Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  “Likewise.”

  Apparently it is me.

  I follow, giving a last beseeching glance at Marva—surely she’ll want to chat further, ask about the baby, show some enthusiasm—but she’s already busied herself fitting together the pieces on a broken bowl.

  “That went well,” Padma says in wry tones when she and Will settle on my couch a minute later.

  I take a seat on the spare chair. It never ceases to be humiliating to host people in what is currently my home amid Marva’s squalor—and I’m struck again how badly Will must feel every time he has to bring anyone here.

  He cuts to the chase. “So what’s the big emergency?”

  I’d hoped to speak to Will alone, but Padma doesn’t look as if she plans to go anywhere soon. “It’s about your mother. It’s okay to tell this to the both of you?”

  “Nothing you could say about Marva would shock my wife,” Will says.

  I take a bracing breath. I’d thought earlier about how I might broach the subject, but all I concluded is that there’s no easy way to tell a man his mother is going to kill herself. “I found some information while going through Marva’s things that’s … disturbing.”

  “What, that she’s a pack rat?” Padma says.

  I smile to acknowledge the joke, then say, “She wrote some notes in a book.” I look at Will. “Does Grimm’s Fairy Tales have any significance for your mother?”

  “None that I’m aware of. Why?”

  “That’s the book she wrote in—I was surprised because it was such a rare edition, worth a fair amount of money.”

  “She probably couldn’t find a blank sheet of paper,” Will says without irony, and it occurs to me he’s probably right.

  There’s no use stalling, as much as I’m tempted, so I continue, “Her notes at first glance seemed random—some lists, to-do items, and so on. But it quickly became clear they were all on the same topic. Will, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I believe they were notes planning how and when to commit suicide.”

  I pause to let those words sink in. They must not have because Will’s expression remains impassive. Padma says, “Are you sure? Can you show us the book?”

  “She still has it. I couldn’t reveal I’d seen it, or, frankly, she’d fire me. I had no business looking at it, but it sort of happened by accident. Anyway, yes, I’m sure.” I go on to describe specifically what I’d seen. The more I talk, the more the color drains from Will’s face.

  When I get to the part about how she wants to make sure it’s not the housekeeper who finds her body, he stands abruptly. “Give me a minute,” he says, and walks out the door.

  “He needs to process it,” Padma says, looking worried. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Of course. You sure I can’t get you anything? Water?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So how far along are you?” I say, deciding to break the tension by switching to a happier topic.

  “Seven and a half months. I’m due June tenth.”

  “That’s so exciting. Your first?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  “We’ve decided to keep it a surprise.”

  I nod, although personally I couldn’t wait to find out my baby’s gender. Finding myself pregnant was enough of a surprise. “Do you have names picked out?”

  “Lullabelle if it’s a girl, and we haven’t decided on a boy’s name. We can’t seem to agree.”

  “There’s always William Junior.”

  She regards me carefully for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve offended her—if she considers it antifeminist to name her child a junior. Then she says, “Why are you telling Will about Marva? What are you hoping he’ll do? Stop her somehow?”

  “I felt he ought to know. And, yes, I am hoping he’ll want to do something about it. She’s his mother after all.”

  She makes a face that suggests she finds my last point debatable. “My husband would hate that I’m about to tell you this, but you should know what we’re dealing with here. The sort of mother Marva is. You see, Will’s given name isn’t William. That’s a name the nanny started calling him when he was a baby. The actual name on his birth certificate is spelled W-f-f-p-h-b-t-w-z-g. Your guess is as good as mine as how to pronounce it.”

  “I don’t understand …”

  “Marva thought it would be amusing to name her son—her only child—some sound no one can pronounce. She picked random letters. Thought she was so clever. But he’s the one who had to live with that name until he was legally old enough to change it on his own.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “That’s Marva. I told you earlier that I could only marry a man who treated his mother well. In my opinion, he does—more than she deserves.”

  “What about Will’s father?” I ask.

  “A brief fling with a waiter. Marva doesn’t even remember his name.” Padma shifts irritably on the couch. “Actually, I will take a glass of water. When you first get pregnant, everybody talks about morning sickness—nobody mentions the nonstop heartburn.”

  I get up to grab a water from my minifridge. “I’ll admit, I was shocked that she didn’t know you were pregnant. Why didn’t Will tell her?”

  “It’s hard enough on him dealing with clearing out this house. The less he has to talk to her, the better. Up until she called to ask for referrals when her basement flooded back in January, they hadn’t spoken in three years. Ever since she didn’t show up for the wedding.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s not like that was the first time she let him down. He’s used to it, just tired of it. It’s so sad, because when he was a boy, he worshipped her. She was so exciting, so beautiful, so larger-than-life. But I suppose that was the problem.”

  My mind flashes to Marva mentioning how Will didn’t want to go to fashion week and the way she’d spoken with scorn about his school and his sports—things that were important to him. That would have to wear a boy down. Ash certainly trailed after his absent parent’s approval. Even back when Billy and I were still married, he wasn’t interested in being a father. At least Ash had me. I constantly ran interference so his feelings wouldn’t get hurt when his dad pushed him away to watch football on TV or work on his car or any of the sort of activities fathers and sons often share. By the time Ash was older, he told me it didn’t matter that his dad didn’t want him around. “It’s boring at his house anyway,” he said, giving an indifferent shrug. “The new baby cries too much. My stepmom’s food is way too healthy—I mean, would it kill her to buy a potato chip?” That all translated to me as a boy who was protecting himself against the hurt of rejection, and I’m forced to recognize that perhaps Will is simply doing the same. Before I get a chance to ask Padma anything further, Will comes back in, plunking down next to her. He looks more weary than upset.

  She clasps his hand. “Honey, maybe there’s nothing to worry about. There’s always a chance we’re interpreting it wrong.”

  “We’re not,” he says. “She’s been getting her affairs in order. Working on her will. Ensuring that all she holds dear—her precious stuff—goes to good homes. I’d wondered what the rush was.”

  “Why would she do it?” Padma asks. “Why now?”

  They both look at me, as if the answer might be inscribed on my forehead. “Sorry, no clue. She doesn’t have much of a life, but that’s her own doing.” I hand Padma the bottle of water and sit back down. “There is one more thing I need to tell you. She wants to see Woman, Freshly Tossed once more before she dies. It’s at a private home just outside of Detroit. She’s scheduled a viewing on Friday, and she’s asked me to drive her there.”

  “Are you going to do it?” Will asks.

  “I think you should.”

  Padma attempts to cross her arms over her belly. “Wouldn’t it be better to not take her at all? If that’s something she wants to do before she dies, under the circumstances we should hardly be helping her accomplish it.”

&
nbsp; “She’ll just hire a driver,” I say. “She’s determined to go—so my thought is that her first big trip out of the house in years shouldn’t be alone. Will, if you’re with her, you can talk some sense into her.”

  He gives a mirthless chuckle.

  “It does seem rather unlikely,” Padma agrees. “But, still, I see Lucy’s point. Who else does Marva have? Who else could possibly have an influence on her? If I’m being honest, Will, I’m not at all scared your mother is going to kill herself. I’m scared for you—that you’ll never forgive yourself if she does and you didn’t try to stop her.”

  He rubs the back of his neck as we sit in quiet contemplation. The only sound is the gurgling of what at first I thought was water pipes but then realize is Padma’s stomach. Then Will gets to his feet. “All right, I’ll drive her there.” He extends an arm to his wife to hoist her from the couch. “Give me a minute to go deliver the joyous news. I’ll meet you out at the car.”

  “Poor Will,” Padma says after he leaves, more to herself than to me. “It’d be so much easier if he could hate her.”

  Although Will arrives promptly at eight o’clock Friday morning, he and Marva don’t make it out of the house until nearly nine. I’d been starting to wonder if this trip was going to happen at all. When Marva lit up her third “last cigarette for the road,” it was through gritted teeth that Will said if she’d prefer to stay home and smoke all day, she was welcome to. He had plenty of things he could be doing instead. At that, Marva snubbed out the cigarette and got up, muttering under her breath that if she were allowed to smoke in his fancy car, they wouldn’t be having this problem.

  They aren’t gone a minute before Daniel is at the door. “I thought they’d never leave,” he says when I let him in. “I was sitting in my car out front forever, bored out of my skull. It must suck to be a PI if that’s what they do all day long.”

  The reference to a private investigator makes me wince, reminding me of Larry Mackenlively’s call this morning to say he’s holding off the search for Ash. When I gurgled a helpless “You’re giving up?” he said, “Holding off, not giving up. Until we can narrow in on an area. Between the calls you made and my guy in Florida, we’ve got plenty of hooks out there. It’s only a matter now of which one gets a nibble.”

  I shove away a box of silk ribbons I’m earmarking for the yard sale. “We still have plenty of time,” I tell Daniel. “They’ll be gone at least ten hours.”

  “Did you get the book yet?” he asks in hushed tones, and his gaze shifts to where Niko is sealing a large box in the dining room. “You didn’t tell him about it, did you?”

  “About Marva’s notes? You can’t possibly believe I would do that,” I say, incredulous.

  “I wasn’t sure how close the two of you are.”

  Give me a break. “Just come help me look.” I spin on my heel to head to Marva’s bedroom. Passing Niko on the way, I say, “You can put that with the others outside.”

  “You got it.” He nods a hello to Daniel before hefting the box up onto his shoulder.

  When we get to Marva’s bedroom, Daniel shuts the door behind us. “Boy, he sure jumps when you give a command, doesn’t he.”

  “Are you going to be like that all day?”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind,” I say, crossing over to the bed. “Let’s just find the book, okay?”

  “That’s what I thought we were doing.”

  I tug open Marva’s nightstand drawer and am disappointed to find the book isn’t in there. We look around the area of the bed—under it, through the covers, behind the nightstand. I’m starting to get nervous we might have to expand our search when Daniel slides his hand between the mattress and box spring and—with a “Ta-da!”—emerges with Marva’s copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “I knew all those years of stashing my Playboys in that same spot wasn’t in vain. I feel sorry for kids today—there’s just not the same thrill in erasing your history on the Internet to hide your porn viewing.”

  He opens the book and sits on Marva’s bed, but I insist we leave the bedroom—I don’t want so much as a stray hair falling from my head to tip her off we’ve been in there since we have no reason to be. We walk out to the front porch, taking advantage of the unusually warm spring day.

  “If this indicates the inner workings of Marva’s mind, what a bizarre place it must be in there,” I say after we’ve looked at some of her notes. We’re seated on the bench, Daniel holding the book while I peer over from beside him.

  What we have managed to glean thus far: Marva wants to be cremated. She wants her ashes tossed from the Golden Gate Bridge, which I’m quite sure is illegal. (Perhaps among her notes we’ll find a list of shady funeral directors willing to perform such a task for the right fee.) Quite a few references are to someone named Filleppe—all written as if she’s talking directly to him. Oh, Filleppe, how clever of you to leave me to do the dirty work, and how typical.

  “You ever hear her mention this Filleppe guy?” Daniel asks.

  I shake my head.

  “He’s the only name mentioned here other than her son.”

  “And me,” I say, annoyed, pointing to another notation of how she’s concerned the blond girl might not be done on time. “I’ll have her know, if I’m not done on time, it’s through no fault of my own.”

  As I’m busy being defensive, Daniel starts flipping more quickly through the book.

  “Slow down,” I say, “she’s written on some of those pages.”

  “I’m skimming for dates. I want to know when she plans to do it.”

  After a few minutes, he finds it. Atop an illustration of Rapunzel’s hair, Marva has written a to-do list by date, backing up from …

  “May sixteenth,” Daniel says. “Her birthday, right?”

  “Yep. Happy birthday. Although it doesn’t specifically say that’s the day she plans to do it.”

  “But her checklist ends there—that’s a mighty big clue.”

  We’re still piecing together Marva’s plan—we’ve got when, but it’d be helpful to add how—when I hear a car pulling into the drive. Upon glancing up, my insides turn to ice. “It’s Will!” I gasp. “They’re back already!”

  Daniel, wide-eyed, turns to me and mouths, Fuck, and I barely have time to register the déjà vu before he’s slid the book up the back of his shirt and is backing into the house. “Stall them,” he says.

  I hurry over to greet Marva as she and Will get out of the car. “What happened?” I say it brightly—of course I am, as always, delighted to see her!

  “I should have known this wouldn’t work,” she says.

  Will snaps, “I have a GPS. You haven’t been out of the house in years. Which one of us do you think is best capable of getting us onto the Ninety-Four?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s faster if you bypass the expressway altogether.” She slams the car door using her cane and starts toward the house, only I’m in her path. “You care to move? You’re blocking me.”

  “I am?” I say, not moving.

  Marva shoots me an irritated look, then steps around and marches with such purpose that I fear for her knees—not to mention my own safety were I to dare to get in her way again. As an attempt to distract her, I call after her, “So, Marva, now how are you going to get there?”

  She ignores me, not slowing stride.

  In a panic—if she catches Daniel in her room, I may be joining her off the side of the Golden Gate Bridge—I blurt, “I’ll take you!”

  It works to make her stop, and she turns around, slowly, as if considering my offer—as if she hadn’t already asked me to do it.

  I prattle on about how I’ll get directions from Will, that I’ll need to fill up my car, and, hmm, it could use tidying, and I’m boring even myself with the pointless details but keep at it until I see Daniel walking casually up the drive from the back of the house. “Marva, what a pleasant surprise!” he says. “Just here helping Lucy—what a bonus this is!”

 
Her face softens. For a woman as bright as Marva is, she falls for his kissing up every time. Although it may be because he’s being sincere.

  I used to fall for it, too.

  “Lucy,” Marva says, “I would be delighted if you’d drive me. Thank you.”

  “It’s settled then,” Will says briskly, nearly diving headfirst back into his car. “I’ll be off. Good luck.”

  As Will turns over his engine, Daniel frowns in the direction of my Mustang, which is parked in front of the bungalow. “You’re taking her in that?” he says, as if I’m offering to ride her sidesaddle on my donkey.

  “Yes, I am. Marva happens to find my car quite snazzy, right, Marva?”

  “Not the word I would have chosen, but sure.”

  “When’s the last time you had it tuned up?” Daniel asks, then turns to Marva before I answer. “Never mind. Ladies, I’d be proud to be your chauffeur for the day. I’ll borrow my friend’s SUV—you’ll love it. What it lacks in gas efficiency, it makes up for in a vulgar display of comfort.” He pulls car keys from his pocket, secure in the knowledge that he’s made an offer nobody is going to refuse—not when our other choice is being squeezed into a tiny Mustang of questionable reliability. “Back in half an hour.”

  We’re almost to Detroit before anyone broaches the subject of Woman, Freshly Tossed. We’ve talked little on the drive. As soon as Marva directed Daniel to the freeway (which was rather grating, I have to side with Will on that one), Daniel cranked up classical music on the XM radio. To my relief, Rachmaninoff filled the space of conversation so I could settle back and spend my time fretting instead of talking. For the past four hours, I’ve bounced between wondering about how on earth we’re going to convince Marva not to go through with her plan and what I’ll do if Ash calls needing me urgently while I’m on the road. I’m moving forward on autopilot. Otherwise I’d crumple into a ball and cry. Motion—no matter what the direction—at least keeps me occupied and provides the illusion that I’m doing something.

  We pass signs for the town of Ann Arbor, prompting Marva to remark, “Home of the University of Michigan. They used to have a marvelous art fair every year—I believe they still do.” Then suddenly she blurts, “Take this exit!”