“Henry!” I shouted desperately as I ran around the gas station, dropping down into the mud to peer under bushes and the big propane tank that was out back. He wasn’t there. I’d only had him for four days, but I loved the little guy like he’d been with me for years. That little black ball of fur had trusted me and looked to me for help when he was in trouble. I’d rescued him, but in a way he’d rescued me too, when I was at the lowest point in my life and thought that nobody would ever need me. I’d wrapped him up in his towel and fed him canned tuna, and silently promised him that he’d never be cold and wet again. And now…
I came back to the front of the garage, where Lee was still looking around for Henry. “Anything?” I asked. He shook his head. Suddenly, thunder boomed overhead, and I flinched as fat raindrops began to patter down noisily onto the roof of the garage.
Lucy
I stood in the old sunroom that I’d designated as my new pottery room and stared silently at the empty wheel, its surface completely spotless. Nothing had been made on the thing in over a year now. Even in New York, when I was still able to produce work, I’d barely touched it. My ex-husband, Charles, ran the company and it seemed like all the clients wanted clean, clean, clean—ornate but in a completely predictable, cookie-cutter way. It was all stuff that was simpler to design on the computer than to throw by hand on a wheel, and so that’s what I’d done.
The rain drummed down on the roof. It’d been going for about an hour now, and the forecasts said to expect another storm shower later in the day. It was a good thing I’d moved back in and done so much needed upkeep. With my parents long out of the place, and none of my siblings willing to take care of it, the old Duncan home had basically fallen to shambles. With this crazy storm, it probably would’ve washed away if I hadn’t come back.
I set up all my supplies by the wheel and pulled up a stool, exhaling as I sat down. I rubbed my face and stroked my chin, eyeing the clay and willing it show me its hidden form. It’d been a week since I’d had the courage to sit and try again, and a year since the block had firmly settled into my body, preventing me from doing anything meaningful with my work. Or maybe it’d been much longer than that—when Charles and I had formed Lucy Duncan Ceramics and I’d been churning out those shelf-stocker pieces. The thing was, despite my traditional education and background, despite all the awards I’d received for my pottery, I’d felt completely happy with what I was producing. It was paying the bills—no, far better than that, truthfully—and it was still somewhat creatively fulfilling even though I wasn’t pushing any boundaries. Challenging, though? Perhaps not.
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.