âWhen it comes to art, itâs important not to hide the madness.ââAtticus
The forks clinked against the plates as we ate in silence. When my bellyâs full of fried veggies and meat, I have to acknowledge that itâs bratty not to change a few light bulbs without feeling put upon. And my guilt deepened as I realized my attentionâs been divided between the spiral I sent Kiah into and the angel girl in my mind, none of it on Marge. My eyes drifted to the New Orleans Daily newspaper lying on the table.
Statue Smashers Strike St Louis Number Three
The angels that once perched atop mausoleums for St. Francisâs Abbey and the Milleneaux Family tombs have been sledged off their bases. According to our source, the statues âwerenât just knocked down; they were beaten into dust!â (See p. C7 for rest of story)
Marge followed my gaze and opined, âCan you imagine what sorta lowlife goes âround smashing statues on peopleâs final resting places?â She clucked. âI just donât know whatâs got into people.â
I nodded my agreement and was looking for words when Marge continued, âI saw the old home director at the store today.â
I nod. Whatâs there to say? No love had been lost between Team Kiah and Nate and the New Orleans Home for Wayward Children. It actually says that on the sign. Kiah and I didnât start out there, but when we both were placed there, we raised hell until we found our way out.
âHowâs she doinâ?â
âShe asked about you and Kiah. Said she still thinks taking your GEDs and moving out was a mistake.â
âDead horses we gotta keep beating.â
âNow, speaking of Kiah, donât you think itâs about time she started acting like a girl? Made some girl friends?â
I tried not to choke on my food as her abrupt subject change left me reeling. She slapped me on the back, and I finally eked out some words, âOh, no! Youâre not dragging me into this! Thereâs no way I am getting involved in a KiahâGrace dispute. Thereâs no winning that one.â
âWell, of course, it can be won. Donât be ridiculous. You just have to encourage her to go to a few places where she could actually meet the right kind of girls, you know?â
Little did she know, Kiah would love to meet the right kind of girls. Just not that kind. âUh-huh. I see. My answer is still no. Iâm not gonna be responsible for my business partner getting dragged to places that make her miserable.â
Marge looked like she wanted to grab me by my ear and force my cooperation on Operation Cinderella. But we donât have any fairy godmothers here, just the Hatters and one opinionated teenage girl.
âWell, if you ainât gonna help with Kiah, letâs talk about the hunk of rock taking up half my garage space.â
The women in my life really know how to press my buttons. I stalled with bites of food.
âWhat do you want to discuss?â I finally asked.
âAre you gonna move it somewhere else? Are you gonna carve it? If so, what are you carving?â Clearly, the questions had built up while I was gone. âOh, and did you figure out who delivered it? And why?â
âWhoa. One at a time. I havenât planned to move it. Do you really need me to? And, yes, I think I am gonna carve it.â
I thought maybe a few answers would suffice, but Marge sat there waiting for the rest of them. She locked her steely, knowing eyes on mine.
âYou know darned well that I can outwait you, Nate. And that pie I made earlierâs gonna wait, too, if you donât answer my questions.â
I know when Iâve been outmaneuvered. Kiah and the Hatters have been working me into whatever plots theyâve had for a year now. And they know about one of my serious weaknessesâfood.
Sighing, I answered, âIâve been thinking about it, and Iâm gonna carve an angel of sorts.â
Her smile carved deeper creases around her eyes and mouth, but the light of her approval warmed me already. âAn angel! How wonderful! I canât wait to tell the girls. Ooooh! Something divine in my garage!â She clapped her hands together, before drawing up short. âI have one concern thoughâsheâs gonna be wearing clothes, right? This ainât gonna be like that poster in your room, is it?â
Here we go again.
âNow, Marge. I already told you. Thereâs nothing weird about those posters. If anything, thereâs something kinda nerdy about them. That naked statue that so offends you is Michelangeloâs David. The others are his work, too. Thereâs nothing obscene about it. Itâs art!â I waved my arms around for emphasis, punctuating the last word in my exasperation.
I still hadnât answered the question, and she mulishly crossed her arms, waiting for my answer.
âNo, sheâs not gonna be naked! Christ!â I ducked as Marge swatted at me with the newspaper for taking the Lordâs name in vain. âAck! Lay off, Marge. Seriously. Sheâll have clothes.â
Still clutching the paper, but the tension gone from her brows, she went to grab the chocolate pie as I wondered what kind of clothes she thought should appear on an angel. Sheâs happy about the clothing situation now, but she doesnât know that Iâll basically be carving Sarah Connor with wings. The thought of her shock sweetened the chocolate in my mouth even more, and I savored my pie as I thought about the spiky blades protruding like porcupine quills on my angelâs thighs and arms.
âŚ
I listened to the nuances of working in a new medium in Sculpture 2. Mrs. Carmichael droned about the benefits of working in clay and the disadvantages. I am more of a doer than a listener though, always have been, and I fidgeted with the ball of clay before me. I canât let it go, pounding the piece between my palms, and my hands are operate independently of my mind, stroking and shaping the ovoid piece into an unusual teardrop. My fingertips pinched the rounded edges, adding rounded steps to the project, and I barely heard Mrs. Carmichael in the background as the other students began rolling their clay.
I should be worried about my instructions, but I find no space for that in my head. I only saw filaments, fibers, details of the wing. I etched the details into the outline Iâve made, the foundation for my project. I scraped with my scalpel and a tiny pick to get each filament, each feather to match the picture in my mind. I should quit. I should apologize for zoning out and find out whatâs going on, but I canât. I didnât want to. I wanted to practice, I wanted to see my angel finished. I needed to bring her into my world. I looked up and saw the rest of the students trying to make a basic bowl shape. I could press my clay into a hollow hemisphere. I could have still gone back, but I didnât. I etched and fluffed the clay ridges until I have a wing. And I never learned to etch or fluff. I am more than inspired. I am driven, compelled to carve. I would say that Iâm possessed of a mad angel-sculpting spirit, but who does that? Thatâs crazier than needing to sculpt. But I couldnât break the wing beneath my palm. I already love her.
My reverie broke as a classmate bumped into me. The other students were filing out, and Mrs. Carmichael stared at me and my work. âWhat are you doing?â she asked, kindly demanding some explanation for my deviation.
âI donât know,â I mumbled, my pulse racing as I was caught. âI just couldnât get it out of my head.â
She didnât give me the youâre-a-psycho look I expected though. Instead, she kindly patted my hand and her eyes filled with sympathy. âI know what you mean. I get things in my head, and I canât sculpt anything else either. It is weird that you chose wings though.â
There it was. An acknowledgement of my inherent oddity.
She looked at me suggestively. âWould you like to see my studio?â
Curious, and more than a little cautious, I nodded my assent and scooped up my books as I cradled the wing. Is she hitting on me? I havenât gotten any creepy vibes off of this woman before, but Kiah and I have learned the hard way that not every threat exudes violence. I towered over my petite teacher. I shouldnât feel threatened, but I canât shake the ominous feeling, that sense of inevitability as defining moments lurk around a corner we canât glimpse.
We walked across the campus, in a mostly uncomfortable silence, the tension rising. I could practically hear the violins shrieking in my skull, goosebumps warning me that nothing was normal here.
An old brick buildingâs first floor housed the instructorsâ studio, and I was prepared to see abstract pieces, nudes like David, and huge canvases, scribbles of ideas on scraps of paper. Instead, I was surprised by the number of instructors all working at the same time. Donât yâall take time off? And then I saw the four artists in this room were shaping, sketching, paintingâa room crowded with angels.
âWelcome to the Angel Guild,â she joked.
âThe Angel Guild?â
âIâm afraid that you know what I mean. You were approached by the Valkyries about getting justice for someone you love, right? And, all of a sudden, youâre fixated on one project. And not just the image, the inspiration, but on how you should do it. What material, what size. You know it all, donât you? And itâll culminate in a marble angel.â
I stood there, dumbfounded as she told me parts of my new life story.
âKind of.â
âAnd your marbleâs been delivered?â
I grew cold with horror as her confounding knowledge chilled me. âUh-huh.â
She pushed her chunky hipster glasses up the bridge of her nose. âYouâd best stick with us. Not everyone will understand what youâre going through.â
I couldnât believe that she will either. I wanted to ask if her marble pulses, if itâs alive. But Iâve concealed my obsession so far.
âIs this some kind of joke? I didnât get a âLetâs Make a Dealâ offer from aâdid you say, âvalkyrieâ?â
I knew my tone was biting, but I donât like being pranked.
âItâs not a joke. And Iâve never heard of the Inspiration not coming from Valkyrie class angel, a Fury, or one of the Four. You might want to check the skepticism at the door. We are the only ones who will believe you, no matter what, over the coming weeks and months. You can carve here, or wherever youâd like. I just thought you should know that youâre not alone.â
The other sculptors chipped away at the stone. Clink, clink. But they were watching me, too.
The closest one put her chisel down.
âIâm Anna Kemp.â She introduced herself with a pained smile.
âNate Jacoby.â
And the greeting continued around the room with Paul Stanton, Grant Miller, and Howard Trent, barely allotting time for nods and registering my name. Whatever this place is, I didnât want to be there. After the clipped hellos from the men, I backed away from the circle of materials ringing the room. I nearly took out an easel with my backward march, but I didnât belong. Maybe Iâm full of the naivete of youth, but Iâm not ready to lie down and give in to divine inspiration.
Do you hear that, Muses? I wonât carve just because you say sculpt. Nathaniel Forrest Jacoby is no oneâs lapdog.
And I sprinted through the sultry air burning my lungs. I sprinted clear off of campus and didnât stop in the neutral ground for the streetcar like I planned. I donât have time to wait, to pause, to reflect. Because I know things I didnât before. Whether inspiration is divine or not, itâs real, and my angel didnât spring from my own mind.