These Hands

            by Mary Pinto

 

                The clay didn’t move.  It didn’t sprout bunny ears or a tea spout.  There was no suggestive curve of full lips or a classical nose anywhere.  It was completely and tragically blank. 

            Jay leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.  The clay was taunting him.  For three hours it had been taunting him.

            “I hate you.  Did you know that?”

            The phone rang.  Jay glared at the clay once more before reaching to pull the cordless off the counter.  Remnants of past projects clung to the plastic. 

            “Hello?”

“Hello, James,” his mother said.  He pictured her in that enormous bed, notebooks in a messy pile beside her.  “How have you been?”

Jay sank back into his chair.  A dull pain began spreading across his forehead with each word.  Not again, not now.  Jay hated that he had begun to fear that soft, Irish voice.

“I’m great, Mom.  I’m doing great.  How are you?”

“Fine, dear.  I’m just a little disappointed that my son moved all the way to Europe and still didn’t want to live in the same country as his old mum.”  Jay’s fingers tightened around the phone. 

“I’ve been living in London for two years, Mom.”

“Well, you know what I think of England.”  It was 8:43.  If she started in on an England rant, Jay would never make it to the store on time.

“Mom, I’ve gotta get to work soon.  Was there something you wanted?”

“I want to see you, honey.  And I promise it won’t be like last time.  I hired a new typist, Celia.  It won’t be work this time.  I miss you.”  Jay watched as guilt slithered out of the phone and down into his ear.   

“Can I call you after work?” he asked, already digging through the clothes on the floor for something suitable.  Everything was torn and stained with clay.  They also had a slight odor. 

“Of course, but don’t forget.  If there’s a money problem, I’ll pay for the ticket, don’t worry.”

“Bye.” Jay hung up the phone before she could continue.  He pulled a shirt off the floor and smelled it.  It was slightly more professional than the one he had been wearing for the past thirty hours.  Jay peered into the bathroom mirror, wondering if he really looked like he had been up since five staring at a lump of clay.  His blood-shot blue eyes told him he did.  Oh well, he thought, good thing art stores have low employee standards.     

With keys clenched between his teeth, Jay tugged a jacket on.  The sky outside looked bleak, nothing like the sunshine he remembered from Miami. 

“Bye, Warren.” Jay mumbled, the keys still in his mouth.  The three-foot tall dragon sculpture did not respond.  It simply continued to spew out stone fire and look menacing.

It began to drizzle a little as Jay stepped onto the street.  The store was only a ten-minute walk away, but on days like that he cursed himself for not buying a car.  He reached the store at exactly 9:00.

“Looks like Jay-Jay needs a comb,” Gina said, smiling at him from behind the cash register. 

“Is it that bad?” he asked, shoving his coat into the cupboard.  Gina came up behind him and tried in vain to rearrange his disorderly blond hair.  She gave up and smacked his butt instead.

“Thanks.  My old boss used to do that too, but he was a little rougher,” Jay teased, referring to Fair Frank.  He ran a used car business that Jay had worked at for two weeks before stumbling into Gina’s sanctuary.

“I’ll bet he did.  Can you and Tim handle the store for a while?  I’m going to do inventory in the back.”  Before hearing his answer, Gina picked up a large stack of papers and retreated to the back of the store.  Jay glanced under the desk to see Tim curled up asleep under it.  He drew his foot back and gave Tim a nice, hard kick in the stomach.  Tim sprang up, smacking his head against the desk.

“I hate Americans,” Tim muttered, standing up slowly.  At his full height, his head barely reached Jay’s chin.  He sat down in Gina’s chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

“You are a horrible employee,” Jay remarked.

“Who cares?  Gina loves me too much to fire me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jay paused.  “My mom called today.  She wants me to visit again.”
            “Not your crazy mum again.  I’ve read some of her books.  She’s completely nutters.”

“You could say that.  I mean, there’s a reason I don’t live in the US or Ireland.  My parents are disturbed.”  Jay reached into a drawer under the counter and pulled out a handful of jellybeans.  “Very disturbed.”

“Then don’t go,” Tim offered, helping himself to Gina’s candy stash.

“That’s the logical answer.  But my mom’s life is writing, and now her hands hurt too much to pick up a pen.  Arthritis.  She uses me as free labor…” Jay trailed off as a customer approached the register.  She was tiny with hair that seemed to reach well past her elbows.  She carefully laid a stack of canvasses, brushes, and paint on the counter. 

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” Jay asked politely.  The girl nodded, but didn’t speak.  Tim carefully placed her purchases in a bag while Jay swiped her credit card.

“Have a nice day,” they both said automatically. 

It was a slow day.  Customers came in and out.  Some bought supplies, but many didn’t.  It was twenty minutes to closing when a familiar face entered the store.

“It’s Hot Painter Girl!” Tim said, almost in a girlish squeal.  He nervously ran his fingers through his hair, only succeeding in making it look more psychotic than usual. 

Jay turned to admire Tim’s unhealthy obsession.  She was pretty, thin, and didn’t have any visible tattoos or multiple facial piercings.  A big step up from many of the other shoppers.

“I’m going to marry that girl,” Tim declared. 

“No, you’re not.” Jay rolled his eyes.

“Well, I might.  It’s possible.”

“The only things you’ve ever said to her were, ‘would you like a bag?’ and ‘have a nice day.’  Does that sound like a long term relationship to you?”

“And there was that time I was getting something for her off one of the high shelves and I definitely caught her checking out my ass.”

“I’m sorry then.  Clearly you are going to marry her.  How could I be so blind?”

“See?  I was right…. oh, sarcasm.  Thanks, mate.”

“Anytime–” Jay was interrupted by a not so subtle throat clearing.  Hot Painter Girl was leaning over the counter.

“Hi.  I’d like to buy this paint.  I mean, if you’re not too busy,” She asked, smiling in order to seem cheeky rather than pissy.  Jay wondered how he had missed that Hot Painter Girl was Hot American Painter Girl.

 “Okay,” Tim mumbled, ringing her up.  He clumsily tossed the paint into a bag and passed it to her.  Jay watched Tim’s pitiful behavior with amusement.

 “You have paint in your hair,” Jay said suddenly, noticing a dry streak of blue at the bottom of her hair.

She frowned.  “You have clay in your ear.”

“No, I don’t.” Jay said, only because it sounded like the right answer.  He did have clay in his ear.

 “Are you guys hiring?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jay and Tim responded quickly, though neither knew whether Gina needed more help.  There was always more room for an attractive female employee.  Tim jumped up to find Gina and an hour later, Paige Waybourne was officially the newest employee of the store. 

It was six when Jay got back to the apartment.  He was tired, hungry, and drained.

“James, honey, I was wondering if you had made up your mind yet…” Jay hit the delete button on the answering machine.  She still couldn’t remember his work hours.

He pulled two boxes of Chinese food out of his bag, swearing to himself that he would learn how to cook.  But still, it was hot, greasy, and comforting.

“Warren, want some chow mein?” he asked.  The dragon didn’t answer.  Warren was by far his masterpiece and possibly his best friend.  It was depressing. 

 

The store was very different with Paige around.  She was much better with customers than Tim and Jay, as they tended to be a bit moody and curt.  Paige brightened the entire room, and sales were doubling.

It started off slowly.  Jay would ask Paige if she wanted to grab a bite after work, or maybe get a drink at the pub next door.  They spent hours talking and she taught him the proper way to deal with customers.  Paige even showed him the paintings covering every inch of her apartment, claiming that only a handful of people had ever had the privilege of seeing them.  But he still couldn’t show her his sculptures.  Warren was the only one he displayed, besides a few vases and barely started pieces.

“I’m coming in Jay!” Paige yelled, banging her tiny fists against his door.  “I’ve had enough of this craziness!  Show me your damn apartment!”

 At the sound of her enraged voice, Jay panicked.  He threw a towel over the dirty dishes in the sink and tried to pick up the clothes and trash littering the floor.  It was acceptable.

“Fine, fine,” He threw open the door.  Paige raced in.

“This is it?  I thought you had dead bodies or women’s shoes lying around,” she commented.  She turned and caught sight of the dragon. 

“What do you think?” Jay asked, wanting anything but the truth.

            “I love it.  But where do you keep the rest of your work?” Paige looked around the room in search of more sculptures.

            “This is the only one I kept.  A lot of vases are gone.  I gave the griffin away.  And the centaur.  The unicorn went to my–”

            “Hold on a sec,” Paige interjected, “Do you ever sculpt anything real?  Alive?”

            Jay paused.  “I guess not.”

            “Oh, dear.” Paige’s voice took on an unexpected sympathetic edge.  She began walking back toward the door.  “Jay?”

            “Yes?” Jay asked, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

            “I can’t help you here.  Not right now.  Soon, maybe.”  Paige opened the door and turned around.  She reached out and ran her hand across his cheek.  “Call me.”

            Jay stood silently as Paige shut the door.  Part of him was baffled, but a small voice in the back of his head told him what to do.  He reached for the phone, his eyes never leaving the dragon’s twisted claws.

            “Hi, mom.”

 

Jay shivered.  It was cold and the view from the window promised that his luck would be just as bad outside.  He had been in the Dublin Airport twice before: once, entering Ireland with a feeling of dread, and once leaving it with a similar sensation. 

Jay spotted a tall, nondescript man holding a sign with his name on it by the baggage claim.  They shook hands and exchanged formalities before heading to the parking lot.  The car was nice, partly conveying “I love you, dear son, here’s a car to ride in comfort in,” and, “I couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed even for my own flesh and blood, but I’m hoping you won’t notice if the car’s nice enough.”  Writers can say a lot with just one car. 

The driver’s name was Jonathan.  He was proud of his Irish heritage and insisted on teaching Jay his favorite expressions in order to help him integrate into the culture better.  Jay played along to the best of his ability, even though he wanted nothing more than to bury himself back into his bed in London and forget this whole poorly planned trip.

They pulled up to the house twenty minutes later, after a quick last minute stop.  Jay slowly walked up the steps, his feet feeling heavier with each stride.  The entryway looked the same as it had a year ago.  Same vintage hat rack by the door, same pictures on the walls.  There were still shoes lined up by the closet, as immaculately clean as they had been in their boxes.

“James?  James, is that you?  Come in here.”

Jay obeyed.  He followed her voice down the hallway and into her bedroom.

She hadn’t changed either.  Her silver-blond hair was tamed into some sort of bun and her tiny frame barely made a lump under the blankets.  Just as he had pictured weeks ago, there was a teetering stack of notebooks by the bed.  Jay knew the notebooks, just like the shoes, were for show.  She still read them occasionally, but her years of scribbling down every observation and idea were over.

“I’ve missed you,” she said as Jay bent down to kiss her cheek.  She carefully grasped his calloused hands in her own tired ones.

“It’s nice to see you too, Mom.”

“I’d like you to meet Celia,” she said, motioning to a woman in the corner of the room.  She had a wide, girlish face that seemed to disguise her clearly advanced age.  Jay rose to shake hands with her. 

“Your mother has told me so much about you, James.” He winced.

“Yes, so she has,” Jay said. All three paused to consider that statement.   

 “It was nice to meet you.  I’ll be back later tonight,” Celia said, picking up her coat and tactfully leaving the room.  Jay sat down in her vacated chair.

“How’s your book coming?” he asked after a considerable silence.

“Fine.  Celia’s been a great help.”

“Did you get that sculpture I sent you?  The unicorn?” Jay was curious to see what she thought of the only present he had given her in four years.  He had only sent it because he felt a unicorn in his apartment undermined his masculinity.

“Oh, it broke.  I don’t think you used strong enough packaging.  Can you had me that book, dear?” she pointed at a hardcover by his chair.  It was an old copy of her first novel, published two years before he was born.  He handed her the book, making sure she could take the weight before letting go completely.  She shifted her attention away from Jay and onto the book, thumbing through the pages quietly. 

Years ago, his mother ignoring him would have driven him crazy.  Jay shrugged it off and reached into the plastic bag by his feet.  He pulled out a block of clay and a large stack of newspapers.  Jonathan had been quite helpful about finding the nearest art store.  Jay spread newspapers on the end table, carefully placing the clay on top of them.  His mother didn’t notice, but if she did, she ignored his odd manner.  Jay sunk his fingers into the clay and began trying to breathe life into the worn hands he saw flipping through a book in front of him.