November 2002 Issue - Essay # 6
Porcelain
By Tamara Berry
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This
is a wonderful place to be late into the night. When the digital numbers
flip to I
am sitting on the couch, curled up in a soft pink Vellux blanket, a book
in one hand. There is no
motion save the occasional turn of my page. My mind wanders far from
this room, trapped in a land known only to the protagonist and myself. In
the distance, I can hear the heater kicking to life. I glance up
briefly, a purely instinctive action in response to the change in my
environment. To
my surprise, there is a hand creeping through the doorframe. I am not
alone. Someone is awake. It
is a very delicate hand. The white flesh is illuminated by the moonlight
working its way in through the curtains. Even from my place on the
couch, I can see the spidery blue veins standing out. The nails are
short but well manicured. I
know without even seeing the palm that it is smooth and unworked. This
is the hand of a woman who does not know the meaning of hard work. I am
instantly envious. "Susan,
is that you?" I call, wincing at the sound of my own voice as it
disturbs the silence. Without
a reply, a body emerges through the slit in the doorway. The beautiful
hand does not belong to this person. It can’t. There,
in front of me, stands Daniel. Daniel is over six feet tall and cannot
weigh less than 300 pounds. His
bulk is carried in his middle, a rotund ball of a man perched
precariously atop spindly legs. When he walks, his top half sways from
side to side. His body is almost unable to support itself. His aged face
looks at me with worry. When he opens his mouth to speak, I can see that
he has not put in his teeth. "I
had an accident," he tells me, his eyes downcast. He is looking at his
fingers. Those delicate white fingers. I
cannot fight the wave of irritation that overcomes me. It starts in my
stomach and works through my body. I toss my book aside and throw off
the pink blanket. I am
forced to clutch my arms across my body to keep them still. "What
happened?" I ask, my voice filled with false concern. "I
just couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time," he says, his voice
barely a whisper. I
plaster a helpful grin on my face to cover the grimace that was forming. I am all efficiency. "Well, Daniel," I chirp, "grab your bedding, and we will go toss it in the washer." His
head shakes as he continues to look down at his hands. "I don’t
think I can make it down the stairs," he says sadly. As if to assert
his statement, he sways his top heavy body and stumbles against the wall
with a thump. Thankfully, his 300 pounds do not come crashing down to
the floor. I
grab his hand to help him regain his balance. It is so soft. There are
no wrinkles, no creases. Just smooth, creamy skin. I am sure that my
callused hand feels like sandpaper against his own. "Why
don’t you go have a cup of coffee and a cigarette?" I suggest. "I’ll
start the laundry." My
voice is filled with a kindness that I do not feel. I am almost certain
that Daniel could make it down the stairs, if he really wanted to. "God
forbid you lift a finger," I mutter under my breath as I make my way
to his room. I open his door and am greeted with a double bout of
offensive stimuli. The bright light of the room blinds me temporarily
while the overpowering stench of urine fills my nostrils. I
cover my nose as my eyes adjust. His comforter is thrown on the floor
haphazardly and the sheets are bundled up in a wad at the end of the
bed. Without a second
thought, I take a deep breath and pile the sheets and dirty clothes
inside the comforter. I grab the whole bundle and break for the door. The
smell of cotton-soaked urine overtakes me as I am running down the
stairs. Daniel is a large
man with a large bladder. I bend over in a gagging fit, unable to cope
with the repugnant smell. "It’s
just urine," I say to myself when I catch my breath. Determined to
complete such a simple task, I grab the bundle and continue to the
washing machine. When
the machine is started and my hands are thoroughly washed, I return up
the stairs to find Daniel. He has invaded my haven. I find him sitting
on the couch, awaiting my return. Every light in the room is on. "Well Daniel," I say, and pointedly turn off all the lights. "Why don’t you put some new sheets on your bed and try to go back to sleep?" "Oh, no," he smiles and shows me his toothless gums. "I think I’ll just stay up and keep you company." My
insides groan in abhorrent protest. I glance at the clock and find that
it is only "I
think you’ll have a much better day tomorrow if you are well
rested," I say to him, hoping desperately that this diversion tactic
will work. Daniel thinks for a moment and assents. "I will just finish my cup of coffee first." The
relief flies off of me in visible waves. I will be left alone again,
unfettered to seek my remote literary world. I sit back, waiting for
Daniel to finish his drink and waddle off to bed. Daniel
smiles at me and reaches for his cup. My attention is drawn back to his
hand, earlier mistaken for that of a woman. As his dainty fingers grasp
the handle of his ceramic mug, his whole hand shakes at the effort. I
notice for the first time that he is unable to bring the cup to his lips
without a tremendous struggle. The aromatic liquid splashes over the
side when he tries to take a sip. He notices me watching and smiles apologetically. "I have such a hard time with these hands, especially after a treatment." Feeling
finally overtakes me. It has taken this, a rare physical manifestation
of his illness, to excite any feelings of compassion inside of me. And
even then, it is pity that I feel, not sympathy. Pity for his advanced
feebleness, even in the prime of his life. Pity for his incontinence. Pity for the side effects of electroshock therapy. But nothing for the sickness itself. The
sickness is hidden deep within his mind. The only evidence is his hands. His hands, so smooth and young, never needing to make their own
way in the world. As a ward of the state since childhood, he has never
changed the oil in his car. He has never painted his house on a warm
summer day. He has never
built a tree house for his kids to enjoy. His hands remain unworked and
delicate. They
look as though they are molded from porcelain, so fine and beautiful.
Yet they could break at the slightest touch. Daniel is finished with his cup of coffee. He gets slowly to his feet. "I’ll go to bed now," he says, "Thanks for your help tonight." He makes his way back to his room and looks over his shoulder at me. "I’m sorry about the trouble." "Night,
Daniel!" I call after him distractedly. I
wrap myself back up in the blanket and grab my book. It takes me a
moment to find my place. As I open up to the page where I left off, I
notice the silence once again. It envelopes me, and I gratefully sink
into it. This
time however, as I read, my full attention is not directed to the
characters in front of me. From time to time I notice my fingers as they
turn the pages. The nails are short and cracked. There is a blister on
one of my thumbs, and calluses on the palms. They are the most beautiful hands in the world.
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Author's Biography I
am a 21-year-old aspiring writer from E-mail Tamara at Eternalclutz@netzero.net
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Essay
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