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friends and ex-coworkers tell the story of how he left home. He
knows they never call him a sculptor either, just troubled James.
The art is probably a small part of his story. He is sure they
all have bets on how long it will be till he returns to his wife
and home. “Yes, yes, that’s right. I am a sculptor.” He walks forward to shake her hand. His palm is sweaty. Hers is cold. He looks into her eyes and he helps her rise to her feet. He recognizes her now. He had seen her passing by in town twice. He had seen her at the vegetable market and at the cheese shop. He took notice of her because she was strolling a pink baby carriage. He remembers his thoughts after the first time he saw her at the cheese shop, exchanging some words he could not understand with the man behind the counter. He was startled by how seductive he found her as a mother. He remembers thinking that the baby she is caring for only strengthens the chemical she exudes. He turns the key in the door and shows her in. *** James is now in his third day of mad sculpting. Renée lies naked on the bed with her head high supported by several pillows, her long curly hair spreading onto the mattress. Her legs are straight and slightly parted. One hand is by her head. The other rests on an inner thigh. She is smiling very subtly, grinning to herself. James has fresh clay stains on his jeans and shirt; sweat bubbles appear on his upper lip and forehead. He stands before a life size clay sculpture. He is carving out chunks from her legs, trying to create the space between them. His hands move from a bucket of water to the clay, his fingers massage, pull, then back to |
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