The Magic of Found Objects

by Maddie Dawson

  “Really,” I say.

  “Yes.” He looks fairly certain. “You want to?”

  “Yeah. I do want to.”

  “You’re really sure?”

  “For God’s sake, yes, I’m sure. Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am.” He licks his lips again. “Hey, this has got to stop being awkward between us. Just because it’s never been what we do, we’ve got to get beyond this point where it’s weird. So to do that—we just have to make it happen. Like, often.”

  “I like the idea of often.”

  “Yeah. Regular sex is very good for people. Studies show that—”

  I lean across the table and put my fingers on his lips. “Judd. No. No studies.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m just . . .” He slaps his hands down on the table. “You know why this is weird?”

  “Because you aren’t really attracted to me?”

  “No.” His face changes, and he reaches over to touch my arm. “No! Phronsie! Is that what you think? It’s not that at all. Not even a little bit.”

  “Well . . . you don’t seem like somebody who wants to make love all that much. And I don’t look like the girls you’ve dated—”

  “Please,” he says. “Could we agree never, ever to mention the girls I’ve dated?”

  “Well?”

  “The truth is that I’m scared. Because you’re my best friend. You’re Hendrix’s sister. And for my whole life I’ve worried that our relationship would go downhill if we . . . had sex. So I kept it out of my mind consciously. And I kind of can’t get beyond thinking that, even though it’s ridiculous.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, I guess that’s better than you not being attracted to me.”

  “All right,” he says. He gives me a fist bump and jumps up, and I watch him go to the cash register and pay the bill, joking with Alphonse longer than necessary, and then I gather my purse and sweater, and we walk to my apartment, hand in hand, ducking our heads in the late November wind.

  My bed is filled with clothes from this morning’s fiasco, when I tried to find something decent to wear. It’s been a while since I’ve done laundry. Mr. Swanky is trotting along beside us, confused a little bit. He sits down at the door, whines. It’s like he needs to point out that we’re supposed to go into the living room, sit down on the couch, watch some Netflix. Also, we forgot the popcorn. Mr. Swanky loves the popcorn.

  “Mr. Swanky thinks we’ve made a wrong turn,” I say.

  “Well, we didn’t,” Judd says. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. And then he takes it off. He has a beautiful body. Perhaps I’ve mentioned that. He cares how he looks. I shyly admire his muscles, which I haven’t really given much thought to. I’m guilty of thinking of him only platonically. You know. Before now. He undoes the tie on his sweatpants and steps out of them.

  “I guess I should get undressed, too,” I say.

  “Or I could help.”

  “I’d like that.”

  It’s weird. He comes to where I’m standing and starts unbuttoning my shirt and then, once he’s taken it off, I reach around and undo the clasp on my bra.

  Then he helps tug down my jeans, and I step out of them and then we’re standing there in my bedroom in our underwear. I go over to the lamp to turn it off, because it’s unbearable, this underwear business. I’m not wearing my best pair by any stretch of the imagination. It was so much easier the other night, in the dark, when he was already in bed.

  It strikes me that when two people are in love, sex starts at an entirely different place—a sudden moment of being swept away. At least in my experience. That’s how it was with Steve Hanover. Our eyes would meet, and then he’d be striding across the room, giving me The Look, and then in a matter of seconds, we’d be naked and clinging to each other.

  And with Adam . . . oh God. We didn’t even have sex, and yet even the air was electric.

  Judd pulls down the bedspread and we get under the covers.

  He says, “I like your pillows, but I thought maybe I’d bring one of mine over. You know, if I’m going to start sleeping here sometimes.”

  I stroke his chest tentatively. “Everybody in the world likes their own pillow.”

  “I was thinking I’d bring my second-best pillow because some nights I’ll probably still sleep in my own apartment—you know . . .”

  “Sure. Whatever pillow you want to bring.”

  He reaches over and touches me softly. Circling my breast. I take a deep breath. He closes his eyes, so I close mine, too.

  He laughs a little bit. “Is this weird?”

  “Well, a little. But we have to stop overthinking it.”

  “Right,” he says. “Okay.”

  It’s . . . nice. His touch. I see Adam’s face rising up before me, and I remember how he said he didn’t think I loved Judd. And then I’m back on the dance floor with his hand on my back and his nose in my hair, and my train of thought goes off the rails.

  Paging Phronsie Linnelle! The present moment wants to have a word with you. Please return to your body as soon as possible.

  I return my attention and find that Judd is making love to me. Kissing my collarbone. Sliding his hand along my waist. He knows what he is doing. All I have to do is let go and allow everything to work the way it’s supposed to. All the parts, just like a normal couple. No awkwardness. We can do this.

  I can do it, but I can’t make myself open my eyes while I’m loving on him. He is good at sex, I’ll give him that. He knows all the right spots to touch and for how long, and he smells good, and he cares about my pleasure. It’s . . . good. Very good, even.

  Afterward, he jumps up out of bed and starts putting on his clothes.

  “What are you doing?” I say.

  “I dunno. Just thought I’d take Mr. Swanky out for a pee. Don’t you usually take him out about now?”

  “Judd,” I say. “Sit down on the bed. Swanks is fine. Let’s hang out and talk.”

  “Okay,” he says. He sits down next to me and smiles down at me in the covers. I snuggle down in the blankets.

  “That was nice having our moms together planning the wedding,” I say after a moment.

  “Yeah. I never saw my mom like that,” he says. “She and Maggie acted like they’d been born for this.”

  “True.”

  “I had to keep coming in from the man cave area just because I could hear them chattering and laughing. Very baffling and sweet.”

  He looks down at his hands. The conversation has run down.

  “Why don’t you lie back down next to me?” I say.

  He does. We both lie on our backs, looking at the ceiling.

  “Okay, now you have to come up with a topic,” I say. “Now that we’re done with talking about our moms.”

  “Um, okay.” He makes a show of thinking. “How about . . . the people who were the most surprised at our news?” He goes off on a long story about Tom O’Halloran dropping his beer on the floor when he heard. “Then he did a riff about the ol’ ball and chain,” Judd says, “which was totally inappropriate, and I told him so.”

  “Oh, but you know who seemed really surprised?” I say. I get up on one elbow and smile at him. “Karla Kristensen.”

  He colors just slightly and runs his hands through his hair. “Yeah, that was a little strange.” He swallows. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “First of all, we’ve agreed we’re not going to do the whole jealousy thing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s not our shtick.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, she, like, came onto me.”

  “Oh my God. That’s hilarious! Wow. She’s still just the same, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I’m sorry—but those boobs, Judd! The way she pokes them out at every opportunity. I think they have their own zip code. At the very least, they should be registered with the state.” I flop back down on the pillow.

 
“It’s pretty . . . pathetic. What she does.”

  “Oh.” I punch him in the arm. “Uh-huh, buster. For a minute there I thought you were going to stop at, ‘it’s pretty.’ The word pathetic was a long time coming in that sentence.”

  He laughs. “Well. For once, this time, I saw what was going on. I’m onto her now.”

  “So . . . um . . . what did you guys exactly do? Was there any . . . um . . . contact for old time’s sake?”

  He hesitates a beat too long. “Well, there was one kiss,” he says.

  “Are you kidding me?” I sit back up and look at him. “That woman is incorrigible where you’re concerned! Was it . . . a big one?”

  “Oh, it was a big one all right.” He gives me a sly smile. “Some of her best work, actually. But I wasn’t having it.”

  “Well,” I say. “Full disclosure here: I kissed a guy in Charleston. And, also, just to be honest, a big one.”

  He makes his eyes bug out and then rubs them with the heels of his hands. “Get outta here! You kissed a guy in Charleston? No shit! A random stranger, was it then? Or was this just more online dating—number forty-five happening to be a Southern gentleman?”

  “No. It was a guy I know. From my office.”

  “And . . . this guy from your office . . . is this a serious affiliation you two have?”

  “No,” I say quickly, too quickly. “In fact, he’s no longer even working with me. That was it. A moment in time.”

  “Huh. Well, this is pretty interesting stuff.” After a moment, he puts his hands behind his head, looking very satisfied with himself, and adds, “You know, case in point here. Not many couples could have a conversation like this one. Right? But it’s fine because it’s us. Right? Is this okay with you?”

  “This conversation? Or the kissing we did?”

  “The kissing we did and the conversation.”

  “Yeah. I am. It’s fine.”

  “Me too,” he says. Then he adds, “It’s a gray area, admittedly. Not a lot of people would understand.”

  “Totally. Also, we’re not going to do this anymore, though, like once we’re married, right?” I say. “We agreed that there would be no cheating, and now that we’ve both kissed other people, I just wonder if that falls into any kind of . . . danger zone or anything. I mean, for later.”

  “Well, are you going to kiss him anymore? Because I’m not going to kiss Karla anymore. That’s for sure,” he says.

  “No, I’m not. So this doesn’t change anything. We still have a no-cheating-once-we’re-married pact.”

  “Doesn’t change a thing,” he says. “Not in the least. Hey, we’re very evolved, I think. We were just putting some things to rest.”

  “Totally.”

  Mr. Swanky gets up on the bed, sensing that things have subsided enough that a dog would be welcome and perhaps even necessary. Judd idly scratches him behind the ears. “This is one of those times then? Where Mr. Swanky gets to sleep on the bed?”

  “Oh, are you staying?”

  “I thought I would. After I take him out. Why don’t you come with me, and we can stroll around and see what’s what in the neighborhood?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  And we do. Because now we are officially an Engaged-Couple-Living-Together-Taking-the-Dog-Out-After-Making-Love. That’s the kind of people we are.

  “I guess it makes sense that when we’re married, we’ll live in your apartment if that’s okay,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say. “I do have that extra bedroom. For the baby’s room.”

  We’re silent, and I feel as though those words alone—the baby’s room—have propelled us somehow into the next stage of our relationship.

  “We can sublet my place, or I can let it go. Whatever you decide is best,” he’s saying, and walking along the sidewalk, listening to the sirens in the distance and seeing the garbage cans blowing about near the curb, I think that this is what life is going to be like: nice, civilized conversations with decisions getting made in such an organized, orderly way.

  He says, “I was thinking I’d make a spreadsheet of all the stuff we have to do between now and the summer. You know, figure out whose health insurance we’ll keep, and whose landlord to contact. Figure out what the deal is with life insurance, and of course, getting a marriage license.”

  “Spreadsheets!” I say, and he grins. I have made him so happy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “I have to tell you something,” says Tenaj on the phone.

  This is the fifth time she’s called me since I’ve been back home. Apparently, since Charleston, I am taking her calls. I have to admit that it’s kind of fun to talk to her. Especially since I don’t feel like I’m twisting some invisible knife into Maggie anymore just by talking to my mom.

  “Oooh. Tell me everything,” I say. I’m taking Mr. Swanky for a walk, which means that I am mostly watching him inspect and rate the sidewalk detritus. Today’s offerings, judging from the slow pace of our walk, are more intriguing than usual.

  “Well,” she says, and I can hear her suck in her breath, “yesterday I was walking, and I passed a construction site, and the light was red, so I stood there for a minute, and then I saw that all the men were kind of hanging out, like they were on a break. Some had hard hats on, and some were just lounging around, drinking from thermoses. I made eye contact with a few of them. One man lifted his hand like a wave, and there was something in his eyes. Well, it was love in his eyes. Not specifically for me. But love is a way of seeing the world, and sometimes you can see that in a person in just one instant, you know. And—well, I just got inspired to do this crazy thing. I had a book with me of Pablo Neruda’s poems, and I took it out, and I went over to the fence and I started reading them poems out loud.”

  “You did?”

  “I did. Through the chain-link fence. I read the one that says something about loving you as dark things are supposed to be loved. Do you know that one?”

  “I don’t.” Mr. Swanky and I have stopped walking, waiting for the light. The dark thing in my heart maybe has sat up and is listening. The light changes at the corner, and I have to move again, nudged along by the New York people rushing forward. “What did they do?”

  “Well, they did exactly what you’d think. Some of them listened. One man applauded, and then a few others did, too. The man with the love in his eyes smiled at me. His eyes said he needed to hear that. Some of them just finished their lunch in silence. And went back to work. We’d had a moment, though. That was for sure. It was the kind of thing that makes you know you’re awake.”

  “As dark things are supposed to be loved,” I say slowly.

  “Yes,” she says. “Wake up, wake up! Just connect. That’s what I came away with.” And she laughs, that same old tinkling sound from my childhood.

  Mostly that’s what these calls are like.

  She always tells me something about her life. Like how she reads poetry to construction workers. And then we say good-bye.

  Maggie says, “When you come for Christmas, maybe we could look at wedding dresses.”

  I laugh. “In Pemberton. New Hampshire? Wedding dresses? Really, Maggie? You do know that New York City has a couple of thousand dresses probably right on my block.”

  “Come on. Don’t be such a snob. Lena’s Bridal Barn has some nice ones in the window. Or we could go to New London. I just thought we could get an idea—”

  “No, of course we could. God knows when the last time was that I was in a bridal barn.”

  “Oh, stop!” she says, but she laughs. “I suppose you’re going to want to make this more complicated, aren’t you?”

  “I’m just saying . . . Lena’s may not be able to compete with New York.”

  “Oh. Well, sure. If you think you need to look at hundreds of them.”

  I get it then. Maggie simply wants to participate. So I shift gears, the way the new me is trying to do lately. “Hey, listen!” I say. “After Christmas, maybe during the winter break, yo
u could come to New York, and stay with me, and we could shop together. Maybe see a show or something. Have tea at the Plaza. Do wedding-y things.”

  “But your father—”

  “No, no. This would be billed as a wedding preparation trip. Just you and me.” I hesitate for a moment, wanting to ask her whether or not he’s agreed to go to therapy. But not daring to. In case the answer is no. I’m so scared he won’t ever go, and then what?

  “We’ll have fun,” I say.

  “I . . . I . . .” There’s the longest of pauses, followed by a ragged breath. And I realize she’s crying. Maggie, the strong, stalwart one, the person in my life who could face down any amount of rejection and grief and punishing looks I sent her way, is now crying.

  “Aw, are you okay?” I say.

  “It’s just that—you and I—this moment, coming now, after all these years. Do you know how much I’ve wanted—? Well, never mind. I’m not going to go there.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay, I’m fine now. Sorry. Yes, to answer your question, I will come. The February school vacation. Now you’re sure you wouldn’t just rather do this with your girlfriends? Because I would completely understand if that’s something you all do together, you know, for your weddings.”

  “No,” I say. “No! They’re all out of their minds. They’d have me all costumed up like Samantha in Sex and the City, if I wasn’t careful. It’s you I want.”

  And I do. I want to see Maggie happy, to see her dab her eyes with a handkerchief when she looks at me in my wedding gown, and I want our heads bent over little tea cakes at the Plaza, like I’ve seen mothers and daughters doing. I want to be mothered. Maybe—this would be unprecedented—but maybe we could link arms when we walk down Fifth Avenue, and I could tell her how nice she looks, and she could tell me that I need a haircut, which I do, and we would go into a salon and maybe we’d both get manicures and look at the movie magazines.

  This is what I’m signing on for: marriage and some collateral mothering. A quick nod to the Wedding Industrial Complex.

  “I guess it’s time I told you that a momentous thing is happening in my life,” I say to Tenaj one day. It’s a Saturday, two weeks from Christmas, and once again I’m taking Mr. Swanky for a walk. It’s cold outside, and the streets are filled up with people rushing around carrying sacks of presents. Normally I’d be honoring my Saturday morning writing hours, but I can’t seem to settle into it these days. Too much real life to think about, I guess.