Dust to Dust

new wife, and they had a son. That was Everett. After that, Father left me alone. He had what he wanted. Then I got two ideas.” Gauthier’s eyes glittered with excitement at the memory.
    “I had grown tired with painting and I wasn’t selling as much as I used to. I always thought Father had something to do with that. It was like him. I still had Mother and my trust fund. I became interested in pottery. I’d see it in art shows in Atlanta and liked the idea of the clay flowing though my fingers. And I quite liked the symbolism of vessels. I didn’t like the shiny stuff the other artists produced. I wanted something more earthy. I discovered how the Indians made pottery, and I liked that. There was a creek not far from my house that had an ample supply of clay. But I wanted to do something different.”
    She paused for a moment and licked her thin lips.
    “And I wanted to ruin my father’s favorite thing—his son. Everett was old enough to go about by himself. Children did in those days, especially boys. I invited him to come visit me. I showed him my art. I got to know him. He was a lot like Father—mean. But he seemed to like me well enough. I think because I was strong. Not many people stood up against Jonathan Gauthier.
    “I had an idea for making my pottery come alive, in a manner of speaking. Making each piece have meaning greater than a mere pot. Make it a true vessel. I got Everett to bring me young people his age to model for live masks. I tempered my pottery with grit then and sold the pieces in Atlanta. Mine were unique and they sold well.”
    Diane hadn’t seen Harte leave and didn’t know she was gone until she came back with bottled water for everyone. Apparently she’d noticed Maybelle was getting hoarse.
    Maybelle took a long drink before she continued. Diane was afraid she might change her mind and stop. Hanks thought the same thing, she guessed, for he frowned when he was handed his drink. But she didn’t stop. She merely quenched her thirst.
    “I took Everett to movies in Atlanta—violent movies. I could see by the look in his eyes he liked them. I’d drop little hints about Father—about people who crossed him, how some disappeared. Then I’d say it wasn’t true. It wasn’t, but I knew that denying it would make him believe it. He was so much like Father. I told him so, and he liked the idea. He wanted to be like Father.
    “I’d been toying with the idea for a long time of trying out a new temper that would add more meaning to my work. I needed Everett to do it. I told him about bone temper, how wonderful it was, and how we needed bones to do it. Not just any bones, but human bones, the way the Indians did it, I told him. I gradually raised the idea in his mind of killing one of the people he brought home. Someone no one would miss. I could see the idea excited him. I coaxed him, we talked about it, and I asked him his ideas, until, after a while, he thought it was all his idea. But I told him how to do it, to use the small hatchet and do it quick and efficient. He did and he was good at it. The first one was a tramp.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Diane could see that Harte was shivering. She pulled her sweater tighter around her and nervously fingered her pearls. Vanessa and Lillian were quiet and still, their faces blank masks.
    “I sold a great many pottery vessels, each one with its own unique face—young, old, beautiful, harsh. Did you see the pitcher in Miss Wanamaker’s office? That one wasn’t special and is made with ordinary clay, but you can get the idea of what the others must have been like. Isn’t it beautiful? All the pottery vessels I made after that had a special look about them. People in Atlanta told me they looked as if they could come alive. They were right. But they didn’t know it.”
    She took another long drink and stared off into the distance. Diane thought they might be losing her. She got up and opened the box. In it lay the partial mask that Marcella had put together.
    “We have one of your pieces,” said Diane, handing it to her.
    “Oh, it’s the most beautiful one of all.And Father crushed it. You know, I like it like this. I like the lines formed where the pieces are fitted together. I hadn’t thought of breaking it and putting it back together. That adds another symbolic dimension.”
    “Please go on,” said Diane. “We want to hear about your art.”
    Maybelle Gauthier didn’t take her eyes off the mask in the box as she