by Sonya Cobb
***
That night, Brian made a blanquette de veau while Sophie sat with a glass of wine and kept him company. She tried making banal conversation, but they were both too preoccupied and eventually fell into silence. Lucy sat at Sophie’s feet playing with her dolls. Snow White was driving her Polly Pocket kids around in a shoe box.
“Where’s the daddy?” asked Sophie.
“In Europe,” said Lucy. “Working.”
“Oh.”
“Come on, kids, let’s drive over here now. Oh, look who it is.” A plastic turtle waddled over to the car. “Hello, Cindy. Hello, Janey. I’m Mr. Turtle. So lovely to meet you.” Sophie’s eyes widened. Mr. Turtle had a British accent. “I like your dress.” Brian turned around.
“Lucy, where’d you learn that accent?” he asked. “It’s great!”
“One of the dads at school is British,” said Sophie.
Lucy ignored them. Mr. Turtle continued, “Now, Cindy and Janey, your mother and I are going to talk about some grown-up things, so just try to ignore us. On second thought, maybe we’ll just talk outside the car. That all right?” Snow White got out of the shoe box and hugged Mr. Turtle.
“Lucy,” Sophie said, “why don’t you help me set the table. Put your dolls away.”
“But Mommeeeee!”
Brian absently adjusted the apron that was tied over his work clothes. He frowned and turned back to his cooking.
***
Sophie was folding laundry in the living room when her doorbell rang the next afternoon. She peeked out the front window and saw a man and a woman in long coats standing on the front sidewalk. She groaned inwardly. Couldn’t they have called first? She was never prepared for the unannounced drop-in. There was always some kind of unseemly mess in the living room, and she was frequently braless. She scooped the stacks of bibs and socks off the couch, dumped them in the laundry basket, and opened the door, grateful to be wearing a heavy sweatshirt.
The man introduced himself as Agent Chandler, and his companion as Agent Richardson. “We’re with the FBI’s art crime team,” he said, showing her a badge. “Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” Sophie let them in and motioned toward the couch. Agent Chandler was lanky and middle-aged, with heavy folds between his nose and mouth, and eyelids that sliced off the upper curve of his eyes, giving him a doleful look. Agent Richardson was younger, with dark eyes, thick black hair, and assertive eyebrows. She wore an acrylic pantsuit and no makeup, and she was holding a stenography notebook. Sophie saw her notice the laundry basket.
Agent Chandler explained about the missing tazza, and Sophie nodded gravely. “Brian told me about that,” she said. The agent slid on a pair of reading glasses, then pulled a calendar out of his briefcase. He handed it to Sophie and asked what day she’d last been to the museum. He asked who had escorted her inside, how long she’d been in the department, what she’d done while she was there.
“Do you often bring lunch to your husband?”
“Not too often,” answered Sophie. “Technically, Brian’s not supposed to have food in his office.”
“But this time it was okay?”
“I thought it would be okay. I didn’t think the FBI would be asking me about it.” She snorted, but the two agents remained expressionless. “Brian told me not to do it again.”
“Tell us what happened after you had lunch.”
“Brian had to go talk to his boss, so I decided to just let myself out. I could tell he was having a crazy day, so…”
“What time did you leave?”
“I have no idea. Probably around…twelve forty-five? One o’clock? I can’t really remember.”
“Did you go anywhere else in the museum before exiting? To the bathroom, maybe?”
Sophie shook her head, pretending to give this question serious thought. “No…I just left.” She knew Tammy Brewer would say they had crossed paths around one o’clock. She also knew that, if asked, Brian’s colleagues would say she left their offices around twelve thirty. But half an hour of missing time could easily be explained away by poor memory, inattention to detail, a slow watch.
Agent Richardson consulted her notes and spoke for the first time. Her voice was low and impenetrable. “Mrs. Porter, the camera at the employee entrance shows you exiting the building at one oh three p.m. Your husband tells us you left his office around twelve thirty and that he looked for you shortly after, but you were nowhere to be found. Can you explain that?” Agent Richardson, Sophie observed, had a hairline that started halfway up her forehead. Sophie had always found this to be one of the ugliest possible traits for a woman.
“Brian has no concept of time,” she said. This was true. He rarely looked at his watch, and only knew it was time to leave at the end of the day when he saw his coworkers putting on their coats. “Tammy Brewer can tell you—she saw me leaving. She’ll probably tell you it was one o’clock.” It seemed like a good idea to appear helpful.
“We’re actually interested in what happened before you crossed paths with Mrs. Brewer,” Agent Chandler said conversationally. “Why don’t you tell us, in more detail this time, exactly what you did after your husband left you in his office.”
Sophie sat up straighter in her chair. If they wanted a story, fine, she would tell them a story. This was much simpler than the tales she concocted for the kids on a daily basis, persuading them, for example, that the car would break down if the passengers made too much noise, or that once a year a magical bunny distributed candy-filled eggs all over the world.
“All right, well, first I cleaned up what was left of our lunch. Then I exited Brian’s office into the hallway.”
“What did you bring the lunch in?”
“A cooler.”
“Did you take it with you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anyone in the hallway?”
“No. Everyone was in their offices.” Agent Richardson was writing something in her notebook, but Sophie couldn’t see what it was. “Then I went out the door at the end of the hallway—the end opposite the freight elevator. I went out the department door, walked down the steps, walked through the Tapestry balcony, then went down the big staircase.”
“Did you see anyone on the balcony?”
“No. But at the bottom of the stairs I ran into Tammy Brewer, and we chatted a minute.”
“Did you see Brian coming after you? Did you hear him calling?”
“No. I was probably already on my way out at that point.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I’m sure I didn’t see him or hear him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Go on.”
“After talking to Tammy, I went directly to the mail room area, I waved to the guard at the key desk, and left through the employee entrance.”
Agent Chandler pulled off his reading glasses and looked at Sophie for a moment, tapping them against his upper lip. Agent Richardson glanced at him, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. Porter. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
Agent Chandler handed her a card that read, “Agent James Chandler, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Art Crime Unit.”
“Call me if you think of anything else you want to tell us,” he said, just like on TV.
Sophie assured him that she would.
Fourteen
It snowed for a whole day and a whole night—big, downy flakes that accumulated in puffy mounds on every surface. Lucy and Elliot ran from window to window, laughing at the sight: a trash can wearing a tall white hat, a car with a hi-top fade. Schools were closed, but Brian pulled a pair of rain boots over his suit and hiked through the drifts to the museum.
After breakfast Sophie dug the kids’ snowsuits out of the third-floor closet and arranged them by the front door along with their gloves, hats, and boots. It was important, when the time came, to get the ge
ar on quickly; otherwise the kids would begin to heat up, which meant that while she was trying to thread each of Lucy’s fingers into a glove, Elliot would be pulling off his boots, and while she was retrieving his boots, Lucy would tear off her hat, and the whole operation would quickly devolve into an exercise in sweaty frustration.
This time, though, she managed to get them into their puffy, noisy outfits without any tears—on their part or hers. She snapped a quick picture to send to Brian, then released them into the snowy hush. The trees lining the street were bent into a glittering tunnel, each bowing branch thickly painted with white crystals. The street signs, the lampposts, the porch railings—every hard edge had turned vague and innocent. Lucy and Elliot shrieked with delight, throwing handfuls of snow into the air, their high-pitched voices sinking quickly into the cottony surroundings. Sophie showed them how to make snowballs, and soon they were all spattered with snow and breathless with laughter.
“Let’s make snow angels,” Sophie said, leading them into the middle of the street. The kids followed hesitantly, gazing around themselves with wonder, and she realized that even though they were within a few feet of their house, it was a place they’d never been. “No cars!” she said, throwing out her arms. “We’re safe!”
She lay on her back and showed them how to scissor their arms and legs to make angels. Elliot got stuck on his back, impeded by his Michelin Man outfit, but Lucy pulled him up and helped him draw a face on his angel. Sophie stayed on the ground, staring up at the branches laced across a bright blue sky. The cold was seeping through her nylon cocoon, but it felt clean and bright instead of damp and chilly. Suddenly, a dark shape eclipsed her view of the sky; it was a face, with glasses.
“Keith!” She sat up, brushing snow out of her hair. Keith, Amy, and Mathilda had glided up on cross-country skis, their faces glowing. Sophie stood up and marveled at Mathilda’s tiny skis; the kids showed off their angels; everyone exclaimed about the beautiful day. Then the little family glided off again, looking as weightless as a flock of birds. Watching them turn down Twenty-Second Street, Sophie decided, in a fit of good humor, that she would call Carly. As long as she was putting everything else right in the world.
First, though, she wanted to spend some time working on her newest project. The idea had come to her early one morning, when she was just waking up, her mind lazily rolling around in its sheets. The museum needed new database software. The system they were using wasn’t designed for museums, and it was so slow none of the curators ever bothered to make the transition from object cards. Sophie knew she could easily create something better; something more organized and efficient, that would centralize all of the information for each object and, eventually, render filing cabinets and card catalogs obsolete. She had time; she could work on it pro bono. Maybe someday she’d even be able to sell the system to other museums.
She brought Lucy and Elliot back inside, stripped off their snowsuits, sat them down to lunch, and mopped up the puddles of melted snow by the front door. Once the kids were warm, fed, and snoring under their blankets, Sophie retreated to her quiet office and began sketching out the database architecture. As she brainstormed functionalities and worked through the navigation structure, she found herself losing track of time. It seemed like years since she’d been able to unhook herself from the hands of the clock. Ever since going into labor with Lucy, when she and Brian had carefully written down the amount of time between each contraction, her life had been measured in rigorous increments of minutes and hours. Time between feedings. Duration of naps. Hours of babysitting. Now, slowly, time was regaining its elasticity, and Sophie’s mind was rediscovering the habits of work.
Her email chimed; there was a message from Brian. She opened it to find no words, only a photograph of a tall, fantastically decorated ceramic piece that looked more like a wedding cake than a candlestick. At its base, four lion heads surrounded a fluted urn, above which marched a succession of columns, balustrades, cherubs, garlands, plinths, shields, sphinxes, and mermaids. The entire assemblage, rendered in creamy porcelain, was crawling with arabesque patterns and flourishes in red, blue, and pale green. It appeared to be sitting on a Formica kitchen counter.
Sophie shook her head at the sight. Magnificent and absurd at the same time, the candlestick was the Renaissance equivalent of a big-budget Hollywood movie, with every possible special effect applied to a glossy surface of starlets and plot twists. Still, its shape was, as a whole, harmonious, and in a way reminded her of the intricate sculptures she’d seen in the museum’s Indian Art galleries.
“Congratulations,” she said when Brian picked up his phone.
“Can you believe it? Sandrine’s great-grandson’s ex-wife has it in her apartment in Strasbourg.”
“All those college French classes finally paid off.”
“Oh, man. It’s too bad no one came in to work today. I can’t wait to see Ted’s face.”
“Does she know what she has?”
“Who knows. Her email says nobody in the family ever really liked it; it spent years packed in a crate. She said she got it in the divorce because her husband took the pressure cooker.” He laughed. “So no, I guess she doesn’t know. Although she’s probably down at the local antique shop right now, having it appraised. So, ticktock.”
Sophie knew this meant that Brian would have to fly back to France, verify the authenticity, take dozens of photographs, then return to Philadelphia to convene his committee, present his case, and campaign for purchase funds. He would overnight packages to trustees at their Wyoming ranches and Palm Beach villas, fax letters to their assistants, and gently try to provoke a competition for the right to put one’s name on this momentous, collection-defining purchase. She knew he wanted to act fast, before a dealer caught a whiff of something entering the market, or the Met or the Getty heard a rumor and sent their curators scurrying to Strasbourg. The big museums had purchase funds that could be used to snap something up quickly; Brian needed to raise his own money, and that took time.
“Send me a copy of your travel itinerary,” she said, before hanging up and turning back to her sketches.
***
On the day she and Carly had agreed to meet, Sophie got to the café too early and drank a double espresso, which compounded her jitters and gave her a sour stomach. She bought a bagel to try to soak up the caffeine and the acid, even though she’d sworn off carbs. She smeared it with too much cream cheese and ate it too fast, then berated herself for her lack of self control. Did women’s bodies have some kind of guilt-excreting gland that was activated by the digestive system? Could someone invent a drug to turn it on before the food was ingested—when it would actually be useful?
When Carly walked in, twenty minutes late, Sophie saw her eyes go to her midriff, where she’d arranged her spring jacket.
“I got fat,” Sophie said, looking up into Carly’s blond stratosphere. Carly’s tense face released a smile, and she sank down on the couch.
“You look great,” she said.
“No, I don’t. Thanks. Sorry.”
“I’m happy to see you,” Carly said shyly. “It’s been weird.”
“I know.” Sophie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you like that.”
“Forget about it.” Carly waved her long hand. “Water under the bridge.”
Sophie waited a moment, as Carly pulled off her jacket and set her bag on the floor. She considered prompting Carly, maybe reminding her that she’d done something that hurt Sophie’s feelings, but the prospect of rehashing the whole argument was exhausting. She tried to remember what, exactly, Carly had thrown in her face that long ago day. Something about control issues. Maybe she did need to loosen up; learn to accept people the way they were. Learn to enjoy the refuge of friendship, no matter how flawed.
Carly settled back into the couch and raised her eyebrows at Sophie. “So...how’s work?”
Soph
ie wanted a cappuccino. “I think I’m going to get a cappuccino.”
“Seriously,” Carly said. “I know the Whirlygig thing didn’t work out. Are you working on something else?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Sophie drew in her breath. “If you really want to know, I haven’t worked since we first moved into the house.”
“What?”
“Everything just dried up. And after a while I kind of stopped trying.” She looked down at her hands, then gave Carly a wry smile. “See? I’m sharing.”
“But what are you doing for money?”
“You know. We cut back on a lot of stuff.”
Carly sat back and stared at Sophie. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, the whole Web 2.0 thing kind of happened without me. I had poorly timed babies.”
“God, why didn’t you say anything?” Carly plunged into her crocodile-size crocodile purse and pulled out her BlackBerry. She thumbed the keys. “I know of at least two projects I could bring you in on. Really straightforward. One’s just a refresh for a law firm, the design’s already done. The other is adding e-commerce to this beverage company’s corporate site. I already told them I don’t have the bandwidth; they’d be so happy if I brought you in. Here; I’m emailing you the briefs.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You don’t have to—”
“Hey!” Carly pointed a finger at her. “Let. Me. Help.”
“Jesus.”
“What else is going on?”
Sophie looked over the back of the couch toward the coffee counter. There was a line. “Well…”
“What.”
“Uuuuuhhhh.” Sophie rubbed her face with her hands. “I can’t—I haven’t told anybody this.”
“Spit it out.”
“Okay. All right. So, there’s kind of a situation with our mortgage.” She did her best to keep the story compact, but digressions kept springing loose: the absurd reliance on fax machines, the phone calls to nowhere, the grammatically tortured letters. Talking about it brought her frustration back to the surface, and seeing Carly’s shocked face made her want to hide her head under her jacket.
