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the Statue
cc&d, v270 (the April 2017 issue)

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the Statue

The Statue

Arich Herrmann

    Clouds hung in the sky. Their dry pastel colors trundled slowly along. Specks of light poked through. Charles looked down as his chisel fell to the floor accompanying the clatter of water dripping down the gutter with perfect harmony. Finally realizing what he needed to do he left his shop walking in a daze like a man who just read the winning lottery numbers on the T.V., looked down at his ticket, and realized they were the same.
     Opening the door to the house he half expected to hear the echo of his daughters’ footsteps running through the halls. Sarah must have taken them to the park, maybe shopping he thought. Then he remembered they were gone.
    After two years of watching him slowly kill himself—searching for inspiration as he liked to call it—through drinking, Sarah had called it quits.
     His mind ran over the details of their final fight. Plates were thrown, statues smashed, and things were said that could never be taken back. Her voice echoed through his mind, “you’re a has-been and that’s all you’ll ever be if you don’t stop drinking.”
    She hadn’t left him for lack of money. Before his “has-been” phase he’d sculpted seven statues for the Public Works department of Glenview Heights. He brought to life wolves chasing deer, squirrels guarding piles of acorns, a bat flying out of Marsh cave, and his favorite; a man painting by the lake with a fishing rod lying next to him.
    Three fish swam, near the man, strung along a line. One was jumping out of the water. Droplets of water connected by a thin steel line hung in midair arcing towards the painting. He’d deliberated for a long time over the expression to put on the man’s face. In the end he’d settled on a smile. It’s better to laugh at the little things.
    Those sculptures blazed the trail to his success. Not long after their placement throughout Glenview Heights he received a letter from Barb Dunn. Her husband Mark had died years ago leaving her the sole owner of their vast fortune of fields. She sold the farm equipment and began renting out the acres. Sarah found the letter when shredding through junk mail. She opened the letter and read the following:
    Dear Charles,
    May I call you Charlie when we meet? I saw your sculpture of the wolf crouching behind the deer and absolutely loved it. I want to commission you for a sculpture. Let’s meet at Whitney’s around three on the tenth to hash out the details.
    Best Regards,
    Barb Dunn
    P.S.
    There’s no need to write back if you agree. I’ll take your silence as a yes and save you a stamp.
    Charles showed up at Whitney’s at 2:30 and ordered a coffee. He sat taking in the atmosphere losing himself in the sound of hammers and swinging jazz tunes coming from the theater room where the set of the upcoming play was being constructed. He thought of how Whitney theatre had almost been run out of business. Not to competition but to uninterest.
    Then they turned their intermission lobby in to a coffee shop with regular hours. People trickled in and soon the place was full every morning with people warming themselves from the frigid Minnesotan winter. People also warmed to the idea of visiting the theater. When Barb came in he was in a good mood. When she left he was in an even better mood.
    They discussed his future. He told her he wasn’t sure if Glenview Heights was the place for him. It was a small town. He thought he’d have better luck finding his fortune up in Minneapolis. It was less than a two hour drive away and it had much better options for schooling. Elise would be entering kindergarten next year and he wanted her to have options.
     Barb scoffed at the idea. She had been raised in Glenview heights and so had Mark. If it was good enough for them it was good enough for anybody. She told him she wanted him to make a sculpture of Mark in his combine with their dog Buster running alongside it.
    She was willing to offer two million dollars for it on the condition that he would stay in Glenview Heights to make necessary repairs on the statue for the remainder of his life. Then added, “This town needs more artists. It wouldn’t hurt to have you around showing the kids that there’s something out there besides milking cows”. He agreed and drove home to tell Sarah the good news. They celebrated by drinking champagne. Neither of them liked the taste but the buzz lasted them through three rounds of rolling in the sheets.
     Charles twisted off the cap, setting it on the table, and took a pull of Black Velvet. He couldn’t remember why he’d come inside. He walked back outside pausing by the shed’s light switch.
    It was completely illuminated in the shed. Light poured through the glass ceiling. He grabbed his tools laying them down on the table as one would place a baby in a bed, and set out to work. In his mind he saw exactly what he was going to make.
    A block of cloudy marble stood in front of him. He traced and chipped roughing out the general shape of the piece with his chisel. The sound echoed throughout the shed steadying his shaking hands. Why hadn’t he done this sooner? Once he got started the work seemed to fly by. The shapes emerged like faceless beings being brought in to existence. Time passed by and the sun dropped lower in the sky.
    He went over to the light switch passed by it and headed towards the house. Inside he grabbed the bottle and pointed it upwards swishing the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. The brown liquid sloshed just below his hand as he walked back to the shed and flicked on the light.
    The sun rose and fell. He didn’t notice. He was no longer a has-been. He was working again. The piece in front of him was coming to life. He looked down at his work. Sarah sat on a bench watching Elise and Nora hunched over a checkers board. He was standing by the lake, rod in hand. The line was tight showing that he had caught a fish but his gaze was on his family.
    Their faces were marked with smiles. His was still blank yet to be carved. He picked up the chisel raising it towards his marble face. His heart sank as his vision grew cloudy. A tear fell on to the table and was absorbed by the wood.
    He lowered the chisel plunging it in to his marble heart. Realizing what he had done he took a pull from the bottle. He set back to work plunging holes in to each of their hearts. “How fitting,” he muttered. He looked at his daughters smiling faces then down at their empty hearts.
    This wasn’t how he wanted to see them. He set back to work hollowing through each of the tiny bodies. He strung a single Christmas light through each one. White light poked through the marble giving his family a life-like glow. Looking at his work Charles smiled. It was good. Sarah would love it. Love him.



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