womb. Orson is the fruit of her mind. He and I share no blood, but we
share things more important than blood.
When Orson whined again, I firmly said, “Dead and gone,” with that
ruthless focus on the future that gets me through the day.
Forgoing one more look at the photograph, I tucked it into my shirt
pocket.
No grief. No despair. No self-pity.
Anyway, my mother is not entirely dead. She lives in me and in Orson
and perhaps in others like Orson.
Regardless of any crimes against humanity of which my mother might
stand accused by others, she is alive in us, alive in the Elephant Man
and his freak dog. And with all due humility, I think the world is
better for us being in it. We are not the bad guys.
As we left the vault, I said “Thank You” to whoever had left the
photograph for me, though I didn’t know if they could hear and though I
was only assuming that their intentions had been kind.
Above ground, outside the hangar, my bicycle was where I’d left it.
The stars were where I’d left them, too.
I cycled back through the edge of Dead Town and toward Moonlight Bay,
where the fog-and more-waited for me.
The Nantucket-style house, with dark wood-shingle siding and deep white
porches, seems to have slid three thousand miles during an unnoticed
tipping of the continent, coming to rest here in the California hills
above the Pacific. Looking more suitable to the landscape than logic
says it should, sitting toward the front of the one-acre lot, shaded by
stone pines, the residence exudes the charm, grace, and warmth of the
loving family that lives within its walls.
All the windows were dark, but before long, light would appear in a few
of them. Rosalina Ramirez would rise early to prepare a lavish
breakfast for her son, Manuel, who would soon return from a double
shift of police work-assuming he wouldn’t be delayed by the extensive
paperwork associated with Chief Stevenson’s ininiolation. As he was a
better cook than his mother, Manuel would prefer to make his own
breakfast, but he would eat what she gave him and praise it. Rosalina
was still sleeping; she had the large bedroom that had once belonged to
her son, a room he’d not used since his wife died giving birth to
Toby.
Beyond a deep backyard, shingled to match the house and with windows
flanked by white shutters, stands a small barn with a gambrel roof
Because the property is at the extreme southern end of town it offers
access to riding trails and the open hills; the original owner had
stabled horses in the barn. Now the structure is a studio, where Toby
Ramirez builds his life from glassing.
Approaching through the fog, I saw the windows glow’
Toby often wakes long before dawn and comes out to the studio.
I propped the bike against the barn wall and went to the nearest
window.
Orson put his forepaws on the windowsill and stood beside me, peering
inside.
When I pay a visit to watch Toby create, I usually don’t go into
light.
And the studio. The fluorescent ceiling panels are far too bright
because borosilicate glass is worked at temperatures exceeding
twenty-two hundred degrees Fahrenheit, it emits significant amounts of
intense light that can damage anyone’s eyes, not just mine. If Toby is
between tasks, he may turn the lights off, and then we talk for a
while.
Now, wearing a pair of goggles with didymium lenses, Toby was in his
work chair at the glassblowing table, in front of the Fisher
Multi-Flame burner. He had just finished forming a graceful
pear-shaped vase with a long neck, which was still so hot that it was
glowing gold and red; now he was annealing it.
When a piece of glassware is removed suddenly from a hot flame, it will
usually cool too quickly, develop stresses-and crack.
To preserve the item, it must be annealed-that is, cooled in careful
stages.
The flame was fed by natural gas mixed with pure oxygen from a
pressurized tank that was chained to the glassblowing table. During
the annealing process, Toby would feather out the oxygen, gradually