Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  She studies me for a moment, then she claps her hands on her knees and hoists herself up. “It’s not of consequence. And I didn’t come out here to wax philosophical. I came to offer you the use of my private investigator.” She hands me a piece of paper with the name Larry Mackenlively and a phone number scrawled on it. “I figured you’d want to hunt down your son. You strike me as the type.”

  “Thanks, Marva, but I can’t afford a PI. Aren’t they expensive?”

  “He’s doing work for me—he can do a bit of poking around for you. Tell him I approved adding you to my retainer. I’ll consider it a business investment. After all, I’ve got a deadline to meet, and you won’t be of any benefit to me if you’re preoccupied fretting about your son.” Even with her glibness, there’s no missing Marva’s generosity.

  She turns to leave, but then stops. “Oh, what the hell.” She picks up the other shot she’d poured herself and slugs it back. “My liver is going to hate me in the morning.”

  I’m already reaching for my cell phone to call the PI. Ash has a five-hour head start—which is entirely my fault, I realize with a flush of guilt. If I hadn’t been finagling a date from Niko, I wouldn’t have ignored my phone when Dr. Paul called. “I hope you don’t mind that I won’t be coming in to work tomorrow,” I tell Marva.

  “You worked all weekend, of course it’s not a problem. Frankly, I was starting to wonder if you had any sort of social life at all.”

  “She does,” Daniel says, his voice flat. “I’d better get going, too. Mind if I walk you out, Marva?”

  “And they say chivalry is dead.” She turns her attention to me. “Mackenlively is excellent at what he does, but don’t worry if your son doesn’t turn up right away. He will when he’s ready. They always do.”

  “Not always,” I say, punching in the phone number. “That’s what scares me.”

  “My dear, I realize you’re going to do what you feel you need to do. But you’re constantly harping on me to let go. Perhaps it’s time you learn to do the same.”

  Ash is not some old, wobbly dresser that I’m hanging on to for no good reason, I want to say, but I’m feeling too indebted to Marva at the moment to argue. I let her words hang there, as if she—of all people—has anything of value to say about parenting.

  After she and Daniel go, I leave a message for the PI. I text Niko and cancel our date. Then I polish off the other shot, followed by the one Daniel left behind. While I’m at it, I pour another. My liver will probably hate me tomorrow, too, along with my head, but for now, I’m quite content to go numb.

  Larry Mackenlively strikes me as too large to be a PI—heavyset, over six feet tall, with a rugged, angular face and thick mustache. Awkwardly perched as he is on the tiny coffee-shop chair, I can’t imagine him on stakeout for hours at a time in a car, if that’s what they do. He pulls out a spiral notebook. “Let me get some info from you,” he says after we’ve exchanged pleasantries. “I’ve got a fellow nearby in the Tampa area who can do the footwork. Did you bring a picture?”

  I slide across the table my one photo of Ash.

  “Nice-looking kid,” he says, picking it up. “Any changes since this was taken? Haircuts? Tattoos? Scars?”

  “None that I know of.” I feel myself blanch as I take a sip of my coffee. My stomach is none too happy after last night’s liquor-fest. When Larry returned my call this morning at eight, I could barely get a “Hello” out as I dove for the phone. My mouth felt as if I’d swallowed the dust bunnies from beneath Marva’s bed. For the next fifteen minutes, I fill him in on Ash’s drug history, the intervention, and my conversations with Dr. Paul about Ash’s progress.

  Mackenlively leans back, and the chair whimpers beneath him. “So here’s the part where I get you to do my job for me. Where do you figure he went?”

  “I honestly don’t know. With eighty dollars on him, he didn’t go far.”

  “You’d be surprised. That could take him quite a ways on a bus. And if he’s got a thumb, he could have hitched a ride. Which is the problem. He could be anywhere, or he could be fifty yards away from the rehab having a burger at a McDonald’s.” The discouragement I’m feeling must show on my face because he pats my hand. “I’m not saying it’s going to be impossible to find him. Just pointing out the challenges. So tell me, is there any chance Ash is coming home?”

  I wince at the word since we don’t really have a home anymore. “I don’t know.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend here?”

  “No. Although …” I remember my conversation with Samantha at the bowling alley. “There is a girl here he wrote to while he was in rehab, but they only dated briefly, and that was a while ago.”

  “That could be important. Here’s the thing. I’ll have my guy check hospitals, jails, bus stations—the usual. He can interview businesses right around the area of the rehab. See if anyone remembers seeing your son. What would be ideal is if we can hone in on his location. Otherwise the area we’re searching is the entire United States of America. That’s a big net to cast.”

  Fighting tears, I stare outside the window at a harried mom wrestling her toddler into a stroller. “You’re not sounding hopeful.”

  “We’ll do what we can do. We could get lucky. It would help if you could put out feelers on your end. Call the ex-girlfriend and see if she’s heard from him. Call his friends. I’ll do what I can, but your contacts may prove more valuable than mine. There’s a very good chance Ash is going to get in touch with somebody. They usually do. To get money. For a place to stay. To buy him a bus ticket. Eighty dollars isn’t going to last long.”

  “Especially if he’s used it to buy drugs,” I say glumly.

  “That’s a possibility, but I’m a glass-half-full sort of person myself. So we’re going to proceed as if he’s simply a young man that you’d like to find. Does he have a Facebook account by chance? Maybe he’s logged on. Some of these kids are so dense, they post their whereabouts right there on their status.”

  “He won’t friend me.”

  He nods. “My daughter unfriended me. Apparently I commented on her wall too much.”

  As he scratches something in his steno pad, I make a mental note to ask Heather if she’ll have DJ check Ash’s Facebook page. Beyond that, I’m feeling utterly impotent. “This might sound crazy,” I say, “but what if I head down to Florida? Poke around myself.”

  “Not crazy, but if you’re asking my opinion, you’re better off staying here. Put his friends to work spying for you. Some won’t do it—that annoying way teenagers feel they have to protect one another—but his true friends will be concerned about him. Hey, your son might surprise you and contact you on his own.”

  “Doubtful,” I say, but I nonetheless feel for my phone in my pocket.

  “Stranger things have happened. If he calls, try to get him to tell you where he is. An address. At least a city. The best you can hope for is that he’ll ask for money. Whatever you do, don’t deposit it into an account. Buy him a plane ticket home, and book it yourself. That way you can meet him at the airport so he can’t wriggle away. Or if he wants money, say you’ll wire it. He’ll have to give you an address. Then call me right away.”

  “Then do I wire it?” Larry’s coaching is making me nervous, as if I were being asked to pose as a spy to draw secrets from the Russians.

  “No, but tell him that you are so he’ll stay put. That’ll give you time to—” He stops. “What do you plan to do once you locate your son?”

  I feel myself blinking at him. It’s a simple question, yet I don’t have the answer. “I just want to talk to him. First off, to see that he hasn’t done anything drastic. Tell him I love him, that I’m proud of his progress but that he needs to go back to rehab and finish up.”

  “Will they take him back?”

  “If they have an opening. They told me this morning they’ll try to hold it, but they can’t guarantee.”

  “So you’ll send him someplace else if they don’t?”

 
; “If I win the lottery. Otherwise, I don’t have the money to pay for a new one. The Willows was cash up front. Ash stayed long enough that we don’t get a refund, but not long enough to make it through recovery.”

  “Then let’s get to work finding your boy ASAP.”

  After that, Larry gives me my homework of contacting Ash’s friends—a clear case of be careful what you wish for. Although I’d desperately wanted a task to do, I was hoping for one with less humiliation. As we get up to leave, he says, “If you hear anything—even if it seems irrelevant—call me. That’s what I’m here for. Got it?”

  “Got it. By the way, Marva spoke very highly of you.”

  “Send her my regards. I’ve never met her. All our interaction has been by phone. Interesting lady, though.”

  “What are you doing for her that she has you on retainer? Must be a big job.”

  He winks. “Top secret. Real hush-hush.”

  “In other words, none of my business. Can you at least give me a hint? Who’s she having you locate? An old lover? The one who got away?”

  He gives me a mock scolding look. “If Marva wants you to know, she can tell you herself.”

  When I walk into Marva’s kitchen the next morning, she’s pulling a bowl of oatmeal from the microwave.

  “Any word from your son?” she asks.

  I’m touched—and a tad surprised—that she’d mention Ash. Of course, most people who know that your drug-addicted son has abandoned rehab and is wandering the countryside with no real plan would certainly ask, but this is Marva we’re talking about here.

  “None yet,” I say.

  Yesterday, I made as many phone calls as I could bear, starting with my brothers and my parents, then moving on to a handful of Ash’s old friends, including Samantha. Mercifully, Heather took on many of the calls—or, that is, she put DJ on the task. He checked Ash’s Facebook page—nothing new there—then put out the word among his friends to contact him if they heard any news. So far, zip, zero.

  “He’ll turn up,” Marva says, as if I’m fumbling through couch cushions for a lost TV remote. “Which reminds me, I need to borrow your car, if I may?”

  “My car? Why?”

  “I find myself in the unusual circumstance of being in need of one, and yet you may have noticed that’s one thing I haven’t hung on to. The damned car-rental agency I called was no help. They kept carrying on about how I need a valid driver’s license.”

  “Wait. You want to borrow my car, and you don’t have a license? They can impound it for that.”

  “Only if I were caught, which I wouldn’t be. I happen to be an excellent driver.”

  “Marva, as much as I’d like to help you out, I can’t loan you my car if you’re not legally able to drive it. Where do you need to go anyway?”

  She frowns. “It hardly matters if I can’t get there, now does it?”

  I silently curse the deal with the devil I made when I accepted the help of her private investigator. Hoping she won’t take me up on my offer, I say, “I’m wondering if it’s somewhere that I can take you.”

  “Hmm, that’s a thought. My knees have been bothering me. Ten hours behind the wheel could be taxing. Better to have someone else do the driving, although I was looking forward to hitting the open road solo.”

  Ten hours? The woman has barely left her house in years, and now she wants to go on a road trip? “I thought you meant close by. With all that’s happening with Ash, I shouldn’t be that far away … in case he calls and I need to be somewhere quickly.”

  “I’d pay you, of course,” she says, as if she didn’t hear what I said. “Chauffeuring is above and beyond your job description. Nelson could always do it, but the last time I asked him to run me on an errand, he got all worked up, saying he’s a nursing professional, not an errand boy. And to be honest, I doubt his ability to be discreet. This venture is hardly anything I’d want him to go blathering on about to others.”

  My curiosity piqued, I say, “Where is it exactly you need to go?”

  “Grosse Pointe. It’s in Michigan, outside of Detroit.”

  “I’m familiar. What’s in Grosse Pointe?”

  “I’m looking at Friday,” she says, ignoring yet again what I said. “Day after tomorrow. If we get an early start, we can be back by early evening.”

  “No.”

  The decisiveness of my response startles her into paying attention. “Pardon me?”

  “I’m not going to take an entire day to cart you to another state—especially at such a stressful time for me—when you can’t be up-front about where we’d be going and why.”

  Marva regards me, hand stroking her chin, as if I’m a painting she’s evaluating and not finding to be a great work of art, but a piece she’d at least consider hanging in an upstairs hallway. “It could be handy to have you in the loop, I suppose. You can’t imagine how irritating it’s been coordinating this on my own.”

  She continues unabashedly staring at me, so I sort cutlery as a distraction—Marva must have a dozen different sets, probably not one of them complete. After a moment, she says, “As you are aware, Larry Mackenlively has been doing investigative work for me.” I perk up immediately—am I about to hear about the love that got away—or whoever it is she’s been looking for? “I’d hired him to locate something I’d lost, something of value to me.” She takes a deep breath, and I realize she’s stalling. It’s the first time I’ve seen Marva visibly nervous—snarky, annoyed, bored, yes … but nervous? Never. “He recently located it. That’s what’s in Grosse Pointe. What he found. I’d like to go see it.”

  “What is it?”

  “A painting of mine. In particular, Woman, Freshly Tossed. It’s in the home of a private collector, and I’ve arranged for a viewing. And don’t start fussing at me—I’m not going to buy it and bring it back here. It’s not even for sale, so far as I’m aware. This is a bucket-list sort of thing. I want to see the painting one last time before I die.”

  Before I die. There it is.

  chapter fourteen

  That evening I’m moving boxes off the washing machine to use it—I’m tired of laundering my underwear in my sink—when Will walks in. He’s handsomely dressed in a tux, but he ruins the effect by wearing his usual sour expression. “What’s this crisis that’s so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

  Glancing around for Marva, I say, “I’d prefer to go out to the bungalow to talk.” Marva has been in and out of her office all day, and I don’t want her overhearing the conversation. While she didn’t actually admit earlier she was going to kill herself, it was close enough that I realize it’s not right to keep her plans entirely to myself. As her nearest relative, Will needs to be told—thus, I find myself with the unenviable task of being the one to do it.

  “Let’s keep it brief,” Will says, as we weave through the kitchen. “I’m on my way to a fund-raiser. You had my hopes up this place had burned to the ground.”

  A woman’s voice chides, “Will, that’s not funny,” and then I see a tall brunette walking in from the mudroom—very pretty, very pregnant.

  “I told you I’d only be a minute,” he says to her, but his voice doesn’t have the hard edge it always does with me. “Just wait in the car. Please.”

  “I’m not going to sit outside of my own mother-in-law’s home, like I’m not good enough to come inside.”

  “You know that’s not what it is.”

  “I don’t care what it is. I’m not waiting out there.” She finally takes notice of me. “Hi. Are you the one who’s clearing this place out?”

  “Yes, I’m Lucy.” I step forward to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Padma. Will’s wife.” She gazes around. “She here?”

  I assume the she refers to Marva. “In her office, I believe. You want me to get her for you?”

  “Yes, please,” she says, just as Will says no.

  He gives her a flinty look. “We don’t have time for this. We’re run
ning late.”

  “So we’ll miss a soggy Caesar salad. I can’t have a damned glass of wine anyway. I’m in no hurry.”

  I can almost see the battle being waged in Will’s brain like a movie projected on a screen as he resists his wife’s request. Eventually he acquiesces. “Fine, I’ll go get her.”

  After Will leaves, Padma starts poking around the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards. “It’s worse than I remember it. And you’ve already cleared a lot out, right?”

  “Right. When’s the last time you were here?”

  “Years. Will and I were still dating at the time … so at least four. Even then I had to beg him to let me meet her. He kept stalling, but I insisted. I mean, how can you be sure you love a man if you don’t know how he treats his mother? That’s the measure.”

  If that’s her criterion, I’m curious why on earth she married Will, but he’s walking in with Marva so there’s no time to ask even if I could. Marva is complaining to Will about how he needs to find her a new gardener. The current one’s leaf blower is too loud—can’t he find one that uses a rake, for Christ’s sake?

  Padma straightens, jutting out her chin. “Hello, Marva.”

  Marva stops short, surprise registering on her face. After a moment, she says, “I see congratulations are in order.”

  I’m dumbfounded. She didn’t know Will’s wife is pregnant? They live only fifteen miles away! Marva and Will talk all the time!

  “Thank you,” Padma says. “We’re very excited.”

  Will takes his wife’s elbow and says to Marva, “We stopped by to check on the progress while we were in the neighborhood. Lucy, you wanted to show us the bungalow?”

  That’s it? He went to get Marva for a three-second exchange? Is it me, I wonder, or does anyone else in the room find it strange that Will never mentioned to his own mother that his wife is about to birth a baby? Marva’s grandchild.

  I hesitate, figuring that there’ll be more, but Padma—for all her bravado before Marva arrived—is already heading for the back door. “Nice seeing you, Marva,” she says, all cool politeness.