THE MOLDING OF CLAY

          The woman opened the door to her studio, stepped inside, took off her wet coat, sat down at her desk and breathed a sigh of pleasure. This was her special time, the time she hoarded from her regular day which would probably be filled with mini-crises, endless chores and trivia, to work on her short stories.

          In her early sixties, grey-haired and over-weight, the woman wears a white cotton turtle neck and light blue stretch jeans, pink and blue knitted slippers and reading glasses. She can see that it is  5:20 a.m. from the black-strapped Timex on her right wrist.

          With a sense of satisfaction, she gazed around her studio. A desk and computer stand take up a large part of the 12'x16' room.  On the back of a blue upholstered chair is near the window is a damp green wind-breaker and an orange, yellow and silver safety vest. On the seat is a navy toque and a black nylon dog leash. Beside the chair is a pair of rubber boots, toeing towards the cot where the brindle mutt Pennypepper, a recent rescue from the animal shelter, stretches out on the brown cover, slightly overhanging the old green bath-mat she is supposed to be lying on.

          At the west end of the room is a  green three shelf bookcase, a white three-speed oscillating fan, a half used roll of paper towelling and a white coffee-maker. At the windows, which open from the bottom and are held by nylon string to hooks on the ceiling, are green curtains with white dots and orange centred daisies. Matching material covers file boxes containing old files and computer parts behind the spare chair. The bookcase is filled with picture albums, three ring binders of inspirational poems, sayings, columns and essays. Above the bookcase is a strand of Christmas angels hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

          The walls hold five pictures, a calendar and three more shelves. A large black ghetto blaster sits on the top one. Beside it, one above the other are white-matted snapshot enlargements. The first print shows an old couple sitting at a picnic table in a garden. These are the parents of the woman who uses this room. The middle photo is of her siblings. Two tall men flank four middle aged women. She is the tallest of the four women, nearly 5:11. The men are a few inches taller.

          The largest picture is an oil painting of a scene in Germany. The colours are brown and grey with a tree branch in orange and yellow for contrast. A patch of blue sky and more yellow on  the window shutters and the side of one building. The red in the leaves is caught on the tile roof.  A sign over the door says "Willy's Inn." Beyond the inn is a castle, turreted, crenulated, with a round wall of centuries-old stone. The oil painting is an early effort of her beloved and multi-talented nephew.

          Her computer stand faces the east window, from where she can see the driveway, several pine trees, the brown asphalt roof and white siding of the dog house. All is grey and green, mostly green. She loves this room, her own private space, her studio.

          She watches white letters moving across the blue background of the monitor as she types in the date. The printer shows, with three green lights, that it is on and operating. She pours coffee and sits down once again at the computer. She listens to the rain. She hears a pickup passing by on the road. Birds exchange  greetings. A squirrel chitters. She stares at the mist waiting for the words to come. Then a knock on the door makes her jump. "Come in," she says and watches as the door knob is turned the wrong way, then back, and the door opens. A young boy stands at the door and looks in.  Pennypepper bounces off the couch to sniff him for signs of danger or friendliness. He isn't sure about the dog, so he hesitates.

          "Pennypepper! Go lay down," she says. "Please, come in." After one more sniff, the dog walks under the desk and drops on the floor. The boy is about 14 although he looks younger.  He is wearing jeans, a soiled blue t-shirt and running shoes. His short cropped hair has been bleached a no-name-brand yellow. He sports three ear-rings in his left ear. He is blue-eyed and scared.

          "What can I do for you?" said the woman.  "I don't believe I know your name."

          "I'm Clay, Clay from down the road.  I seen your light and thought I'd ask if it was okay to sit in your shed until the rain stops."

          "Of course, come in." she hands him the roll of paper towels. "That's a nasty morning."

          "I had to  get out, had to leave the house," said the boy, wiping his face and hair. "My Dad's drunk and he's gone crazy."

          "Is that right? Oh yes, now I know who you are. Well, at least I knew your grandfather. I don't know your father, except to see him passing by on the road."

          "Been drinkin' for three days now, my Dad. Gettin' uglier all the time. His woman left, see, and he blames me for it. Had three cop cars there last night. They was tryin' to talk some sense into him, but he doesn't listen when he's in that shape."

          "Look, have you had your breakfast yet?"

          "Naw. Ain't et for two or three days. Nothin' there to eat."

          "Okay, let's go to the house. Don't mind the dog. She is not dangerous, just silly."

          The boy reached a tentative hand out and petted the dog.  Welcoming the attention Pennypepper happily thumped her tail on the floor, then followed the woman and the boy as they trudged through the rain to the house. Inside the lobby, the boy scuffed off his running shoes. She noticed his feet were dirty, but that didn't bother her; housework wasn't high on her list of priorities.          "Have a seat there," she said to the boy, pointing at a chair next to the big pine table. "Let's see, I can make you bacon and scrambled eggs. Would that be okay?"

          "Sure. But you don't have to."

          "Well, I haven't eaten yet myself, so I was going to make some anyway."

          Opening the fridge door she pulled out a carton of eggs, a package of bacon, and a Tupperware dish of green and red seedless grapes.  From the freezer she took two whole wheat muffins, placed them on a saucer and stuck them in the microwave.

          When the microwave beeped, she pulled out the hot muffins, found some 3/4 margarine, a plate and a knife and fork and set them before the boy. "Here," she said. "Have these while you wait."

          Soon the bacon was sizzling. She quickly scrambled eggs, put toast in the toaster, and put a jar of marmalade on table. Then she brought out a three-litre jug of milk, peeled the top off, and filled a tall glass with the milk.

          "Want some chocolate in that?" she asked him, holding up the chocolate syrup."

          "Sure," he said.

          When the bacon and eggs were done, she buttered the toast and set the plates on the table, one for him and one for her. The whole-wheat muffins and the milk were already gone. He tucked into the bacon and eggs. They ate in silence for a while. The boy was ravenous.

          "More milk?"

          "Sure."

          As she poured the milk she said: "What do you plan to do for the rest of the day?"

          "Dunno. Go back, I guess. Maybe my Dad's passed out by now."

          "Would it help for me to go back with you?"

          "Naw. If he sleeps it off, it'll be okay when he wakes up. He'll have forgot all about it."

          "That must be hard for you."

          "Naw. It ain't that bad, most times. Somebody must a called the welfare the other day, and they came out. They wanted to take me away, see? But I outsmarted 'em. I saw 'em coming and ran. I hid in the woods down there  by the brook. I seen 'em lookin' all around. They had these fancy shoes on and I knew they wouldn't come down there and get wet. They left after a while."

          "But wouldn't it be better to live somewhere else? Somewhere safe, where you'd have lots to eat..."

          "Sometimes. Maybe. But, I guess not. I'm all he has, see."

          "Oh, look, the rain has stopped."

          " I guess I'd better be goin' home. Thanks fer the breakfast."

          "You're more than welcome. Any time. Glad to have you. Sure you'll be all right now?"

          "Yea. I'm okay."

          "Look here," she said. "The shed is always open. All you have to do is turn the button on the door. If I'm not home and you ever need a place to hide out,  it's okay to for you stay there."

          "Gee, thanks. Thanks a lot."

          "Any time, day or night, okay?"

          "Okay."

          Filled with an infinite sadness, the woman watched the scrawny boy in his torn and soiled t-shirt trudging down the driveway.  What did the boy have to go home to? Would it only be a matter of time before the boy began to imitate his father? Was he fated for a life of alcoholism, violence and despair? Could she could find a way of reaching out to the him in some way? She would think about that.

          Meanwhile she found a roll-away bed in the storage room. She wheeled it out to the shed and, next to the wall containing her file boxes, she opened the bed, covered the mattress with a blanket, and left two more blankets folded on top of it. It wasn't much, but at least he now had choices.  He could stay with his father, or he could sleep safely in the shed.

          After that the woman went back to her studio and turned on the computer. Pennypepper who followed her everywhere like a shadow, climbed up on the small cot, turned around on the old bath mat three times and then settled down to sleep.

          The woman began to type:  ...hearing a knock on the door, she looked up and called, "Come in."