1
“I saw the
angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”—Michelangelo I trudged through the dilapidated street,
balancing exertion and hydration in a shuffle common to all of New Orleans in
July. Eyeing the angel statues guarding Saint Louis Number Three, I imagined
them as they should be, not child-like cherubs, but stone warriors—Heaven’s
answer to demons. Grass stained my knees, and my too large t-shirt was heavy
with humidity and sweat.
Everything in the
thrift store seems made for obese people. Or people who at least eat regularly.
None of it snugs
up to a rail thin teenager. I’m not emaciated. Well, not anymore. Marge, my
landlady and surrogate grandmother, might seem unfriendly and intimidating at
first, but the wrinkles in her eyes get canyon deep as she stares at my baggy
clothes and waves me into her kitchen for another round of fried everything.
I have a small
room in the lilac colored shotgun house, a quarter cordoned off as mine. An
efficiency apartment, I suppose some would call it. I know the truth. It’s just
a closet of a room, with one corner pretending to be a kitchenette and another
corner pretending to be a bathroom.
For the record, I
might be better off in a pop-up camper. But this place feels like home. Marge
is just one wall over and would beat anyone threatening us with her rolling
pin. It’s a cushion of safety that I can’t bring myself to leave.
The screen door
announced my arrival, and I cringed as I heard Marge calling for me. “Nate!”
I could just
ignore her. “Nathaniel!” she insisted.
Turning away from
my so-close door, the freedom to collapse on my couch mere seconds away, I
stood outside the door to the main house and responded, “Yes, Marge?”
She was still in
a shift, an oversized nightgown sack dress that matches the purple of the
house, and worn out slippers sheath her toes. “Now, you know, I can’t reach
anything. Who ever heard 1
of
putting lights so doggone far up on the ceiling? I need some help changing that
lightbulb in the hallway.”
She looked up at
me, as though I have an obligation to change lightbulbs. As though it were in
our contract. Section 5b. Tenant must change light bulbs for little old
ladies. No matter how much he
really just wants to lie down in the air conditioning.
After my
sweltering day, I didn’t feel like anything else, but I grunted as I yanked the
door open and grabbed the bulb she offered. It’s not really a major task. The
fixture is close to the ceiling, but it’s nothing a step ladder won’t fix.
Still, Marge isn’t exactly lithe. As though I’ve been granted insight into the
future, I envisioned her tottering to the side and tipping over, breaking her
hip on the way down. The medics, of course, would look at her and ask, “Now,
why were you doin’ a thing like this by yo’self?”
Though we differ
on most issues, we were on the same wavelength now. She looked apologetic as
she said, “If I fall, that’s the last thing my son’s high falutin’ wife would
need to stick me in a home! She’d say I can’t take care of myself. And I ain’t
goin’ to no home!”
I don’t like it,
being the caretaker here, but I agree. No homes. She’d leave, and I’d be out on
the street again. I pulled the ladder out of the garage, exercising an
abundance of caution. If I break the little fixture, Marge will harangue me
with her sharp tongue and hands on her hips, fingers pointing, and I really
just want peace. I climbed up, unscrewed the fixture, changed the bulb, and
reattached everything. Putting the ladder away, I turned to leave.
It’s never that
easy though.
“You know. We got
a strange delivery today. You know anything about that?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“This
scary lookin’ man showed up, bald head, sunglasses, big muscles. He’s even a
couple of inches taller than you! He had tattoos. The kind in another language.
Now, why do you reckon people do that? They can’t know for sure that those
people ain’t puttin’ cuss words on their skin.”
Time to get this
conversation back on track, before we get the evils of tattoos lecture again.
“I know. I don’t
know why they do that. Now, what about this delivery? Are you sure it’s
anything to do with me?”
“Yeah. The baldie
said it was for you. To make sure you got it. That you’d know what to do with
it. And it’s big and heavy. I want it outta my garage, but it’s hard to move at
all,” she complained.
A flash of
annoyance rushed over me. Honestly, if she’d been able to move my package, she
probably would have by now. And I was curious. No one ever sends me anything
but bills, much less a package. Occasionally, I order art supplies, but I hover
over the mailman when those arrive, worried someone will steal my precious
tools.
“It was weird. It
didn’t come off no FedEx or UPS truck either. Don’t you know ‘bout the UPS,
son? You could be tracking them packages anywhere.”
For
Chrissakes! Yes, I know ‘bout the UPS.
I pulled the door
up, looking at the person-sized crate in the middle of the room. It’s on a
pallet with casters, at least. I studied the box towering over me, looking for
a label. “There’s no return address,” I admitted.
“Well, I know
that. I looked. Wondering what you been buying. I know people buy crazy stuff
on the internet.”
“I really didn’t
order anything.”
I hesitated at
the box. It’s too big to be anything but interesting. But it had to be a
mistake.
“Well, c’mon.
Open it up,” Marge prodded, shooing me toward the box.
I
grabbed a crowbar from the tool bench and wedged it into the seams, shocked by
the weight on the casters. I pried my mystery delivery open, until my eyes
registered what was beneath.
Marble. High
quality marble. A full person-sized block of it. Statue sculpting marble. And a
note taped to the surface, Nathaniel, scripted across the luxurious
paper. I pulled the note off, and unfolded it.
“Well, what’s it
say?” Marge chirped. She edged closer, reading over my shoulder. “ ‘Don’t be
afraid of inspiration.’ Don’t be afraid of inspiration?! What does that mean?”
I shrugged as my
eyes bulged at the extravagance before me in Marge’s dingy garage, and in spite
of the note, I asked, “Are you sure they said this is for me?”
“Yeah. Baldie
insisted. What you gonna do with this? Now, you can’t be leaving this in the
middle of my garage.”
“I’ll figure
something out. You want me to move it to one side for now?”
When she nodded,
I carefully inched my marble to the side. Don’t tip. Don’t crack. Just
smooth movement, with just enough force. It was terrifying.
“Now why would
someone send you a buncha marble?” she pondered.
“I don’t know,” I
answered quietly, “But I’m learning to sculpt. I just can’t imagine who’d send
me that big a piece or why.”
“You sculpt?!”
Marge squawked into the evening air. I nodded. “We eat dinner together half the
time. How could you take up sculpting and not tell me?”
I watched my feet
stamping at the floor, and my hand flew up to cool my burning neck as my cheeks
burned. “I—I’m not sure I’m good at it yet,” I stammered.
Marge’s
indignation vanished in her next deep exhale. “It’s not easy to have someone
laugh at your newborn dreams,” she agreed, reaching up to make my eyes meet
hers. “I can give up a little space for a while.”
And
before I had a chance to thank her, she was heading off to the kitchen. But I
knew better than to follow. She’s still surprised, but eventually there will be
a litany on sculpting. I don’t know what she’s going to harp on for certain,
but somehow I know it’s sure to include sculpting for God’s glory and how
people were meant to be wearing clothes.
…
I was pushing the
mower through the dense air, already soaked at 9:00 AM, when I first envisioned
what the marble block could become. I nearly ran over Mrs. Delaney’s day lilies
I was so lost in reverie.
A tall, muscular
woman with wings. A woman with wings? An angel. But she didn’t look like
Michelangelo’s angels. She was thin, but curvy, and she didn’t have a toga on. Don’t
all angels have to wear togas? Or be naked? Isn’t that a rule? She wass wearing tight fitting pants with
sheaths strapped to her thighs with blades stuck anywhere they would fit and a
clingy chain mail shirt, the outfit finished off with combat boots and her hair
wrapped up in braids. Her wings were huge, spanning from her head to her knees,
and I could see we would be eye to eye if she were real. I tried to shake her
from my mind, but she sprang back. She hardly looked angelic. She
looked…fallen.
I’m impressed
that my idea is so detailed—like Michelangelo’s David—I could see her
eyelashes, her veins. But I couldn’t easily imagine her in color. I only saw
her in marble, and I ached with the need to see what she’d be like in color. I
imagined her as a blonde, a brunette, a redhead as the day passed in a haze of
grass clippings and sweltering heat. I was so drawn to her that I want to walk
away from the lawns, from my one source of income, and sketch her, make the
plan to bring her to life. Because, by the end of the day, there was no doubt
in my mind that she was meant to be sprung from the marble.
I clenched the
handle of my push mower. I am part of a sad, two-person lawn crew, but I’m
doing what I can with this one little mower and a beat-up truck that barely
wants to haul me, let 5
alone
the equipment and accessories. Unless you want to mow lawns forever, you
have to keep moving.
C’mon, Nate.
We can sculpt later. We can draw later. I tried to
talk myself down because I can hardly keep it together—stretching out my funds
to attend art classes, pay Marge for utilities, and eat.
Marge doesn’t
require much, and I think she spends what I pay her feeding me again later. So,
I can’t let her down. My rational side knows best, knows I have to make a
certain quota, but the muses were riding me hard.
“What the heck
are you doin’, Nate?”
My head jerked
around as I loaded the weed eater back into the metal monster. I looked down at
the gear and cans of gasoline, wondering if I was doing something stupid. I’m
usually not, but you have to wonder when somebody leads with that.
“What do you
mean?”
“I mean, I saw
you nearly take out the flowerbeds three times in one yard!” Kiah growled.
My partner in the
great lawn cutting business is an unlikely girl. We were both hungry, sweaty,
and covered in grass confetti. She wore shorts, her legs impervious to the
pelting we took as we mowed. I don’t know if you can get leg callouses, but if
it’s possible, Kiah’s done it.
She looked like
she might still slap some sense in to me, a feat that would take a step ladder,
but it was in her eyes. Kiah might be a foot shorter than I am, but she’s
meaner, and she’s the one in charge of our aggressive marketing campaign and
interacting with clients. Her wild curls were going into near-afro mode, her
hands on her hips.
“I’m sorry, Kiah.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I made excuses as I rubbed my palms down
my face, looking for a dry spot to wipe sweat.
“You sure it
ain’t that hot chick that keeps waving at you from the pool next door?” she
retorted. I turned to look. There’s a hot chick waving at me next door? Sure enough, Ms. Pink Bikini waved at us as I
looked.
“Maybe
she’s waving at you, Kiah. I think you gotta be wrong. I didn’t even notice,” I
placated as Kiah looked ready to slap the back of my head. I heard her
muttering.
“I can’t even get
a girl to look at me—someone who would definitely notice—and you can’t see them
fawning at you! Honestly, if the pink bikini ain’t your problem, then why are
you trying to run our business into the ground today?”
I let a breath
out because she wass not going to like my reasons. The pink bikini would be
more relatable.
“I got this weird
delivery yesterday, and I keep thinking about it.”
“If it ain’t for
you, you’re supposed to return it, idiot.”
I grinned at her
straightforward advice. “It was for me. The delivery guy apparently insisted.”
I wondered how
long I could keep Kiah waiting for details before she’d explode, wanting to
know who’d send me a package and what it was. I was dead certain that she
couldn’t make it to the next yard before she insisted on knowing.
I didn’t have to
wait long. “So, are you gonna tell me what you got?” Her eyes flashed.
“Yes, Kiah. I was
just waiting for you to ask. Wasn’t sure you were interested,” I teased.
“You know we
ain’t got nobody to send us packages but the Hatters, and they ain’t gon’ send
anything. We see them all the time.” I smiled at Kiah’s use of the nickname for
the trio of old ladies who’d adopted us, a name bestowed in part because of
their attempt to join the Red Hat Society and in part because they’re mad like
hatters.
“Okay. Get this.
I show up from work, and Marge is driving me crazy about changing a lightbulb.
Then, she springs the package on me. It’s huge and sitting in the garage. This
gigantic box on a pallet with casters. It’s the sort of crate that could house
a body or a dinosaur skeleton.
Anything really,”
I narrated with excitement. Kiah hopped from foot to foot.
“I
slit the sides open, and I can tell the thing’s got heft, you know? And there’s
a note taped to the block. It has ‘Nathaniel’ written neatly on top with some
bizarre advice inside. It said, ‘Don’t be afraid of inspiration.’ It’s a huge
chunk of marble. Statue making size.”
Kiah’s jaw
dropped because I can’t make this stuff up. Who sends a cash-strapped art
student a slab of marble? And why would I be afraid of inspiration?
“So, what are you
gonna do with it? I mean, you’re in Sculpting 2. You’re good, but you’re not
Michelangelo yet.”
“I know. And at
first, I was horrified. Afraid of inspiration. That’s laughable. I’m afraid to
touch the marble at all. Or at least I was. Until I was gettin’ this idea while
I was mowing.”
I wasn’t ready to
share yet, and I knew that Kiah would worry at my idea like a scab if I didn’t
take evasive action.
“So, I heard a
rumor that the Hatters are gettin’ together Thursday night at your house. Now,
I haven’t been invited, but I heard that they invited Delia Moore, the head of
the local Cotillion Society. I don’t know what they might be intendin’, but I’d
be willing to bet it involves shoes you can’t walk in and one Hezekiah Esther
Craft being announced at a ball.” I made sure to use my imitation of Mrs. Grace
as I said the full name.
Kiah’s eyes
widened, and she stepped back like a skittish colt. I knew she was already
making escape plans. Kiah can wrestle rattlesnakes, change oil on any machine,
send spiders running in fear, and stare down men triple her size. But ballgowns
and people using her full name are panic-inducing. I’m an awful guy for
bringing it up, but Kiah wasn’t thinking about my sculpture anymore. She was
layering her defenses until she was more impenetrable than the DMZ.
Finally alone and
on my way home, I thought about the way I joke that I’m a landscape sculptor,
shaping grass and hedges to my patrons’ whims. But people think I’m a sculptor
like they 8
think
janitors are “sanitation engineers”. Still, I needed stone beneath my hands
like junkies need their next score, and I pressed the pedal down on the old
F-150. It was more embarrassing to drive this old monster than it was to just
walk. The squealing belt let everyone know I’m coming for miles away, and I
turned the volume up, letting the radio drown it. “This is Terri Salinas with
The Underground News. We are sad to report the Bayou Beater has struck again,
leaving two new victims on the city outskirts. Police are still investigating,
but please stay safe, folks.” I mulled the news over, wondering how many
victims the Bayou Beater could take before New Orleans got scared. Was that 6?
7?
Some of the
tension left my shoulders as I pulled into my spot. I didn’t bother unloading
my gear. I was somewhat sheltered here behind the house, and I walked toward
the side entry garage door. I’ve never been nervous about the unlocked garage
before, but I was anxious knowing there was nothing separating a miscreant from
my marble but a rolling door.
I breathed deeply
when it was still there. And I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out for it,
my eight-foot slab. I felt her beneath the marble, a pulse beneath the surface.
I jerked my hand
back. Marble doesn’t pulse. It’s rock. It’s not living. I talked myself out of backing away. I’ve
just had too much mowing and not enough water. My hands are still jittery from
the mower. That logical thought
reined in the others, and I went to fix this dehydration-induced hallucination.
“Is that you,
Nathaniel?”
Who else,
Marge?
I’m still not up
to letting my landlady experience what a smartass actually jabbers inside my
head though. So, I replied, “Yes.” If I happened to sound a bit longsuffering,
well, I’d had dehydration-induced hallucinations already.
“I was just
makin’ sure nobody was sneakin’ in to steal that chunk o’ rock.”
My
heart nearly stopped as I saw that she was holding an old revolver. Little
Marge, who can’t change a light bulb, was prepared to shoot me to kingdom come.
“Were you gonna
shoot me?” I gasped, my voice rising an octave.
“Not you. Just
anybody that ain’t s’posed to be here.”
You think you
know somebody. And then you find out they have revolvers in their housecoats.
And she shoved
that gun back in the pocket of her floral print gown and pushed her glasses up
on her nose, which crinkled when it registered what landscape sculptors
actually smell like in New Orleans heat.
“You reek! Now go
on and wash up. I’m makin’ some fried okra and cornbread. Might scrounge up
some chicken or pork chop in a minute. Come get some real food. Nothing you can
cook in a microwave is gonna be worth a damn.”
I had to agree.
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9/14/2020
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Interview
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9/14/2020
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Interview
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9/15/2020
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Guest Post
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9/15/2020
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Excerpt
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9/16/2020
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Guest Post
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9/16/2020
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Excerpt
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9/17/2020
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Guest Post
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9/17/2020
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Guest Post
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9/18/2020
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Review
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9/18/2020
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Excerpt
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I love books about angels and this one sounds like a great one.
ReplyDeleteNice cover . It sounds interesting. Thanks for the chance.
ReplyDelete