Hand-Me-Down. Lee Nichols
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her sculpture stand closer to mine and dug a big hunk from a bag of terra-cotta.
We’d been attending the Adult Ed clay sculpture class for the past three years. Originally, we’d started because Wren thought it would be a good place to meet sensitive men, and I thought I’d like mucking around with mud. She’d never found a sensitive man—or an insensitive one, for that matter—but we kept coming.
Our patience had finally been rewarded. In three years, we’d only had a handful of male models, and none of them had looked like Mr. Nude America here. There were a dozen students in the class, held at the Schott Center on the upper west side. The sessions usually started with around twenty-five students, but it was fairly late in the season, and we’d dwindled down to the regulars.
I glanced briefly at the model, clinically observing his broad shoulders and washboard stomach, and when I looked away I noticed that Wren had already roughed out his torso. In clay, that is.
“That was fast,” I said.
She glanced at the clock. “You’ve been staring at the poor guy for twenty minutes.”
“I was examining the subject.”
“And drooling.”
“I’m an artist, Wren. He might as well be a bowl of fruit.”
She sighed. “It is a pity.”
“What is?”
“That he’s gay.”
I glanced at the model again. “He’s straight as a yardstick, Grasshopper,” I said. Because Wren was a novice when it came to men.
“With that body?”
“From tip to toe.”
Wren just shook her head sadly, so I sliced off a hunk of clay with my wire tool and started pushing it around. Making his feet. I thought I’d start low and move up. Let the anticipation build.
I was on his ankles when Claire, our teacher, drifted behind us.
“Excellent work, Wren,” she said. “You might want to caliper his chest, though. It looks a bit off scale. Remember there’s a rib cage under there.”
We had big metal calipers to measure distances on the models and then convert them into 1/3 scale. But to measure you had to approach within nibbling distance, in the middle of the room, and share the spotlight with the gloriously defined and shamelessly undraped model. Wren was usually extremely businesslike about measuring models. This time, however…
She blushed. “Oh, I see—you’re right.” She fiddled with her clay. “I think I can eye it, though….”
Claire nodded and checked my work. “Feet,” she said.
“I’m afraid to look any higher,” I told her.
She didn’t smile. She was very professional about the models. “At least give his feet arches, then. And his toes should not look like sausages.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Well—” I grabbed the calipers. “Only one way to fix that.”
I strode into the limelight, offering up the calipers at the altar of this sex god. I measured the distance between his feet, the distance from heel to toe. I leaned forward a bit and smiled up at him. “Bored yet?”
He smiled down. “It’s not as bad as my day job.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m a librarian.”
“Get out of town.” I leaned forward a bit more. “At the university?”
“No, the law school. It’s not the boredom that bothers me, so much as the larval lawyers.”
I laughed brightly and scurried back to Wren. I whispered: “Gay.”
“What?”
“He didn’t look at my cleavage.”
“Well, it would’ve been pretty obvious if he had.”
“He’s got every right to look—it’s not like he’s hiding anything. But there wasn’t even an eye-drift.”
“Maybe he likes the flat-chested type,” she said, meaning herself.
“Yeah. Men. He’s totally gay.”
She shook her head. “Now, I’m not sure.”
“Wren, I’m telling you, not even a flicker.”
“Maybe he’s not gay,” she said. “Maybe he just has good taste.”
I made a face at her. “And a really fine pack—”
“Break time!” Claire called.
We squirted our sculptures with water, covered them in plastic to keep them moist, and headed outside. Ny was sitting contentedly in the back of the pickup. He loved break time, because a couple of the regulars always brought him treats.
“Hey, fatboy,” I said, scratching his head.
He gave me a little love, then wagged hopefully as he was plied with cookies. When the snack-vending students left, Wren and I sat on the open tailgate and drank our waters.
“Ugg boots,” I said. “I don’t care that the stars are wearing them.”
“Sleeve ruffles on men,” Wren said.
“Unless they’re on a mariachi outfit.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear your mariachi fantasy again.”
“I just liked the movie is all. How about black jeans after 1992?”
“Forget ’92. Black jeans anytime after the Michael Penn song.”
“What if I were Ro-me-o in black jeans?” we sang.
“Snap-on ties,” I said.
“Too easy. Denim shorts.”
I shuddered. “Denim shorts.”
A male voice said, “Nice dog. Boy or girl?”
It was the male model, wearing a robe and flip-flops. I looked at his face for the first time. Boyishly handsome, with a lopsided smile. If I didn’t have Rip, I’d have tossed my hair and got down to business. The thought made me turn cold, as I realized: Wren was going to flirt.
“A boy. He’s a chow chow mutt,” I said, before she could say anything. “Mixed with I don’t know what. Chows have a bad reputation, but he’s totally friendly.”
“Hey there, boy.” The model put his hand out, and Ny perked up.
“He’s hoping for a treat,” I said. “He’s a bit spoiled—”
“I’m Wren!” She hopped off the truck and giggled nervously, looking up at him. “You’re tall. What’s your name?”
Oh, God.
“Kevin,” he said, and offered his hand.
She took it in a sort of death grip. “Hi! Glad to meet you. I saw you in class.”
“Yes, well—I’m the model,” he said, and looked toward me.
“I’m Anne. Wren and I were just saying how nice it is to have a male model.”
“We haven’t had a man in a long time,” Wren said, tilting her head. “I mean, not a man! A model. A male model. Not that a model’s not a man. I mean—”
Wren had just cut her hair. It was short and pixielike, bringing out the brightness of her eyes, the daintiness of her features, and the dippiness of her flirting. Still, her smile was sweet and inviting, even after I slid off the tailgate and stomped on her foot to shut her up.
“Have you done a lot of modeling?” I asked.