Gran quieted. I fixed us both fresh toast with butter and jelly. I left hers on a plate beside her bed and put her coffee there, too. I helped her move from the kitchen to her bed and settled her in, propped up well so she could eat and drink. My nausea had passed, maybe in part due to relief now that Gran knew the truth. I carried my coffee and toast out to the cabin, ready to be alone for a while.
I sat at the wheel and gave my dilemma some thought while I nibbled at my toast. When the toast was eaten, I brushed the crumbs from my fingers and centered the wedged clay on the wheel. I wet my fingers in the water bucket, and the spinning started. The hum of the motor below the wheel pan established a rhythm. My wet fingers, slipping along the clay body, strummed the one-note tune, but within that single note were variations unimagined and songs uncounted. Sometimes those songs had words, and I heard them in my head. Soon I was humming along in harmony.
When the shaping was done, I stopped the wheel, took my wire, and worked it carefully under the edge of the soft clay pot, pressing it close to the base, and then pulled it toward me with a smooth, deft movement. When the pot was freed, I carried it over to the shelves and found a prime spot for it to dry. Drying had to happen slowly. I dampened cloths in a water bucket and wrapped them loosely around it.
Clay required timing and patience. Whether to work it or leave it be to dry properly—the process was driven by the needs of the clay. The potter was a tool whose wants and needs were extraneous. It was a humbling occupation. Plus, a potter had to have a true disregard for messy hands.
I took another lump of clay, one I’d already wedged. Wedging clay was powerful and violent. It eliminated the air bubbles that made the clay body weak and prone to exploding when fired. I liked to wedge clay when I was feeling upset or angry, so I usually had clay, already wedged and wrapped, ready to hand.
Wetting the wheel, I pressed the clay onto it, hard, then beat at it with my fist to make the suction right. As the wheel began to spin, I worked on centering the clay with my hands. I dipped my fingers in the water again and went to work shaping. The focus, by necessity, blocked my extraneous, darker fears and worries. As I pressed into the lump of clay and worked my thumb and forefingers down and then up, over and over, to create the walls, I realized Gran was right about telling the boy. He—no one else but him and me—had the absolute right to know.
The next morning, I bathed and washed my hair. It was long, halfway down my back, and would dry straight and shiny without help, but standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink, I saw the ends were uneven. I took Gran’s sewing sheers and pulled the tresses forward over each shoulder and trimmed up the edges. I wanted to look respectable, someone worthy of inclusion in another family. After fixing breakfast, I dressed in slacks and a dressy top. It was early days yet, and the slacks fit fine.
I drove over to the boy’s house. Some other woman was cleaning it now, I assumed. I hadn’t been here since that woman was me. The grass was green and freshly cut, and not a leaf marred it. When the leaves began turning, they would fall, but they would fall as colorful, crisp ornaments to be whisked away as soon as possible. My experience with these people, and those like them, was that they weren’t mean, but they were self-directed and self-focused. They weren’t the sort of human beings tenderhearted people should get in the way of.
There was no sign of life. No car was in the driveway. But there was a four-car garage, so the empty driveway meant little. I knocked on the front door and waited, then rang the doorbell. My gut was thumping. I felt it throughout my body and tasted the bile in my mouth.
No one answered. Light-headed, I stepped back and leaned against a post. Relieved more than disappointed, the gut-thumping diminished, but I felt teary now. Had I cherished hopes after all? Maybe that these people would be kind and welcoming?
Maybe I had hoped Spencer would be glad to see me despite what he’d said. I didn’t love him, no pretense there. My good sense and morals had been crushed by a crush, enhanced by alcohol and proximity, and a new life was not an uncommon result. But we could make this right. We could make a life together. This wouldn’t be the first baby that resulted in a happy marriage.
No one was home, and I was in no rush. If I returned home too quickly, Gran wouldn’t believe I’d tried. I sat on the concrete porch steps to rest and gather myself.
Hinges squeaked behind me. The storm door, its etched glass perfect and shiny, opened a few inches.
“Hello?” his mother said.
I stood. “Hi. I don’t know if you remember me?”
She tilted her head. Her hair looked freshly colored, and her hand resting on the doorframe displayed her manicure.
“Oh, sorry. You’re Anna, right? You cleaned our house?”
“Hannah, ma’am. My name is Hannah.” I cleared my throat, suddenly suffering from a burning stomach again. “I wondered if your son might be home?”
“My son?”
Apparently more explanation was called for.
“Well, yes, ma’am. We went to school together, and we . . . he and I talked the day I was cleaning your house. Might I speak with him?”
Her eyes had grown cold. I didn’t know if she was suspicious, or protective, or if I was boring her.
“I need to speak with him.”
“Hannah, you said? Well, Hannah, my son is at college. If you’re friends, then I’m surprised you don’t know.”
Dismay hit me. My eyes wanted to close, and my body tried to turn away in shame, but I refused. I forced my distress from my face, mentally smoothing away the hurt, and straightened my posture.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, ma’am. I knew he was already in Charlottesville for school, but this being the weekend, I thought he might be home . . . with the university so close.”
“He isn’t. I’ll be happy to pass on a message to him, if you like.”
My thoughts and fears all stuttered and stammered around in my brain. I tried to sort out the best response. Meanwhile, my nausea increased. Black specks danced before my eyes. I held on to my stomach, trying to keep it all at bay.
I managed to say, “Could you ask him to call me, please?”
Between the floating specks obscuring my vision, I saw in her eyes how badly she wanted to say no. I saw her suspicion. Her lips shaped to say no, but instead she said, “What’s your number?”
“He already has it. I guess you didn’t know that, did you?” Then I turned and barfed. I missed the door and the porch, but the neatly trimmed bushes suffered. I would’ve been embarrassed, but the immediate relief the vomiting brought made it worthwhile. If not worthwhile, then surely inevitable, and the sense of well-being flooding through me in its wake gave me strength.
“Sorry, ma’am.” I nodded as I wiped my lips and chin with my sleeve and turned for the car.