And a Revision of BUTTER AND MARBLES It has become a 2-page SHORT STORY Jill
jill stockinger
Jill Stockinger
I visited my friend, the sculptor, the other day. She was trying to stuff small glass marbles into a stick of butter. They were not staying where she placed them. Some came rolling out, and none of them would sit on top of more than one layer of marbles. She had a vision of the marbles inhabiting the bar of butter from top to bottom. Also, there was the problem of the butter melting, so it would not retain the shape of a bar. Over and over, she lined up two rows of six marbles each in the bar. She mentioned she was reproducing “the glory of ancient Roman marble sculptures,” and I could almost see that when I squinted, with my eyes nearly closed. In fact, especially when closed. Closing my eyes often helps me see better, I suddenly realized. But no matter how hard she tried, creating a second row on top of the first never worked. A few marbles rolled under the table. I made myself useful, crawling under the plastic tablecloth to chase them down. I had collected five of the six when I hit a table leg really hard with my head; I had been stretching to grab the last marble that had rolled the farthest. I valiantly ignored the painful large bump that immediately swelled out on the right side of my head.
“Here are your lost marbles,” I said. I coughed discreetly.
She put them to the side and sighed. I could feel her terrible frustration, that growing agony, as she tried to make more marbles stay in the butter but never succeeding. I suggested gluing all the marbles together in the shape of a bar and then putting butter on that and freezing it all. She said that would be cheating and that I had the soul of a dishwasher. I was trying to intuit what qualities that exactly represented when she said she would not be able to complete this sculpture. She announced she had to kill herself.
I admired the orderly way in which she proceeded. She poured a liberal glass of sparkling white wine into a wine glass. From a small jar of poison from her cupboard, she measured out eight drops precisely into the wine, using an eye dropper. She swirled the contents of the glass, blending the ingredients. Planning was such a hallmark of her art and life. Such an admirable trait! One of many, I thought, until I realized I could not think of any other traits she had that I admired. As she slowly imbibed the wine, she adopted a heroic pose, balancing on one leg and staring fixedly out the window, facing the brick wall of the house next to her. It was so beautiful, I nearly dropped dead myself with envy. I told her I completely understood why it was necessary for her to die. When she started wobbling on the one leg, I dragged a chair over to help her keep her balance while standing on her one leg.
It took about an hour before she slumped to the floor, dead. I felt it was disrespectful for her plants to go on living when their mistress had died, so I threw all her plants out the window. I was glad she had no pets. I wished she had been there to see the plants flying out the window. I had not been sure it was the right thing to do, to toss the plants, but I did it anyway. If she had been alive, I thought crossly, she could have advised me. Seeing her dead body with its pale skin, the extreme lack of animation, reminded me of my mother. Our family had called the undertaker several times, only to have to apologize when it had transpired my mother was actually not yet a corpse. Wondering how she was doing lately, I called Mom and we talked for a while. We had not talked for over two months.
“So you're not dead yet?” I inquired politely.
"I still have a pulse," she noted. "But it's very faint. I'm glad you called," she said.
"Anything new, lately?" I asked.
"Nothing new. The old people here keep dying. This is an old folk's home. I guess it will be my turn soon."
"One can only hope," I said, commiseratingly.
"So true," she replied. "And what's new with you?" she asked brightly.
"Oh, nothing much. As you say, people keep dying. Nothing new about that," I pointed out.
"Call me if anything exciting happens," she said, doubt coloring her voice.
"Will do! I'll call back in a few months, even if nothing is happening," I assured her. "Unless you die, first."
"Good point! Well toodle-oo, and git along, little dogie!" she sang at me.
I sang my traditional rejoinder back to her, "It's your misfortune and none of my own."
We were both laughing heartily as we hung up.
Then I summoned an ambulance for my friend. It came quickly. The young driver asked me questions and called for a policeman. The policeman started to ask me questions. I asked for his indulgence, but said there was one thing I had to do before I could answer. He said as long as it did not take long, that was acceptable. I dashed into my friend’s room, put on her red silk dress over my pressed navy blue slacks and added her bright pink feather boa. Last, I placed her fake tiara on my head. As I had expected, the dress suited me more than it had ever suited her. When I came out, I stated imperiously that I was ready for his questions.
“What time did you arrive here?” he inquired, watching me very carefully. He had one eyebrow raised. It was artfully done.
“Ah,” I said. “I arrived here to visit my friend, the sculptor, at approximately 3 p.m.”
“When you arrived, what was she doing?” the policeman asked.
“You have come to the heart of the matter,” I informed him, “and so quickly!” I nodded in approval, while working without great success at keeping the tiara from sliding. I had to keep pushing it upright from its apparently longed-for sideways position, where it kept irritating the bump I had on my head. After several attempts, I gave up. “She was trying to fill the entire space of a bar of butter with these marbles.”
The policeman picked up three marbles and examined them closely, using a magnifying glass. “Aha,” he said. He did not elaborate further.
“But she was not succeeding. Let me demonstrate,” I wheedled.
After he nodded his approval, I began trying to stuff small glass marbles into a stick of butter. They were not staying where I placed them. Some came rolling out. The butter was becoming a sticky mess all over my hands, the red dress and the table. “I must finish her ‘grand oeuvre’; there is nothing else I can do, under the circumstances,” I said, regretfully. For reasons beyond my comprehension, the circumstances had also demanded French. I fervently hoped they would not call for more French. My comprehension of that language was extremely limited.
The policeman’s brow was furrowed. He walked in a complete circle around the table, viewing the butter and marbles from all angles. Then he said, “Why don’t you glue all the marbles together in the shape of a bar and then put butter on that and freeze it all?”