Possessions by Judith Michael

no job, and no prospects for one.
    â€œSorry, not now,” said most of the jewelry store buyers whom she called for an appointment. “We’re full up with orders. Try us in six or seven months; sometime after Christmas.” Others told her to send in sketches or color slides of her jewelry. “However,” they added, “we buy very little from unknown designers.” Three agreed to see her.
    And all three turned her down. “What is missing,” they all said in one way or another, while inspecting the necklace and earrings she had brought in, “is the meticulous touch of the professional. This has been your hobby, is that right? It shows, you see. Your technique is very basic, not complex and original; there is no touch of the artist. Truly fine jewelry should make you say, ‘This would be less beautiful if the design, materials and technique came together in any other way.’ One cannot say that of your pieces. Look here, at this necklace . . .” And, like the teachers who had criticized her in grade school, each of them found fault with some part of her jewelry.
    None of them suggested she come back another time. Theydismissed her and turned their attention elsewhere even before Katherine was gone.
    There is no touch of the artist. Katherine huddled in the corner of the couch where she sat every night, waiting for Craig amid the shadows cast by the porch light’s glare. Your hobby, is that right? It shows  . . . Craig had said she was good. Everyone said, “You’re so clever, Katherine; so talented.” But it wasn’t true; they’d said it to please her.
    I’m not talented or clever, she thought. I’m not even good.
    A wind came up, slamming the screen door back and forth. In the living room, shadows swayed, creating new shapes. Everything was changing but Katherine felt bogged down. People spend years becoming jewelry designers, but I expected to walk in and find stores, customers, a salary, all waiting for me. I thought it would be easy because I love doing it. But people don’t pay you for doing something just because you love it. You have to be good; you have to be professional. And I’m not.
    Leslie might have some suggestions, but Katherine still hadn’t been able to reach her. And she wasn’t sure she really wanted to talk to Leslie. All my failures compared to her triumphs. No, she thought, I’ll manage. She walked through the swaying shadows to Craig’s desk and put her samples and sketches into a bottom drawer. And the next day she went job-hunting.
    â€œAh . . . no experience, Mrs. Fraser,” said one personnel director after another, looking at her application. “Clerk in a jewelry store ten years ago. And since then—nothing?”
    Only running a house, she answered silently. Bringing up two children. Being a wife.
    â€œSkills, Mrs. Fraser?” They all skimmed her application. “No typing. No shorthand. No data processing. No computer experience at all?” She shook her head. “No accounting. No bookkeeping. Not even general office experience. You’ve never worked in an office?” Again she shook her head. “Or sold real estate?”
    â€œNo,” she said.
    They shrugged. “Nothing we can offer you. No skills and you haven’t worked for ten years. No track record. The recession, you know; we’re cutting back. The only people we might hire would be ones with experience. Sorry. Good luck.”
    Good luck. While all around her, doors were closing.
    She curled up on the couch, tighter each night. What will I do if I can’t find a job? I could borrow on the house. No I couldn’t; not without a job. And anyway, how would I pay it back? What will we do if I don’t find a job? Fear spun a web inside her. Of course I’ll find a job. I just have to be patient. I’ll find one tomorrow.
    Two days later she swallowed her