Short Story Sunday: Red Sand

She has seen him before. The muscles on his back run like rope on pulleys as he manipulates the sienna mound. It's hard to see what he's working on through the lace curtain and she daren't move it in case it catches his eye. The power trips. He swears into the darkness. Her pulse quickens. She anticipates the light before it makes her squint. He is a perfect silhouette, working the clay like he's birthing a new species. 



"Are you all right? The power's off."

"Jeez, Mom." She shudders, despite the warm night air.

"Sorry. Can't sleep?"

"The neighbour woke me."

"You should go over there. Introduce yourself."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"If you say so. Night."

She hears the groan of feet on the staircase, as if the planks cannot stand the pressure. He is  still busy over there, glistening with exertion. She edges the curtain away from the sill and waits. There is only a pane of glass and ten metres between them. Her breath clouds the view. He stops. He turns. Their eyes connect. He smiles and walks towards the window. 

"Come and have a look." He motions for her to join him, but she cannot get her legs to move.

The play this game for several weeks, where she's perched at the window after dark and he smiles in her direction, as if he knows she's there without really having to see her. She watches his creation emerge and marvels at the way he sculpts, shaves and slices away at the medium, as though he's releasing the secret potential it carried inside all along. She observes him for hours, and some mornings she awakens to find a blanket across her shoulders and the realisation that she'd fallen asleep to the rhythm of his labours.

One day, over breakfast, her mother places a gift-wrapped box in front of her. 

"This came for you. Delivered by Himself."

"Oh." She eyes the silk ribbon and lifts the box to test its weight. 

"Aren't you going to open it?"

She hesitates and then tugs at the red ties. Under the lid is a vanity mirror, encased in porcelain, and when she clasps the handle, she notices the details etched beneath the glaze. It's a nature scene, with waterfalls and willows. She decides that it's the best gift she's ever received.

"Isn't that something?" Her mother waits for her to hand the mirror to her and marvels at the intricacy of the design. "You should thank him."

"I'll think about it." She puts the mirror in her gown pocket and sips her tea. 

She wasn't always this way. Her therapist explained that it was in reaction to trauma and that she was working through the after-effects. At her last job, she had worked with a man who - thanks to extensive therapy - she could now identify as a gaslighter: a sociopathic narcissist whose idea of fun was breaking her down. It wasn't easy to just quit, as all her friends suggested. She needed the money, the health insurance and she actually loved her job as a creative director. But she hated the fact that she needed to hear "Eye of the Tiger" on repeat just to get herself through the door to her office in the morning, or how she braced for impact every time she saw or heard him. She knew she was good at her job; it was the daily onslaught of personal attacks about her work that caused her to break into a million pieces. It happened slowly, and then all at once. When her junior designer found her crying and shaking under her desk one Tuesday afternoon, she felt she would never recover from the shame and humiliation of becoming all the things her boss said she was. The look on his face as she was led out of the building haunted her dreams. She'd had to give up her apartment and move back to the suburbs with her mother, on the advice of her therapist. It made her feel that she was a danger to herself. For a while, getting out of bed was a small victory. And then leaving her room, and joining her mother in other parts of the house for tea or breakfast or to watch TV. But she couldn't go outside. Not yet. 

"Alice?"

She looks up at her mother. "Mm?"

"I said, do you want to help me harvest the tomatoes today?"

She swallows her tea. "I will try."

In her mind, Alice calls her mother 'Mama Pollyanna' because she always finds the silver lining in every situation. She is sitting on the steps outside the kitchen door, holding a tray of harvested tomatoes. Her mother is chatting about everything and nothing, cooing at her plants when she finds they have produced a bumper crop, and lambasting the ladybirds for not catching all the aphids. She is content to sit and watch her mother, helpfully holding up the tray to catch whatever she's brought in her apron. 

There's a shadow at the gate.

"Mrs Findlay?"

"Ben! Come in. I've got an apron full of tomatoes for you."

She watches the gate swing on its hinges. When he appears, she notices the crow's feet at his eyes and the silver tinge at his temples. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt and jeans covered in mud stains. She feels the urge to run inside.

"I was just telling Alice that I have a bumper crop this year, but I think I'll have to pull out this plant as it's overrun with aphids. I'm going to give those lazy ladybugs a good hiding."

"Don't be too hard on them, Mrs Findlay. I'm sure they did their best."

Her mother grins at him. "Excuses, excuses." She looks at his hands. "Busy in the workshop, I see?"

"Yes, I have a show coming up and I want to do some final touches on the centrepiece."

"You know, I'll just run inside and get you a container for the tomatoes. You've met my daughter, Alice?"

"Well, we've seen each other across the yard."

"Good. Time to get better acquainted. Won't be long."

Alice leans out of the way as her mother skips up the stairs and into the kitchen. She knows "won't be long" means anything between ten minutes and an hour. 

The silence is thick between them. They speak at the same time. Ben smiles.

"You first."

"I wanted to say thank you for the mirror. I think it's the best present I've ever received."

"I'm glad you like it."

"Did you do the etching yourself?"

"I did. My grandmother had a similar mirror from the Netherlands, and when I was a boy I broke it." He grins. "I don't think she ever forgave me."

"You said you have a show?"

"Yes, it's next week at the Public Library. You are welcome to come. The entrance is free, and my friend Josh owns a winery so he'll be pouring out his semi-good stuff." He runs his hands through his hair, streaking it with red dust.

"Why clay?"

"I like the way it feels. It's like I have the power to make love visible. But I'm rambling. What do you do?"

Her breath stops short. 

"Look, I know you've had a rough year. Your mom told me. Not in detail, but just that you needed time. And I get that. I used to be a lawyer and my days were spent between my office and the divorce court. It damn-near killed me. Now I am doing something I love and I like to think it's also something I'm good at."

"I would agree with that."

"Which part?"

"That you're good at what you do. I can see that you pour your soul into every piece you make."

"And you, Alice? What do you pour your soul into?"

"Sorry I took so long, but you know how it is with plastic containers. All bottoms and no tops - or vice versa!" Her mother scoops up a third of the tomatoes from the tray in Alice's lap and hands the mismatched plastic box to Ben. 

"Thanks, Mrs Findlay."

"Don't mention it. And your show is next Thursday at the Library, yes?"

"Doors open at eight."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." She looks at Alice. "Something to look forward to, eh?" She takes the tray of tomatoes from Alice and makes as if to go back inside. "Thanks for visiting, Ben, but if you'll excuse me..." She holds up the tray.

"All good, Mrs Findlay. Thanks for this." He nods at the tomatoes.

She smiles and says, "Bye", but winks at Alice as she heads into the house. 

"Would you do me a favour?" Ben's voice is low.

Her expression is first one of alarm, but then she softens.

"Come to my workshop tonight. There's something I think you should see." He pauses, and then, with a small wave, exits through the gate.

A foot nudges Alice's back. "He understands more than you know. He went through the same thing as you when he left his law firm, and making sculptures brought him back to life. It might be worth finding out what he wants you to see."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough. Are you going to help me relish these tomatoes, or what?"

*

He puts the tomatoes in his fridge and hovers in front of the open door, letting the cool air blast his legs. He hopes she will come. He can see her teetering on the brink and, as her mother says, she needs a nudge back to wellness. He has his afternoon planned: call Jessica to complain about the curation in the library foyer, remind Josh that he can't water down the wine this time, and work on the last piece. He mentally adds another thing to his list: don't wait for her.

It is almost dark when he looks up from his work. The onset of hiccups reminds him that he hasn't eaten since he shoved a handful of sweet tomatoes down his throat at lunch time. He has some leftover pizza, the staple of getting him through long nights. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and flicks on the kitchen light.

"I hope you're hungry."

His hiccups give away his fright.

She giggles. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's all right." He smells something that reminds him of chicken pie.

She holds it up. "We - my mother and I - made this. Do you want some?" She casts a glance over her shoulder. "Actually, you'd better take it. She's watching from the window."

He grins. "There's enough on that plate for two. Share with me?"

"No, it's OK, I already ate."

"Then tell me what I can say to make you stay a bit longer."

"Do you have any beer?" 

The hiccups subside a few minutes after the first bite, and he's grateful. It's an affliction that haunts him from childhood, and whenever he's hungry or stressed his diaphragm flexes as if paid to do so. She's picking at the label on her beer and he notices how strong her hands are.

"Your mom is a good cook."

"She's good at everything. It's sometimes a hard act to follow."

"My dad was like that. His dream was to see me running my own law firm as he did. But, in order for him to run his firm, he had to drop dead at fifty-five from a heart attack. It gave me a glimpse of my future and I knew I had to get out."

She reaches over and wipes his forehead with her fingers, which are cold and damp from the beer bottle. 

"So now you play with red sand."

He laughs. "You make it sound like I am a kid at the beach with a bucket and spade."

"No. It sounds like fun. I can't remember the last time work was fun for me."

He wipes his hands on his apron, stands up and says, "Follow me."

The inside of his workshop reminds her of a mechanic's garage she used to take her car to in the city, but the difference is that, instead of seeing rows of wrenches hanging in their outlines on the wall, Ben has every imaginable tool for slicing, scraping and smoothing clay. He notices her looking.

"I've collected those over the years. Most of them have a story." He pauses beside a shape obscured by a plastic sheet. "Ready?"

She collects her hair and sweeps it over her shoulder. "Ready."

The plastic wafts to the ground in a cacophonous flutter. The red clay glistens.

"It's beautiful."

"It's not finished. That's why I need your help."

She circles the life-sized sculpture of a woman standing on the edge of a rock. She is leaning forward, trying to catch something. The detail is exquisite. She feels moved, in the way that seeing Michelangelo's David moved her. But something is missing. 

"Where is her face?"

"She hasn't shown it to me yet. I was hoping you could model for me - just as a starting point. I've been trying to get it right for ages, but none of them looked right." He retrieves his phone and swipes through some pictures of other faces and she nods in agreement.

"What do you want to capture in her expression?"

"Hope."

"What does that look like?"

"It's something I'm still trying to find out." He recovers his work. "I promised you some fun, didn't I?" He hands her an apron and she has to tie the strings twice around her waist. He pulls out his potter's wheel and dumps a lump of clay onto it. "Ever used one of these?"

She shakes her head. "But I always wanted to try."

He talks her through the process of making a vase, explaining how she needs to alternate her pressure and massage the clay into compliance. "I often tell my friends that working with clay is like working with a woman. You need to know how she likes to be touched."

"The same could be said of men."

"True, but I think our edges are a bit rougher."

She laughs. "I'm ready to get my hands dirty."

He coaches her for the better part of an hour, guiding her hands, teaching her the rhythm and showing her how far she can take the clay before it splits or collapses. 

"You're good at this," she says, admiring the completed vase. 

"I'll keep it in the fridge until I have time to glaze and fire it. Maybe you'll come back and help me?"

"I don't think you need any help."

"Maybe, but I want it."

She smiles and raises her stained hands. "I had fun. Thank you." She passes the apron to him. "Good night."

"Night. Tell your mother thanks for dinner."

After she has gone, he sits at his table, sketching from memory. When he wakes up, the sun is shining and his telephone is ringing.

*

"Did you have a good time last night?"

"It was all right. He said thanks for dinner."

"You were gone a long time."

"Was I?"

"Fine, we don't have to talk about it. I just hope it's not going to be the last time you sneak in after I've gone to bed."

*

"I have to say, Ben, this is truly inspired. I agree with you that it should be the centrepiece rather than your model of the Man in Repose under the Apple Tree. Well done. Will she be dry in time?"

"I think so."

"Just don't tweak it any more. It's good to go." Jessica slaps his back and gestures at the sculpture with her cellphone. "She's a lucky girl, whoever she is."

*

"I don't think I can go tonight."

Her mother doesn't look up. "Oh? Something wrong with your dress? I thought we should have taken the burgundy..."

"Mom."

She clasps her hands. "Alice, I really think you should. I know it's hard. I've watched you for a year and he... He brings out a lightness in you that I wasn't sure you still had. Please don't chicken out of this. Please. Do it for me. Come for me. I need you to be there." She wipes the rim of her left eye.

"Oh, Mom." She seats herself at the kitchen table. "It's not that I don't want to. I do. I just... can't."

"Because of what people might say? Or think? Honey, they're there for the free wine and to criticise someone else's art. Nobody will even notice you. OK, let me rephrase that. Only Ben will notice if you're not there. And he will notice. And I don't want to have to make excuses for you." Her mother leaves the kitchen, and Alice knows it's because she doesn't want to cry in front of her.

*

The usual silence of the library is gone and Alice is aware of appreciative murmurs from the art lovers. A busybody called Jessica greets them and points them to the drinks table where a man wearing a tag saying "Josh" is doling out red or white wine. She can make out some jazz - Miles Davis and occasionally Diana Krall - above the din. Her mother is trying to contain her excitement as she hands her a glass of Merlot, while flirting with Josh about how much she enjoys his 2016 Pinot Noir.

A small crowd is gathered in the centre of the room, and Alice guesses that it's the sculpture she saw in his workshop. She rakes the venue with her eyes, but can't find him. She taps her mother's shoulder. "I'm going to circulate." Her mother barely hears her as she is knee-deep in a discussion with Josh on the underrated value of mulberries in enhancing wine's flavour. 

Alice is never sure how to behave at galleries, so her strategy is to walk clockwise through the room and pause reverentially at each piece. This strategy failed miserably when she was at the Vatican Museum in Rome, because, had she done that, she might still be there. She catches a whiff of something like dewy grass and feels body heat behind her.

"You came."

"I almost didn't."

"What do you think?"

"You're so talented."

"I meant about her." He gestures at the centrepiece. "She's called 'Alice'."

Her blood runs cold. 

"Are you all right? You look as though you might faint." He catches her arm.

"I'm fine." She flexes her shoulders back. "Can I see her?"

He leads her to the sculpture, and again she circles it slowly, taking in the details. She leaves the face for last because she's not sure what she might find there.

"You really nailed that expression, Ben." An American woman with more plastic than a rubber duck pouts at him. "I think I want this for my summer house."

"It's not for sale," he said. 

"I'll pay double what it's worth."

Jessica steps forward and diverts the woman to a smaller version of the original that he's made for collectors.

"It's me. But it's not me." She looks at him. "Is that how you see me?"

"It's how I wish you would see yourself."

She scoffs. "I could never be that serene or centred. This woman glows from inside - and she's essentially petrified red sand." She laughs. "You really are gifted."

He averts his eyes, and she knows it's her fault. 

"Ben, I'm sorry. I'm overwhelmed."

"It's OK, Alice." He places a hand on her shoulder.

She shrugs him off and runs out of the library.

*

She doesn't leave her room for a week. No amount of coaxing or threatening on her mother's part has any effect. On the eigth day, she goes downstairs and sits on the steps at the kitchen door. Her mother is cleaning the beds around her tomato plants and tries to mask her surprise when she looks up and sees Alice sitting there.

"If you're hungry, there's some leftover stew in the fridge."

"I'm sorry, Mom."

She stops digging with her fork for a moment and then continues. "I think Ben deserves an apology more than I do."

"I don't know what to say."

She throws the fork at the ground and it vibrates as it lands. "You say, 'Ben, I'm an idiot. I've been unwell and it's made me forget myself. And I think I might have feelings for you too. Can you forgive me?' And you better hope to god he does." Her mother pushes past her into the house. "But make sure you shower before you go over there."

*

He's been putting off working on her vase. He's finished all the loose ends after the show - which was his most successful to date, and 'Alice' has been boxed in glass and holds a prime position at the entrance to the children's section of the library. He can't decide which colours to use on the vase, so he settles on white, hoping that it represents a clean slate of sorts. He likes glazing his work. It's a process that can't be rushed, yet it also requires a degree of precision. If nothing else, it will enable him to stop thinking about her for a while. He covers the base of the vase with wax and senses that he is being watched.

"Hi." She looks sheepish. "You really should lock your kitchen door."

"Not all intruders are unwelcome. Just last week I had a rabbit in here."

She smiles. "What are you working on?"

He holds it up.

"You kept it? I thought..."

"What? That I would be petty and destroy it because you ran out on me at my show last week?"

"I am sorry, Ben."

He fiddles with the wax.

"I haven't been myself for a long time. I wasn't ready to be seen again, especially when I'm such a mess. I was wrong to act as I did. You didn't deserve that."

"You're right." He dares to meet her eyes. He sees the emotion in them and puts the vase on his work bench. He takes off his apron and walks towards her. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I know. I am afraid that I will hurt you with the broken parts of me."

He laughs. "In my line of work, I use the broken parts to make mosaics."

She reaches for him, but restrains herself. He steps closer. 

"Will you teach me how?"

"To do what?"

"Make a mosaic out of the pieces of my life?"

He pulls her into his arms. "Not today. We've got a vase to glaze." He kisses her forehead. She raises her chin and he strokes her cheek. "I was thinking of tinting it blue."