The Objects of Her Affection

by Sonya Cobb

  “But that’s just it. I’m the worst mother in the goddamned world.”

  “No, you’re not. I don’t know why you would say that.”

  “Trust me,” she said, even though she knew that was the last thing he should be doing. “I am.”

  Seventeen

  Brian scheduled the carpenter, then Sophie called and unscheduled him, saying she was too busy with a big project, and needed quiet in the house. She called the cable company to cancel their subscription, then put some of her computer equipment on eBay. She reduced their car insurance to the legal minimum and switched to a credit card with a low introductory rate. It felt like bailing out a boat with a thimble, but at least she was doing something.

  Brian wanted her to come see the Saint-Porchaire. Sophie wanted to do nothing of the kind, but at the same time, she felt the need—now more than ever—to show Brian that she cared, that she was proud of him, that everything was normal. How she longed for everything to be normal! To be able to show up at her husband’s office without feeling a complicated flood of emotion…to enjoy his company without debilitating attacks of guilt, resentment, and fear. She was ready to do anything to make things normal again—even if it meant things had to get worse before they got better. Even if it meant things might get worse and never get better. Anything was better than this.

  When she arrived at the museum she found Brian’s office crowded with curators who had come to get a look at the candlestick. Brian was presiding over the large crate like a proud new father; seeing Sophie hovering at the doorway, he smiled and beckoned her in. The crate sat on a table in the middle of the room; Sophie squeezed between a curator of Prints and Drawings and a curator of Textiles to peer inside. The box was lined with dense foam that had been cut to the exact shape of the candlestick; two pieces of foam had been lifted away from the top, and a thin sheet of foam swaddling had been peeled back to reveal the candlestick nestled in its cavity.

  Brian was using a pen to point to the intricate patterns that decorated the surface of the piece. “These here were stamped onto the clay, then the impressions were filled with colored paste. The stamps were used over and over, so we can relate this piece to a particular group made at the same time. Then these”—he pointed to an elaborate pattern of angular woven designs encircling the base—“what we call eternal knots—were drawn on the clay first, using a template, then scored and filled.”

  The photograph Sophie had seen earlier had not revealed the most delicate decorations, which were so perfect they seemed machine-made. The three-dimensional ornaments which sprang from the richly patterned surface—garlands, mermaids, cherubs, and the like—were just as finely wrought. The cherubs, perched on a small ledge, casually fingered tiny painted gold necklaces; on the pale green garlands, she could see every vein of every leaf. It was outrageous showmanship and meticulous artistry all at once.

  “You know, we have a leather bookbinding with almost the same exact pattern stamped on it,” said the woman from Prints and Drawings. “It came from—”

  “Anne de Montmorency,” Brian interrupted. “I’ve seen it.”

  “We can’t have it on permanent display, but maybe we can talk about a mini exhibition? Maybe throw in a piece of armor? I know Carlos has a great breastplate with this amazing damascening, all arabesque patterns. It would be so cool.” She clasped her heavily ringed hands together.

  Brian gave her a stiff smile. “Interesting,” he said, before resuming his monologue about decorative techniques.

  Sophie’s mind turned to the woman in Strasbourg who was probably, at this moment, gloating over the fifteen thousand euros the museum had just paid for her ex-husband’s ex-property. Brian had told Sophie the candlestick was worth well over a million dollars on the open market. She wondered how much Harry was planning to pay her for it.

  Harry. He was stuck in her head like a bad jingle. She was so sick of him and his silly game with the tazza, and the way he spoke to her these days, with that snide, condescending tone. Now, standing in the presence of this monument to Renaissance wealth and spectacle, she felt a slight shift in the arrangement of the universe around her. The candlestick had power. Perhaps it could even make Harry disappear, along with her financial woes, her insomnia, and the sudden, inexplicable urge to destroy her house.

  “What’s Conservation planning to do with it?” she asked Brian.

  “Nothing more than a careful cleaning. It’s in great condition. I’m just waiting for them to get done with everything for that American Art show. I’m next on their list.”

  The Textiles curator snorted. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Sophie measured the candlestick with her eyes. The base was a wide saucer, about five inches across; the entire piece about a foot long. It looked exceedingly fragile, with so many delicate protrusions. She could imagine how easily one of them could be snapped off if the candlestick were removed from its foam cradle. Harry really was crazy.

  Sophie picked up the foam pieces that were lying on the table and held them together to see the perfectly carved candlestick-shaped hole. How had they managed to create the exact shape like that? she wondered. Lasers?

  One by one, the curators congratulated Brian and filed out. Brian carefully replaced the foam padding over the candlestick, closed the crate, locked it in the metal cabinet next to his desk, and dropped the keys into his top right desk drawer. Sophie almost laughed out loud. That’s it? she wanted to say. That’s the extent of museum security around one of the most important acquisitions in years? A work of art so valuable, it could pay off her entire house? Granted, she was the only person who knew it was in that cabinet. And she knew where the key was, too.

  She gave Brian a quick kiss, said good-bye, and hurried home to call Harry.

  ***

  “You’re mad,” was his response when she told him how much she wanted up front.

  “Cash,” she reminded him. “And I’ll need a little time. There’s a family event at the museum in two weeks; I need to go with the stroller and the diaper bag. Try to be patient.”

  “Sod off.”

  “It’s gorgeous, Harry. I wish I could send you a picture of it. It’s been sitting in a box for more than a century. You don’t find them in that kind of condition, if you find them at all.”

  “May I remind you—”

  “Of what? Of how scared I’m supposed to be of you and your insatiable client? Listen, Harry. I just went and saw this thing, and it occurred to me: You have to have it, and I am the only one who can get it for you. I know where it is, and I can get in there during the party. I even know where the keys are. Don’t miss out because you’re too tightfisted.”

  “What’s this all about, Sophie? A week ago you wouldn’t give me the time of day, and now you’re going all Thomas Crown on me?”

  Sophie sighed loudly. “I’ve been under some…financial pressure. Which just became much more intense. Okay?”

  “And how do I know you’re not going to lose all of your motivation after you’ve got the money?”

  “Then feel free to point the FBI to the location of the supposed tazza in my supposed house. Anyway, I need my entire cut. I’m not going to quit halfway.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Look, Harry.” Sophie paused, collecting her thoughts. “When I was there today, seeing that amazing piece just sitting there, I don’t know. I realized I’ve been missing that feeling I get. When I’m taking something…it’s the only time I feel completely awake. I mean, I know you can’t relate, but having kids, you just empty yourself out. It all goes into them. And that’s beautiful, and that’s how it should be, but I’m not that good of a person. Every now and then I want something that’s all mine. Something that makes me feel alive. You know?”

  Harry groaned. “Just…come up here tomorrow. I’ll have your cash.”

  “I’ve got the kids tomorrow. You’ll have to bring it
to me.”

  ***

  The train was packed, but Sophie refused to take the large cardboard box off of the seat next to her. She leaned her head back and pretended to be asleep, her hand resting on the box. She could almost smell the annoyance of each harried traveler who paused at her row, but she didn’t care. It was an amateur packing job—nothing like the museum’s custom-made crate with its perfectly carved foam lining. She wasn’t about to leave it to the vagaries of the overhead rack.

  She struggled to keep her eyes closed and her breathing slow. When was the train going to leave? She wanted to be there, now. She’d waited long enough. Harry, too, had been far from patient during the last two weeks. In fact he’d been downright obnoxious, calling every other day, wheedling and threatening and making life unbearable. Sophie had employed the only technique she knew for appeasing a child who must wait an unspecified amount of time: distraction. She entertained him with stories about Carly and her new boyfriend, a podiatrist with a foot fetish who, thankfully, had nothing to do with Sophie. She fed him rumors and intrigue about museum trustees. She tried telling cute stories about her kids, which did not interest him, and actually put him in a bad mood, setting off another round of threats and curses.

  It was exhausting, the constant tap dancing, but eventually Harry loosened up and began to enjoy their chats, just like the old days. And now that she was finally bringing him what he wanted, he’d promised to take her back to the tavern near his shop, to celebrate with martinis. She could almost taste the briny gin that would briefly numb the inside of her top lip before sliding down her throat. She wanted to be there now.

  The train started, then stopped again; there were announcements about a delay. Sophie’s stomach clenched. She pulled out her phone and selected the preprogrammed number. “The train’s a little delayed,” she said. “Wait for me. I’ll come straight to the pub.”

  She pulled a notebook from her purse and tried to distract herself by working on her museum database. Brian had been complaining about the lack of coordination between Conservation and Art Handling; she had some ideas for a workflow that would be triggered by a cleaning schedule established for each object. She was pretty sure she could integrate the system with the museum’s calendar and set it up to send reminders to the appropriate departments when a conservation project was about to be launched.

  Before long the train got going, and the landscape began to flow by her window. Sophie scribbled faster, ideas flooding her brain. She was eager to start creating some wireframes and sample pages. She decided to get to work on them as soon as she got home.

  Finally, the train pulled into Penn Station and disgorged its impatient cargo. New York was hot; the late August air was swollen with bad smells. Every sewer grate and subway vent was leaking hot, musty fumes, and taxi exhaust hung listlessly in the air. Sophie hit redial on her phone and said, “I’m here. I’ll be at the pub in five minutes.”

  The restaurant, fortunately, was aggressively air-conditioned; Sophie plunged gratefully into the chill, scanning the room for Harry’s red hair. She spotted him in a booth and hurried over, apologizing.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I started without you. I’m sure you’ll catch up, right, love?”

  Sophie slid into the booth and set the box down next to her. “How’ve you been, Harry? It’s good to see you.” She wondered how many drinks he’d already had; he seemed more slumped than usual.

  “Jeffrey moved out.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “Enh. Fuck ’im.” He leaned his cheek on his hand, pushing up the skin so it bunched unattractively around his eye.

  “Will this cheer you up?” Sophie asked, pointing to the box.

  “Possibly. Hand it over here.”

  Sophie passed the box across the table, and Harry put it on the bench between himself and the wall. He peeled off the tape that was holding the box closed.

  “Don’t pull it out,” Sophie warned.

  “I’m not an idiot,” he muttered, pushing aside the crumpled newspaper and Styrofoam peanuts that were packed around the candlestick. He paused while the waitress delivered Sophie’s drink, then resumed foraging in the box while Sophie took her first bracing gulps.

  “It’s hard to see,” he complained. “Did you have to use peanuts? I abhor these things.” He tried shaking one off his hand; it jumped onto his suit jacket.

  “Just try to be gentle,” Sophie said. “You snap off one of those doodads, it’s worthless.”

  “You think I don’t know that.”

  “I thought you’d be in a better mood,” said Sophie. “I just stole you a rare sixteenth-century candlestick worth a million dollars.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, turning back to his drink. “I’m forgetting my manners. Thank you, Sophie, brilliant burglaress, for saving my ass.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope this makes you happier than the snuffbox and the Irish setter.”

  “You can be sure of that,” said Harry. “There’s a bag of cash for you under the table. Promise me you’ll put it to good use. Like some new clothes. That blouse you’re wearing—is that actually rayon?”

  “Wow. No wonder Jeffrey moved out. Why so grumpy, Harry? Does this have something to do with your mysterious client?”

  “No.”

  “What’s his deal, anyway? Why does he have such a grip on you?”

  Harry ignored this. He ordered another drink and launched into a detailed account of his breakup with Jeffrey, which included not just the specific insults he and Jeffrey had lobbed at each other, but the ones he’d come up with since then, and which he had started compiling in a devastating email that he considered his personal Manhattan Project.

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said. “Maybe you should move on. You’re very dateable, you know. You’ll find someone soon.”

  “I’m a nightmare to date. I’m very emotionally needy.”

  Sophie laughed, then stopped when she realized he wasn’t joking.

  “It’s true. I’m a mess. Fucked-up childhood. My dad—God. I shouldn’t say this, but he’s such a—never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Always on my back. I cannot take a piss without him telling me I’m doing it wrong. Nothing will ever be good enough for him.”

  Sophie frowned. “Why do you always talk about him like he’s alive?”

  “Sorry. I just mean, my whole life. He never let up.”

  “I guess some fathers don’t know how else to show they care. I mean, at least he paid attention to you, right?”

  “I would have preferred a little less attention.”

  “Well, my parents basically ignored me growing up, and my mom has blown me off for the last fifteen years. I don’t know which is worse.”

  Harry leaned against the back of the booth, looking at her. “Did they pour silver polish over your head?”

  “No.”

  “Did they grab your belly fat and jiggle it for your friends’ amusement?”

  Sophie crossed her arms in front of her stomach.

  “Did they find hundreds of ways, on a daily basis, to express their grievous, excruciating disappointment in the way you turned out?”

  “Okay, no.”

  “I have not been neglected.” Harry cracked the knuckles of one hand, then the other. “Far from it.”

  Sophie felt the tips of her ears turn warm. Of course there were childhoods more miserable than her own. Of course her parents hadn’t abused her, hadn’t even hurt her, really. Harry had the decency not to say it, but the truth was, Sophie’s upbringing made a pretty shabby excuse for poor behavior.

  “Dammit, Harry,” Sophie said.

  “What.”

  “It’s just…” Sophie looked around the restaurant. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.” Harry waved his h
and. “My dad’s always had impossibly high standards. He’s always wanted me to be successful, like him.” He sat back in the booth and said robotically, as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, “He taught me everything I know, and I mustn’t forget that.”

  “I guess.” Sophie pulled an olive out of her glass, contemplated eating it, then dropped it back in. She thought about ordering another drink, then remembered she was supposed to keep her wits about her. “Well,” she said heavily, “on another note, we still have a piece of unfinished business.”

  “What’s that.”

  “The tazza.”

  Harry brightened. “Right! Did you find it?”

  “It never was in my house, was it?”

  “Nah. I gave it to my client. He loved it.” He laughed ruefully. “Sorry, love.”

  “Shithead.” She pulled the olive back out and ate it. “So who is he, anyway?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on. I’m dying to know. Who’s collecting all this stuff?”

  “I told you. It doesn’t matter. Why would you want to know that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m curious. Is he a celebrity? Is that why you’re so secretive about him?”

  “Trying to cut me out, my dear?”

  “Harry!”

  “Sorry. I’m not telling you. It’s for your own good, love.”

  Sophie saw the waitress coming toward them; two men stood up at different tables and walked in their direction.

  “Harry,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry about this. But trust me—if you tell them, they’ll make a deal. Okay?”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Just tell them who he is and they’ll work something out.”

  The waitress had her badge out, and so did the two diners, and then Agent Chandler and Agent Richardson walked out of the kitchen.

  “You bitch,” Harry said, not even looking at the badges being flourished like auction paddles. He just stared at Sophie, his lower jaw clicking back and forth under his cheeks, now gone bluish-white.