The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [27]
A joke, I told myself, just a joke. But I remembered in that moment why I’d been so happy to steal Joey’s clothes and hide his keys. I remembered my distaste and anger.
“I think you two look busy,” I said, forcing a smile, moving away. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
Chapter 4
“I HEAR HE’S FABULOUS,” THE WOMAN SAID, SO ENGROSSED IN her conversation that she nearly ran into me as I left the restaurant. She was carrying an outsized patchwork bag over her shoulder and I stepped back into the doorway to let her pass.
“Oh, he’s very good,” another woman said. “I was here last spring, when he first opened. They’ll let you try it, you know. It’s really an experience. They walk you right through it. You hardly have to use any air at all. It’s not like blowing up a balloon or anything. I made a glass egg.”
“Did you? I want to do that.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“He really must be good.”
“Oh, he is, he’s won awards.”
They were past me then, walking through the midmorning sunlight to the other end of the renovated factory. I knew they were talking about Keegan, and I followed them as they sang his praises.
It wasn’t hard to find the entrance to Keegan’s studio; a group had collected five deep outside the tall glass windows at the corner of the building, waiting for the next tour to begin. A sign hung from the doorway with a single word engraved in colorful script: GLASSWORKS. When I looked more closely I saw it was a mosaic made of tiny glass chips fused together. I couldn’t see much over the gathered heads, just trees and water reflected in the window, the distant glow of fire beyond. Those in the front rows appeared spellbound, emitting sighs of appreciation. There were many well-heeled women like the two who had passed me, but there were also several young people dressed in plenty of black, and two groups of teens that looked like they’d come on a field trip.
It was frustrating not to be able to see, and I was just about to leave when a tour leader finally pushed open the double glass doors, inviting us to enter. The group shifted and began to flow inside; I went with the current. A rush of heat poured over us as we filed into the vast room and took our places behind the observation railing. In the open space, several figures moved in a slow dance with fire. The guide raised her voice, but I could hardly make out what she was saying over the roar of the venting hood, the flames.
Against the far wall, three ovens glowed with a deep red-orange fire. A man wearing goggles, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, crossed the room and eased open a door on the glass furnace, revealing an interior of deep golden orange. Heat shimmered in a veil between his figure and the fire. He selected a pipe from a nearby vat of water and plunged it into the furnace, turning it slowly several times before he pulled it out, the glass on the end molten, glowing.
Subtly, as thick as caramel, the glass shifted shape as he carried it to a long metal table and began to roll it, smoothing and elongating the soft glass against the steel. The color slowly faded, the glass growing clearer with every movement, until it was completely transparent. He sat, still turning the pipe very slowly, then lifted it, pressed the tip to his lips, and began to blow.
It happened very gradually, almost imperceptibly, that the molten glass began to swell, growing round like a soap bubble, the surface thinning and becoming faintly iridescent, as large as a kumquat, then as large as an apple. Twice the glassblower checked his progress and went back to plunge the growing shape into the furnace, softening the glass, our guide explained, before returning to the table to shape it further with his breath. The assistant