Cleats in Clay

I dedicate this novel to Granny, a real salt-of-the-earth Okie, who told me often: “Keep your feet in the clay, but don’t forget to reach for the stars. Your arms are longer than you think.”
I try to remember her wisdom every day and keep my dreams big.

F
OLLOWING
the directions from Gertie at the bed and breakfast, Bobby Lane turned off the crisp concrete highway onto less-traveled asphalt. The GPS in his rental car indicated the directions pointed southwest, moving him farther from the outskirts of the tiny town of Brungess.

The land around Bobby looked like what he would expect of the western panhandle of Texas. A few scrawny mesquite trees and scrubby grass clumps stood across the gentle roll of ground. The drier conditions of the area seemed more suited for cattle than farming, maybe. Or it might not be worth anything at all. This was starting to feel like a bad idea.

The GPS voice announced another turn, which put Bobby onto an even less-used gravel-packed road. He had to pull over nearly into the ditch and slow to a crawl when a tan SUV passed from the opposite direction. The vehicle didn’t have any markings, but the array of antennas and doodads adorning the SUV screamed out like a neon sign, announcing “cop car.” The older man in a sheriff’s fedora glared at Bobby suspiciously as he drove by, as if he was trying to gauge his level of criminality while passing.

Once Bobby accelerated onto the road again and proceeded west, the surroundings looked even more desolate. He wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t for Nate, but he tried not to think about that. Even six months after—

Look at the speedometer, look at the road, look out the rearview,
Bobby directed himself, trying to distract his thoughts.
Bobby drove the Chevy rental about three more miles before the GPS sang a gentle tone and a soft feminine voice announced, “Destination reached.”
Looking around, Bobby found himself in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere, but Gertie had warned him to expect this. The farm roads and drives hadn’t made it into the GPS database. He could see a turnoff to the left about nine yards ahead, just as Gertie predicted. Bobby pulled up and took the turn.
It hardly seemed to qualify as a road, but the hard dirt was fairly smooth and free of vegetation, as if it had been recently plowed and scraped clean. Bobby glanced at the written directions and drove farther south. He fought the subtle urge to turn around. Bobby was usually up for one of Nate’s adventures, but this seemed more like a fool’s errand.
Two more turns put him on a bare-rutted trail. Only two worn grooves vaguely indicated the direction of travel. Now Bobby truly was out in the middle of nowhere.
He followed the tire tracks and eventually reached an old iron cattle gate. Bobby parked in front of the gate and peered around. He could see the aged fencing stretched out in either direction, cordoning off a square of land roughly three acres or so in size. Most of the fence seemed to be of the banded-wire style, but one sagging stretch along the backside was of the old horizontal planks common with horse ranches. Along the top of the gate, in runic-looking letters, was the name Vorleik.
Other than a cluster of conifers in the southwest corner, only a small shed sat on the empty expanse of wooly weeds.
This couldn’t be the right place.
Bobby had expected to find a house or maybe a warehouse sculptor’s studio or something. The small shed looked barely large enough to hold a lawn mower. Certainly no one lived or worked in that tiny building.
Then he noticed the small shiny box mounted on the pole next to the gate. The newness of the box contrasted so boldly with the rusty gate pole, Bobby should have spotted it right away. He turned off the car, grabbed the purchase receipt left behind by Nathan, then climbed out of the rental.
It was some sort of buzzer call box, with no visible speaker, though. Bobby pushed in on the bar-shaped button, but nothing happened.
What has Nate gotten me into now?
Bobby wondered as he waited.
Maybe the button was broken.
Bobby looked out into the land again but saw nothing.
He turned and started back toward the car when movement caught his attention. He looked over to see a huge war hound bounding across the scrubby expanse, heading straight for him.
Well, maybe not a war hound. When the dog stopped in a flanking position on the inside of the gate, Bobby could see the beast’s color markings, stance, and high triangular ears looked much like a German shepherd’s. But the dog’s large size, squared shoulders, and muzzle weren’t typical of that breed.
The dog let out one low, quick gruff, sort of an “I got my eye on you” warning, indeed, watching with intelligent eyes as it stood in a defensive stance.
“Hey there, girl,” Bobby said after glancing down to verify the sex. It felt strangely rude not to say
something
to the expectant beast.
The dog didn’t reply.
The dog’s ears twitched slightly and swiveled to the side, as if she’d heard something from behind.
Bobby looked up and saw a blond man wearing only loose jeans, pull-on shoes, and an oversized T-shirt jog-walking toward the gate. Just like the dog, the man seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
As the man approached, Bobby noticed right away how short he was. Bobby had never been considered tall himself, only five foot ten while wearing shoes, but he felt very tall now. The other man was at least five inches shorter.
“Down, Heim.” The man spoke in a strong tenor voice. The dog immediately sat on her rear and dangled a huge square tongue out the side of her mouth.
“Truck break down?” the little blond man asked, looking over the obviously athletic tourist with sudden suspicion.
“Truck?”
“Take it you’re not Fed Ex,” the man concluded. “Why you botherin’ me, then?”
Bobby walked to the gate and displayed the page in his hand. “I’ve got a receipt.”
The man just stared at him as if he’d spoken in ancient Greek.
“Gertie sent me. I’ve got a purchase receipt,” Bobby repeated. “Gertie?” The man seemed to spit out her name. “What’s she gone adoin’ now?”
A gust of the late March winds blew through, pulling the heat out of Bobby. He looked back at the warmth of the car. “Never mind.” Bobby slumped. “This is obviously some kind of mistake.”
The man rubbed his hands along his bare arms in the chill of the wind. “Now hold on, there. If’n ya come all this way….” The man looked Bobby over again. “Scootch out, Heim, let the man in,” he said to the dog before pushing a button on the inside of the gate post. Like a giant pocket door, the gate retracted along the edge of the fence as the dog moved over to the side of the drive and sat again.
Bobby climbed back into the car and started it. For one brief second, he did have the thought to just turn around and flee back to civilization, but he gripped the wheel and drove through the open gate far enough for the man to close it again.
After the man punched a button, he and the dog jogged ahead. Bobby drove the car slowly along beside them. Getting farther into the property, he could see some kind of space hollowed out of the flat ground ahead. Then he noticed part of the flat expanse of land was actually the roof of an underground house.

As he got closer, Bobby realized that a trick of the distance and the shed’s proportions made it appear smaller from the road. The building was actually much larger, more the size of a one-and-a-half-car garage. He parked in front of the garage when the man motioned him to stop.
After grabbing his jean jacket and slipping it on, Bobby left the car again. “I’m Bobby Lane,” he introduced as he followed the man toward the dug-out area.
“Name’s Odis, if’n Gertie didn’t already tell ya that, and this here’s Heimdalla.”
“Heimdalla?”
Odis stopped. “You makin’ fun of my heritage, boy?”
“Oh, uh, no,” Bobby stammered. “It’s just an unusual name.” He looked down at Odis again. He had used the word “boy” the way an elderly man would, but Odis didn’t seem that old. He had that “over thirty” appearance, with a full head of dark-blond hair only showing the beginnings of hairline recession. He certainly didn’t
look
like an old man.
Odis walked toward a set of steps that descended into the area carved from the ground. “Don’t know your Nordic mythology? Guardian of Asgard?”
Bobby just shook his head. In school, athletics had been his strength. “What breed is she?”
“Shep-weiler,” Odis replied. “Though ya hear the name rott-herd thrown around too. Never liked that one. Sounds too much like somethin’ nasty you’d throw outta the fridge.”
Bobby looked down at Heim as she followed them down the steps. Her large square frame definitely hinted at rottweiler parentage. She trotted ahead to a sliding glass door and looked back.
On the south side, a grassy patio area had been hollowed out of the ground. On the north, a curving bank of glass wall stood open to the spring equinox sun. The unique house hugged into the earth like a grand sculpture, probably designed by Odis himself.
Odis slid open the door and motioned to a wrought iron patio-style table and chairs by the windows. Heim trotted in behind them. She claimed a spot by the glass to warm in the sun but still kept an alert watch on Bobby.
Bobby sat and studied Odis. He could see around his eyes and brow traces of wrinkles that hinted at “maybe forty,” but nothing to indicate why Odis would act like such an old man.
“Now, then,” Odis sighed as he sat at the table. “What’s this nonsense about a receipt? Can’t deliver on somethin’ I ordered?” Odis asked, glancing over at him. He thought Bobby had the appearance of a thirtyish gym rat and seemed barely as smart as one too. This boy looked like a brick, and something about him just seemed like trouble. Maybe Odis should have left his ass out in the cold.
“No.” Bobby put the printed-out page on the table for Odis to look at. “It’s something that was ordered
from
you. Last year. I’m here to pick it up.”
“A commission?” Odis grumbled at his fool sister again. He’d told Gertie to quit messing with the Internet. Obviously she didn’t listen to him. And Gertie hadn’t bothered to tell him about it, or maybe she did? Sometimes things could be a little fuzzy.
“Prepaid.” Bobby pointed to a spot on the receipt. “And a hefty amount too. For delivery this week.”
“This is made out to a Nathan Price.” Odis looked up. “You said your name was Bobby.”
He nodded. “Nate’s… no longer here. That’s why I’m picking it up.”
Odis started to ask for further explanation, but the expression of bereavement he saw befall Bobby’s features said more than any words could. “I see, then.”
Bobby looked around the interior of the house, trying to distract himself. It was an open-floor-plan kind of design, like a studio loft apartment carved from concrete. The curves of various sizes that portioned out the rooms clung against each other in graceful arcs. He couldn’t see a straight line in the place, which gave the house a quiet, artful beauty.
Odis cleared his throat. “Why’d Gertie send ya out here?”
“She didn’t have any pieces left in your shop at the B and B in town. Sent the last one to a gallery months ago, she said. Thought you might have one here.”
“Well, then, suppose we should have a look-see.”
Odis walked to the sliding glass door and waited for Bobby. They went back out into the March wind, Heim trotting behind. Odis followed the banked curve of glass toward the east side and opened another sliding door. The glass here faced the west to catch the afternoon sun.
Heim sat outside near the door as though she had no interest in entering this room.
Once inside the studio, Bobby noticed a slight stale tinge to the air, like the inside of a closet that hadn’t been opened in many months. Another vague familiar smell also hid in the room, but Bobby couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
A large beat-up wooden table stood in the middle of the room. On the table by a stool, something, probably a work in progress, was covered by a large gray towel.
Odis motioned to a side wall covered with mostly naked shelves. Bobby saw only two pieces there: a small statue of a bird that looked to be preening itself, and an animal. Stepping closer, Bobby saw the small animal was an armadillo, crouching over like it was preparing to roll up into a ball. While detailed, the two pieces fashioned of clay looked rather small and common, more like the kind of kitschy thing for sale on one of those shopping channels. They certainly didn’t look worth the hefty payment Nate had made.
Bobby turned to the table. That hidden statue or carving, whatever it was, looked to be about four or five times the size of the other works. Maybe it would be more valuable. “What’s that one?”
“Nothing,” Odis said flatly.
Bobby raised an eyebrow. The work in progress certainly looked like something; some mysterious shape hid under that towel.
Odis motioned back to the shelves. “What about those?”
As Odis waved toward the shelves, Bobby noticed he had large hands, maybe a little oversized. He also saw that Odis’s knuckles looked a little enlarged. “Well, they’re nice. Kinda small.”
“Won’t do ya, huh?”
Bobby shook his head. “If you don’t mind my saying, they seem kind of ordinary.”
“Hm.” Odis nodded curtly. “Never pegged you to have an eye.” He threw a slight smile at Bobby.
“Is this all you have?”
“Yep, ’fraid so.”
“Then maybe I should just get a refund.”
“Can’t help with that. Gertie does all my business stuff. I just do the art.”
Bobby glanced back to the worktable. “What about—”
“You don’t want that one, trust me,” Odis said as he quickly moved back to the sliding door and opened it.
Bobby followed Odis back to the house door. Heim padded along. Once inside, Bobby noticed that while it looked beautiful, the place had the same utilitarian feel as the studio. Nothing in the living space seemed warm or homey.
Bobby paused inside the door. There was nothing for him here. He should just make his exit. Yet something about Odis made him hesitate. After all, he had driven out
this
far. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a minute.
An awkward silence hung between them.
Odis motioned back to the wrought iron patio table. “Grab a chair, then.”
Bobby walked over and sat.
“So,” Odis said over his shoulder as he moved to the kitchen area and got a pitcher from the refrigerator. “Tell me somethin’ about yourself. Inspire me for this commission.”
“I’m Bobby Lane.”
Odis returned with two iced teas, with one large square cube in each glass. “You done said that, and ya look too young to be president, so I’m failin’ to see why it’s so important.”
Bobby studied him again. “Baseball player. World Series. You really don’t know?”
“I don’t cotton much for sports. Must not be as good at it as ya think ya are.”
“Playing isn’t exactly what I’m famous for.” Bobby struggled. He’d never had to explain it to anybody before; most people just knew. The news had made such a big splash. “Game two of the series? I ditched my team?”
Odis appraised him carefully. “Don’t seem like the flighty flake type. Must be more to the story than that.”
Bobby stewed. “There is….” It would be easy enough to just get up and leave, make some excuse and head out the door. But Odis was waiting. Those kind blue eyes of his seemed to deserve an answer.
Odis watched him.
“I… Nathan had to stay late, didn’t fly in until the first afternoon. In the cab on the way to the hotel, he went into convulsions and the cabbie took him to the hospital. I played part of the first series game, pissed off that Nate hadn’t shown. It wasn’t ’til that night, back at the hotel, I found out he was in a coma.”
“So he was your lover?”
“Husband,” Bobby corrected strongly. “We had a ceremony and everything in Boston four years ago. Had to keep it quiet, though. Management was too worried about a scandal.”
As Odis got up and left the room, Bobby watched, shocked by the reaction.
How dare he just get up and—
Odis returned and handed something to him. Without thinking, Bobby took the items. He looked down at the pipe and lighter. It was one of those old-fashioned corncob pipes like he’d seen in some hillbilly movie once. And it didn’t smell at all like tobacco. Bobby realized it was the same faint lingering smell he had noticed in the studio. Marijuana.
“Go ahead,” Odis urged as he sat in the chair next to Bobby. “You’re a man who needs a toke if I’ve ever seen one.”
Bobby looked down at the pipe. He’d had weed before, of course, back in college. He’d always been too worried about his career to have any kind of drugs since going professional. It was one of the things Nate used to tease him about sometimes. A glass of bubbly at New Year’s was about all he did. Athletics, his body, were too important and kept him wary of such temptations. He’d seen too many other players crash their careers with booze and drugs.
“Light up, dude,” Odis urged, echoing the voice of Nathan in his head. That voice of Nathan was also nagging him to loosen up.
Bobby brought the pipe to his mouth and struck the lighter. He inhaled a little and held the breath, struggling not to cough as he fought the spicy burning tingle in his throat. He coughed anyway.
Odis took the pipe from him as he exhaled slowly. Odis took his own hit.
Bobby was a bit surprised at himself for taking the smoke. He watched Odis put the pipe and lighter on the table.
“Now then, baseball.”
“Baseball,” Bobby echoed.
“You played a long time?”
Bobby chuckled. “Since I was old enough to hold up a bat, seems like.”
“Nice for a man to have a passion.” Odis nodded.
Bobby looked at the corncob pipe.
Go ahead, one more
, the voice of Nathan urged.
Odis followed his gaze, then picked up the pipe and lighter and put them in Bobby’s hands.
Bobby inhaled deeply this time, letting the intoxicating smoke dance in his nose and throat as he held the breath in.
“You got a touch of twang, but it’s not Texas. Where ya from?”
“North Carolina, but Dad’s from Ohio. Spent a lot of time there growin’ up.” Bobby felt something stirring in his mind, like the fingers of that tight stranglehold of control he always felt were loosening slightly.
Odis watched him put the pipe back on the table. “They fired you? When you went to the hospital?”
Bobby shook his head. “Not then. They told me to show for the second game, but I refused. I wasn’t gonna leave Nate.”
“Then?” Odis encouraged.
“When I didn’t come in for the third game, someone leaked it to the media where I was.
That’s
when it turned into a three-ring freak show.”
Odis picked up the pipe, but this time when he handed it to over, he cradled Bobby’s hand in his own a few seconds before letting go.
Bobby inhaled another huge lungful, then slowly released it. “He died that night.”
Odis gently took hold of Bobby’s hand. Then he slid the pipe from Bobby’s fingers with his other hand and put it back on the table.
As his mind’s strangling fingers loosened more, Bobby felt suppressed anger emerging. “If it had been one of the other players, a player’s wife, there’d’a been memorials… people woulda written songs….” He felt his face hardening. “Sympathy of the media woulda been—”
Bobby clenched his fists. “Instead,
I
get the clusterfuck freak show.” He leaned forward against the table as he scowled. “
I’m
some kind of villain for not supporting the team.” He took a deep breath and slapped his palm on the table. “
Never mind
Nathan’s fuckin’ dead, there’s a World Series to win!”
All of Bobby’s strength poured out with his words. He slumped back down into his seat.
Scooting his chair closer, Odis reached out and gently touched Bobby’s drooped chin, pulling Bobby’s head up to look into his face. “I hope the fuckers lost.”
“Yep, they did.”
Odis gazed at Bobby with sympathetic blue eyes. “Maybe”—Odis took his hand and pulled Bobby to his feet—“maybe you
should
see it.”
He led Bobby by the hand back to the studio. “It was a work commissioned by the Equestrian Society,” Odis explained as he guided Bobby around the worktable. “I struggled with it over a week, not getting anywhere before….” Odis pulled the towel away from his work.
The emotional impact of the piece hit Bobby like a punch. He clutched at his stomach as he stared at the horse.
The clay sculpture was about twenty-four inches tall, and only the animal’s front section was visible. Its rear legs and rump appeared to be inside the table, trapped in a quagmire of muck. The horse’s eyes were wide with panic, a terror visible in its straining muscles as it fought to liberate itself from the puddle of thick mud, its right hoof cracked and split from the effort of trying to pull itself free.
Bobby slumped back against the cabinet. “Shit,” he moaned, not able to take his eyes from the raw clay. It felt as though all his suppressed emotional pain sprang to life in front of him. He felt himself sinking to the floor as the fingers of control in his mind completely released their grip.
“Whoa, dude,” Odis said, reaching out to hold Bobby upright before he slid down to the floor. “I didn’t expect to knock ya off your feet.”
“It’s, it’s very… powerful.” Bobby dropped his gaze to the floor, fighting the chaos spiraling inside. Odis’s hand on his arm felt so firm. The room seemed to be getting warm. His thoughts felt jumbled. The room got hotter. He couldn’t seem to pull them—his thoughts—together.
Bobby thought he saw a blurring streak across the front of the glass as a strange buzzing noise filled his ears momentarily.
Odis put his other hand on Bobby’s chest and pulled him up to his feet. “Oops.”
“Oops?” Bobby asked, the word making a funny echo in his head.
“Maybe my sister.” Odis leaned toward him.
It seemed like Odis was going to kiss him. Bobby shook his head, trying to clear the fuzzy jumble of tangled thoughts. “Maybe?”