Reba is preparing her studio for guests. Customers, actually. She places red, yellow, and white pots on a table, with small price tags.
“You’re not charging enough,” I say, examining a tag.
“It’s the market,” says Reba. “Artists don’t make much. You should know that.”
I was being either insulted or flattered. I let it go.
“Anyway,” Reba continued. “I would rather these sell. I can always make more. I just need enough for clay. Maybe a tad extra, for coffee, patchouli, incense. That kind of thing.”
It’s true Reba needs little. She is a nature girl who doesn’t shave her body or wear mascara. She cuts her own curling, silvery hair, and trades pots for hand-crafted jewelry. She owns a half-dozen faded sundresses and nothing else. Not even bras. “I’m no man’s slave,” she says. Slave is one of her favorite words, used for anyone. But not her.
She doesn’t even buy soap. Another artist traded her cakes of homemade soap for clay ashtrays. “But Heather doesn’t smoke,” I said, confused. In reply Reba merely winks.
“What’s the soap like?” I once asked.
Reba held out a brown arm. “Smell.”
I leaned over. The scent, distinctively Reba, was of lavender with hints of, I don’t know. Licorice? A wine writer could do better. That would be some writer.
In the middle of smelling Reba she pinched my nose shut, playfully. She likes to tease me, even though I’m married. Maybe because I’m married.
Reba is finished with her table. A shrewd retailer, she moves the pricier jugs out front. Before long the bell rings and we buzz up the customer.
“Hello, you adorable thing.” A well-dressed woman (Prada is my guess) sweeps in and throws Reba an air kiss. Most of Reba’s customers are repeat buyers.
“And this is…?”
I am introduced. “He’s a writer,” Reba says. “He has a wonderful book.”
“Indeed!” the buyer says. “I adore authors. What kind of book?”
Modern Poetry, Reba tells her.
I catch a flicker of disdain. In the eyes, only. Botox has its advantages. “Let’s see those pots,” she says, marching past.
There goes another sale.
“I just need a little something for our apartment in Paris,” the buyer tells us, bragging. “And this will do just fine.” She has a good eye, picking up a white vase with a narrow neck. The opening is wide, irregular, curving like the lips of Sophia Loren. A drip of blue flows down the side. Like all good artists, Reba’s work is a series of uncorrected mistakes.
“I’ll wrap it.” Reba takes the pot.
“Lovely,” the buyer says. “Of course, I don’t know when Dennis and I will travel again. They won’t let Americans into Europe. And this Covid thing put an end to our trip to Japan. We can’t go to our cabin in Canada. It’s no fun at the malls, with masks required. At Bonwit’s, the clerk told me I had to leave until I found a mask. Can you imagine? Hollybrook Country Club is shut down. Takeout from Magda’s is cold before it even reaches the door. The grandchildren won’t even fly to Disney World.” She begins to cry.
“There, there.” Reba sympathizes. “Things will get better.”
“Thank you, dear. I certainly hope so. One must show courage, as Dennis says. I’m sure you have your own troubles.”
”I haven’t been to Wisconsin once,” I say, attempting humor.
“Indeed.” The buyer takes her vase and walks to the door. “I admire all of you,” she says. “It’s those of us with the most to lose who are the real victims.”
When she is safely off we laugh, but not much. She really was unhappy.
Reba asks me to hang around. Sure, I say, accepting a glass of ice water with lemon slices. I have nowhere to go, not right away. No grand plans. Reba’s customer got one thing right: We are lucky.
Indeed.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com