Rebel Pots is a working studio, unlike so many others in the Essex Arts Cooperative. The re-imagined textile building contains flutists, a bongo drum maker, a graffiti collaborative, a typographer, twine artist, dog collar designer, and miniature portrait painter. The portrait painter makes reproductions for dollhouses, and is quite busy, actually.
But are they artists? Reba withheld her judgment. Although Colleen Gadden, an aromatherapist who wore a gray, waist-length braid once confided she used her studio primarily as a trysting spot for “lovers”.
“Have you got rubbing alcohol?” Colleen whispered one day, She had run to Rebel Pots’ steel door barefoot, wearing a tiger-embroidered kimono. Reba found a bottle. “Thanks!” She trotted off.
Reba did not ask for the bottle back.
She worked steadily through all interruptions. And there were interruptions. Walt walked in to find her unwrapping a bouquet. There were fruit baskets on the table, flowers waiting for water. “Who’s sending these?” he asked.
“Everyone. The word is out I’m pregnant.”
“It is?”
“I told Colleen Gadden, the aromatherapist. And you know what that means.”
“What does that mean?”
“She gets around.”
“Ah.”
Walt examined cards. Flowers had come to the right place. No lack of vases. “I see you got a note from that furniture dealer.”
Reba glanced over. “Yes. Poor Mr. Schatz. This should slow him down.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say his interest is more personal than professional. It’s very tiresome.”
Walt picked up the card: “All the best to Lovely Reba from your undaunted admirer. Love –JS.”
Walt put the card down. Undaunted? It was time to pay the man a visit.
He mounted concrete steps to a drab, red-brick warehouse. An odd office for a millionaire.
Pushing open the Will Call door, he stepped inside. The room was shabby, with peeling block walls. Schatz sat before a computer wearing a black turtleneck sweater and designer jeans. On his wrist was a Rolex, or very good imitation.
He looked up. “Mr. O’Conner! What a pleasant surprise.” Schatz smiled fearlessly. One day, someone might kill him. You had the feeling he would meet his demise with the same unruffled decorum.
“I want to talk about Reba,” Walt said.
“Yes. I heard the news. How wonderful for you kids.”
“We’re not kids.”
“Of course not.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
“Let me guess. It’s about Reba.”
“Yes.”
“And you need advice.” Schatz began talking. Rather like an octopus throwing out an ink cloud, he filled the room with stories, conjectures, explaining how he first met the potter, his enthusiasm for her work, the possibilities for retailing, stores, corporate buyers, price points. “Understand,” he finished. “I don’t know Reba well. I hope to sell some pots, but I am primarily interested in her success.”
“John, she doesn’t need your help.”
“Of course not. But my door is always open.” Schatz waved at a chair. “Sit a moment, please. I understand the two of you have splendid news.” The chair was an uncomfortable, steel and vinyl affair. “There is nothing like parenthood. If you’ll allow me, when is the wedding?”
“That’s not important.”
“Of course it is.”
“We’re not getting married.”
“No? There are advantages, especially with children. Legally…”
Walt stopped him. “You don’t have to tell me. Reba is against marriage.”
It was true. Reba wouldn’t so much as consider it. Why marry? she argued. Marriage is a trap. Part of the historic patriarchal hegemony to enslave women. It’s not, she told Walt, what artists do.
“So she is against it. But do you want to get married?” Schatz, with his warm brown eye, could disarm the devil.
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.” Schatz drummed the desk. “There must be a way.” He looked up. “I’ve got it. Let me talk to her.”
“What?”
“You say she won’t agree to marriage?”
“Yes, but…”
“I believe I can convince her otherwise. In any case, you have nothing to lose.”
“Well, I….”
“Don’t tell her we met. She’ll know we’re up to something. I’m an expert, I have daughters very close to Reba’s age. As a matter of fact, I think of her exactly as a daughter. And you, a son. Leave it to me. We’ll speak again in a week.”
Walt could not muster an objection. Baffled, he rose to go, even shaking the man’s hand. This wasn’t at all what he intended. But he was finding, with the wiley Mr. Schatz, that what one intends and what comes about are two quite different things.
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