a practiced pull.
“She’s doing well,” I said, only partially lying. I’d called to check in, but I hadn’t visited in person since school started. The evening phone calls had even dropped off after three nights in a row where she didn’t remember my name. “If you want to visit, first thing in the morning is best, but she still may not be completely coherent.”
Gloria scoffed. “Oh honey, that’s no big deal. I’d just like to catch up with her. If she doesn’t remember me, that’s not Mercy’s fault.”
“It’s not,” I agreed, but couldn’t help an awful rush of anger from lodging in my chest. Sure, maybe she didn’t remember everyone: casual acquaintances, nursing aides, hell, even her friends. But I wasn’t just anybody. I was her family. I spent my summers at her house. I lived with her. I cared for her.
And when we lived together, I didn’t have time to feel angry. Sad, confused, depressed, sure. But not angry. I didn’t have time to be angry. And there wasn’t anyone to be angry at. Her parents and sister had died years before. My parents did what they could from across the country, but Aunt Mercy didn’t need them. She needed me.
And now I had nothing except a simmering anger steeped with heavy guilt.
“Maybe we could visit together?” Gloria urged.
I didn’t offer any concrete plans. Just a half-hearted shrug. “Maybe.”
I picked up the tools I’d scattered throughout the studio. A wiggle wire on the wheel, a pinpoint tool on the table, a sponge on the floor. Collecting supplies like a magpie and stashing them back in the neatly labeled boxes on the shelf, I pointedly ignored Gloria’s perplexed expression.
“I can take a hint,” she said gently. “I’ll change the subject. How are the renovations going?”
Rob had returned to finish the steps late last week while I’d been at work. Part of me wondered whether that had been intentional, but Mila mentioned to her new friends that her daddy only had Tuesdays off during the football season, and I felt a little better.
