Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (29 page)

This isn’t to say that Mark is cold or aloof or anything like that. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. He is warm and sweet, and has a gentle sense about him. No matter how crazy the outside world, a strong current of peace seems to flow through him. Mark believes in quiet leadership. He can, and often does, slip into a room unannounced and calmly assess a situation without speaking a word. Then he stands completely still until the chaos and noise subsides. And surprisingly, it does. It’s an amazing thing to watch. He doesn’t scream or yell or, my personal favorite, offer a middle finger salute. Before you know it, though, the room is so quiet, you can hear people breathing. After several moments, he gives a few succinct directions and suddenly, once again, the earth is spinning smoothly on its axis.

But that was before
my
show. Much to Mark’s distress, I’d been hovering over his back and breathing down his neck for the past five hours, questioning his every move and decision. Which was a joke, trust me. I knew next to nothing about staging an art show. But that didn’t matter, and it certainly didn’t stop me. They say that ignorance is bliss, and I guess, in this situation, it was. Empowered by my naiveté, I suggested new colors for the walls, loudly discussed alternate traffic flow patterns, and hotly debated the placement of my different pieces.

We were now in the midst of a rather heated discussion regarding the titles for my sculptures. He was completely unperturbed and I was pulling my hair out.

“It’s simply a way to focus your art, Maggie. The titles you’ve given your pieces are simple and direct, but they need more. People respond to patterns and organization; it’s what the mind is built to do. The mind will seek order, even in the midst of chaos.”

“You’re saying my work is chaos?”

“Of course not. And don’t try and put words in my mouth. I simply meant that it is easier for people to walk into a room filled with art and appreciate what they’re seeing if there is a unifying theme.”

I took a deep breath and tried to get a hold of myself. Mark was staring at me with a half-amused, half-irritated expression, and I wondered again for the thousandth time how it was possible that the two of us managed to get along. We were polar opposites, and I do mean opposites. Where Mark was quiet, organized, and neat to the umpteenth degree, I was noisy, random, and sloppy. Mark was compactly built, lean but not skinny, with a body that spoke well-modulated volumes about order and discipline. On the other hand, I managed to be bony and soft at the same time. I don’t think a muscle would dare show up on my body. What would be the purpose? I’d have them slacking off in no time. I’m exaggerating, of course. Given all the molding I do, my upper body was actually rather strong, but I was still a long way from boasting a chiseled physique.

“Why can’t they just walk in and observe, appreciate and buy?”

He shook his head. “Maggie, we’re good friends, right?”

“I think so,” I agreed cautiously.

“Then go home. It’s after twelve. Eat lunch, pour yourself a glass of wine, take a hot bath, and relax. Put this out of your mind for the next few hours. I’ll take good care of everything.” He picked up my hand and reassuringly squeezed it. “Remember, this is my show, too. It reflects my name and my reputation, also. Believe it or not, I want everything to be as perfect as you do.”

I looked into those gentle blue eyes and sighed. “I’ve been a bitch, haven’t I?”

Mark smiled. “You’re a little on edge.”

I threw up my hands. “Okay, you win. Group them; tag them, and theme the whole lot of them. Just don’t make it look like a Martha Stewart ‘Crafts in Clay’ show.”

He grinned. “I’ll do my best. Go home, take a nap or whatever you do to relax, and come back this evening ready to drink champagne.”

I put my arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Why are all the good men taken?”

Laughing, he tucked my arm through his and walked me toward the back. “Do me a favor and say that a little louder the next time Jamie is around. I’m not sure she feels the same way anymore.”

I stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“She tells me I’m overreacting.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’s right.”

“Overreacting to what?”

Mark hesitated. He’s extremely reticent about his personal life. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed by his lousy childhood or because he was naturally a very private individual. Probably some of both. From the little I’ve been able to piece together, the man had had a crummy childhood—an overbearing mother and a father who abandoned the family when Mark was barely out of diapers. I met his mom once, and it wasn’t something I’d want to do again. She defined tacky-platinum-dyed hair sprayed stiffly into place, fake stick-on nails, and a pudgy body stuffed into polyester stretch pants topped off by a loud, floral print nylon blouse. It was hard to believe she and Mark shared the same gene pool. We talked only briefly, thank God, but it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to detect the signs of a blood-sucking parasite. The way she clamped her hand around my arm grated on my nerves, and before I could disengage myself from her tentacles, she launched into the woes of being a single mother. Within minutes, she had neatly maneuvered me into feeling sorry for her as she ticked off her list of problems: she was all alone, had no money, no one cared whether she lived or died. She wrapped up the diatribe bemoaning the fact that her only son seldom managed to visit her in Golden, a small town west of Denver. By that time, “seldom” sounded too frequent. All I wanted was to get out of the room and run as fast and far away as possible. Mrs. Martyr had worn me out in record time, and I hardly knew the woman. But it did help me understand why Mark refused to open up his childhood for public viewing.

“You’re not the panicky type, Mark,” I added, knowing I was going to have to prod him for information. “What’s happened?”

“Oh, you know, it’s the small things. Difficult to explain.”

“Try anyway,” I insisted.

A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “You are a persistent thing, aren’t you?”

I waited.

He sighed. “I’m never going to get rid of you unless I say something, right?”

I waited again.

He shook his head. “In the interest of preparing for the show, which I cannot possibly continue with you stepping on my heels, I’ll talk. But you have to promise not to push for any more details than what I’m willing to give. Is it a deal?”

I nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll take the deal, on one condition. You have to tell enough of the story so it makes sense, minus the intimate stuff, of course. Trust me, I don’t want to know what color underwear Jamie wears. But you have to tell it from start to finish. No handing out little anemic scraps of information. Okay?”

“Okay. I accept your conditions, as you do mine,” he replied. “But not now, not today.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Maggie. I have too much work to do to indulge in a little heart-to-heart. If the whole story is what you want, then you’ll have to be patient, and wait.”

I drew myself up. “How long?”

“Tomorrow. Lunch.”

“Fine,” I said haughtily. “But it will cost you. As an unbelievably nosy person, waiting twenty-four hours for information upsets my equilibrium. If I have to wait, then you can pay the damn bill.”

“Naturally,” he said, chuckling. “Given the supreme sacrifice you are making, I would expect nothing less.”

“As long as you understand,” I called over my shoulder as I pushed through the swinging doors into the back studio, “that I want to go to La Casa Fiesta.” I didn’t have to turn around to see the dismay slide over his face. Mark was much more comfortable in a fancy restaurant serving entrees drizzled with a lemon caper sauce than in a place specializing in refried beans. The phrase “chips and dip” was enough to send him shuddering.

“Come on, Maggie, have a heart,” he implored.

I kept walking as though I never heard him. The poor guy was too uptight. Nothing loosened a man up more than a good sweaty bout of sex, something I couldn’t help him with, or a plate of enchiladas with enough chopped jalapenos to clear up the world’s sinus problems.

The sadness in Mark’s voice worried me, though. He and Jamie had been dating for almost two years. I’d known them both for a little over a year, and I hated to think that Jamie felt any differently now than she did in the beginning. But I’d been married once myself, and I knew how things could change without warning.

I leaned against the counter and looked around the studio. I loved this place—the perpetual layer of white dust, the wooden shelves lined with vases and other pieces in varying stages of completion. I liked the openness and the onslaught of light. I was even partial to the cement floor. Although I did most of my work in my home studio, I came here to use the wheel and relax—my own form of yoga. I loved putting my hands in the cool water and molding the wet clay as it spun around. It called for small movements and a steady touch, and I got so lost in the spinning motion that time slipped by soundlessly.

In fact, I came in early this morning, so anxious about my show that I couldn’t eat or sleep. After showering and puttering around the house for several long minutes, I threw on some clothes and drove to The Outlook. Fortunately, Mark always unlocked the back door once he arrived so people could work in the studio. I strode in, tossed my purse in the corner, and crossed the room to the cabinets where the clay was stored. Pulling out a small square, I unwrapped it and kneaded the clay until it was soft and malleable and then placed the mound in the center of the wheel. Pulling up a stool, I sat down, flipped the switch, and winced when the wheel let out a high squeaking noise as it reluctantly started to rotate. As I dipped my hands in the cool water and placed them on the clay, the motor began to hum and my nerves calmed. I felt myself sloughing off the stress and the fear of finally exposing my work to the public.

The funny thing is, I never expected to be here. When I was young, things were very different. I wanted to be a baseball player. It was a dream of mine, a really big dream that made everything else pale in comparison. I was determined to be the first woman baseball player. At ten years old, I ate, slept, and dreamt baseball. Without a mother to guide me toward a more feminine pursuit, I was molded by a pushy older brother who never got over his profound disappointment that my parents’ bundle of joy turned out to be a girl.

The day I was brought home from the hospital, Andy took one look through the bars of my crib, snorted his disgust, and stomped out of the room. At least that’s the way I imagine the scene, because ever since I can remember, he’s ignored my gender completely. My own gender, that is. Other women were a completely different matter. If you listen and believe half of what Andy says, he does very well with the opposite sex, thank you very much. To hear him talk, he’s quite the stud—which is more than I needed to know.

Anyway, from the moment I was old enough to walk, Andy began wrapping my pudgy fingers around a baseball and explaining the importance of the red stitching and other intricacies of the game—all gobbledygook at the time. But to please my older brother, whom I inexplicably adored despite his merciless teasing and dogged determination to toughen me up, I became a willing student. He desperately wanted me to be one of the boys, and I just as desperately wanted to please him, so I did what he wanted. I played baseball. Before long, I could out-run, out-pitch, and out-bat any boy in the neighborhood. And as luck would have it, I grew to love America’s favorite pastime.

My childhood had one purpose—to be the first woman recruited by the Yankees. I didn’t want to interview the other players, I didn’t want to nurse their injuries or have their babies. I wanted to be a Yankee. My goal in life was to hit so many home runs that people called me Babe—and not because I was looking hot. Even better, I dreamed of being the outfielder who stopped every “should-have-been-a-home-run” hit, vaulting up and crashing into the fence with my arm outstretched, feeling the ball smash into my open glove.

But then mud pies walked into my life. On one hot, windless day, my brother and I started squirting each other with the hose, an activity that quickly escalated into our usual war games. Andy and I took turns with the hose, pretending it was a machine gun or a stream of arrows. It was always fun for about ten minutes, until Andy became a little too enthusiastic and ended up hurting me. That day, in his zest to beat up the bad guys, he pinned me to the ground, sat on my chest, and sprayed water directly into my face. I spit and sputtered and finally managed to throw him off. I was so angry, I marched off, refusing to listen to his apologies. Eventually he gave up, shrugged his shoulders, climbed onto his bike, and pedaled down the street.

After he left, I grabbed the hose and jerked it across the lawn to water the freshly planted flowers, a chore that always fell on me because I was the girl. Sulking, I flopped down, dropped the hose, and watched the water stream out, creating little gullies and valleys in the loose soil. Mesmerized, I stuck my hands in the earth, grabbed large chunks of wet dirt, and started packing them together. Ten minutes later, I had a pile of thick, semi-round, hamburger-patty mud things. Stacking them on top of each other, I leaned back to examine my work. I had created a misshapen, multi-tiered chocolate cake. I was hooked.

Baseball dimmed in the light of my real dream. I wanted to be a sculptor.

Fifteen years later, fifteen years of watching my brother clutch his broken heart, I was exactly that. At least I hoped to be. Tonight was the big test. After months of suggesting changes in my work, Mark had finally decided I was ready. So after a restless night of tossing and turning and sweating through my pajama top, I slipped into the studio, sat down, and created another vase I didn’t need but didn’t have the heart to throw away.

And now, a few hours later, I stood in the studio again all by myself. I leaned over and touched my vase. The clay was still soft to the touch and would be for several hours, but I knew Mark would want the place spotless for tonight. I carefully lifted the wooden tray that held my vase and carried it into the small staging room where the kiln stood and placed it on the shelf with the other pieces waiting to be fired.