The Objects of Her Affection (15 page)

“What were they doing there?”

“I don’t know—overflow from the storage room, I guess? Usually we’re supposed to use those cabinets for small things we’re studying or writing about; it’s meant to be temporary.”

“So Marjorie’s off the hook.”

“For now. He’s still pretty pissed, and storage is still a mess, but now he’s spreading the blame around. Apparently I was Marjorie’s direct supervisor while he was gone, and so I am being blamed for letting a volunteer touch the objects.”

“Oh, please. Didn’t she work for the registrar at Atwater Kent?”

“As a secretary.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, Ted’s determined not to let any of this get out. If our committee got wind of any of this…or the head of collections…well. But that’s not going to happen. Now Ted and Michael are working their asses off to get it all sorted and out of our hands.”

“And what about you?”

Brian shrugged. “It’s never been my problem, I’m not about to get involved now. Silver and crystal—”

“Not my domain,” Sophie finished for him. “Lucky you.”

The next day she called Harry, but he’d gone to England to visit his family. “The annual pilgrimage,” he explained over the phone. “Just making sure I don’t get written out of the will. What’s happening in Philadelphia?”

Sophie told him about her confrontation with Carly, but Harry seemed distracted and impatient. “Fuck her,” was all he had to contribute. Then, “Well, do you have anything for me?”

Sophie was taken aback; this was not the Harry who was always so surprised and delighted by her offerings. She hesitated, unsure how to navigate the shift in tone.

“Hello?”

“I…might.”

“Good. I’ll have a look when I get back to New York.”

“Okaaaaay…” For the first time in a while, Sophie felt a twinge of nervousness. This was not how things were supposed to go. She wasn’t a mule. “I’ll try to hang on to it for you,” she said. “If I don’t find someone else who’s interested.”

Harry snorted. “Well, well! Listen, love. Be careful. Most dealers won’t be as casual about provenance as I have been.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been very generous with you, darling. You go elsewhere, you might not find people who are this…friendly. And then I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

Sophie frowned at the phone. Where was Harry going with this?

“Anyway,” he continued, much more cheerily, “I’m off to dinner with this pack of miscreants that keeps insisting it’s related to me. I hope your Christmas is better than mine. See you soon, love.”

“See you soon. Harry.”

Sophie hung up, Harry’s tone clinging to her like a sticky residue. The bald greed, the thinly veiled threat—where was this coming from? He knew, yes…of course he knew there was something…not quite right about the source of the objects. So far he’d been polite enough to avoid mentioning it. But it hadn’t occurred to her until now that Harry might be more aware of what she was doing than she was.

***

After dropping off the kids at day care the next morning, Sophie pushed the empty stroller through the gray chill of Center City, staring glumly into store windows. There was no way she could make a mortgage payment after buying gifts for the kids—remarkably expensive gifts that had been listed with great urgency by Lucy, dictating to Sophie, who then mailed the requests to the North Pole, complicit in her own undoing. Of course Santa would bring them the Playmobil palace and the Brio train set. Sophie would not, for anything in the world, miss that Christmas morning moment when the children saw their dreams come true, just like that, for the asking. Then there were the plane tickets to Cincinnati. They’d be spending the holiday with Brian’s sister, Debbie, and her family; she had to buy gifts for them, too.

Sophie paused in Rittenhouse Square, as she often did on her way home, with a cup of coffee and muffin. Here in this meandering refuge from the city grid, squirrels seemed to be the only ones in a hurry. Even on a chilly day the benches were crowded with members of the slower class: retirees, students, mothers, drunks. Sophie found an empty seat on the main path and unwrapped her muffin. The argument with Carly was still bothering her. That she would even pretend to be jealous of Sophie’s life was absurd; Carly had always been perfectly content with her single, childless existence. Now all of a sudden she was lonely? Wasn’t that just an excuse for bad behavior?

And then deflecting the blame by bringing up Sophie’s supposed issues. Okay, she wasn’t blind—Sophie could see her own hypocrisy, but Carly couldn’t see it, could she? It was Sophie’s own fault that the argument kept coming back to poke her in the ribs, like a wayward underwire. She reminded herself that Carly’s affairs were destructive—to marriages and friendships. Sophie’s little habit affected no one, it was temporary, and there were good reasons for it.

A pregnant woman walked by, then another. There was probably a Lamaze class across the square. She watched the bellies pass, idly inventorying the types: high and proud, wide and spreading, pointed, lopsided. She remembered when she had first started to show, feeling like a fat peony bud, clenched tight and shiny around her secret beauty. As her belly swelled, so had her sense of importance. It was saintly work, putting a heavy child, literally, before yourself, sharing every meal, breath, and heartbeat. The world had been eager to grant her special status, quick with chairs and glasses of water. The cruel joke, of course, was that the heroic work actually came later, when the hormonal buzz had faded and her belly had crumpled, when she was heaving the double stroller around—then where were the chairs and glasses of water? But that, she supposed, was when the rewards of motherhood became more private and hard-won. When the kids showed flashes of intelligence and good sense. When she watched her son reach out to a goat at the petting zoo, his head cocked with curiosity, his hand descending gently onto a flank, where others might grab or pull, his gesture filled with pure kindness.

Sophie smoothed out her muffin cup, folded it into quarters. Across the path a homeless woman settled onto a bench, resting a tattered duffle bag beside her. Sophie looked away, started to get up, then paused, looking back. There was something about the woman’s cheekbone, jutting like a shelf beneath her dark eye. Her skin was scorched with age and weather, but Sophie could see that she had once been beautiful, her features well proportioned, her neck long. She wore a man’s blazer, the sleeves rolled up, faded jeans, filthy loafers. Her feet shuffled back and forth, as if she’d forgotten to stop walking upon sitting down.

Sophie squinted, but couldn’t be sure what she was seeing at this distance. She got up and inched the empty stroller toward the other bench. She was moving so slowly, it felt like a dream. Actually, maybe it was a dream. Wasn’t this a recurring vision that visited her in the crazy hours of the night? She stopped in front of the woman, dread swirling into hope and then whirlpooling back into dread.

“Mommy?”

The woman turned to look up at Sophie. The far side of her face had come unmoored, the eyelid sliding downward, her cheek and mouth slack. The good side pierced her with a sharp, suspicious gaze. Sophie fumbled in her pocket, pulled out a twenty, handed it to the woman, and hurried away. It wasn’t her.
It
wasn’t her!
Tears bloomed in her eyes, her throat swelled, and she let out a surprised sob, cupping a hand over her mouth.

She thought she had let her feelings dry up and blow away on the desert wind, but now, strangely, she found herself filled with the same fear that came over her whenever she lost sight of Lucy or Elliot, no matter how briefly, in a crowded place. Who could say Maeve wasn’t on the next bench down, or on some bench in New Mexico, her entire life balled up in a greasy bag? But of course, that was crazy. Her mother was strong, fearsome, spiny as a cactus. She’d never needed anyone, never asked for help. Why was Sophie suddenly worried about her, after all these years? Why was she suddenly thinking of her as a lost child?

After picking them up at the Cincinnati airport, Dan parked the minivan in the driveway and carried their luggage through the garage while Debbie gave them a tour of “The Stash”: shelves and shelves of spaghetti sauce, pineapple juice cocktail, potato flakes, soda bottles, whitening toothpaste, high-fiber cereal, cheese spray, antimicrobial sponges, mild salsa, Italian dressing, dryer sheets, and lemon juice.

“It’s like a store,” breathed Lucy, running her hand across a row of Gatorade bottles.

“And I only paid one hundred and twenty-seven dollars for the whole thing,” said Debbie. “Want to see where the magic happens?”

“Magic!” cried Elliot.

Debbie led them out of the garage and through the great room to her couponing office. They crowded around a table covered with newspapers, a paper cutter, several types of scissors, a computer, and a color printer. Against one wall, a bookshelf was filled with binders marked “no expire,” “no limit,” “BOGO,” and “Moneymakers.” Debbie showed them how she searched for coupons, categorized them, and compiled them in a binder for her monthly trip to the supermarket.

“You’ve really taken this to a new level,” Sophie said.

“All thanks to you!” Debbie said, squeezing Sophie’s hand. Sophie didn’t really see how she could take credit for all of it, but she squeezed Debbie’s hand back. Yes, she’d been the one to set up Debbie’s first computer, T1 line, and email address—nine years ago, when she and Brian had come to visit the newborn twins. Sophie remembered how they’d found Debbie, formerly a high-ranking product manager at Procter and Gamble, wandering the house with unwashed hair, her nursing bra permanently unfastened, a glazed look in her eyes. Sophie had hooked up the computer and introduced her to the nascent world of mommy blogs and Listservs, but it was Debbie who discovered the existence of coupon sites. Before long she was feeding her family, plus the beneficiaries of countless soup kitchens and food drives, for pennies on the dollar, and was helping others do the same with her exhaustively researched blog “Debbie Does Discounts.” All signs of depression had disappeared; on the contrary, Debbie now functioned on a higher level than most people.

Having finished the tour, their suitcases put away in the bonus room, Sophie and Brian flopped on the sectional in the great room, where Dan was flipping through sports channels. Lucy and Elliot, shy at first, had quickly discovered the pleasures of the vast carpeted space, the corpulent furniture, the large-screen TV, and the bottomless bowl of Goldfish crackers sitting on the low coffee table. They ran laps through the kitchen and great room, stopping periodically to examine the cathedral-ceiling-grazing tree (“seventy-five percent off at Costco last January”) and the extravagantly wrapped gifts already heaped beneath it.

Debbie added crab dip and Pepperoni Stix to the coffee table, and brought out cold beer in frosted mugs. “I got the kind you like,” she said to Brian, perching on the arm of the sectional next to him, “even though it wasn’t on sale, ha-ha.” She smiled broadly, shrugging her eyebrows. Like Brian, Debbie was fair, with pale blue eyes and easily burned skin. Unlike him, she splashed every emotion across her face.

“Thanks, Deb.”

“So how’s the famous curator? Tell me about all your adventures. I’m dying to hear.”

Brian told Debbie about his latest trips to Italy and France, his publications, his search for the Saint-Porchaire. She listened with her mouth half-open, interjecting “oh!”s and “wow!”s and “you’re amazing!”s, periodically waving at Dan to make sure he was listening. Sophie yearned for Brian to duck Debbie’s praise, murmur something modest, but he accepted her admiration as his due. Sophie figured Debbie was just traveling the orbit already scribed by their parents when they were alive, with their displays of high school cycling trophies and their bulging scrapbooks of museum newsletters and exhibition announcements. Brian was used to it.

The nine-year-old twins, Kendall and Kylynn, surprised Sophie by taking an immediate interest in the younger children, styling Lucy’s hair and heaving Elliot around in their skinny arms. They even offered to change Elliot’s diapers, to which Sophie had no objection, even though the twins took this job too seriously and began changing him every twenty minutes. Elliot seemed happy with the attention, and Sophie was sure Debbie would be able get her some cheap diapers.

Sophie offered to help out in the kitchen, but Debbie’s meals generally involved adding a cup of water to something in a casserole dish, so she found herself spending most of her time on the sectional feeling superfluous. This actually wasn’t so bad. It had been a long time since she’d watched daytime TV; she was amazed there were so many shows about women having babies. Didn’t the people sitting at home—women with babies—want to watch something else? But she found that she couldn’t take her eyes off the young, excited couples as they decorated the nursery and talked about names, then rushed to the hospital and eventually descended into sweaty, face-distorting agony. Like clockwork, Sophie burst into embarrassed tears every time a slimy blue infant was placed, flailing, on its exhausted mother’s chest.

Dan went to his job at Ashland Chemical every day, and Debbie and Brian stayed busy showing the kids around their hometown. They took them to see the tree at Fountain Square, the Festival of Lights at the zoo, and Cincinnati’s best-decorated front yards. Sophie never felt like going along; she was finding it harder and harder to look into Brian’s eyes, and Debbie’s gushing niceness made her uncomfortable. She retreated further into the folds of the couch, napping and channel surfing, making occasional forays into the garage for bags of chips. Despite her calorie intake she felt pleasantly hollow. Now and then she would think about her house—its cramped living room, its excess of stairs. Then she would change the channel without looking, having memorized all the buttons on the remote control.

On Christmas Eve, Debbie wanted to go to the mall to catch the last door-buster deals at Circuit City. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said to Sophie. “There’s nothing like the mall on Christmas Eve! The kids can see Santa!”

“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “They’re showing a
Baby
Story
marathon.”

“Mommy!” cried Elliot with a gurgling laugh. Sophie sat up and looked over the back of the couch to see him running ecstatically into Kylynn’s arms.

“All right,” Sophie said, peeling off the afghan that was twined around her legs. “I’ll come.”

The eight of them boarded the van, the stroller comfortably stowed in the back, and the doors oozed shut with the push of a button. Christmas music played on surround sound as they pulled out of the cul-de-sac. Sophie marveled at the van’s spacious, soothingly beige interior. She’d never sat in such firm-but-yielding, buttery leather seats. The armrests were generous and adjustable. Warm air flowed over her feet. Let’s keep driving, she thought; let’s skip the mall. Why leave this paradise and endure the indignity of walking?

Too soon, they arrived at the Tri-County Mall, which was ringed with news vans and reporters filing their Christmas Eve reports. “Is he really here?” asked Lucy as they hummed around the parking lot searching for a spot.

“Oh, he’s here,” said Debbie. “Getting everyone’s last-minute requests before he starts flying around the world.”

“Wow…” breathed Lucy, craning her neck to see out the window. “I can’t believe he’s
here
.” Sophie allowed herself to rise out of her funk just enough to enjoy her child’s happy acceptance of the impossible. Here among plastic trees and prerecorded church bells and manufactured magic, Lucy’s four-year-old heart, barely the size of a clementine, was large enough to welcome it all inside.

Once inside the teeming mall, Debbie and Kylynn peeled off toward Circuit City, while Dan and Kendall took the escalator to the Sharper Image; they’d all agreed to meet for dinner at Ruby Tuesday. In their stroller Lucy and Elliot swiveled their heads in amazement, taking in the flood of shoppers’ knees streaming past, the fistfuls of shopping bags, the blinking jewelry and sparkling sweaters. A fleshy old man in a Santa hat buzzed by on his mobility scooter and winked at the kids. “Santa?” inquired Elliot, twisting around to watch the man disappear into the crowd.

“No, honey,” said Sophie, struggling to keep up with the stroller, which Brian was pushing with grim determination. “Santa doesn’t ride on a scooter. He’s up here, I think. In Section E, by Abercrombie and Fitch.”

They found the line: a long, winding queue of red-faced, overdressed babies, wailing toddlers, and blank-faced parents. At the front Sophie could just make out a hugely fat Santa sitting on a couch with a small boy seated beside him.

“Really?” said Brian, eyeing the line.

“Where’s Santa?” asked Lucy, trying to unbuckle the stroller straps.

“Stay there, honey,” said Sophie. “We just have to wait in line for a while. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Of COURSE I want to do this!”

“Well,” said Sophie to Brian. “When in Cincinnati, do as the Cincinnat…ianites? do.”

“Cincinnatians. Do you mind if I run over to Banana Republic while you wait?”

“Go ahead. Just don’t spend too much money.”

Lucy pulled on Sophie’s sweater. “Mommy, is he the real Santa?”

Sophie considered the many answers to this question: he’s one of Santa’s helpers…nobody really knows…he’s whatever you want him to be…

“Of course he’s the real Santa.”

“Okay, good,” said Lucy. “Because this is a very, very long line, and Santa is the only person I would wait in this line for.” She paused. “Is Santa a person?”

“Um, he’s a magical person. A person with magical powers.”

“Wow.”

By the time Brian got back, Sophie was only halfway to the front of the line, and the kids were beginning to fray. Every time she pulled a new toy out of the stroller basket and handed it to Elliot, he flung it to the ground. Lucy, allowed to get out of the stroller on the condition that she stay within three feet of Sophie, was flaunting her freedom in front of her brother, who desperately wanted to get up and run. She was also trying to engage the two children behind them in conversation.

“Santa is a magical person,” she said to the pair of little boys. “He has magical powers.”

The boys gave her a blank stare and Sophie, as usual, found herself acting as a conversational stand-in, making eye contact with the parents and chuckling, “Thank you, Lucy, that’s very interesting.” The mother, who seemed to be half Sophie’s age, returned the chuckle halfheartedly while her husband (boyfriend?) remained absorbed in his phone. Elliot let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

“Please,” Sophie pleaded with Brian, “take Elliot. He wants to get up, but I can’t chase him around.”

“It’s almost time to meet them for dinner,” said Brian, lifting Elliot from his seat.

Sophie sighed. “Lucy, honey,” she said, “we might not have time to get to Santa. It’s almost time for dinner.”

Lucy blinked at her. “But—Santa! You
promised
!” Her bottom lip began to grow.

“I know.” Sophie looked at Brian. “We did promise.”

“Look,” he said, trapping Elliot’s kicking legs against his chest with one arm. “Why don’t I run to Ruby Tuesday and tell them we’re going to be late. It’ll give Elliot a change of scenery.”

“Okay, great,” breathed Sophie. “Thank you. I love you.”

Ten minutes later, when Sophie and Lucy had almost made it to the front of the line, Brian and Elliot reappeared with Debbie, Dan, and the twins in tow. “They wanted to watch,” he explained.

“This is so exciting!” said Debbie, rattling her shopping bags. “You’re almost there! Dan, get the camera out.”

And so Elliot had a full audience when Sophie plunked him on the sofa next to Santa, with Dan and Brian pointing their cameras at him, the twins aiming their phones, Debbie waving excitedly. Elliot took one look at the large, perspiring stranger sitting beside him, slid off the couch, and ran back to the stroller, slipping his arms into the straps and trying to buckle them himself. Dan, Debbie, and the twins rocked with laughter.

“My turn!” shouted Lucy, clambering onto the couch in Elliot’s place. “Santa, I want some Polly Pockets and a Playmobil palace. And a book about fairies.”

“Ho ho ho,” chortled the Santa mechanically, his eyes glazed with fatigue.

“That’s not funny,” objected Lucy. “Why are you laughing?”

“Ho ho—ah, what’s your name, little girl?” He winced a little, adjusting his position on the seat, which, Sophie noticed, seemed to offer no lower back support.

“Lucy. Don’t you know that?”

“Oh, right, Lucy. Now I remember.”

“Did you get my letter?”

“Of course I did.”

“You know where I’m staying, right?”

“Of course I do. Now what else do you want for Christmas?”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“The address. It was in my letter.”

“Lucy!” said Sophie. “Leave Santa alone. Tell him what else you want.”

Santa put a finger against his nose and tried his best to twinkle.

“I just want to make sure he knows where to bring my stuff.” Lucy was squinting up at Santa. “Is that beard real?”

“Okay, time to give another little girl or boy a chance to talk to me,” said Santa, probably sensing what was coming next. Lucy looked out at the kids waiting wearily in line, then turned back to Santa, grabbed his beard, and pulled. Sophie was chagrined to note that it wasn’t even a good stage beard; it was held on by an elastic band. When Lucy let go it snapped against Santa’s face.

“You little—”

“Fake! Fake Santa! Santa’s fake!” bellowed Lucy as Sophie grappled with her, trying to pull her off the couch. Lucy flailed, reached out, and grabbed Santa’s hat. His flowing white hair came off with it.

“Sorry, Santa, I’m so sorry,” muttered Sophie as she dragged Lucy off the couch, prying Santa’s hair out of her grip and trying, awkwardly, to hand it back to him. At the head of the line the two little boys, mouths slack, watched Santa replace his hair. They turned to their mother for an explanation, but she only glared at Sophie.