âI saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.ââMichelangelo
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 warriorsâHeavenâs 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. Iâm 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. Itâs 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. Itâs a cushion of safety that I canât bring myself to leave.
The screen door announced my arrival, and I cringed as I heard Marge calling for me. âNate!â I could just ignore her. âNathaniel!â 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, âYes, Marge?â
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. âNow, you know, I canât reach anything. Who ever heard of putting lights so doggone far up on the ceiling? I need some help changing that lightbulb in the hallway.â
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 didnât feel like anything else, but I grunted as I yanked the door open and grabbed the bulb she offered. Itâs not really a major task. The fixture is close to the ceiling, but itâs nothing a step ladder wonât fix. Still, Marge isnât exactly lithe. As though Iâve 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, âNow, why were you doinâ a thing like this by yoâself?â
Though we differ on most issues, we were on the same wavelength now. She looked apologetic as she said, âIf I fall, thatâs the last thing my sonâs high falutinâ wife would need to stick me in a home! Sheâd say I canât take care of myself. And I ainât goinâ to no home!â
I donât like it, being the caretaker here, but I agree. No homes. Sheâd leave, and Iâd 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.
Itâs never that easy though.
âYou know. We got a strange delivery today. You know anything about that?â she asked.
I shook my head.
âThis scary lookinâ man showed up, bald head, sunglasses, big muscles. Heâs 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 canât know for sure that those people ainât puttinâ cuss words on their skin.â
Time to get this conversation back on track, before we get the evils of tattoos lecture again.
âI know. I donât know why they do that. Now, what about this delivery? Are you sure itâs anything to do with me?â
âYeah. The baldie said it was for you. To make sure you got it. That youâd know what to do with it. And itâs big and heavy. I want it outta my garage, but itâs hard to move at all,â she complained.
A flash of annoyance rushed over me. Honestly, if sheâd 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.
âIt was weird. It didnât come off no FedEx or UPS truck either. Donât you know âbout the UPS, son? You could be tracking them packages anywhere.â
For Chrissakes! Yes, I know âbout the UPS.
I pulled the door up, looking at the person-sized crate in the middle of the room. Itâs on a pallet with casters, at least. I studied the box towering over me, looking for a label. âThereâs no return address,â I admitted.
âWell, I know that. I looked. Wondering what you been buying. I know people buy crazy stuff on the internet.â
âI really didnât order anything.â
I hesitated at the box. Itâs too big to be anything but interesting. But it had to be a mistake.
âWell, câmon. Open it up,â 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.
âWell, whatâs it say?â Marge chirped. She edged closer, reading over my shoulder. â âDonât be afraid of inspiration.â Donât be afraid of inspiration?! What does that mean?â
I shrugged as my eyes bulged at the extravagance before me in Margeâs dingy garage, and in spite of the note, I asked, âAre you sure they said this is for me?â
âYeah. Baldie insisted. What you gonna do with this? Now, you canât be leaving this in the middle of my garage.â
âIâll figure something out. You want me to move it to one side for now?â
When she nodded, I carefully inched my marble to the side. Donât tip. Donât crack. Just smooth movement, with just enough force. It was terrifying.
âNow why would someone send you a buncha marble?â she pondered.
âI donât know,â I answered quietly, âBut Iâm learning to sculpt. I just canât imagine whoâd send me that big a piece or why.â
âYou sculpt?!â Marge squawked into the evening air. I nodded. âWe eat dinner together half the time. How could you take up sculpting and not tell me?â
I watched my feet stamping at the floor, and my hand flew up to cool my burning neck as my cheeks burned. âIâIâm not sure Iâm good at it yet,â I stammered.
Margeâs indignation vanished in her next deep exhale. âItâs not easy to have someone laugh at your newborn dreams,â she agreed, reaching up to make my eyes meet hers. âI can give up a little space for a while.â
And before I had a chance to thank her, she was heading off to the kitchen. But I knew better than to follow. Sheâs still surprised, but eventually there will be a litany on sculpting. I donât know what sheâs going to harp on for certain, but somehow I know itâs sure to include sculpting for Godâs glory and how people were meant to be wearing clothes.
âŚ
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. Delaneyâs day lilies I was so lost in reverie.
A tall, muscular woman with wings. A woman with wings? An angel. But she didnât look like Michelangeloâs angels. She was thin, but curvy, and she didnât have a toga on. Donât all angels have to wear togas? Or be naked? Isnât 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 lookedâŚfallen.
Iâm impressed that my idea is so detailedâlike Michelangeloâs DavidâI could see her eyelashes, her veins. But I couldnât easily imagine her in color. I only saw her in marble, and I ached with the need to see what sheâd 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 Iâm doing what I can with this one little mower and a beat-up truck that barely wants to haul me, let alone the equipment and accessories. Unless you want to mow lawns forever, you have to keep moving. Câmon, Nate. We can sculpt later. We can draw later. I tried to talk myself down because I can hardly keep it togetherâstretching out my funds to attend art classes, pay Marge for utilities, and eat. Marge doesnât require much, and I think she spends what I pay her feeding me again later. So, I canât let her down. My rational side knows best, knows I have to make a certain quota, but the muses were riding me hard.
âWhat the heck are you doinâ, Nate?â
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. Iâm usually not, but you have to wonder when somebody leads with that.
âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean, I saw you nearly take out the flowerbeds three times in one yard!â 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 donât know if you can get leg callouses, but if itâs possible, Kiahâs 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 sheâs meaner, and sheâs 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.
âIâm sorry, Kiah. I donât know whatâs gotten into me,â I made excuses as I rubbed my palms down my face, looking for a dry spot to wipe sweat.
âYou sure it ainât that hot chick that keeps waving at you from the pool next door?â she retorted. I turned to look. Thereâs a hot chick waving at me next door? Sure enough, Ms. Pink Bikini waved at us as I looked.
âMaybe sheâs waving at you, Kiah. I think you gotta be wrong. I didnât even notice,â I placated as Kiah looked ready to slap the back of my head. I heard her muttering.
âI canât even get a girl to look at meâsomeone who would definitely noticeâand you canât see them fawning at you! Honestly, if the pink bikini ainât your problem, then why are you trying to run our business into the ground today?â
I let a breath out because she wass not going to like my reasons. The pink bikini would be more relatable.
âI got this weird delivery yesterday, and I keep thinking about it.â
âIf it ainât for you, youâre supposed to return it, idiot.â
I grinned at her straightforward advice. âIt was for me. The delivery guy apparently insisted.â
I wondered how long I could keep Kiah waiting for details before sheâd explode, wanting to know whoâd send me a package and what it was. I was dead certain that she couldnât make it to the next yard before she insisted on knowing.
I didnât have to wait long. âSo, are you gonna tell me what you got?â Her eyes flashed.
âYes, Kiah. I was just waiting for you to ask. Wasnât sure you were interested,â I teased.
âYou know we ainât got nobody to send us packages but the Hatters, and they ainât gonâ send anything. We see them all the time.â I smiled at Kiahâs use of the nickname for the trio of old ladies whoâd adopted us, a name bestowed in part because of their attempt to join the Red Hat Society and in part because theyâre mad like hatters.
âOkay. Get this. I show up from work, and Marge is driving me crazy about changing a lightbulb. Then, she springs the package on me. Itâs huge and sitting in the garage. This gigantic box on a pallet with casters. Itâs the sort of crate that could house a body or a dinosaur skeleton. Anything really,â I narrated with excitement. Kiah hopped from foot to foot.
âI slit the sides open, and I can tell the thingâs got heft, you know? And thereâs a note taped to the block. It has âNathanielâ written neatly on top with some bizarre advice inside. It said, âDonât be afraid of inspiration.â Itâs a huge chunk of marble. Statue making size.â
Kiahâs jaw dropped because I canât make this stuff up. Who sends a cash-strapped art student a slab of marble? And why would I be afraid of inspiration?
âSo, what are you gonna do with it? I mean, youâre in Sculpting 2. Youâre good, but youâre not Michelangelo yet.â
âI know. And at first, I was horrified. Afraid of inspiration. Thatâs laughable. Iâm afraid to touch the marble at all. Or at least I was. Until I was gettinâ this idea while I was mowing.â
I wasnât ready to share yet, and I knew that Kiah would worry at my idea like a scab if I didnât take evasive action.
âSo, I heard a rumor that the Hatters are gettinâ together Thursday night at your house. Now, I havenât been invited, but I heard that they invited Delia Moore, the head of the local Cotillion Society. I donât know what they might be intendinâ, but Iâd be willing to bet it involves shoes you canât walk in and one Hezekiah Esther Craft being announced at a ball.â I made sure to use my imitation of Mrs. Grace as I said the full name.
Kiahâs 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. Iâm an awful guy for bringing it up, but Kiah wasnât 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 Iâm a landscape sculptor, shaping grass and hedges to my patronsâ whims. But people think Iâm a sculptor like they think janitors are âsanitation engineersâ. 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 Iâm coming for miles away, and I turned the volume up, letting the radio drown it. âThis 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.â 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 didnât bother unloading my gear. I was somewhat sheltered here behind the house, and I walked toward the side entry garage door. Iâve 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 couldnât 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 doesnât pulse. Itâs rock. Itâs not living. I talked myself out of backing away. Iâve 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.
âIs that you, Nathaniel?â
Who else, Marge?
Iâm still not up to letting my landlady experience what a smartass actually jabbers inside my head though. So, I replied, âYes.â If I happened to sound a bit longsuffering, well, Iâd had dehydration-induced hallucinations already.
âI was just makinâ sure nobody was sneakinâ in to steal that chunk oâ rock.â
My heart nearly stopped as I saw that she was holding an old revolver. Little Marge, who canât change a light bulb, was prepared to shoot me to kingdom come.
âWere you gonna shoot me?â I gasped, my voice rising an octave.
âNot you. Just anybody that ainât sâposed to be here.â
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.
âYou reek! Now go on and wash up. Iâm makinâ 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.â
I had to agree.