I found myself watching Wilson and his sister throughout their meal, and it wasn't just because I was their waitress. They seemed to enjoy each other's company, and their laughter filled their corner frequently. Tiffa was the one who seemed to do the majority of the talking, her gestures and hands movements accenting everything she said, but Wilson had her giggling uncontrollably more than once. When they finally signaled that they wanted their check, Tiffa reached out and took my hand as if we were old friends. It was all I could do not to yank it back.
“Blue! You have to settle this for us! Darcy here says you know something about carving. There are some fabulous carvings in the shop there, that I saw on the way in. You wouldn't know anything about them, would you?”
I was stricken with sudden self-consciousness, and for a minute I didn't know how to respond.
“Uh, what would you like to know?” I answered cautiously.
“Darcy says it's your last name carved into the base of each one. I told him they couldn't possibly be yours. No offense, luv, but they are seasoned, if that makes any sense.”
“They're mine,” I blurted out. “If that's all you need, here's your check. You can pay at the register. Thank you for coming in.” I rushed away, breathless, and barged into the kitchen like someone was after me. I found myself actually looking for some place to hide, as if Wilson and his sister would actually chase me and tackle me to the ground. After a minute of cowering, I marshalled enough courage to peek through the swinging doors separating the kitchen from the dining room.
They were browsing the gift shop, pausing beside several of my pieces. Tiffa ran her fingers along one of them, commenting to Wilson, though I couldn't hear what she said. I was struck with self-consciousness all over again, horror and elation warring in my chest. I turned away, not wanting to see more. It was close to closing time, and the cafe was almost empty, so I managed to hide out in the kitchen, doing my closing duties, waiting for them to leave.
About half an hour later, Jocelyn, the night manager, came bursting through the double doors into the kitchen, her face wreathed with smiles.
“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh, Blue! That lady in that sweet fur coat? She just bought all your carvings. Every one of them! She put them on her credit card and said she would send a truck to pick them up in the morning. You just made like $1000 bucks! There were ten of them! She had me walk behind her with a calculator, and we added them all up, plus she added a $200 tip for you because she said they were 'pathetically underpriced!'” She waggled her fingers, indicating quotations.
“She bought all of them?” I squeaked.
“All except one, and that was because the guy she was with insisted that he wanted it!”
“Which one?”
“All of them!”
“No, I mean, which one did the guy want?”
“The one closest to the exit. Come here! I'll show you where it was. He took it with him.”
She squealed like a little girl and turned, racing from the kitchen as I scampered behind her. I was kind of surprised by her obvious excitement for me.
“There! It was right there!” Jocelyn pointed at a large empty space on a shoulder-high shelf. “It had a funny title . . . The Arch? Yeah! I think it was that one.”
Wilson had taken ‘The Arc.’ I felt a thrill that he had recognized it for what it was. I had found a piece of mesquite that hid a curve in its line. Slowly, I had cut away the wood, forming the suggestion of a woman on her knees, back curved like a cat, deeply bowed in worship or subservience. Her body formed an arc, her arms stretching beyond a head which nearly kissed the ground into hands that curled into fists clenched in supplication. As with all my pieces, it was completely abstract, the suggestion of the woman merely that, a hint, a possibility. Some might simply see the highly-glossed wood, shaped into long lines and provocative hollows. But as I had carved, all I could see was Joan. All I could hear were her words. “To live without belief is a fate worse than death.” My Joan of Arc. And that was the one Wilson had purchased.
About a week later I walked into Wilson's classroom and stopped so suddenly the people walking behind me collided like human dominos, creating a little traffic jam in the doorway. I was jostled and complained about as my disgruntled classmates made their way around my inert form. My sculpture was sitting on a table in the center of the room. Wilson stood by his desk, talking with a student. I stared, willing him to look up, to explain what his game was. But he didn't.
I made my way slowly to my desk, front and center, putting me directly in front of the sculpture I had created with my own hands. I didn't have to look at the long lines or gleaming wood to know where I had patched a worm hole or cut more deeply than I had planned. I could close my eyes and remember how it had felt to form the suggestion of womanly curves bowed like Atlas with France on her back.
“Blue?” Wilson called from where he still stood by his desk. I turned my head slowly and looked at him. I didn't think the expression on my face was especially friendly. He didn't react to my glare but calmly asked me to “come here, please.”
I approached carefully and stopped in front of his desk, my arms folded.
“I want you to tell the class about your sculpture.”
“Why?”
“Because it's brilliant.”
“So?” I ignored the pleasure that flooded my chest at his pronouncement.