After all the pots were out of the kiln, Rose and I took off our gloves, bought Cokes from the vending machine, and went outside to cool off. We leaned against the cool brick wall on the shady side of the Fine Arts Building and gulped the fizzy cold drinks, letting the Coke run down our dry throats and make little rivulets in the smeared ink and sweat by the corners of our mouths.
“God, I’m hot. How often do you do that?”
“Not too often. A regular firing isn’t as bad. You can let the pots cool down in the kiln. But wait’ll you see how these look when they’re finished. It’s worth the trouble.” Taking a handkerchief from her back pocket, Rose mopped her face with it, then handed it to me. “You should see yourself. You look like you’re melting.”
I wiped my face and looked at the damp, black-streaked handkerchief. I touched the scarf tied low on my forehead. It was soaked through, and my hair, matted underneath it, was wet.
“Hey! Tony!” Rose beckoned to a man in the distance who was crossing the grassy quadrangle opposite the Fine Arts Building. He returned her wave and veered toward us. “My art teacher,” Rose said to me. “If you like Joe Fussarelli, you’ll like Tony.”
“Whattaya mean?”
“You’ll see.
And I did. As the man came closer, I could see that he was built like Joe: tall and thick through the chest and arms, with heavy legs. He swaggered a little, rocking up on his toes like jocks do, holding his arms away from his sides carefully, as if ready at a moment’s notice to dive for a ball or run quickly in the opposite direction. Tony was older than Joe--his thick, longish, dark hair was touched here and there with grey--but his heavy eyelids drooped slightly over big brown eyes, just like Joe’s. When he got over to us, he smiled one of those slow-blooming smiles that handsome men use to distract you while they calculate your chest size and leg length. Joe had smiled at me that way the first time I met him.
Rose performed introductions like she was firing an automatic pistol: Tony-Jackie-Jackie-Tony, then launched into a description of some problem she was having with the temperature gauge on the second kiln. I didn’t know if she was trying to distract Tony’s attention away from me or what, but she led him back up the stairs, and I followed without saying anything. When we got to the kiln room, they started fiddling with the gauge, and they seemed to have forgotten I was even there. I straightened some stacks of newspapers and pushed some leaves into a pile in the corner with my foot, but still they went on with their conversation, talking now about the art show and ignoring me. I took off the scarf Rose had knotted around my head and fluffed up my bangs. I shook the scarf out and folded it neatly in a square, but there didn’t seem to be any particular place to put it, so I dropped it on top of a pile of other rags.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I’d better be goin’, now.”
Rose glanced away from Tony for a moment. “Okay. Thanks, Jackie. See ya later.”
“Nice meeting you,” said Tony, giving me another smile.
“Yeah. Nice meeting you.” I paused, but they had already turned back to their conversation. I watched them for a few seconds. Tony leaned against the kiln, one arm hooked up over the top, one foot propped up on a couple of stray bricks. Rose frowned at the problem gauge and tapped it with one red fingernail. I looked at the barrels full of newspaper ash, at the three little clay gods still keeping watch over the kilns. The chicken-god looked back at me with its glittering red eye. Its little beak curved sharply sideways as if to cackle or peck or maybe even smile, but neither the chicken-god nor the dragon-horse nor the little fat man invited me to stay any longer.
