Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  “Looks perfectly respectable, doesn’t it?” Will says as we get out of our cars and walk toward the porch.

  “It’s nice. Is this the only property?”

  He snorts a laugh. “This is it. My mother would never invest in anything as bourgeois as real estate. She inherited this from my grandparents.”

  “Did you grow up in this house?”

  “I grew up in a lot of places.” He pulls out his phone, punches in a number, and says, “We’re here. I’ll give her the tour.” A look of annoyance crosses his face. “Let’s see if she runs screaming before we get into all that.”

  My stomach does a flip. That doesn’t sound promising.

  Will starts to unlock the front door, then turns to me. “I feel I ought to say something to prepare you for this.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen messy places before. I have a teenager.”

  “The mess. Right. Yes, it’s bad. I meant more to prepare you for meeting my mother.”

  Okay, now I’m definitely nervous. “I’m sure she’ll like me.”

  “No, she won’t. But she doesn’t need to. She only needs to be willing to tolerate you.”

  “She won’t like me? Why won’t she like me?”

  The question was meant to be rhetorical (I mean, everybody likes me!), but Will gives me a slow once-over. “You’re too …” I can tell he’s searching for the right words to express my inadequacy. I’m tempted to supply some—just toss out a few random adjectives—but I find myself intrigued to see what he might come up with on his own. “You look like you used to be a cheerleader,” he says finally. “You know, too blond. Too girl-next-door. Your clothes color-coordinate. I guess that’s what it is.”

  I cross my arms, the ones warmly covered by the brand-new on-sale J.Crew sweater set I splurged on for this interview (because it went so well with my favorite pants). “I wasn’t a cheerleader.”

  “Forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “I happened to have been in the National Honor Society, thank you very much. Yearbook editor. Student government.”

  “It’s just …” He lets out a sigh, then does that thing that my ex-husband used to do, squeezing the bridge of his nose to collect himself. “Marva would like nothing better than to hire someone exactly like Marva, only that person could never get the job done. I am moderately confident that you can.” Another sigh. “I am so sick of dealing with this. The only reason I got involved in the first place is because I don’t trust her to be discreet if she handled the process herself. The last thing I need is for the media to get hold of this and start reporting on how the great Marva Meier Rios is living in squalor. It would turn into a circus.”

  I pause to consider what he’s said. “That would be bad.”

  “Exactly. I’ve got a business and a reputation to think about. In this crap economy, I don’t need that kind of negative publicity working against me.”

  Ah, your reputation. “I see. Got it.”

  “All right. Let’s do this.” Will pushes open the door and we step inside.

  I’m braced for what I might see, but what hits me before anything else is the smell. Although that’s probably because it’s so dark that relying on my sense of sight is pointless. The smell isn’t horrible. We’re not talking rotting corpses or anything. It smells … dense. As if I need to breathe in deeper to get enough air. I wonder how long it’s been since anyone’s drawn the drapes and thrown open the windows.

  As my eyes adjust to the light, or the lack thereof, I see what I’m about to be up against. I swallow from the shock of it. How does the woman move around in here? We’re standing in what I assume is the living room, but I’m basing this only on the room’s proximity to the main entrance, not on any furniture I can identify. It’s probably there somewhere—a couch and love seat, maybe a coffee table—beneath mountainous piles of bags and books and vases and papers and knickknacks and framed art and sculptures and boxes and who knows what else. It’s impossible to take it all in, much less categorize.

  “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound as shocked as I feel. “This is … um … not that … um … okay.”

  Will merely replies, “This is the living room. Through that way is the kitchen and dining area. Let me show you the upstairs first.”

  There are stairs? Right in front of me, as it turns out, and I couldn’t see them. We pick our way along a twisty path. I wonder if Marva left this path or if it’s been previously cleared with a machete by her son.

  “Bedroom … bedroom … bath …” He rattles off the names of the rooms, barely giving me enough time to peek into each one. Doesn’t matter. Every room is much the same. I can’t see the beds in the bedrooms. Or a toilet or bathtub in the bathroom. It’s as if I’m walking through a storage facility—everything is mishmashed together with no sense of order or purpose, other than to cram it in to the rafters.

  I stall to get a better look at the last of the rooms. Like the others, it’s a floor-to-ceiling jumble of boxes and trash bags, mixed in with loose objects of every size and type. There are silk pillows, religious artifacts, what appears to be a sculpture constructed of bicycle parts, a disco ball, lamps, baskets, suitcases, a guitar, frames, a ceramic duck with a giant crack in it, and stacks upon stacks of loose paper—enough to fill a dozen filing cabinets if they were filed, which of course they aren’t. I get the impression that Marva started out with proper intentions. I see plastic bins with lids and labels—as if at one point she decided to organize. Then I imagine how she needed to find something—could be anything, a photo, a pair of scissors. She did a bit of rifling, things got shifted, boxes were opened … moved … toppled … and next thing you know, it looked as if people had ransacked the place. Only instead of stealing, they brought in even more stuff.

  “So there are four bedrooms and a bath and a half up here,” Will says. “There are another two bedrooms downstairs that are much larger. One is where my mother sleeps, and the other she uses as an office.”

  I nod, trying not to let my slipping confidence show. The more I see, the more I worry about working for Marva Meier Rios. My only real experience as a professional organizer was writing the book—and that was advice for managing ordinary clutter, such as messy closets and overstuffed cupboards. Being here in her home, I realize I’m out of my depth in more ways than one. Because Marva doesn’t need an organizing expert—she needs therapy. Seriously. It’s not normal to have so many things. That she’s been willing to squeeze herself into a tiny space so her belongings can take over makes me wonder how hard it will be to get her to let go now. I mean, she has a box of doll heads! What could she possibly be saving them for? And why would she have them in the first place?

  We make our way back downstairs, through a dining area. Or at least that’s what room Will tells me it is. “Now around this corner here is the kitchen. …”

  I steel myself. The kitchen. Surely it’s going to be crammed with congealing food and trash and, I shudder, possibly bugs and rats and … “Hey!” I say, not hiding the surprise from my voice as we walk in. “This room isn’t so bad.” Granted, stuff is piled up on the countertop, and the kitchen table is buried beneath clutter—but the mess is nothing like I’d feared. The stovetop is covered with stacks of magazines, and costume jewelry dangles from the ceiling rack where pots and pans would normally hang. “Guess she doesn’t do much cooking, huh?”

  “There’s a part-time housekeeper. She brings in my mother’s meals. Special diet. So you ready?”

  I’m busy imagining what a housekeeper could possibly do in here—if you dusted the place, it’d create a sandstorm—and then I realize Will is asking me if I’m ready to meet Marva. “Sure,” I say, and turn to head down the last hall before I can lose my nerve, but Will doesn’t move.

  Instead, he pulls out his phone again. All he says into it is “We’re out here.”

  After he hangs up, I say, “I won’t be seeing the last few rooms?”

  “You can see from h
ere the mudroom that leads to the backyard, and there’s a laundry area through there.” He points to a door off the kitchen. “All that’s left is a bedroom and a bathroom. An office. Bungalow out back. More of the same.”

  With that, I hear a door slam, followed by the sound of steps, and a thumping noise. Grumbling … words like “damn knees … taking forever …” More steps, more thumping.

  I straighten, ready to meet Marva—then remember how cheerleaders are known for their posture, so I go for more of an attentive slouch.

  Will leans close. “She’s going to try to intimidate you. Grill you down. It’s how she operates. Don’t let her or it’s over.”

  Marva Meier Rios emerges from around a corner, leaning heavily on a cane. As soon as I see her, I feel like a fool for having imagined her elderly and frail—especially since I knew from my research she’s only in her midsixties. In her heyday, she was quite the striking brunette. Now the hair is peppered with gray and tugged into a careless bun, and the once-smooth olive skin carries some wrinkles and sags a bit, but she has the sort of strong bone structure that defies time. While not much taller than my five feet four inches, her air is imposing. She’s wearing a brightly colored cape that on anyone else would look like a superhero costume but on her seems regal, and her black eyeliner and red lipstick are expertly applied. The crazy-lady appearance of the house does not extend to the woman herself.

  Will does the introductions—I notice he calls his mother Marva. Weird … I can’t imagine Ash calling me by my first name. Then again, when the drugs were talking, he called me lots of things.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” I say.

  “Lisa is it?” she says.

  “Lucy.”

  Irritation flickers across her face. “Luuuuuucy,” she says, and draws it out to make it clear how inconvenient it is for her to shape her mouth into the u sound. “Tell me. Are you easily offended?”

  I barely pause to wonder why she’d ask such a question before I think, With what I’ve been through in the past year? Is she kidding? I almost have to laugh.

  “I prefer to think I’m easily amused.”

  Marva stares at me without expression. I swallow over the dry lump that’s formed in my throat. I’ve blown it. Why did I have to be glib? I couldn’t have simply said, No, I’m not? I want to explain to her that’s what I do when I’m on edge. I crack stupid jokes. Please don’t take it seriously. Please understand that I need this job, even if I am entirely unqualified for it—even if I’m only a laid-off PR writer and hack author parading herself as an organizational guru. Give me this chance and I swear I’ll—

  Marva turns away, and the thump of the cane makes it clear she’s going to leave.

  I’m still silently pleading when Marva says, “Fine.” She flicks a hand dismissively toward Will. “I suppose this one will do as well as any other.”

  chapter two

  When you hold on to everything in case you might someday love it/want it/need it, you block the path to what is truly valuable to you.

  —Things Are Not People

  It’s 2:00 a.m., and I’m lying here while Abigail digs her feet rhythmically into my side. For a four-year-old, she can really go at it with force. She’s managed to wriggle herself so she’s lying horizontally on the bed, wedging me into the crevasse between the bed and the wall. Rather than attempt to push her away, I climb over her to the mattress on the floor, where her mother—my friend Heather—tucked her in earlier. Won’t do me much good. Abigail is a pixie-haired, green-eyed heat-seeking missile. She’ll find me again.

  Ah, well. It’s not as if I’m going to be able to sleep anyway. I’m too busy worrying.

  I’d feel better about my first day on the job if I had an idea of what to expect. I want there to be a lady from HR, greeting me with an employee packet and a video on sexual harassment in the workplace. Seems instead I’m on my own.

  Will and I did talk awhile after Marva left as he walked me to my car. Although at first, all he could do was utter variations on “I don’t get it. Why you?”

  It went on long enough that I felt compelled to ask if he had a problem with me.

  “You’re fine. But she didn’t even talk to you. As far as she knows, you could be a serial killer.”

  “Or perhaps,” I pointed out, speaking slowly, “she trusts that her son wouldn’t bring someone inappropriate into her home.”

  He stared absently toward the house. “No, that’s not it.”

  Whatever. I’m to report to work at ten o’clock, although I’m free to arrange different hours with Marva. I can use the bungalow outside as an office. I don’t have to do physical labor; there’s hired muscle for that. Will’s already hired an art expert, whom I’m to coordinate with to take any valuable art and high-end items to auction. The rest—the majority—is either trash or for a yard sale. Anything that doesn’t sell will go to charity.

  “Your mother certainly has a nice, big yard for a sale!” I said. “And this neighborhood will draw in the customers. People love—”

  “You will not conduct the sale here,” Will snapped, as if I’d proposed running live nudie shows on the roof. “Do I need to explain the importance of discretion? I’ve rented a storage unit. Anything to sell is to be transported there. You will oversee the estate sale there, at the facility, when the job is complete.”

  Boy, somebody got himself worked up mighty quickly. “Sounds like a plan!” I said, eager to prove he hired the right woman for the job.

  “Naturally, you can’t get rid of a single thing here without my mother approving it.”

  “Nothing?” I’d already mentally been wielding an ax and smashing that ugly, cracked duck statue upstairs to smithereens.

  “Nothing. I may have hired you, but she’s the one paying your salary. And she decides where each and every item goes.”

  “You don’t mean what’s obviously trash.”

  “I mean everything.”

  I picked up a crumpled potato chip bag. “This.”

  “Yes, that.”

  The objects in the house seemed to suddenly glow and dance and mock me. I’m no math whiz, but even I can figure out it’s going to be impossible to personally handle all of what’s in Marva’s house in the span of time available to me. I have less than eight weeks—fifty-two days to be exact, and some of those are weekend days when I won’t be working. It seemed doable when I thought I’d merely be pointing to entire piles and telling the work crew, “All this goes.” But piece by piece by piece … multiplied by a bazillion? The paperwork alone! I’m screwed. Her house is huge. Even my dinky two-bedroom house took some time to dismantle after I sold it.

  My house.

  Siiiiiiigh.

  It’s been a week since I packed up the last few things and drove away—seven days of playing musical beds with Abigail and being an awkward add-on to Heather’s perfect family until I get back on my feet. (And I’m not exaggerating about the wonderfulness of her family. Her husband, Hank, is the poster husband for a nice guy. Their son DJ’s only fault is being close in age to Ash, so every time I see him do normal high school things, it’s a stab in the gut.)

  To think a year or two ago I had what appeared to be a good life. A house, a job, and a son—things that at least let me pretend it all wasn’t falling apart. I also had a boyfriend, Daniel, whom I was wild about and who I thought loved me back. That was, until he dumped me … and for a reason that hurt more than anything I could have foreseen. I’d rather it have been another woman than what it was.

  Now all I have left is a closet-size storage unit and what I’ve brought with me here, which isn’t much. Clothes, sundries … the bare essentials. The one precious item I’ve kept is a photo of Ash, which I keep tucked in my wallet. It’s his senior portrait. He’d had the flu the day it was taken, although now I wonder if he wasn’t sick at all but hungover. Still, I love it. Ash is giving his usual smirk … the smile that tips more on the left side. His blond hair is falling into his eyes the way it
always does. He has a slight sunburn across his nose. For the split second that the photographer clicked the shutter, Ash looks like any high school student with his whole future ahead of him.

  I roll over onto my stomach, determined to get some sleep. Maybe I’m fretting over nothing. Will told me his mother is ready to do this. She might need prompting—a hand to hold hers and lead it ever so gently to release whatever’s clutched in it—but I can do that.

  I’m sure it won’t be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  Marva is sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette when I pull up. I’m hyperaware of the rattling of my car’s engine. It’s long overdue for a tune-up, but I’m afraid to take it in because they’re going to tell me what else is wrong with it. I drive a classic cherry-red 1971 Ford Mustang convertible that I’ve had for twelve years—although the top is broken so it’s technically not a convertible anymore. As cars go, it’s not “me,” but that’s exactly why I bought it. It was my “F-you, Billy” purchase after my divorce, once my money was my own and I could afford to flip him off with the car he’d always coveted. I was surprised to find how much I actually grew to love it—the feeling of driving a car so sexy. Even when running errands around town, the Mustang suddenly made me feel as if I weren’t the mom with her hair shoved back in a ponytail but, rather, the girl who dared wear black fishnets to the wedding. It brought out a side in me I didn’t know was there. That’s why, when I’m financially flush again, I plan to restore my car to its former glory. Put the top down and ride off into my shiny new life.

  But I get ahead of myself.

  “Morning!” I call out cheerily as I climb from the car. Marva is wearing a fuchsia print caftan and lots of bangly jewelry. Her legs are crossed, and I can see she’s in flip-flops, though it can’t be more than fifty degrees out. I grab the carry bag of organizational supplies I brought and head up to the porch. “Looks like it’s trying real hard to be sunny out today.”

  She takes a drag on her cigarette and gives a noncommittal nod.