School for the Blind

Joe approached the island slowly, as he didn’t want the boat to hit the dock too harshly. The small dingy was a good method of transportation when he needed to get to the little house. The helicopter worked well in urgent situations, but he usually preferred calmly approaching the house via waves.

After securing the little boat to the dock, he walked up to the small chunk of land. It could barely be called an island – it was hardly big enough to hold the house that sat upon it. Still, by definition it was an island, and it was here that Lea resided.

Carrying a small duffel bag, he approached the house. Reaching the door he stuck a rough and calloused hand into his pocket, and took out a set of keys. Holding the bag in one hand, he carefully maneuvered the correct key into the slot and unlocked the house. After turning the knob, he opened the door slowly and called out, “Lea, it’s me” so she wouldn’t be alarmed.

It was dark – so Joe turned on a light. Once illuminated, the room was revealed to be rather dingy; and because of its close proximity to the water, it was somewhat dank. Carefully he tip-toed over clay and plasticine and various other supplies that were scattered about on the ground. He walked around the one-legged ballerina and stopped to admire the stork giving birth to an egg – orally, as the egg pushed wide open its beak. “Lea, are ya hungry?” She said nothing, but he approached her with an apple. Putting it in her hand, she looked his direction and muttered something that was probably an expression of thanks.

He was always surprised by the madness surrounding masters of art. Van Gogh cut off his own ear, for example. Crazy business. But he wasn’t afraid of Lea; her madness seemed contained, quarantined within herself, finding expression only in her art. She crunched into the apple, and let herself obsess over its shape and texture. So smooth, but then wet with ragged flesh.

Mostly he just talked to himself while he was there. Her responses were not incessant and he no longer relied upon them. “So Lea,” he said to her, “I like these new ones you’ve made. Mr. Matthews will be real glad about ‘em I bet’cha. I brought you some new stuff ta’ work with. I’ll leave it in the corner by the door.”

He placed the duffel bag by the door and took out a slab of fresh clay and a special treat – malleable gold. It’s a shame she can’t appreciate the sheen, thought Joe. He hoped the texture would be different at least. “I’ve got ur dinner at the foot of your bed, kay? I hope ya like it; it’s a chicken pot pie with some potatoes too.”

She whirled around in the direction of his voice and asked him rather pointedly – “Some watermelon. Can I get some watermelon?”

A request was so rare from her that he felt sure it would be granted. “Of course Lea, I’ll let Mr. Matthews know and maybe I can bring it out tomorrow.”

“Good.” She replied. Lea wasn’t one to waste words, as though they were precious commodities that weren’t worth wasting.

“Well, see ya soon Lea. Mind ya work hard eh?” Joe carefully picked up her most recent structures and put them in his bag. He then left the room, turned off the light, opened, closed, and locked the door. He returned to his dingy in hopes of reaching the mainland before it got dark.

Lea, when sure that he was gone, crept over to the foot of her bed and found her distasteful dinner. The half-apple discarded, she picked at the pot pie and sucked a finger coated in mashed potatoes before dismissing the dinner altogether. Now that Joe was gone and her dinner investigated, she was free from disruption. Going to the door she found her new supplies, and with excitement she sunk her hands into the blob of gold. She was unsure of what this new substance was, but she somehow felt its great importance.

It was moments like this that kept her sane, or at least alive.

The gold moved freely in the grasp of her fingers. She remembered what her father used to say, that power, like soap, was fleeting to those who grasped it too tightly. It was a funny thing he would say in a big bold joking voice while she was washing her hands before supper – but it stayed with her, all the same. She delicately played with the gold, aware that the power she held over it would only remain if she was gentle. [Things] don’t like to be forced into what they are, they like to find it, be guided into it, and softly led. She wondered what this one would be.

She was in her artistic state, a state of “flow” she had heard some call it. She was marvelously oblivious of time and its passing. The gold had begun to take shape; it was a giraffe, with a very long neck – a neck that was bent at a right angle. The neck, after jutting out sideways, curved like a hill and a small car had been perched upon it, a car that was driving towards the ridiculous giraffe head. She never questioned her sculptures; they were what they were and she was powerless to change them. Besides, Mr. Matthews never complained.

It was lonely in the house. The only human interaction she received was the brief visits from Joe, and rarely, an inspection by Mr. Matthews. Her art sustained her, more than the bland meals brought for her, but she was still wasting away – if not in body, then in spirit.

Lea crawled to her bed, and pulled the big scratchy blanket over her frail little frame. Had God molded her into this wisp of a body? Or does man create flesh and God just the soul? With no art to distract her, fatigue settled in and she was able to succumb to a dreamless sleep.

The next day she woke to the sound of Joe at the door, wiggling the key in the lock. “Mornin’ Lea. Ah, I see ya’ve gotten up to some work. That’s good, good. Mr. Matthew’s’ll be pleased. I brought ya that watermelon ya wished for. I’ve brought a knife so ya can cut it when ur ready for it, think you can manage alright?”

“Yes.”

Satisfied, Joe put down the watermelon, along with a few granola bars and the knife, and told her he’d be back tomorrow with some more food and clay. He took the gold giraffe with him and left in his usual manner.

Lea felt exhilarated. She went over to the door, and found the watermelon and the knife. She cut the watermelon in half, then half again. Taking the quarter of melon she sunk her teeth into the watery fruit and proceeded to it with her mouth. With one hand she held the melon, with the other she caught the seeds she was spitting out. With a furious velocity she was soon done the piece of melon and had collected a small handful of seeds. Putting the seeds into a careful pile she then found her remaining clay and smeared it on her face. It was difficult, getting the smooth clay to stay on her smooth skin but with trouble she finally managed to get a thin layer to hang on to her delicate features. Then picking up the seeds, she meticulously stuck them into her mask in teardrop formation – starting from her inner eye down towards her jaw line. When finished, she had given herself two streams of seed-tears; one on each side of her face.

Taking the half melon that remained; she shoved her hands into its core and scooped out its vitals. Lying down, and applying the watermelon mush to her breastbone, she felt about for the knife. Finding it, she then slid it into her bosom with a final thought of triumph.

Let him cover her in varnish; she would be his final masterpiece, and she would be her own.

Dying, blood seeped out of her frail little corpse and mixed with her mangled fruit. The seeds held fast to the clay on her face, and it was a strange sight for Joe to behold when he came again the next morning.

Walking through the door with his usual cheerful efficiency he nearly stepped on her. He gave an involuntary gasped, and then slowly backed out of the room. Using his cell phone to call Mr. Matthews, Joe left a message with his secretary. Then, getting back into his little dingy Joe started up the motor and set off to visit the next little island, knowing that Jenny would be getting extra rations today.