37. Thirty-seven
Thirty-seven
When I walk Sam and Mabel into Veda’s sunroom, she has spots for them ready with balls of clay, cups of water, sponges, and several wooden pointed tools around the big worktable when we arrive.
“Veda, this is the rest of the gang, Mabel and Sam,” I introduce them. “This is Veda.”
Sam grumbles about forced arts and crafts while Mabel looks around the room and says, “Lots of uses for the tools in here, Birdie dear.” She clicks her tongue and slides a notebook out of her waistband.
I press my lips together in a tight line as Veda’s eyebrows pinch.
Here we go.
Hair pulled back in a neat and tidy bun, Veda stands at the head of the table wearing a flowy blue shirt and pair of black pants with greyish streaks across the legs where she’s wiped her clay-covered hands on them .
“Well, Birdie dragged you all here to make something, so let’s make the most of it,” she says, teasing, which breaks the ice enough to make them laugh.
She holds a small ball of clay in her hands. “I won’t mince words, we’re all old. Our bodies don’t give a damn about what our brains want.” She sounds like a cross between a stand-up comedian and an angry school principal. “I’ve made all these beautiful things”—her hands sweep around the room toward the shelves lined with her bowls and vases—“but my hands have thrown in the towel on all that and I’ve learned to manage my expectations. You will too. I want you to put whatever you think you should be doing in the garbage can of your mind. We are here with the tools we have, no matter how shaky and weak, to make something beautiful. We’re old, not dead, and there’s a different measurement of beauty that comes with that.”
Her eyes flick to mine before she continues.
“Now I want you to push a finger into the clay, feel it.”
Mabel jumps right in, Sam reluctantly following, pushing into the doughy balls in front of them.
Veda guides them through different ways of pinching and pulling, showing them how to form a variety of shapes. I demonstrate with her guidance until I’ve formed a goofy face on my own ball of clay that makes them chuckle.
“Here are some other ideas.” She sets a sculpted bird, elephant, and abstract monster on the table. “But the sky is really the limit. So whatever you love, you can make…in your own way. Whatever you make, I want it to be something that means more than having it look perfect.”
“I don’t have a creative bone in my body,” Sam grumbles.
Veda’s hand gives her token swat. “You’ve survived to grumpy old manhood, that takes some kind of creativity.” Eyebrows raised, her words shut him up.
She sets them loose with their balls of clay and combined centuries worth of creativity between them.
They knead, roll, pinch, and push. They talk—laugh. They get to know each other with their fingers in the pliable balls. Sam starts with a story about Vietnam which leads to Mabel telling a story about a Vietnamese man she met one time.
Veda laughs at their stories, a light burning brightly in her eyes. She’s happy; they all are. I am.
When Sam starts saying, “I should have made Birdie a pair of t—” I clap my hands, cutting off his unspoken tits.
“Let’s see what everyone made!” I say, shooting him a glare.
“I made an M16,” Sam says, without his usual irritated tone, holding up a clay gun. “It’s the gun that kept me alive in ’Nam, bringing me home to everything that was yet to come.” He looks at me, and I smile.
Mabel doesn’t miss a beat by stealing the moment with a proud declaration: “I made a cock.”
True to her word, in her hands—a long clay cock .
Her full-wattage smile shows her lipstick-stained teeth, and she wiggles her eyebrows toward Sam .
I snort while Veda gives a stunned, “Wow,” and covers her gaping mouth with her hand.
Sam’s eyes go saucer sized at the same time he asks, “You some kind of pervert, Mabel?”
She looks at him like he’s just given her a compliment and says, “If that’s what you’re into, Sammy Boy.” Then she bares her red teeth at him and bites the air.
“Alrighty then,” I say, clapping my hands together—again—interrupting whatever kind of mating ritual Mabel is about to begin. “Veda. Will you show them what to do next while I make lunch?” She nods silently, still stunned from the force that is Mabel.
Sam mutters something about my disgusting health food while Mabel shouts, “I’m starved, dollface!”
I look around at all of them—clay-caked hands and statues—and despite how insane they are, I smile. They’re happy—even Veda. Especially Veda.