A Killer Collection (14 page)

"Now you've got to get it
ready for the wheel. That means a good beating."

Molly jumped as Sam slapped their
combined pieces onto the worktable. He picked up the mass, pushed it together,
and slammed it down again and again.

"That looks positively
therapeutic," Molly said.

"It helps after a weekend of
not selling a single thing."

Once the clay was worked into the
right plasticity, Sam slapped it on the wheel.

"This is the hard part."
Sam gestured to her to approach the wheel. "Give it a try."

He issued instructions on how to
use the foot pedal, and as she pushed down on it the wheel sprung into action,
and the clay mass lunged sideways, seeking a means of escape.

"Whoa, slow down there,"
Sam laughed, easing her foot off the pedal. "Now let's give this guy a
shower."

Molly cupped the clay lightly in
her hands as Sam drizzled it with water. As she spun the wheel, it moved
through her fingers like the smooth back of a snake.

"Now, you can't go gentle
with it. Gotta treat it like a spoilt child due for a lickin'. Cup it hard with
the insides of your palms, I'm gonna help you center it."

Sam guided her hands and touched
places on her forearms where she needed to use some sleeping muscles to coax
the clay to the center of the wheel. Molly was surprised at the strength it
took to force the clay against its will to move from the spot where it was
placed originally. Now she understood why all the potters had arms like Pop-eye
the Sailor.

"Good. Now I'm gonna open it
up for you."

Sam leaned over the opposite side
of the wheel with a tool comprised of a board with a metal ball in the middle.
He pressured the ball into the top of the clay's mass, and an open mouth sprang
into the clay's center, yawning crookedly as Molly tried to control the body
with one hand and widen the mouth with the other. Her novice hands were no
match for the clay. It bucked and kicked out like a rodeo pony, and she grew
frustrated as she tried to bring it under the rein of her palms.

"This is
hard
,"
she said, forcing out a laugh. She was disappointed that she didn't have more
skill.

"Yep. Takes years to really
figure it all out. How does the clay feel?"

"Like it's alive. It sure has
a mind of its own. I definitely respect it, but I'm mad at it too. It’s not
doing what's in my mind's eye."

Sam chuckled. "Well, that's
your first lesson. You don't think when your hands are on the clay. You let
go—your body moves its body."

Molly watched in a semi hypnotic
state as Sam pulled up her floppy bowl into an oblong shape and closed up the
mouth into a thin neck. His hands moved slowly, with deliberate grace, and the
clay immediately recognized him as a master and fell obedient.

"Let's put a handle on,"
he said.

Sam showed her how to slice a
strip of clay for the handle. After he applied it to the jug, he slipped wire
under the piece’s bottom and picked it up with large, wooden tongs. The simple
implements reminded Molly of how men had moved ice blocks one hundred years
ago. It was an interesting image considering potters now used them to carry a
wet, fragile vessel that could last for a century or more once it was burned by
the kiln.

"Wanna make a face?" Sam
asked.

"Sure, how about a
devil?"

"We'll have to let the jug
dry a bit first. Come on into the house and I'll show you my collection."

They gave their hands a cursory
washing in the rain barrel and moved on up to the large log cabin nuzzling a
grove of pines. Sam's collection was held in the front room. He showed her face
jugs from his father and grandfather's time and other family pieces dating
before the Civil War. The greenish glaze, flaked with imperfections, was the
same he now used. It looked much like C. C.'s, which made sense since both men
worked together as apprentices when they were young.

On another bookcase, Sam had
collected various pieces from other Seagrove potters. Molly recognized a Billy
Ray Hussey lion and a water pitcher made by the Cole family, but the shelf of
Jack Graham pieces immediately drew her attention away from all the others.

"I think he's
wonderful," she said, admiring a crimson vase.

"These are early ones."
Sam tilted the vase upside down to show her the kiln number. It was from kiln
number 5. That would be way back in the early eighties."

"You must have been at the
same openings as George- Bradley. I just saw his collection."

Sam nodded. "Oh sure, he'd
never miss a Jack Graham sale."

"He missed number 43,"
Molly said.

Sam frowned, looking down on his
collection. "I don't have any from that kiln opening either."

Molly started. Here were two men
who never missed a Graham kiln opening, yet neither one had made it to the
event debuting kiln 43?

"Was there something wrong
with that batch?" she asked Sam.

A dark shadow passed across Sam's
face, and without his customary smile, he suddenly looked older. He replaced
the vase, hiding his exposed emotion by turning away from Molly.

"I just don't really recall.
It was over two years ago." Sam's face was swept clean by the time he
stood back up and gave her a little grin. Sam was lying—she could tell. What
had he remembered at that moment about kiln 43?

Molly pointed to a humdrum brown
vase that appeared to be identical to the two in George-Bradley's collection.

"Are those from later
kilns?" she asked, amazed that the potter who had created such stunning
work could suddenly produce something so bland.

"Yes. That's all he's made in
the last two years. Brown vases. He gives them to C. C. to sell, but mostly a
chain of florists from Winston-Salem buys them up. He doesn't sell to the
public himself anymore. He's gone back to being a welder. Now," Sam said,
obviously wanting to change the subject. "I've got some old Jugtown pieces
on the bottom shelf, did you see those?"

Molly decided to press Sam just
once more. "I would love to interview Jack. I want to see how he gets his
forms so symmetrical," she said, trying to sound innocent.

Sam turned his gentle, frank face
to her. "He’s not gonna talk to you."

Molly was surprised by Sam’s
certainty. "Why not?"

"He just doesn't do
interviews anymore."

"Oh." Molly wished the
potter would offer more information, but he was moving toward the door. Not
wanting to push her friend any further, Molly reminded Sam that her jug was
incomplete.

Sam perked up and said,
"Let's make that face."

Molly found she had some skill at
creating the facial features. Using a knife, she cut ears, a nose, brows, and
lips from a slice of clay. Sam showed her how to score, but he seemed
distracted, his eyes wandering over to the edge of the woods. Memories were
swarming around him like bees. She could practically hear them buzzing through
the loops and curves of his cerebellum.

Molly applied two horns and poked
shallow eyeholes using a pencil. Then Sam showed her how to cut pieces of
broken dishes for the teeth. She made them especially jagged and pointy, to
complement the devil's fierce scowl.

"When you're in town next,
you can pick him up. What color do you want to glaze him?'

"Really?" Molly couldn't
hide her pleasure. She decided to give the jug to Matt once it was fired.
"A nice, deep blue. I'm going to give him to a coworker. He's a Duke Blue
Devils fan."

"Oh dear." Sam shook his
head in mock sorrow. "There's only one basketball team in this state, and
I believe they're called the UNC Tarheels."

Molly swept her arm around the
building and said, "Well, I see some devils here, but I don't see a single
ram."

"I'll get right to work on
that." Sam laughed heartily.

Molly cleaned herself off again
and got ready to go. She thanked Sam for his time and for introducing her to
the wheel.

"You oughta give it a shot.
Takes some time to get used to, but it's hard to stop once you start."

Molly shook her head. "I like
it, I just don't think I'd be any good."

"It's in you, I can
tell," Sam said seriously.

Molly glowed. "I think I will
look into taking a class at the Cultural Arts Center. Thanks, Sam."

He walked her to her car, hands in
overall pockets.

"Molly," Sam said as he
opened her car door, "Jack Graham won't give interviews because he and his
wife had some real trouble a couple of years ago. It's changed him.

He's not the same man he used to
be. I'm just telling you so you don't go callin' him."

Molly couldn't tell whether he was
worried for her sake or for Jack's.

"All right, I won't,"
she promised.

He seemed relieved. Backing down
the driveway, she waved at the small, sweet man in mud-stained overalls.

Back on the main road, Molly's
brain was spinning. Something happened with kiln number 43, but what? Was it an
event that would make a good article? Or was it something more sinister?

Sam's phrase followed after her
like a cloud of dust:
They had some real trouble. It's changed him.

Trouble.

The word rumbled through her air
conditioner and overpowered the music from the radio. It sat in the stifling
air under the black leather seats and fogged up the windows with its weighted
humidity. Molly rolled down the windows to let it out, but it refused to budge.

~~~~~~~~~~

The way of clay is to understand the nature of clay, its
wonderful plastic response when handled with love and care, and its collapse and
disintegration when maltreated, overworked and strained beyond its
capabilities.

— HARRY MEMMOTT, from
Discovering Pottery

Inspired by her trip to Sam s, Molly headed for the
closest mega sized bookstore to learn more about the background of pottery
making. Armed with a stack of heavy books and a cinnamon latte, Molly passed
the afternoon lazily as she read up on wheel techniques, kiln building, and
glaze recipes.

As Molly sat drinking her second
cup of overpriced coffee, two young women sat down next to her and began poring
hungrily over bridal magazines. One of them had apparently just gotten engaged
and the other was her future maid of honor. Molly was distracted by their cries
of "Look at this one!" as they ogled expensive dresses or squealed
over the leg-of-mutton sleeves on some awful, fuchsia-hued bridesmaid dress.

Soon, the floor space between
their two tables was littered with a pile of books and magazines opened to
glossy pages of glowing brides, flower-rimmed wedding cakes, and glittering
engagement rings the size of small icebergs. Molly glanced down at one of the
magazine covers featuring an article called "Fashion for Older Brides:
Ages 30-40."

She frowned. "Older" was
age thirty? She would already be considered an older bride. Ridiculous. Molly
sighed, thinking of her mother's persistent nagging fear of her daughter
becoming a spinster. Molly didn't want to be a spinster either, but she
certainly wasn't going to settle for Mr. So-So just to become a Mrs. So-So.

The former gloom of the day
settled back on her shoulders like a cloak. First, there was Sam's warning to
stay away from Jack Graham. Now, in a haven of books and caffeine that usually
formed a comforting setting, Molly felt out of place. The pile of bridal
magazines pointedly reminded her of her single status, and the magnificent
sparkle of her neighbor's ring caught her eye with each excited wave of the
girl's manicured hand. Every table in the cafe seemed to be occupied by
chatting couples or smug women with wedding bands. Molly sighed. It was time to
go.

Perhaps a connection with Matt was
in order. If she could just get him out of the office again, they might have a
chance to get to know one another better. Molly envisioned a candlelit table
with Matt listening raptly to her witty conversation. Yes! She could take
charge and ask
him
out. Molly had never asked a man on a date before and
she was terrified, but why not give it a shot? After all, women now performed
all kinds of feats once reserved for men. Gender roles were being redefined all
the time.

Driving back to the newspaper’s
office building, she pictured Matt's laughing blue eyes and his easy smile. She
thought about his calmness and the way he listened so attentively to everything
she said. Fueled by determination, she checked her flawless complexion in the
lobby mirrors, ran her fingers through her dark hair, and made her way to her
desk with brisk, confident strides.

She decided to quickly check her
voice mail before sailing off into the evening's sunset with Matt. She only had
one message, and it was from Susan Black.

"Miss Appleby?" Susan's
cool voice hummed through the receiver. "I received your message about
doing an interview on my collection. Of course"—she made an effort to
sound less frosty—"I would love to oblige, but I'd like to wait until
after the Lex Lewis auction this weekend. You see, I plan to enhance my
collection by adding several notable pieces from that sale. So let's plan on
the week after, all right?
I'll
get in touch with you as to when I'll be
available."

"Yes, Your Highness."
Molly smirked, replacing the receiver. Then she made her way to Matt's office.
Rapping lightly on his closed door, her insides churning, Molly could hear the
sound of giggling coming from inside. Matt was not alone.

Suddenly, footsteps moved toward
the door. Molly beat a hasty retreat to the nearest cover: a large fichus tree
next to the water cooler. Peering between the leaves, Molly prayed that her
green shirt would provide enough camouflage to avoid being spotted by Matt and
his visitor.