The Magic of Found Objects

by Maddie Dawson

  Bunny was smiling now, and Mama made her laugh a couple of times, and Bunny put her hand to her throat and said, “Oh my!” when Stony teased her about looking too young to have a granddaughter my age.

  Bunny and Mama started talking about things that had happened before I got born, when she and my daddy had a wedding right out there in the field, and how fun it had all been.

  “We stood right over there,” Mama said. She pointed to a place in the field where there was a little tree standing all by itself. “And your daddy wore a shirt that I’d made for him—and it had puffy sleeves and all kinds of embroidery on it. Remember that, Bunny?”

  “Well,” said Bunny. She turned away, like she’d seen ghosts out there in that field. “Yes, it was quite a shirt. It was that.” And Mama laughed, too, and said it might have been a little over the top, that shirt, but she had been proud of it—and the two of them smiled at each other. Then Bunny said well again and looked over at the house and moved her handbag over to the other shoulder.

  I got a little shiver, and then all of a sudden, I started to get that sad kind of stomachache again. Because I could see this wasn’t going to last. Soon it was going to be time to go get back in the car, and Mama would still live here, and I would still live in New Hampshire and be Maggie’s girl—and when I was Maggie’s girl, I was not Phronsie because I was Frances—and little by little, I would forget about being the girl who twirled around in the field finding pieces of feathers and wearing sparkly clothes like my mama did.

  And then Bunny cleared her throat and put her hand on my arm and said we should all go into town and get something to eat at the diner, so we did. Mama sat next to me in the big orange booth and she told Bunny that she was making a little bit of money now from her art. She said she was getting by and that there was a whole bunch of people who were doing art with her, and they had a co-op thing going on. There was magic in the art, she said. I started playing with her hair, which was long and curly and yellow, like mine, except Maggie always had me wear mine in a tight high ponytail to keep it out of my face. But Mama took the ponytail holder out, and she combed her fingers through my hair and said how pretty it looked. She said my eyes looked just like hers.

  “You look just like pictures of me when I was a little girl,” she said in kind of a dreamy voice. “As my mama would have said, you’re my spittin’ image.”

  That’s when I felt brave enough to say the thing I had wanted to say since we got there, but which I didn’t know until right then that I could ever say.

  “Do you ever miss me?” I said.

  “I miss you every single second,” she told me. Her eyes got shiny, so I took her fingers and played with all of them, one by one, sliding her rings on and off. She had rings with beads on them.

  “Well then,” I said, “how come you don’t ever come and see us? Why are you so far away?” I swallowed hard. “I thought you died.”

  She and Bunny looked at each other. I saw Bunny nod.

  “He doesn’t tell them I call?” Mama said.

  I looked from one of them to the other. Bunny cleared her throat again. “You call? On the phone?”

  “I call every week. I beg to talk to them. He always says they’re busy or they’re taking a nap or they’ve gone to the store. Once he finally said it would be too upsetting.”

  Bunny banged her hand on the table, and she looked away with a mad look on her face. She shook her head, and she said this was something that had to get fixed.

  “I tried a few times to come see them. Stony said he’d drive me, but Robert said he wasn’t going to allow me to see them even if I did get there. He said—he said it’s not good for them.” She started tearing up the paper napkin in front of her. “Does he even give them the presents I send? For their birthday? For Christmas?”

  Bunny shook her head. “Nothing. He’s never mentioned anything.”

  “Maybe it was the magic that scared him,” Mama said, and Bunny said, “Hush with that kind of talk. It’s him. This is all on him.”

  “And the divorce decree said there’d be visitation,” Mama said. “But that doesn’t happen, and I can’t afford an attorney.”

  “No,” said Bunny, and I had never seen her look so mad. “This is the end of that, though. You don’t worry about this for one more second, you hear me? I’m taking care of things from now on. There’s going to be visitation.”

  On the way home, Bunny said that it wasn’t going to be a secret after all that we went to see Mama. That she was going to march in the front door, and she was going to make sure that my daddy did what the court said he had to do.

  The next day there was a big fight and lots of yelling. Hendrix and I were supposed to be upstairs in our room, but I could hear Bunny telling my daddy that he had to do what the court said, and my daddy said the court didn’t know everything that was right.

  “Children need to see their mother,” she said. “That is what is right.”

  He yelled a whole bunch of things, how our mother wasn’t good. He said Woodstock was a bad place, and he told Bunny that Mama had let us run wild. He was also mad that Bunny took me up there without telling him. That was lying.

  I tried not to listen, but I couldn’t help it. The yelling was all over the whole house. It bounced against the walls and filled up all the spaces, even where Hendrix and I were hiding behind the door.

  Then Bunny told him that he was the wrong one here. She kept saying, “She is their mother. And Phronsie thought she died, Robert. This child has been suffering because of you and your stupid pride.”

  After that, the grown-ups found out we were listening, and even though there was more of a fight to come, Hendrix and I got taken by Maggie over to Bunny’s barn, where we slept for a few nights, and when we came back to our regular house, everybody was acting like nothing had happened at all, except the air still felt thick with something bad.

  Every summer for the next four years, Maggie would drive me and Hendrix to the little ice cream place in Massachusetts, where Mama would be waiting in Stony’s old pickup truck, and we would eat an ice cream cone, and then Mama would take us back to her house. Hendrix and I would spend a couple of weeks with her and her friends, and we would swim at the swimming hole and we’d listen to the music that her friends made, and we’d help Mama with her art collection, and we’d sleep outside some nights in the tent with her and see the fireflies and we’d help her pick the strawberries and the tomatoes. She and I would make bread, and she would tease me about how much butter I liked, and then she would bring out the jar of honey, and we would load up the pieces with butter and honey until they were just completely perfect. That’s what Mama would say: “This is just completely perfect.”

  She was witchy and magic and knew how to harness the moon energy and how to make people fall in love with her. I thought she was everything. Hendrix, though, was a little bit homesick. I could always tell what he was thinking because he and I had been together even before we were born, and I knew he liked things to be all normal and regular. I could see in his eyes that he felt scared when Mama would talk about magic and moonlight. So I tried to keep him happy when we were there, telling him stories at night, letting him sit in the front seat in the truck when we went places, giving him the biggest piece of bread with the most butter and honey. Just so he would smile and be happy there.

  And things didn’t get weird for a very long time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  News flash: Judd did not come over to my apartment after having a beer with Mercer on Sunday night, and therefore, we did not make love for the first time ever.

  Surprise, surprise.

  I wake up on Monday morning, feeling grumpy and unsettled. What does it say about us that he didn’t even want to stop by? Doesn’t he want to have sex with me? Then, while I’m in the shower, mulling over the question of whether I have the right to be disappointed, Mr. Swanky eats all the leftover popcorn from last night’s movie marathon and throws up on the carpet, and after I clea
n that up, I discover I’m out of coffee beans, and so I miss the 8:06 subway because I have to stop to get takeout coffee in order to live, and the line is ridiculously long. Well? I have to stand in it, fidgeting and fuming. I need coffee. Life without caffeine is unthinkable.

  Then, when I get to work, there’s Darla beginning the staff meeting by saying, “We have a very difficult situation here with Phronsie’s author.”

  Some context here: Darla Chapman has been the head of publicity for Tiller Publishing for two years, and as far as I can tell, nothing has ever derailed her. She’s known in the business as a firecracker, even a firebrand, with plenty of ideas for how to get our authors front and center in the vast, loud world of publishing, where it seems as though every third person you meet has a new book out and needs it reviewed by someone.

  She also has social relationships with bookstore owners, magazine editors, other publishers, and media experts. And not only that, but she also has four children, a banker husband, a live-in nanny, a cook, four dogs, two cats, a Komodo dragon, three cell phones, and a pager—and yet somehow she always seems preternaturally calm. Maybe it’s because she’s about seven feet tall and has a deep, contralto voice that commands attention. I think she terrifies most problems into submission, to tell you the truth.

  When she says there’s a very difficult situation, I think most of us in the conference room start to imagine that it may be time to take cover under our desks. Adam, sitting across the conference table from me, gives me a look meant to approximate a silent scream and then quietly adjusts his shirt so that a little gnome head comes peeking out of his pocket. He shifts his gaze down when Darla shoots a look in his direction.

  Then she fixes her stare on me. “Phronsie,” she says, “you’re the resident expert here, so would you like to fill the rest of the group in on the Gabora situation as it now stands?”

  So I explain.

  Gabora Pierce-Anton is a positively ancient, sweet-faced, beloved children’s book author who years ago was one of the backbones of Tiller Publishing. However, she writes books that depict life from a simpler time. She tells the story of the adventures of Peter and Eleanor, two wealthy children who are able to disappear through a little door and go back and forth in time. Sometimes they just zip back to visit their great-grandmothers’ childhoods where they learn to roll hoops and knit scarves and cultivate family values, but they have also gone to other continents and, over the years, have visited nearly every epoch you can think of, from dinosaurs to space travel. Parents and grandparents have flocked for years to buy these sweet, charming little books.

  “But her latest,” I say, “coming out after a five-year hiatus, is about Thanksgiving, and—well, the plot is that little Eleanor and Peter zipped back in time and befriended some little Pilgrim children and ‘helped out’ the Native Americans by teaching them how to prepare the Thanksgiving feast. Eleanor even showed them how to set a proper English table, and the Native Americans were so, so grateful.”

  There are groans around the table.

  Adam says, “How in the world did this ever make it through our editing process?”

  Darla steps in. “We’re dealing with that now,” she says and gives Adam a fierce look.

  What I suspect is that we’ve just always given Gabora a free pass on anything, because her books sell so well. And she did agree, grudgingly, to abandon the word Indians and go with Native Americans instead.

  “Early reviews have been devastating and rightly so,” I say. “Publishers Weekly and other publications had some harsh words about the cultural insensitivity and irresponsibility of allowing such a view to escape into the world. There have been protests, and we were asked by several Native American rights groups to pull the book.”

  Darla interrupts me. “Which would be unheard of. So, after several high-level meetings, we decided our response would be to simply forego the usual widespread publicity tour that Gabora is accustomed to. The book would be out, but we would be silent about it. No publicity. Maybe the whole thing would just . . . go away. A few diehard fans might buy it, grandmothers who weren’t politically inclined, and that would be that.”

  “We salute you, Gabora Pierce-Anton, at the end of a brilliant career,” says one of the other publicists, and everyone chuckles a little.

  Darla taps on the table with a long pink fingernail. “But now the bad news is that Gabora has contacted lawyers, with encouragement from her two grown daughters. And she is insisting on going ahead with bookstore appearances that were previously scheduled by us, back in the summer when we assumed we’d be proceeding as we always have with her books. Her attorney says she wants to go FULL SPEED AHEAD, all caps,” Darla says. “She wants to confront her critics, and she has contacted bookstores on her own—or her daughters have, more likely—and they have bookstore appearances lined up.”

  “But do bookstores want this kind of attention?” Adam asks.

  “Don’t misjudge her appeal,” says Darla. “The fact is, bookstore owners are rallying around her. There are now readings scheduled the week of Thanksgiving, in South Carolina, ending on Wednesday night itself. And with predictions of protesters, we can’t just leave our frail little author out to fend for herself. The optics are very bad for that.”

  She looks at me. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to postpone your Thanksgiving travel plans,” she says. “You need to be with her. You’ve traveled with her before, and you know how to keep her in line. Rumor has it she’s been known to get a little tipsy at times.”

  Ah yes. Once she tipsied herself into an endcap of books and gave herself a concussion. Another time she fell out of the backseat of the car when her driver opened the door she was leaning upon.

  “But wait,” Adam is saying. “This seems insane. Are people seriously going to go to a bookstore reading for a children’s author when they’re supposed to be making their turkey dinner? I bet we could talk those bookstores into canceling. There’s hardly anybody who’s going to show up for this.”

  Darla looks at him and narrows her eyes. “Adam, would you like to rethink what you just said, in light of what our responsibility is to our authors?” she says.

  He looks down; he probably would rather not.

  “You know what?” she says in her deepest no-nonsense voice. “Phronsie is going to need your help with the tour. I’ll need you both to escort Gabora to her events and keep her out of trouble and see that she’s protected.”

  I look over at Adam, who has settled back in his seat and is tapping a pen against his thumb. So much for extra days off for him.

  And for me, too. Even if by some miracle, I’m able to leave for New Hampshire after her reading on Wednesday night, I’ll still miss my favorite part of our family Thanksgiving celebration, which takes place in the few days beforehand. In the ideal, perfect world of family traditions, Judd and I usually take the train home on Monday and then go to Hallowell House, where Bunny lives, and then I bring her home with me. Hendrix and his family come up, and we usually spend Tuesday and Wednesday working on the Thanksgiving dinner, doing chores, polishing the silver, playing games, and visiting. Hendrix and his kids drive the tractors—or at least they have in past years. There’s not much land left to drive tractors upon these days.

  But Gabora takes precedence. I know this.

  After the meeting, I go into full-throttle mode. Call the bookstores where she’s scheduled, hoping they’ve rethought things. But nope. They’re not backing down. They have people signed up to come see her. They want to show their love.

  “Are there going to be protests, though?” I ask.

  “Oh, who knows?” says one bookstore owner. “We’re just thrilled to have Gabora Pierce-Anton coming to our little indie bookstore. We can handle the rest.”

  So that’s that. I call Judd and tell him the news that I probably won’t make it to New Hampshire until Thanksgiving Day. He is crunching an apple while we talk, and he doesn’t seem all that concerned.

  “A
t least we can still get together at Tandy’s on Friday with all the peeps,” he says. “Oh, and guess what. I talked to a guy who comes into the gym, and he has a little wholesale jewelry business, so I’m meeting him there tomorrow night. I’m getting you a real ring. A metal one. I want you to have something to show everybody.”

  “Well,” I say. “Huh. That’s nice of you.”

  He laughs. “I just want you to have a pretty ring so that even though you’re marrying a guy out of friendship, you don’t have to suffer when the other ladies want to see your ring.”

  “Oh God,” I say. “You are so crazy.”

  “But wonderful crazy,” he says.

  “Well,” I say. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  Late in the afternoon, I call Maggie on the speaker phone and tell her about my work situation and how sad I am not to be there early in Thanksgiving week.

  Maggie says, “Well, but will Judd still come ahead of time?”

  “He’s planning on it. He said he’s buying me a ring so I can show it off to the other women.”

  “A ring! That’s great. Are you happy?”

  “I think I am. There are still a couple of little personal details to be worked out between him and me. You know.”

  “The fireworks?”

  I laugh. “Exactly. The fireworks, yes.”

  “Look, he’s a good, healthy, red-blooded man, so you’ll figure it out. And as I may have mentioned, I’m just so relieved that now we don’t have to worry about you dating serial killers.”