The Sculptor

A crestfallen sculptor in an open marriage desperately searches for a true and pure love

In the white, tightly wrapped leather chair he sat, full of anxiety and stress. The desk in front of him wore a plaque titled Anthony Magill. He swiveled a pen in his left hand, and tapped on a dense packet of papers with his right. He would draw designs on the paper; mimicking those of nature through smooth, harmonic curves. On this day, the designs turned up flat. They were products of a very hectic, uneasy hand. He clicked the pen against his chin repeatedly, and studied the mess he was drawing. The sun shined strong rays of light that simmered through his window sill. They reflected oblong shapes against the fresh painted walls of the studio. They brought life to the gray clay mound that sat on the thin coffee table. It was Anthony’s newest project, a replica of the Joan de Arc. At this point it sat stiffly and shapelessly in the plastic industrial bag that kept it preserved.

        Anthony looked at the clock above the door. 5:12 it read. He packed his pens and papers in the old, worn out black case which he carried around like a pauper. One of the many sacrifices he made was his moderately low paying job. He tried to stay pure through his lifestyle and attempted by working in the arts, rather than lying to himself and pretending to be someone he’s not. With his case in his hand, he turned off the desk lights and proceeded to leave the studio. Ahead of him lay the normal after work routine: four flights of stairs, a two block stroll to the subway station, and a few minutes in the subway, until he reached his apartment complex. Once he entered his stuffy room, he would be awaited by his second sacrifice. Cynthia, his wife he operates with on open marriage agreements. The benevolent idea was that he and she would both have the pleasure of the company of others to keep themselves satisfied in the long run. This idea however, quickly toppled over on itself with Cynthia using it to the full extent; spending more time with mysterious strangers than with Anthony.

        Anthony was on a different slate from her. He had a stubbier love life and spent all of his time only with Cynthia. With a long and lonely career, sitting hours in the studio secluded by himself, he grew clumsy and weak. The young ambitious “player” from his late teen years was entirely washed away.

        Cynthia was lying on her back on their bed during this time; her legs crossed and fingers curling through her hair as she spoke into her phone flirtatiously with the stranger on the other end. Anthony unbuttoned his shirt in the bathroom, staring at the overgrown hair growing along the sides of his face and chest.

“- goodbye Augustus!” Charmed his wife in the background.

“You and Augustus getting it hot, huh?” Scoffed Anthony as he left the bathroom. “O-p-e-n” mouthed his wife. That night she went to bed early before him. As he rolled aside her and extinguished the light from the nightstand lamp, he gently placed his hand on her back. “What’s the matter?” He asked.

“What would you care? You spend your days with your sculptures, only they understand you.”

“Don’t be that way, come on.”

His attempts were useless and fell short. He resigned and went to sleep.

        The next morning he awoke at the break of dawn, fixed himself breakfast, and quietly made coffee; careful not to awaken his wife. When he was finished, he placed the coffee pot next to the heater to keep the leftover serving warm for Cynthia. He then left and wandered over to the studio to continue his sculpture. He uncovered the clay from the plastic coverings and attended to his wire tools. He first sprinkled brisk water onto the rough structure of the earthy clay. Next, he drew elegantly with the wire and trimmed the Joan de Arc into smoother lines. Afterwards, he reached for the sharp wooden carving knife and engraved the bolder lines into the thick clay. The clay developed a chic, exquisite appeal.

Anthony rarely had visitors, and worked seamlessly through the hours. The art he produced sold scarcely, mostly to other artists, those with more recognition of their profession. Nevertheless, Anthony had no regrets, sitting hours in the same room staring through the window and sketching on the clay. He worked all until the sky became bloodshot and the sun dropped to the horizon. It only made him more distressed to contemplate on who Cynthia was dabbling with and his paranoia was never in shortage. Viktor I bet, the tall Russian, she’s always mumbling about him. He covered the sculpture with plastic to preserve its fertility and abruptly left.

On his walk to the subway, he looked around through the clusters of people to see if he might too use the open marriage to his advantage and strike up some attraction. Nothing came out of it. He hardly made eye contact with people at all, given his social state. Even those who did look at him, (men and women alike) exerted a puzzled look. Instead of being discouraged, he kept going with a different tactic in mind. The subway! It was the perfect place. It had people in monstrous quantities getting on and off all day. He was sure to meet a mistress or at least a friend to attend to other than his wife. At the station, he climbed aboard the train and attempted to hide his lack of confidence. Shortly after, a familiar face entered the train. It was a brunette girl, one he’s noticed around in the vicinity. She had pale-peach colored skin, dark brown hair, and eyes of similar hazelnut color. She’s an inch or two shorter than Anthony, but shares a similar dreary stance. He recognizes her from a hair salon located near his studio, and remembers seeing her once or twice at a nearby café. Anthony knows what he must do, but just as she passes by him, he pulls back and refrains from meeting her.

When the train comes to a halt, he quickly latches onto his case and flees. Next time, he assures himself. As he walks through the apartment complex, he passes by an unfamiliar, tall muscular man on his floor. As he enters his room, his assumption unfortunately becomes true; the room stenches of vodka and sweat, suggesting his wife hasn’t spent the last few hours alone. Anthony decides to just ignore the situation, knowing that saying anything will only result in Cynthia bringing up the “open marriage” excuse. Instead, he merely says hello and hurriedly ransacks the refrigerator in search of a quick bite. Cynthia looks at him and asks, “Do you have any plans for the weekend? We haven’t traveled anywhere in a long time.” “No.” He sharply responds, “I am busy with work, a well paying client expects his sculpture this Tuesday.” “Alright,” she sighs, “attend to your work then.”

That night Anthony uncontrollably sweat as nervous ideas flooded him. He thought about the girl from downtown and how only his wife was benefited from the open marriage. He knew very well that she only used him for his apartment and what little money he earned, while the love they once shared was now only given to mysterious lovers that she would call over. He knew that he was losing all of her interest now that he spent most of his time at work. He worked like mad, his passion for art driving him away from his beloved wife. She felt estranged by him; forgotten.

On the next day at precisely 5:00 PM he left his studio. He was eager to meet the lonely girl from the subway. With elation elevating through his heart and his face burning in blush, he scuffles into the waiting train. She’s standing by the doorway, her head hung downwards gloomily; her long, dark hair flowing magnificently behind her shoulders. Her thin fingers held a coffee cup flimsily, and Anthony’s heart only grew feral. He tried to approach her, sweat shooting across his brow. He got close behind her and softly said, “Hey.” At first, she wouldn’t budge. This gave him the incentive that he was too quiet and embarrassment flushed through him. Just as he was considering repeating himself, she turned around and responded.

“Hi,” She said shyly.

“How’s it going? How was your day?”

“It was fine, you?”

“Great. I’m Anthony.”

“Jeanette. But my friends call me Jenna.”

“Nice to meet you Jenna.”

They talked for the rest of the ride, about themselves and their jobs, Jenna revealing she worked as a hair stylist, and Anthony confessing that he was a sculptor.

“What kind of sculptures do you make?” Jenna asked curiously.

“Ancient and medieval stuff, usually.”

“Cool.”

Just before the train stopped, they exchanged numbers. She handed him her business card with her cell conveniently prewritten. He marched off the train at his terminal; his head higher than usual and with much more satisfaction than he was accustomed to. He felt confident for the first time in many years and was ready to face whatever was occurring behind his door. As he walked in, he was surprised by the light candor smell of a freshener and the amount of light in the room. On a normal day, his entrance would be accompanied by a dark room with tied curtains and clothing garments scattered on the carpet. He looked at Cynthia, who was just leaving the bathroom, provocatively dressed in a red and black dress with her hair tied in an upward fancy style. As if reading his mind, she immediately said, “Brett and I are spending the weekend together at the beach. He’s picking me up in a few minutes.” Anthony just nodded his head and commented: “ok.” She left the room. A thin smile stretched across Anthony’s lips, and he felt accomplished. Days upon days of watching his only love interest in an open marriage flirt with countless others were paid off. Or at least they no longer seemed harmful to Anthony. He finally rose from his shadow and had a fruitful-appearing future. Being that it was Friday evening, he had two days to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted in his apartment. He spent the rest of the night treading in excitement; dreaming of his next meet up with Jenna.

The next morning he awoke in alacrity. Adrenaline rushing through his veins, he rushed to the studio.  The Joan de Arc was at the brink of completion. He ran his thinnest, sharpest tools carefully along the clay. He scraped against the rough edges and eloquently painted the sculpture with painstaking effort. Just as he was by the sink washing a blade, he heard a ring echo through the room. Heart thumping with excitement, he ran to his desk where his phone was sitting. His hope had come true, and it was no happenstance that the message was from Jenna.

Hey, do you have time today to meet up? I have a break at 12:00. Anthony needed no time to think. He immediately responded:

A coffee at noon?

It’s a deal, came the response.

There was a rush of electricity through the room and bewilderment caught Anthony. Everything seemed to shift. The plain white walls and blank sunlight all seemed to manifest themselves into a more colorful, joyous world. The world Anthony once knew had appeared to change and he saw a different view; an unforeseen angle of life, one of jubilation.

He nervously fixed his hair, straightened out his shirt, and rushed to the café around the block a few minutes before noon. As he approached the sunny glass-ornamented café, he caught glimpse of a girl opening the door. He sprinted quickly to her, knowing for a fact it was Jenna. He grabbed hold of the door and caught her attention. They casually ordered a coffee each, and sat down at a two person table to talk. Jeanette held her elbows bolstered to the table with her palms at her cheeks as she listened to Anthony; intrigued. They talked for a long time, staring into each other's’ eyes as their relationship flourished. Then, the heavier of the questions came.

“Have you ever been married?” Jenna asked innocently. Anthony’s lips began to part and his voice almost stuttered when a man rushed through the door; bumping into their table. He scornfully looked down straight at them and roared, “Jeanette, we have to leave! You were expected five minutes ago!” He then glanced at Anthony. Anthony looked back at him. He was a young man of their age and wore a plaid suit with black shoes. He had thick aviator sunglasses that hid his viscous eyes. “Who’s this guy?” The stranger questioned. “Just a friend,” Jenna replied in defense. She looked at Anthony and said: “That’s Michael Walker, my -“

“We don’t have time for this!” Michael boomed. He grabbed her wrist and stormed out of the café. They got into a car parked by the street and Michael sped off. Anthony kept sitting; paralyzed. Questions drifted through his mind. Has Jenna been lying to him? Did they really have something? Or did Jenna not ever feel anything for him at all? He lifelessly stood up and trudged back to the studio. Is it possible that the girl he was dreaming of, that he finally got the gut to talk to that seemed like his only up in the open marriage was not his? He sat across from the Joan de Arc; trembling with anger and fear. A knot was being tied around his stomach and it was getting tighter and tighter with each breath he took. He stared into the eyes of his sculpture, as if begging for mercy. Then, he drew Jenna’s card from his pocket. He started nervously fidgeting the card in his hands. He creased and folded the corners several times, and then something distraught caught his eyes. Jeanette Walker, the name on the card read. The knot in his stomach finally sealed itself and he began suffocating in grief. He dropped to the floor as agony ate over him and the flames consumed him. He saw no reason to go back to his lonely apartment. A life so true that he led, so humble, and just as it approached a climax, sputtered and split apart. He reached for his phone and as a final demand for answers, looked over his texts with Jenna. Why? Why go on and do this to me? What is the meaning of this nonsense? He texted in sorrow. It didn’t take long for the response.

No, you don’t understand.

WHAT don’t I understand? He furiously responded.

You don’t know Michael

What’s there to know? He’s got a car, wears a suit, you two are perfect together! I just don’t understand why you would pretend to like someone like me.

Michael… -he’s my brother!

Anthony shook back by surprise. This was not something he had considered. A wide variety of emotions torpedoed through him. Relief and guilt both rushed down his spine. At first he was contented, but then felt disgust for his superficial assumptions. It wouldn’t be right to just abandon the girl. He had to apologize and tell her how he really felt. Anthony gathered himself off the floor and proceeded working on his sculpture; in the meantime trying to formulate what he would say to Jenna. By the time 5:00 came, he was knee deep in anguish. He still scurried out of the studio and made an attempt to reach her in time. When he sprinted down the stairs, he felt his face burning up. He spotted a nearby fountain and promptly submerged his face into the cool water. The bitter chlorinated water abrasively grinded his skin and bit his eyes. He violently jerked his head out and slapped his cheeks. You can do this! You can do this! You will do this! He yelled at himself. There was no time for hesitation. He hurried to the subway past the crowd of perplexed bystanders. There were signs and messages of a delay saying that the train wouldn’t come for another half hour. The terminal had an increasing number of annoyed passengers. Among them was Jeanette, sitting at a bench, staring at the ground.

Anthony slowly crept beside her. She only gloomily tilted her head in the opposite direction. “I’m sorry,” Anthony cried out. “It’s just that I felt like we really had something and I was so scared of losing you,” he continued. Jenna stood up and faced him. “It’s alright,” she started. “I too felt lost for a long time before we met.” “And now you are found,” Anthony responded. “Indeed I am,” returned Jenna. Anthony softly clutched onto her hand. Jenna leaned closer to him and he transferred his hands; caressing her neck with one, and streaming the other through her hair. Their eyes closed in unison and short flashes of ecstasy were unveiled as their lips brushed together.

They arranged for them both to stay at Anthony’s apartment for the weekend. The mornings were brighter and the nights were starrier. Jenna admired Anthony’s sculptures and the Joan de Arc was at an impeccable finish. Months went on and seasons passed with no sign of neither Cynthia nor Brett. Coincidentally, a divorce was filed from both sides during the same week. Once the marriage was closed for good, Jeanette moved in with Anthony, where they lived merrily; blossoming each day.