Checked out

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Karen listened to NPR’s Weekend Edition as she drove the few miles it took her to get to Stephen Foster State Park. The wonderful park and cultural center was the saving grace of living in what was literally the middle of nowhere for her. Having spent most of her life in Ohio, she never could get used to the crushing humidity of North Florida or the fact that there seemed to only be three seasons; Hurricane, Christmas, and Hot as Hell.
She turned her truck into the park’s gates and slowly eased up to the guard house
“Morning Karen! You’re here for the pottery class?” The park ranger gave Karen a printout of the park activities for the next few months.
“But of course! Why aren’t you there this morning?” Karen asked looking interestedly over the form.
“I’ll be in a little later, Dave is going to take over up here so that I can slip away. I’ve waited weeks for this class to begin” Susan enthused “Wait ‘til you meet the instructor, he came early this morning to ride his bike a little before getting the classroom set up.”
“Good, good, well let me go on to the crafts square. Is the gift shop open yet? I was going to see if I could talk them out of a cup of coffee.” Karen looked up and saw another car waiting patiently behind her. “I’ll see you in class” she said waving her fingers out the open window.
She drove slowly through the park enjoying the morning breeze teasing the ever-present Spanish moss that decorated the trees. The song of the enormous carillon rang out across the grounds honoring the river that meandered through the park. Karen found a parking place close to the crafts area and pulled in. There were already a few cars there, obviously the teacher’s name was familiar to more than a few of the areas craft people and amateur artisans. There was a white Ford Escape parked in the grass alongside one of the craft cottages with California plates and a Chapman University sticker across the back window. Karen remembered from the biography sent out in the class information that he had been a professor at Chapman. Wonder what brought him all the way to White Springs, Florida from California? Karen thought. Who knows? Who would have figured I would be here either? She unloaded a kit from the back of the truck containing her clay working hand tools. She understood from the syllabus that he wanted to work more on hand built pieces than wheel created ones. Raku pottery is more traditionally hand built, so this class would really be challenging for her, as she preferred working on her wheel.
She opened the door to the little cottage and looked around for a table to set up at. She recognized a few faces from other classes she had attended at the park and waved at yet another acquaintance standing over by a table set up with coffee and tea. She took her favorite mug out of her purse and headed over to the refreshment table. Greeting the two women already there, she poured a cup of coffee and added a little flavored creamer to it. Stirring it, she took a moment to look over the rest of the class. A tall man was up front setting up his own table. He rolled out his tool pouch and spread the variety of cutting and wedging tools up methodically, and then turned back to a board behind him to add a few notes to the ones he must have written earlier. “Dr. Arthur Wetherington” was written out in neat longhand in chalk, “basic raku pottery technique” under it. So this was the instructor, Karen took his measure while she sipped at her coffee. Probably about her age give or take a few years. Tall, taller than she was, which at six feet in flats meant he must be six-three or even taller. Slender and athletic looking, like most bikers. Short, almost military short reddish hair shot with silvery gray. Clean shaven face, with traces of a younger man’s freckles remaining Thick, straight eyebrows over brownish or green eyes, she couldn’t see the color well behind his glasses. He wore a Chapman t-shirt, confirming he was the owner of the Escape out front. Unusual, she thought, she had been expecting the usual bearded and pony tailed retired hippie type that normally taught these classes, and mentally shook her own finger at herself for being so narrow.
The rest of the class filed in and started setting up. The tall man began to speak, first introducing himself and then taking time to go through the room getting to know them as well. Dr. Wetherington was an interesting lecturer, and first led them through the history of the Japanese pottery style that he specialized in. He had spend several years in Asia as a young man, first as a Marine in Vietnam and later apprenticing with artists in Japan, including working briefly with Isamu Noguchi. He had taught at Chapman since 1992 and had retired to South Georgia that spring.
The morning went rapidly and they finally took a break for lunch. Karen followed some of the other students out to a shed behind the cottage to look at a kiln Dr. Wetherington had built for the finishes they would be working with. Most people had brought their lunch with them, so Karen headed to her truck to get her cooler as well. There were some tables down by the river overlook where everyone took their lunch. She set her food up at the end of the table, and took a long sip of her bottled water.
She tore a piece of flatbread in half and used it to scoop up some homemade hummus she had made with cannelini beans instead of the usual garbanzo. She had used a little rosemary from her garden as well as roasted garlic to spice it. She spooned some on the tomato slices she had and added a squeeze of lemon juice. Pure heaven, she thought as she picked through it slowly, listening to the buzz of conversation around her. She looked up aware she had interested company leaning toward her. “Are those home grown tomatoes by any chance?” he asked, while unwrapping his sandwich. “They are” Karen answered, “these are heirlooms from my own garden.” She realized the smugness of her tone, and excused it. Her tomatoes were something to be smug about; she had become a tomato growing genius since her move south. Over the years she had absorbed all the local tomato growing lore and used it to her advantage, people now came to the library to ask her advice on growing heirloom tomato varieties.
“I have Earl of Edgecombe growing this year. I brought the seeds from New Zealand last year, I’ll bring you one next week if you like. What are you growing?” He regarded her over his glasses while he bit into his own tomato sandwich.
Karen was startled to have someone speak her tomato language to her. “I have several Hillbillies I brought from Ohio, and Kellogg’s Breakfast, which I discovered here.”
“Where’s here?” he asked rhetorically “Here in the park?”
“No, here in North Florida.” She replied crisply.
“So you live near here?” he asked.
“Here in the park?” she quirked her eyebrows at him, tired of his flirting already and ready to go back to her lunch uninterrupted.
He swallowed his sandwich and wiped his fingers off on a napkin. Sticking his hand out, he introduced himself. “Your point is well taken. I am being annoyingly obtuse. Hi, my name is Arthur. I recently moved near here” he stressed with a smile “to a delightfully small town called Lightsey. Actually, I was raised there and escaped many years ago. Now I have returned and seem to have lost all power of polite conversation in the convening years. So if I may beg your pardon, may we start over from the beginning?”
She considered him and his outstretched hand for a moment before formally touching her hand to his. “I believe that is a possibility Arthur” she nodded to him “I’m Karen Whitman, late of Youngstown, Ohio. Moved to White Springs several years ago to take care of my mother while she was ill. Now I am a permanent resident, and as a matter of fact work in Lightsey at the library.”
He nodded and digested her abbreviated history. “Lightsey, you say. You must know my mother, Faye. I believe she heads up their historical society, or cemetery club, or whatever other ancient form of ancestor worship they practice.”
“I do” Karen affirmed. She did remember now Ms. Faye mentioning a son in California. She did not believe the woman had any other children, and apparently the son had never married. Ms. Faye did not speak of him much, which did lead one to imagine all sorts of sordidness that could be associated with such silence. “Your mother is a fine supporter of our little library, we would have closed the doors long ago if she were not on our board. Whatever the county doesn’t provide for annually, she does.”
Arthur reached to his side and pulled up a pocket watch to check the time. “We better head back in. I’m not boring you with all the lecture first, before we start actual work, am I?”
“No, this is wonderful! I am truly enjoying every part of your lecture. Did you say you had moved permanently back to Lightsey?” she asked him, while getting up to go back in the classroom.
“For now” he answered laconically and tossed the remains of his lunch in the trash.
Karen wondered throughout the rest of class why he had come back. She supposed it was much like her own story, taking care of an elderly parent. She couldn’t imagine giving up a job like he must have had at Chapman, but then again he probably had tenure and could return later. She didn’t realize that Ms. Faye was ill, but surely she had to be in her late eighties or even early nineties. She wondered if he would take his mother back to California with him if it became to hard to take care of her, and decided it would certainly be easier to have his mother at home with everything she had ever known. She had heard his mother was a dancer and stage actress in the thirties and forties in New York, the woman certainly was theatrical enough to have done so and one did not have to look very far to see the beauty of her features.
They finished up class at around five o’clock and Karen stayed behind to help clean up the tables and sweep the room out. She packed up her tools, and dumped the remains of her coffee in the sink in the back. “Salt glazed” Arthur said, as he rinsed his hands in the sink next to her.
“Yes, I made this after a series of classes in Pennsylvania one summer. I love early American design” she picked up her mug and ran her thumb over the pinecone design she had made. “The instructor was Amish, so everything we did was authentic and true to how it was done years ago in Germany.”
“Maybe you should teach the next series of classes” Arthur suggested “I suspect you would find quite a few people here willing to come, you don’t see a lot of that sort of work down this way.”
“Maybe” she shrugged and packed her mug up. “I don’t know about teaching, I can work with people one on one, but a whole class I’m not sure about.”
“It’s easy”, he laughed depreciatingly. “Seriously, your working with other artists usually when you teach a technique that advanced. People sign up because they want to be there. If you change your mind, I would be happy to help you pull together lecture notes.”
Karen was briefly irritated that the rangy Californian thought she couldn’t pull together lecture notes on her own, after all she had done public relations for years. She certainly could do her own notes if she needed to.
“I’ll keep it in mind” she said politely after an awkward silence. She headed toward her truck.
He called out after her “Tonight is First Saturday Coffeehouse, do you want to stay? I hear they have poetry and music. I wouldn’t mind sitting out on the deck and watching the sun go down while enjoying some good company.” He stood by his truck awkwardly fiddling with his keys after this announcement as though awaiting judgment.
Karen stopped, facing her truck. Was he asking her out on a date? She truly could not believe the nerve of this old bastard. Did he think just because she lived in this godforsaken area that she was going to be easy pickings for his smooth West Coast charm? What in the world made men his age this ballsy anymore? Was it Viagra? Just what men needed, more years of bullshit. Before Viagra, they pretty much quit pestering women after their mid fifties. Now, she could honestly say she had been propositioned by men easily in their seventies, like that horrid old Gene Ewing that sat around the library all day sleeping, farting, and spouting unsolicited opinions. She turned to him, while trying to think of a polite enough refusal. Didn’t want to tick him off and have him complain to mama about how mean she was. Of course, maybe mama would just tell him to keep it in his pants where it belonged at his age. Karen took a deep breath and gave Arthur her most charming fuck off smile. Then she noticed it, his key chain. His bright, multicolored flag of a key chain. The internationally known symbol of the world-renowned Friends of Dorothy sisterhood. She stood for a second feeling supremely relieved at having for once not jumped on someone politely with both of her well-shod feet. Her new friend Arthur; California living, art professor, heirloom tomato growing, never married Arthur was not interested in her the way she had so impulsively determined. Ms. Faye’s son was not some California lothario out to ruin her reputation; he was just a lonely old queen looking for someone to talk tomatoes with. Maybe even roses, bless his heart.
“I would love to” she found herself replying. “I just need to run home and get my girls.”