Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  Without hesitating or asking why, Daniel veers across three lanes to rocket off the freeway while I cling to the door and watch my life flash before me (annoying, as I was hoping to never revisit this past year).

  “Take a left when you get to the light,” Marva says before turning around to me. “You’re in for a treat—the best corned beef outside of New York City.”

  Lunch meat? We risked my life for lunch meat? With the GPS chirping warnings that we are now off course, Marva directs us to Zingerman’s, a funky brick deli and market in a quaint downtown area. It’s bustling even though it’s rather late in the day for lunch, and being in proximity of food reminds me that I’m actually quite peckish. We place our orders at the counter. I get a Reuben that turns out to be larger than my head, and we elbow our way to an open table.

  Once we’re settled, Marva takes a bite of her sandwich and then closes her eyes in apparent bliss as she chews. “Mmm, this constitutes my sodium intake for a month, and it is absolutely worth it,” she says. “I hope one of you knows CPR.”

  “We both do—took the training back when we used to work together,” Daniel says, and I’m slammed with the memory of how for weeks afterward, Daniel would tackle me anytime we were out of sight of others at the office and perform mouth-to-mouth, plus chest compressions if he was especially frisky. “So feel free to live it up,” he adds, smiling at Marva. “Have the pickle, too.”

  “I believe I will. You have no idea what it’s been like to subsist on such a restrictive diet,” she says grimly. “It’s not right. We’re hardwired as humans to desire food. Eating is meant to be a sensual experience. We’re supposed to taste and feel and experience what we’re eating, not ponder fat grams and carb content and sodium.”

  I picture her kitchen that’s so cluttered it’s a challenge to wash a dish, much less cook a meal. “It’s interesting to hear you say that. You’ve never struck me as a foodie.”

  “Not anymore. Oh, Mei-Hua does the best she can under the circumstances, and her food tastes adequate, but it’s soulless. I swear anytime I eat it I’m emptier afterward than I was before. Although I believe that very soon I may give her permission to go wild with the food. Ignore all the restrictions. See what she comes up with. I’ve experimented a bit in the kitchen in my day. Perhaps I’ll give it a go again, so long as I decide I can use all the butter and salt I want. As you said, Daniel, live it up.”

  “That’s great,” Daniel says. “Living is a good thing, don’t you agree, Lucy?”

  I get where he’s going with this—starting to plant the seeds with Marva that there are plenty of reasons to hang in there, but I’m not sure this is our moment. She’s willing to go off her diet because it doesn’t matter. As far as she’s concerned, these are her final days. I wouldn’t be surprised if on the way back to the car she proposes skydiving or a rousing game of Russian roulette. “I’d love to see you be able to cook,” I say, attempting a slightly different tack. “In fact, when we get back, the first thing we can do is focus on clearing out the stove area.”

  “You can’t ever let it go, can you,” she says.

  “What? I’m simply agreeing with you and saying that—”

  “That if I achieve the proper level of sparseness and scarcity, that I’ll be happy. Just as you are, is that right?”

  Ow. What did I do to deserve that? I’m still struck dumb when Daniel says, “Marva, you’re pretty darned lucky to have Lucy. She’s a hard worker, and she’s brilliant at organizing. If you want a kitchen you can cook in, believe me, our girl can hook you up. By the way”—he lifts his gigantic sandwich to his face so I can’t even see him anymore—“the food here is incredible. I may ask this pastrami to marry me. How do you know about this place?”

  With that, Marva launches into a story about the brief time she spent lecturing at U of M before she finally settled in Chicago. I sit quietly and only half pay attention, no longer miffed at Marva because I’m so awash in gratitude for what Daniel said. As much as he idolizes Marva, he risked irking her to defend me. While it’s no knight slaying a dragon, it feels nice to have someone have my back.

  We finish our meals—I ate until I was ready to burst and still didn’t make a real dent in my sandwich. Once we’re back on the freeway, instead of putting on music, Daniel says, “So, Marva, I’ll confess to an ulterior motive for offering to drive today.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Are you kidding? The chance to stand next to an artist of your caliber as she views her most famous work? This goes straight to the top of my list of exciting life events. I’d put it above losing my virginity.”

  She shakes her head, chuckling. “You might want to prepare yourself for a letdown.”

  “Nah, this is going to be great. Although that’s probably what I should have said to the girl I lost my virginity to.”

  I have to lean forward to join the conversation. This vehicle is so huge I’m in backseat Siberia. “How long has it been since you’ve seen Woman, Freshly Tossed?”

  “Let’s see. I sold it in the mideighties, so, what’s that then? My, a long time, isn’t it?”

  “It must have been hard to let go of it,” Daniel says, which isn’t saying much—this is a woman who can’t even part with an empty tissue box. “How’d you wind up selling it?”

  “Lucy here may find this difficult to believe, but there was a time I didn’t place much stock in what I owned. I didn’t sell the painting. Rather, I offered it in trade to a fellow by the name of Echo for a rather large amount of cocaine.”

  “You traded a million-dollar painting for drugs?” I say, not even trying to disguise my horror.

  “The painting wasn’t yet appraised anywhere near that high. I’d no idea its worth at the time, but I found myself strapped for cash. So a thing’s value becomes—let’s say—more malleable based on what else you find yourself needing. It was testimony to my growing notoriety that Echo would take merchandise at all. As a rule, he preferred cash. Insisted on it, in fact. But I was a loyal customer, and, truthfully, he got it for a song. Velvet paintings of dogs playing poker have sold for more.”

  I’m trying to read her expression. It must bother her that she let her greatest life’s work basically go up her nose, but Marva could play poker with those dogs and win every hand because she is inscrutable.

  Then something occurs to me. “You traded it for drugs. So … where exactly are we going now? We’re not going to a drug den, are we?” If I’m going to go charging into a building full of drug lords and ne’er-do-wells, it’s not going to be for Marva.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “According to Mackenlively, the painting has changed hands. As I recall, Echo ran his business out of Detroit. I’ve never been to Grosse Pointe, although I hear it’s lovely. Rather upscale. I’m assuming we’ll be treated to quite an impressive art collection today.”

  “Sounds great,” Daniel says. “Although it’s yours I’m dying to see. Lucy tells me you don’t want to buy it from them. Aren’t you at least kind of tempted to see it come home?”

  “Not one bit.”

  He glances sidelong at her. “I assumed, since you wanted to see it …”

  “I recognize that it is my most lauded work.”

  “You’re being modest,” I say, recalling my Internet research, where Marva is regarded as a pioneer of sorts. In the same way I could never understand why someone would be so impressed with a painting of a can of soup, I can’t say I see what’s so outstanding about a nude woman leaning against a bed, even if she is blue. Still, I’m here to inspire Marva, so I keep laying it on thick. “That painting set an entire style of art in motion. That’s no small achievement.”

  “That particular point is up for debate,” Marva says.

  Daniel shakes his head. “Not among people with any sense. Or any grasp of art history. It’s a shame how you don’t fully get credit for your contribution to neo-Expressionism.”

  “I don’t need credit.”

  Marva se
ems chatty enough that I dare to challenge her with the big question. “Marva, so why do you want to see it? Why now?”

  She gazes out the window. “Call it a sentimental journey, but don’t read too much into that. I’m not being reunited with a long-lost love. More like … oh … meeting a former coworker for a drink. Possibly pleasant, but more likely tedious.”

  “For you maybe,” Daniel says cheerfully, although I can tell by his expression he’s as bothered by what she’s saying as I am. She’s supposed to be eager. Ripe for suggestion. Ambivalence does not create fertile emotional soil for us to work with. “I have no doubt it will be a life-changing experience for me—and unlike my first life-changing experience, lasting longer than a minute and a half.”

  “Perhaps,” she says vaguely, and any attempts after that to get her to talk are politely rebuffed.

  It’s not quite five o’clock when we pull up to our destination, having grown increasingly perplexed the closer we got.

  Grosse Pointe is famous for its grand, sweeping mansions and waterfront property, so that’s what I expected to find. This, however, is a fifteen-hundred-or-so-square-foot ranch-style house, painted white with blue shutters. It’s not exactly the slums, but it is in no way remarkable. We pull in behind an older-model Ford Taurus that’s parked in the driveway.

  “Are you sure this is it?” Daniel asks.

  “This is the address Mackenlively gave me,” Marva says, squinting at the house.

  We amble up to the door, and Marva rings the doorbell. From inside, a woman calls out, “Hold on! Let me just …”

  As the door jiggles open, Marva turns to me. “By the way, I didn’t mention I’m here to see the painting. I said I was a reporter for House Beautiful magazine interested in featuring their interior decor. Go with it.”

  chapter fifteen

  Before I have a chance to ask Marva why she lied about the painting and whether she actually expects me to play along, the door swings open. In front of us stands a middle-aged woman with vibrant auburn curls swept into an updo with lots of makeup on. She’s wearing an apron over a sweater set and slacks.

  “You must be from the magazine,” she says. “I expected you earlier.”

  I pause to let Marva handle this—it is, after all, her big fat lie—but she’s too busy peeking past the woman into the house to say anything. Once again, it’s up to me to do her dirty work—as if I don’t get enough of that already. “Sorry we’re late,” I say.

  “It’s nearly five o’clock. You said you’d be here at two.”

  “Traffic was awful, but we’re excited to get started now!”

  “Gee, I don’t know. I’ve had to start dinner, and now the kitchen’s a mess. I can hardly let you put pictures of my dirty kitchen in your magazine, can I?” Her words come out in a rush. “Besides, I was hoping to get this done before Gil—my husband, Gil?—before he gets home from work. He’s due anytime.” She starts to push the door shut. “Maybe it’d be better if you came back on Monday.”

  Daniel blocks the door with his foot and says, “That’s a great idea. The light’s better earlier in the day. Monday it is.” I’m about to throttle him—there’s no way I’m schlepping back up here next week—when he adds, “But I’d like to see what we’re working with here. How about giving us the fifty-cent tour.”

  She looks skeptical. “How long is that gonna take? It’s just that Gil—my husband, Gil?—he likes his peace and quiet when he comes home.”

  “We’ll be fast,” I say.

  “Well … I …”

  “Just a quick buzz through the rooms,” Daniel adds.

  “You see, I didn’t exactly mention to Gil that—”

  Marva turns to go. “No problem. We’ll pick another house to feature in our magazine.”

  Daniel and I remain rooted, unsure of what to do. Marva nearly makes it to the SUV before the woman calls out, “Wait! Fine. Come on in.”

  “Delighted,” Marva says, then strides past us and into the house. As we follow, the woman introduces herself as Lynette. Although none of us offer names in return, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Welcome to my humble home!” Lynette says with a sweep of her arms.

  We’re standing in a foyer that’s wallpapered in a busy, faded floral. I glimpse a dining area and a family room beyond. So far as can be seen, the decor is middle-class Americana—not expensive, a bit dated, but clean and well cared for. Seeing it cements the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that there’s been a mistake: Mackenlively got it wrong. An edgy, stylistic painting such as Marva’s can’t possibly be in a house that has a bench in the foyer with needlepoint pillows bearing such slogans as BLESS THIS MESS and THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE AREN’T THINGS.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I was to get your call—I don’t even remember entering that contest! So is one of you the gal I talked to?”

  This would be an ideal time for Marva to pipe in, but she’s already walking toward the dining room. She’s not even pretending to be concerned with Lynette, who has obviously gone to a fair amount of trouble for us today. It smells freshly Windexed in here, and there are telltale vacuuming tracks. Plus it’s doubtful she usually wears pearls while hanging around the house.

  “We’re only the crew,” I say, deciding that playing dumb under the circumstances will require the least stretching of my acting talents.

  Daniel, however, is fully embracing his role. He pulls out his phone and snaps Lynette’s photo.

  “Oh, don’t get me wearing this old thing,” she says, whipping off her apron as if it’s caught fire. “I thought you said no pictures today.”

  “These aren’t for print.” He fires off random shots—snapping a photo of the corner of the ceiling, the floor, the edge of a light fixture. “But since we’re not doing the shoot today, I’d at least like to get an idea of what’s here. Do some poking around. See all the rooms. Right down to the basement if need be.”

  “The basement?!” Lynette seems scandalized—although nice job on Daniel’s part planting the idea. If the painting is here, it’s quite possibly in storage.

  She bustles us through a living room and into a dining room. There was a time, I muse—while pretending to assess a tchotchke-filled china cabinet—I’d have called this house cluttered. Tromping through Marva’s mess day after day hasn’t merely altered my standards; it’s buried them alive. All I require now is a path and a less than 20 percent chance of something falling on me and causing a concussion and I’m happy.

  “So in this room,” Lynette says when we reach the kitchen, “I decided to go with a color scheme of peach. I wanted a food color, what with it being a kitchen and all.” Marva appears pained by Lynette’s nonstop chattering. Our hostess has rightfully identified Marva as the alpha in this group and has nearly been tripping over herself pointing out what to feature in our fake magazine profile. Although grating for Marva, it’s allowed Daniel and me to trail after to peek behind credenzas and in closets and under couches.

  At one point Daniel tugs open a door, and Lynette startles. “Goodness, that’s the pantry!”

  “Sorry … just making sure we see it all.” He gives her a look of a puppy trying to get itself adopted from the pound. “They give us such grief back at the office if we aren’t thorough in our research. Almost got fired once because I came back after scouting a location and I hadn’t gone up into the attic.”

  Lynette falls for it. “Then let’s not get you in trouble,” she says decidedly. “You help yourself to whatever it is you need to see. Although if we can keep the pace snappy, I’d appreciate it. Gil could be home anytime now.”

  “No problem. You two ladies lead the way,” Daniel says, nodding toward Marva. She’s passed right through a formal living room and is leaning her head into a den that’s sectioned off by glass double doors.

  Upon noticing where Marva is, Lynette trots after her. “That’s my husband’s den!” she calls out. “Can’t imagine there’s anything worth seeing there, it�
��s so plain.” She catches up and joins Marva in the room. “You know how men can be. You set so much as a pretty doily in their man caves and they get afraid they’ll have a mad urge to start sipping tea with their pinkies in the air.”

  As Lynette laments to a visibly strained Marva about how her husband makes fun of her decorating efforts—if he had his way, they’d have nothing but shelves made of lumber held up by cinder blocks—Daniel leans close to me. “You thinking the same thing I am?”

  “That if that woman keeps talking, Marva may not wait to see her painting before killing herself?”

  “She does look miserable. But, no, that’s not what I’m referring to.”

  “So what then?”

  “Do you think there’s a chance in hell that the painting is hanging anywhere in this house?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither. The way I figure it, if it’s in this place at all, our best bet is an attic or basement. So I say we divide and conquer. Keep Lynette busy with Marva in the main house and the yard. That will give you and me time to dig through storage in peace.” Without waiting for a response, he says in a loud voice, “Lynette, in the interest of time, how about you two tour the house—and please, hit on all the landscaping in the yard. We’re quite interested in foliage. I’ll check out the basement, and my buddy here”—he puts an arm around my shoulder—“she’ll look in the attic. That okay with you, Marva?”

  Marva nods—although I’m sure she’d rather swap places with one of us—and Lynette eagerly agrees. “That would save us some time. Although we don’t have an attic. And don’t you worry. I’ll sign something that says so that you can give to your boss.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Daniel replies. “And the basement is … ?”

  She directs us to a door near the back entrance. We click on the light and head down the stairs.

  “I feel awful,” Daniel says as soon as we’re out of earshot. “She’s going to be crushed when we don’t show up on Monday, and I’m just egging her on. I’m such a dick.”