rs. Fatso saunters into the living room wearing a long robe that covers her legs. Her eyes are red, but her face is freshly primped and powdered, so much so she looks her normal ugly self. You'd never know she'd just been flogged with a Christmas belt. She holds the stubborn little gnome in her hand, says, “Any idea how Gadsby here got into our bedroom?” Off my look, she says, “That's his name, Gadsby Jr.”

“I was just passing by,” I say.

“Ruined my bedspread,” she says, “There's glass everywhere.” There is no emotion in her voice, but I can almost smell it in the air. She looks at her husband, and he is looking at her. She swallows hard. “Why?”

“It looked like you needed some help.”

She bites her lip. “I know you, don't I?”

“You do, yes.”

It comes to her and her face flushes. Mister doesn't know what's going on, and he's already into his third Crown, this one a double. Mrs. Fatso goes, “Why are you here?”

I tell her about the shitty review. I get chatty and say I was angry, angry enough to slap her in the face if I got up the nerve. Anything to make her feel as worthless as I felt reading her words. She goes still for a moment and frowns. Her bottom lip curls. She looks away, ashamed, sort of, and tells me this must have made my goddamn day, seeing her like this.

“Enough!” Mister shouts.

Mrs. Fatso says it's all over and ushers me to the door. Her robe breezes open and I see giant welts on her legs. Tomorrow she'll write another review, she says. A good one. A great one if she can remember how. Actually, she likes my work, but people don't read her column to hear what she likes. Her husband's right, she says, and I can tell she's talking to herself like she suddenly deserves all the lousy shit in the world. At the door, she whispers, she's heard rumors. About my work. I whisper, too. I tell her they're not true. The foyer is all mirrors, and her glance ricochets to her husband. I can see she loves him. And she wants to hurt him. She says, “Your sculptures protect people. It's what some people say.”

“You don't need protection,” I say. “You need to leave.”

In the mirror, she can't take her eyes off him. Mister is lounging, near horizontal in his chair, with the bottle propped on his stomach. She says, “Can they protect me from him?”

“I'm sitting right here, for chrissakes,” Mister shouts. “And for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry you made me do that. Now send your little friend home and let's go to bed.”

I whisper, “Abandon the piece of shit and never look back.”

“Tell me how it works,” she says.

“It's not true, whatever you've heard. I already told you.”

“Do you use a model, work from a picture, something like that?” She won't give it up. The clincher is when she tells me even if it is true, she doesn't deserve it, which is true, but could I please do one for her? Please. Really. Please.

I tell her I've got a gallery full of unsold work, thanks to her. Come by anytime and take her pick. She stares at me in the mirror. Her eyes go moist and she turns away but there's nowhere to turn I can't see a reflection of her miserable face. I say, “Listen, lady.”

“Call me Billie, please.”

My voice involuntarily softens. “You're asking me to do something I don't want to do.”

She says please, please, please and other things, but I stop listening. I'd rather be flogged with a Christmas belt than hear someone beg. I give it a long, hard thought, because after I do this, it'll never be the same. I say, “If you want it, then I do it now.”

Billie says, “I don't understand.”

“What's not to understand? Now.”

Mister shouts it's too late for whatever we're talking about.

I say, “It'll take me most of the night.” I point to Mister. “He's my model. If you can keep him still, we've got a deal.” I read her mind and I say, “The mantle above the fireplace.” The fireplace is one of those huge ornate jobs with two fourteen-foot columns each side of the opening. It has two separate mantles—a narrow one for showy little nothings and a deeper chunk of wood with hand-carved edges. All of it oak, probably blue oak or leather oak, large pores and winding grain. I point as I speak. “It's now, with him and that piece of wood. Or never.”

Mister throws his half empty bottle at the fireplace. “You touch my mantle and I'll rip your head off!” He bounces up and grabs a poker. I pause here to look at myself in the mirror. And to let Mister's rage fade into middle-aged impotence, which should take all of fifteen seconds.

* * *

I've no idea what she told him, but Mister is seething quietly with a fresh bottle of Crown at his side. I can smell his stink, a mixture of nervous sweat and good whisky. I hold the jack in one hand and sweep the showy crap to one side of the mantle. Most of it is glass or ceramic and Billie scoops the pieces up without a word. I make like the jack is a big rock and take two quick overhead whacks at the mantle before anyone changes their mind. Mister and Billie flinch with each whack, but the mantle doesn't budge.

Mister's in a mood. He's fed up and bitching nonstop. I go into the bathroom and pack my ears with cotton. When I return, Billie is plying him with doubles and triples. She gives him a pill, says “Take it,” and when he does she gives him another. I grab a sturdy chair from the kitchen and stack it with leather-bound books from the bookshelf. I set the base of the jack on the books with the top of the jack wedged under the lip of the mantle. Round and round I go winding the jack handle in tight little circles. I plan to jack the thing off the wall. It takes a while but it comes free with lots of wall attached. I drag it across the carpet and lay it in front of Mister. By this time, he's out cold, head flopped over the back of the chair. Billie props him upright with some pillows.

I unzip my shoulder pack and pull out a wooden mallet, two chisels, a small ax, and a whetstone. I tell Billie to get the hell out of here while I work.

By morning, it's nearly finished and my arm's a noodle from swinging the ax and mallet. The living room is blanketed in wood chips. The carpet is shredded, glass everywhere. Mister is dead pale and hasn't moved in six hours. I dig through a bedroom closet until I find some black shoe polish that I use for color and sealer. Behind some shoeboxes, I find something I haven't seen in a long time: one of my sculptures from a long time ago. A time when I could afford to work in bronze. I fondle the smooth cool metal, lift it out of its hiding place with both hands to get a feel for the weight, and then shove it back where I found it.

The wooden Mister is a good likeness of the original, only thinner. It stands as tall as the real thing with a belly and bird legs and a belt dangling from his hand. I cover it in shoe polish and buff it shiny with an arm cover from the couch. “It's done,” I say to no one.

I tell myself this isn't why I came and no sooner do I think it than I know that it is. When I sculpt, I shut out the world. I'm alone with a handful of primitive tools and a forgiving piece of wood, and for those few moments I'm doing what I do best. That my best gets lousy reviews, I realize only now, is something I can live with.

Mister wakes. He looks around the room, says, “Morning,” and I'm not sure if he's asking or telling. He's got some color in his face and his eyes are clear. He's different. Like a man you wouldn't mind knowing. His eyes are fixed on the six-foot tall black carving in front of him. He circles the piece several times, stepping over chunks of wood and glass and pieces of fireplace. Mister says, “Me, right?”

I pull the cotton out of my ears just as Billie eases into the living room. Her face is puffed and powdered in shades of pink, and she's wearing a simple blue dress that falls just above her knees. Her legs are stained with purple bruises a shade or two darker than the dress. The getup looks color-coordinated to show off her injuries. She goes straight for the sculpture, the first to touch it, and as she does, Mister slips his hand into hers. He rubs his forehead, says, “It's hard to remember. I feel good, though.”

Billie stands on her toes and rubs her powdered cheek against the shoe-polished wooden cheek. She runs her fingers along the side of the head down the arm and stops at the belt. She looks me in the eye. Mister notices the detail in the buckle and breaks into a horse grin. “That's the belt you gave me for Christmas. I love that belt.”

He looks at the hole in the wall where the mantle used to live and back to the sculpture. He reaches out to touch the buckle when he sees Billie's discolored legs. A long minute passes and then he bites his lip as if he's about to cry. He looks up at his wife, says, “Can you forgive me?”