After tying my hair into a bun, I started the wheel and wet my hands in the reservoir of water, and then, with a moment of hesitation, started to work the clay. It formed in my hands, slowly pulling upwards before I pushed it down into a more spherical shape. I worked at it, doing my best to create something interesting, something beautiful, and after twenty minutes, I realized I was breaking out in a cold sweat. I wiped my forehead with the back of my forearm and continued to work at the shape, willing it to become something better than what was sitting there in front of me, but at this point I knew it was like I was wrestling with a wild animal. I didn’t think I’d felt this kind of frustration even when I’d first started learning ceramics.
“God damnit!” My vision blurred with a flash of anger, and the side table went flying across the room, the plastic bowl of water tumbling over the floor. I stared down at the wheel and the horrible little mess that sat on it, and I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. “God…” I muttered, and looked around the room, embarrassed. I never got angry, not like this, but what good was an artist if she couldn’t make her art? What if I’d lost my ability entirely? How had this even happened?
I went inside the house, the old wood floor creaking beneath my shoes, and retrieved a mop from the closet. It was probably the gloom from the storm, but house seemed to be extra empty and lonely today. I mopped up the water on the sunroom floor and straightened up the side table, when a random urge struck me to go outside and stand in the rain. That was probably what I needed—a good soaking to cool my head. I tossed the mop aside and without any further thought, pushed open the sunroom door and stepped outside.
It was really coming down now. I was immediately drenched, but I had to admit that it did feel liberating. When was the last time I did something like this?
I walked out from the back, through the woods in the direction of the street that ran up to Armstrong Road where the gas station was. I didn’t know where I was going, I guess I was just aimlessly wandering. At thirty-four years old, strolling in the rain just for the sake of getting wet and enjoying it somehow felt rejuvenating. Was that what I was lacking? Youth? Had middle-age sucked up my talent and inspiration? Or was it because I’d married a man nearly twice my age?
Or was it because I hadn’t loved him?
No, that wasn’t true. I loved Charles—as a companion, a friend, a mentor… but just not as a lover. Not in a romantic way.
I made it through the short sprawl of pines that sat at the edge of the property and came out on the street. There was so much water flowing by the curb that a trash can had been carried down all the way from where Richardson’s house was. I chuckled and craned my neck back
to the sky to taste the rain. Right at that moment, thunder exploded from what seemed like just a short distance away, so loud and intense that it set off a car alarm. I nearly collapsed to the ground in shock, instantly knocked out of my little dream world.
“Shit,” I muttered, spinning around and hurrying back towards the house. “Shit, shit.” I really didn’t want to get struck by lightning—not unless it would somehow wake me up from my creative block and didn’t fry me to death.
A noise stopped me in my tracks.
At least I thought I’d heard a noise—I could’ve just been hearing things. The pines stretching above me dampened the rain some, but it was still loud enough to distort things. I looked around, saw nothing, and then started toward the house.
Then I heard again. It was definitely there; I wasn’t imagining it—a cat’s meow. I glanced around again, walking back in the direction I thought it had come from. “Kitty?” I said. “Where are you, kitty?”
It came again from above me, and I peered up into the tree, surprised to see a small black cat clinging to the lowest branch. What is this, I chuckled to myself, some kind of bad luck omen? I didn’t need any more poor luck, but I also wasn’t going to just leave a scared little cat outside in the rain. “Stay there,” I said, and reached up to grab it. It allowed me to take it beneath the arms and lift it down. He meowed to me again.
“Poor guy. Better get you inside.”
Where had he come from? The Richardsons lived about a quarter mile up the street, and I knew they didn’t have a cat. The next closest neighbor was Reynold Golden, who owned the gas station, but his house was over a mile away, and he didn’t own a cat either.
Thunder boomed again, and I felt his tiny body tremble against my chest. He squirmed, trying to get loose, but I held him tight and picked up my pace until I was back at the house. “Lucky that I was out there,” I told the cat as I sat him down on the floor of the sunroom. I stripped off all my clothes and carried the sopping bundle to the laundry room. When I turned around, I was surprised to see the little guy had followed me, water dripping from his fur. He immediately flopped onto the floor and started to lick himself. I laughed and then went upstairs to put on some fresh clothes, and pulled out a towel from the closet. The cat was still sniffing around at the base of the stairs, and I quickly scooped him up with the towel and carried him up to the bathroom.
He definitely wasn’t a fan of the shower, and he meowled and struggled, clawing at my arms as I cleaned the dirt and mud from his fur. Eventually, he seemed to realize that I wasn’t letting him go anywhere, and gave in to the bathing, sitting there with a pissed off look on his face. When he was clean enough, I pulled him out and rubbed him down the best I could with the towel. He struggled free and scampered back down the stairs to the living room where he plopped down onto the Persian rug that lay in front of the couch, and set to grooming himself vigorously.
“Don’t piss on that rug,” I told him. “It was my mother’s, and she didn’t like cats very much.”
I crouched down next to him and scratched his ear. He meowed and licked my hand, apparently forgiving me for my offenses against him. I smiled. “Though maybe she would’ve liked you. You’re a sweet one. What the hell were you doing out in that tree?”
In the kitchen, I pulled out a small bowl and filled it with water, and then looked through the fridge to find something a cat might like. I had some roast chicken leftover from dinner, so I shredded off some of the meat into a bowl and brought it back to the cat, who was still making himself presentable. He immediately flipped onto his feet and made a beeline straight for the chicken. He scarfed it down.
“You were starving, weren’t you, little guy?” Had someone passing through town dumped him? We did have a small pet store up the street on Armstrong that occasionally sold dogs and cats, but it seemed unlikely that they’d lose track of one of them. I crossed my arms over my chest and watched him clean the bowl, and afterwards he licked his paw and wiped his face. Then he padded over to the couch and hopped up on it to gaze out the window. He turned his wide eyes over to me and let out a drawn out meow. It sounded sad and longing somehow, though maybe it was just me projecting onto him.
“Sorry,” I said, sitting down on the arm of the couch. “You’re not going back out there and besides—”
Thunder rattled the windows, sending my furry guest tumbling off the couch and scrambling for cover beneath it.
“Yeah. That.”
I went back to the sunroom to try my hand at the pottery wheel again, slapping the mound of clay back in the center and starting my routine. I’ll just do something simple, I decided. A present for my new friend. After fifteen minutes I’d made a plain bowl with a flat bottom, about twelve inches in diameter. Using a slip mixture, I added some texture to the outside of the bowl, and then designed the inside with concentric circles emanating from the center, like ripples in water. I examined the work, and thought that it was acceptable. It’d been a while since I’d had a reason to make something. Every time I’d tried to make something different or new, something that surpassed the art I’d created during the time I’d felt was my peak, I’d come up empty. Literally unable to make anything. My inability to create was the whole reason why I’d moved back to my family home. Well, asides from rescuing it from ruin. I’d thought that the peace and quiet and familiar atmosphere would help lift my mental block and nurture new inspiration… but all the move had done was bring even more frustration.
Maybe this was my fate; the cost of sacrificing my creative soul to the corporate gods. A lonely existence in my childhood home, with nothing but the companionship of a cat. Maybe I should get five cats. Or six. I could make bowls for all of them.
I chuckled to myself and put the bowl into my electric kiln, fired it up, and set the shutoff timer. Back in the living room, my guest had come out from his hiding place and was lapping at the bowl of water. I gave him a scratch behind his ears, and he let out another long meow.
“Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can find out where you came from, okay?” I figured that I would go in to the pet store, buy some supplies, and see if the owner there knew where the little black cat had come from. If she didn’t, well… maybe I would keep him. Something about him had grown on me; maybe because I’d rescued him, or maybe because he’d helped me complete the first piece of pottery I’d done in ages.
I went back to the kitchen, pulled some more breast meat off the leftover chicken, and brought it out to my guest, who was pacing around the room, rubbing his face up against the sides of furniture and stopping occasionally to inspect things of interest that were apparently invisible to my eyes. I set the dish of chicken down on the floor next the bowl of water, and smiled as he dashed to it and went to town. I was grateful to the little guy for giving me a reason to make something. Maybe that was what had been lacking—a reason. Artists created their best work when they had something to say, whether they knew it or not, and maybe I’d just run out of things to say.