Galatea Revisited

by JoSelle Vanderhooft

He wore diamonds to bed, the lover you chiseled from the plaster of Paris you bought at the church bazaar. It was fifty cents and you thought, why not? If it's for the children…

Walking to your car, you felt good about yourself. You felt good about yourself that night, too, and while the wife slept in her twin bed you mixed the powder in the silver bowl reserved for buttered popcorn on Friday nights. You added water, stirred, waited 'til the tiny tempest settled. And you poured.

To you, it was a hobby. Something you could unwind your back against between watching the game and going to bed. You didn't know you had your finger on the pulse of Pandora's Box, and there were claws inside.

When he emerged, he was no bigger than your thumb. But he was warm and breathing. You were, understandably, afraid. After all, you only meant to cast your hand. A dry run before progressing to moulds of birds, butterflies. Yet you couldn't kill him, this ghost bearing your thumbprints. So you resolved to keep him in the cabinet with your coats. That way no one would know you'd made a man, and liked it.

When you were four years old you'd had a pet, a goldfish. It lasted exactly fourteen days before turning its belly to the sky. Deep down you must have thought this would be no different. But when he grew to the height of your shoulder, you knew you'd never be able to flush him down the toilet so easily. Especially now that he was learning words, including your name. He said it one night, his hands finding a new place around your waist. His lips did not taste like plaster at all. You did not fall asleep on the sofa and you couldn't remember who had won the game.

He knew seven languages, and the Psalms. And when he held you, he said he understood. Some day, he'd take you far away and make you feel useful again. He wrote you poetry. You decorated his skin with craft store jewels.

But there were problems. Sometimes you missed church. You nearly jumped a foot when Mrs. Eberhardt tapped your shoulder. You'd been rooting through the crafts table for a present; bright things, rhinestones, cubic zirconia, to press against him so he'd shine as you made love.

"You dropped something," she said, and handed you a slip of paper. Your wrists turned cold. A sonnet in his handwriting -- he must have slipped it in your coat pocket.

That night you told him this would not do. It was bad enough that she slept just two doors down, what would everyone else think?

"I'm jealous of you," he said, hands behind his head as he laid back. You liked to touch his chest, smooth and young as yours had never been. But tonight you didn't. You closed the door tightly. His words cost too much.

You didn't know he'd learned how to open it. You woke up against his warmth. The light came on. Your wife had heard a noise. There was a scene. He wouldn't leave. You made him, anyway.

Maybe he called the minister, or perhaps she did. Maybe the woman who found his poem simply grew suspicious. But word got out that you made things. At the next bazaar the women guarded their craft bins with hands made of swords. You knew then it would be your last. Soon the bedroom was empty, too. But by then it was too late. He'd left, and he wouldn't come back, no matter how many moulds you filled with birds and ladybugs.

Once, you thought you saw him at the bus stop, boarding the greyhound for Boston. You turned and raised your hand in benediction. He looked through you, empty as dried plaster. He boarded. The bus chuffed into the distance leaving only tire tracks and a white cloud smelling of petroleum and sand.

Sometimes you wonder what it would have been like if you'd listened. If you would have built a house with a single bed. If he would have rubbed the work from your palms and called you strong again. If you could have remade yourself in his hands.

You turn the channel and lean back against the cushions. They're dull and worn, like the way you see your world. You close your eyes and hope you'll sleep again, without reaching for those plaster arms, those zirconia glittering like moons.

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©JoSelle Vanderhooft

JoSelle Vanderhooft graduated from the University of Utah in 2004 and has been roaming around the United States ever since. Her first poetry collection, 10,000 Several Doors, will be released in July 2005 from Cat's Eye Publishing, and she is currently editing an anthology of lesbian-themed fairytales for Torquere Press. Additional poetic works can be found online at the Full Moon Review (fullmoonlm.bravehost.com), in upcoming issues of Star*LineMagazine and in the forthcoming magazine Jabberwocky.