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Chapter 23:
Mary Anne
Dominic had decorated the walls and ceiling of her apartment herself.
Beautiful, strong, rich colors; he gazed about, impressed. And the few art
objects in the living room had a powerful beauty about them. Ceramic
pieces. He picked up one lovely blue-glaze vase, studied it.
"I made
that," Mary Anne said.
"This vase,"
he said, "will be featured on my show."
Mary Anne
gazed at him in wonder.
"I'm going
to have this vase with me very soon. In fact" - he could visualize it - "a
big production number in which I emerge from the vase singing, like the
magic spirit of the vase." He held the blue vase up high, in one hand,
revolving it. "'Nowhere Nuthin' Fuck-up,'" he said. "And your career is
launched."
"Maybe you
should hold it with both hands," Mary Anne said uneasily.
"'Nowhere
Nuthin' Fuck-up,' the song that brought us more recognition -" The vase
slid from between his fingers and dropped to the floor. Mary Anne leaped
forward, but too late. The vase broke into three pieces and lay there
beside Jason's shoe, rough unglazed edges pale and irregular and without
artistic merit.
A long
silence passed.
"I think I
can fix it," Mary Anne said.
He could
think of nothing to say.
"The most
embarrassing thing that ever happened to me," Mary Anne said, "was one
time with my mother. You see, my mother had a progressive kidney ailment
called Bright's disease; she was always going to the hospital for it when
I as a kid growing up and she was forever working it into the
conversation that she was going to die from it and wouldn't I be sorry
then - as if it was my fault - and I really believed her, that she would
die one day. But then I grew up and moved away from home and she still
didn't die. And I sort of forgot about her; I had my own life and things
to do. So naturally I forgot about her damn kidney condition. And then one
day she came to visit, not here but at the apartment I had before this,
and she really bugged me, sitting around narrating all her aches and
complaints on and on ... I finally said, 'I've got to go shopping for
dinner,' and I split for the store. My mother limped along with me and on
the way she laid the news on me that now both her kidneys were so far gone
that they would have to be removed and she would be going in for that and
so forth and they'd try to install an artificial kidney but it probably
wouldn't work. So she was telling me this, how it really had come now; she
really was going to die finally, like she'd always said ... and all
of a sudden I looked up and realized I was in the supermarket, at the meat
counter, and this real nice clerk that I liked was coming over to say
hello, and he said, 'What would you like today, miss?' and I said, 'I'd
like a kidney pie for dinner.' It was embarrassing. 'A great big kidney
pie,' I said, 'all flaky and tender and steaming and full of nice juices.'
'To serve how many?' he asked. My mother sort of kept staring at me with
this creepy look. I really didn't know how to get out of it once I was in
it. Finally I did buy a kidney pie, but 1 had to go to the delicatessen
section; it was in a sealed can, from England. I paid I think four dollars
for it. It tasted very good."
"I'll pay
for the vase," Jason said. "How much do you want for it?"
Hesitating,
she said, "Well, there's the wholesale price I get when I sell to stores.
But I'd have to charge you retail prices because you don't have a
wholesale number, so -"
He got out
his money. "Retail," he said.
"Twenty
dollars."
"I can work
you in another way," he said. " All we need is an angle. How about this -
we can show the audience a priceless vase from antiquity, say from
fifth-century China, and a museum expert will step out, in uniform, and
certify its authenticity. And then you'll have your wheel there - you'll
make a vase before the audience's very eyes, and we'll show them that your
vase is better."
"It wouldn't
be. Early Chinese pottery is --"
"We'll show
them; we'll make them believe. I know my audience. Those thirty million
people take their clue from my reaction; there'll be a pan up on my face,
showing my response."
In a low
voice Mary Anne said, "I can't go up there on stage with those TV cameras
looking at me; I'm so-overweight. People would laugh."
"The
exposure you'll get. The sales. Museums and stores will know your name,
your stuff, buyers will be coming out of the woodwork."
Mary Anne
said quietly, "Leave me alone, please. I'm very happy. I know I'm a good
potter; I know that the stores, the good ones, like what I do. Does
everything have to be on a great scale with a cast of thousands? Can't I
lead my little life the way I want to?" She glared at him, her voice
almost inaudible. "I don't see what all your exposure and fame have done
for you - back at the coffee shop you said to me, 'Is my record really on
that jukebox?' You were afraid it wasn't; you were a lot more insecure
than I'll ever be."
"Speaking of
that," Jason said, "I'd like to play these two records on your phonograph.
Before I go."
"You'd
better let me put them on," Mary Anne said. "My set is tricky." She took
the two albums, and the twenty dollars; Jason stood where he was, by the
broken pieces of vase.
As he waited
there he heard familiar music. His biggest selling album. The grooves of
the record were no longer blank.
"You can
keep the records," he said. "I'll be going." Now, he thought, I have no
further need for them; I'll probably be able to buy them in any record
shop.
"It's not
the sort of music I like ... I don't think I'll really be playing them all
that much."
"I'll leave
them anyhow," he said.
Mary Anne
said, "For your twenty dollars I'm giving you another vase. Just a
moment." She hurried off; he heard the noises of paper and labored
activity. Presently the girl reappeared, holding another blue-glaze vase.
This one had more to it; the intuition came to him that she considered it
one of her best.
"Thank you,"
he said.
"I'll wrap
it and box it, so it won't get broken like the other." She did so, working
with feverish intensity mixed with care. "I found it very thrilling," she
said as she presented him with the tied-up box, "to have had lunch with a
famous man. I'm extremely glad I met you and I'll remember it a long
time. And I hope your troubles work out; I mean, I hope what's worrying
you turns out okay."
Jason
Taverner reached into his inside coat pocket, brought forth his little
initialed leather card case. From it he extracted one of his embossed
multicolored business cards and passed it to Mary Anne. "Call me at the
studio any time. If you change your mind and want to appear on the
program. I'm sure we can fit you in. By the way - this has my private
number."
"Goodbye,"
she said, opening the front door for him.
"Goodbye."
He paused, wanting to say more. But there remained nothing to say. "We
failed," he said, then "We absolutely failed. Both of us."
She blinked.
"How do you mean?"
"Take care
of yourself," he said, and walked out of the apartment, onto the
midafternoon sidewalk. Into the hot sun of full day.
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