Henry S has printed the numeral two in his notebook. He repeats the question. “I said, ‘What activities did you and the subj--and Portland Rose enjoy that bonded your friendship?’”
“Look, why don’t you just refer to her as Rose. She didn’t really like the Portland part.”
Henry S bobs his head, I guess to show he’s heard me. His pen hovers over his notebook. “Bonding activities?” he says. He’s annoying me.
“Well, you might say we shared a certain interest in smoke.”
“In smoke?” Henry S scribbles furiously.
“Well, ceramics, actually. We fired some of her ceramic work together.”
“Ceramics,” notes Henry S. “Plates and cookie jars and such?”
“Not exactly. She did make some pots, but her pieces weren’t like the stuff you see in stores.”
The Art Department’s kilns sat four in a row, big domes of yellow brick. That day, two of them were going full blast, which made walking into the kiln room like walking across the Idaho desert in the middle of August on a windless day. There was some kind of ventilation hood sucking fumes out up through the roof, but for all the noise it made, it didn’t seem to cool the room any. The kiln room was not only hot, it was littered with what looked to me like just junk: stacks of newspapers, metal trash cans filled with old leaves and straw, piles of rags and broken clay pots, and quart-size mayonnaise jars jammed full of paintbrushes and weird-shaped metal tools sort of like the ones you see at the dentist’s office. Two pairs of long-handled metal tongs leaned against the nearest kiln.
Rose sorted through a pile of gloves and rags, taking up first one glove, then another, examining them for holes, and discarding those that were too tattered. I noticed something on the nearest kiln and wandered over to take a closer look. On the top bricks of the kiln, near the front, were three clay figures, about four or five inches high. One was a little, fat, naked man in sitting position; his legs and penis were exaggeratedly long and hung over the edge of the brick he perched on. Another was shaped like a rearing horse with the scales of a dragon and a dragon’s curved, pointed tail. The third had the head of an angry chicken with a tall, spiky comb. Real feathers had been stuck into little holes poked the figure’s sides and back, and tiny red marbles glinted at me from its eye sockets.
“Kiln gods,” said Rose from behind me.
“What do they do?” I gingerly touched the little dragon-horse, the friendliest-looking of the three.
“Whattaya think? They watch over the kiln. If they’re happy, nothing bad happens to your pot.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Things blow up. Glaze runs. Stuff sticks together. Who knows?”
“For real?” I started to laugh, but something in Rose’s serious, dark face stopped me. I gently scratched the dragon-horse’s tiny hoof with my fingernail. “Hey, little kiln god,” I whispered to it. The kiln god gave no sign that it heard me.
Rose pulled a faded cotton rag out from under a pile of newspapers. “Here, tie your hair back with this.” She flipped the rag into a triangle-shaped scarf, and motioned for me to lean down. I noticed for the first time that we were about the same height--5’10”--tall for a woman, even for a big farm girl like me. I bent forward from the waist, and Rose tied the scarf tightly around my head, making a knot at the back. When I stood up straight, she patted it smooth across my forehead, tucking a little strand of my bangs back out of sight. Her finger felt cool on my face where it pushed my hair up under the scarf.
She pulled on a pair of long gloves that came up over her elbows like the ones society women wear to the opera, except these were made out of leather, cracked and stained with sweat. She handed a second pair to me and then checked the gauges on the front of the kilns. “Can you do what you’re told? And fast? Without asking a bunch of questions?”
She pulled on a pair of long gloves that came up over her elbows like the ones society women wear to the opera, except these were made out of leather, cracked and stained with sweat. She handed a second pair to me and then checked the gauges on the front of the kilns. “Can you do what you’re told? And fast? Without asking a bunch of questions?”
I nodded yes.
“Okay. You bunch up a big wad of newspaper. When I get the kiln open, we’ve gotta take the pots out quickly. I’ll get ‘em out with the tongs and drop ‘em in the barrels. You throw the newspaper in on top of ‘em and then clap the lids on tight. Got that?”
“Got it.” I grabbed sheets of newsprint and began crumpling them into balls.
“Just don’t touch the pots. You can’t believe how hot they are.”
