Objects of My Affection

by Jill Smolinski

  “I know.”

  He pauses, hand on the railing. “You think I’m a dick?”

  Unfortunately, no—things would be so much easier if I did. “I mean I feel sorry for her, too. Which is annoying. That’s all I need is to add somebody new to the list of people I’m worried about.”

  We reach the bottom of the stairs and Daniel squeezes the back of my neck. “He’s going to be okay. The number one on your list. He’s a smart kid.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I say, touched that Daniel’s mind leapt so quickly to Ash, but not wanting to get into it at the moment. Rather than let thoughts of my runaway son into my head, I shove them back down to where they usually are. It’s hard to remember a time when I didn’t have this dull ache inside me, and I wonder if that’s how it is for people with a chronic illness—if after a time they can no longer recall what it’s like to feel healthy and whole.

  Hands on hips, I take in my surroundings. The basement is a large, open room that runs the length of the house and is smattered with shelves, piles of boxes, old furniture, a pool table—the usual basement fodder. “Now let’s find us a hidden treasure. How big is this painting?”

  “Pretty large—like three feet across. So if it’s here, it won’t be hard to spot.”

  After we’ve been sifting through for a few minutes, Daniel says, “This is déjà vu, huh? We seem to enjoy sorting through other people’s junk together.”

  “And to think we used to enjoy … uh … dancing together.”

  He pauses to look at me, perplexed. “We didn’t dance. Except for when you made me at weddings.”

  Thank goodness it’s poor lighting down here because I can feel myself going hot with embarrassment. I started to explain what I meant by dance, but realized midway how weird that would be. “Well, I should have made you dance more often.”

  “I’d have danced with you,” he says, his voice serious. “Even without you shooting at my feet. You only had to ask—just said, ‘Daniel, dance with me.’ I don’t read minds.”

  Wanting off this awkward subject, I walk over to a floor-to-ceiling pile of boxes and bins across the room. “We haven’t looked over here yet.”

  Almost immediately I’m excited that we’ve hit pay dirt since there’s a stack of pictures and paintings against the wall behind the boxes. Alas, it turns out none of them are Woman, Freshly Tossed—or anything of remotely the quality that might lead us to believe these people have an inkling about fine art.

  “It’s not here,” I say, surprised at how crestfallen I am.

  “No worries. If it’s not in the basement, it must be upstairs.”

  “If that’s the case, then what are you doing down here?” I aim for a teasing tone, as much to cheer myself up as anything. “You could be having your big moment with Marva—basking in the glow of the famous artist. You are missing out on it right now.”

  He shrugs. “She doesn’t need me with her for that.”

  “What? Isn’t that the whole reason you came?”

  “No.”

  “All right, for that and to find out details about how and why she plans to kill herself so we have ammunition to stop her.”

  “Not entirely.”

  I search my mind for what he’s getting at. “And to see a famous painting that’s been missing to the world for years?”

  “Luce, I thought you got it.”

  “Got it?”

  “The reason I came here today. I’m here for you. You were stressing about Marva, in part because I was making you stress. It wouldn’t be fair to make you handle it by yourself. You shouldn’t have to handle things alone so much.”

  It’s as if something inside me pops open, and without giving myself time to overthink it, my hand goes up to his neck to pull his face closer. “Daniel, kiss me.”

  He blinks once—and I wonder if he’s going to make a quip—but only the tiniest bit of a smile registers before he presses his mouth to mine. We kiss, and then again, and then our lips part slightly—and as many times as I’ve kissed Daniel, it feels as sweet and tentative and as tingly as the first time.

  He pulls away, then leans his forehead against mine. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. I’m not that bright. You’ve got to spell it out for me. Although sooner or later I’d have had to kiss you anyway. I’ve been dying to do it for a long time now. In fact, why am I talking?”

  His lips barely have time to find mine again when there’s a commotion upstairs, then Lynette calls down, “You two? I need you to come up … please?” It’s followed by a man’s voice shouting, “Now!”

  He sounds so angry that we snap apart and immediately scurry toward upstairs. “Guess we’re in trouble,” I say.

  Daniel gives me a mock concerned look. “You got a jealous husband you neglected to tell me about?”

  As much as it would be habit to do so, I’m unable to formulate a snappy comeback because in that moment it catches up to me: Daniel and I kissed. I have no idea what it means, but it definitely means something. He grabs my hand to squeeze it, which tells me I’m not the only one who feels that way.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, a tall, balding man in an off-white workman’s uniform is there with Marva and Lynette, glowering at us. “Lynette,” he snaps, “you want to explain to me again why you invited total strangers into our house and let them run around pell-mell?”

  “Gil, they’re not strangers!” she says in a perky tone that doesn’t entirely disguise her nervousness. “This was supposed to be … a surprise. I won a contest and they’re going to put pictures of my decorating in a magazine!”

  He barks such a mean laugh that I immediately want to establish a publishing company so I can start a home magazine for the sole purpose of printing a big, glossy, multipage photo spread of this house, just so his wife can roll it up and smack him in the head with it.

  “What magazine would care about your decorating, huh?” Gil says. “Too Many Stupid Fluffy Pillows Everywhere magazine? Or I Spend All Day Making Silly Quilts While My Husband Brings in All the Money Fixing People’s Sinks magazine?”

  Lynette’s mouth forms into a stubborn line. “It’s House Beautiful. And these people appreciate my artistic sense.”

  “And for that they gotta snoop through our basement?” Gil narrows his eyes at Daniel. “What sort of trick are you trying to pull here?”

  “No trick. Just doing my job, man,” Daniel says, hands in his pockets. He is the picture of nonconfrontation.

  “You even got ID? Lynette, you think to ask for ID? Or a business card?”

  “As I told you,” Marva interjects in the manner one talks to a naughty preschooler, “we are simply here to see what might be worth photographing. Every month we do a story on clever ideas from real people. It’s a very popular feature. You would have final approval, of course. Now there are a few more rooms to see before—”

  “No dice,” Gil says. “Might as well put an ad in the paper, telling people what they can come and steal. I ain’t a fool.”

  “But, Gil!” Lynette whines.

  As they go back and forth, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a Chicago number I don’t recognize. On the off-off-off chance it’s Ash, I hold up a finger in the international symbol for I’ll be just a moment and quietly answer, “Hello?”

  “Lucy? It’s me. Mary Beth.”

  Mary Beth Abernathy—ugh, it’s her turn to host book club. She’s probably calling to warn me she’ll be able to tell if I only watched the movie.

  “I’m kind of in the middle of something,” I mumble so I won’t interrupt Marva’s incensed tirade that there is simply no trust in the world anymore.

  Mary Beth replies, “Call me back when you get a minute. It’s about Ash.”

  “Wait. Ash? What about Ash?” Fireworks go off on my insides at the mention of my missing son.

  “I have information about where he is. So I should be home for another—”

  “No, wait, I’ll—oh, hold on.” I point
to the phone and say to Daniel, “I need to take this call. I’m going to step outside.”

  He mouths, Who is it?

  I wave him off and run out to the front porch. “Mary Beth, what is it?” I ask as soon as I’m alone. “What about Ash?”

  “You can’t tell anyone where you heard this,” Mary Beth says in an ominous tone.

  “Why? What’s going on? Is Ash in any sort of trouble?”

  “Katie will pitch a fit if she finds out you heard it from me.”

  “All right.”

  “Because I promised her I wouldn’t say anything, and if she finds out I did, she’ll never trust me again. And with all the pressures on kids these days, I need to keep communication open.”

  Cut to it already! “Mary Beth, please. What did you hear?”

  “As you know, Katie is very close with Samantha Peterson,” Mary Beth says, now in brisk tones. “So she told me that Samantha told her that Ash called her soon after he left the rehab facility.”

  Samantha. That little snot. Since she’d told me at the bowling alley Ash had written to her, she was one of the first people I called to ask—no, make that beg—to be told if she heard from him.

  “Is he okay? Where is he?” I ask.

  “From what I hear, he’s fine.” Upon hearing those few words, my entire body instantly unclenches. “He’s still in Florida, in the Tampa area. He’s staying with a guy he met in rehab. According to Samantha, this friend already completed the program, and he’s taken Ash under his wing. He’s going to help him find a job. They’ve been attending those meetings together … not AA … what’s it called when it’s drugs?”

  “NA. Narcotics Anonymous.”

  “That’s right. Anyhoo, that’s the skinny.”

  He’s okay. From what Mary Beth says, he’s clean. But if that’s the case … “Why hasn’t he called me?” I ask, barely caring that I must sound pathetic to Mary Beth—even though later she’ll certainly recount my angst to the other moms in her circle. (She was quite choked up, but who wouldn’t be? Snubbed by her very own offspring!)

  “He didn’t say specifically. Although he did tell Samantha he wanted to show the rehab people he could do it on his own. So maybe that includes you, too.”

  That sounds like Ash. Stubborn. Willful. And—thank God—still sober. “As long as he’s fine, that’s what matters,” I say, though it’s not true. He should be back in rehab. He should call his mother—not hide from her as if she were the enemy. “It’s strange Samantha wouldn’t have called me to tell me that herself. Or at least tipped me off in some way.”

  “She’s scared her mother will find out. Delores wouldn’t be wild about her daughter associating with a drug addict. No offense.”

  Offense taken, but whatever. “So does she have a contact number for him? Can you get it for me? Because I’d like to—”

  “I can’t do that!” Mary Beth gasps, as if I’d asked her to drive the getaway car while I rob the bank. “As far as anyone is concerned, we never had this conversation. If I go back to my daughter and say you want a phone number, she’s never going to come to me with her problems again.”

  “But isn’t there some way you could finesse it out of her, or ask her to have Ash call me … ?”

  She exhales sharply. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. It’d mean the world to me if you could.”

  “It’s challenging enough raising teenagers in this world today. We moms have to stick together.”

  “So true,” I say, watery with unexpected gratitude. I’ve been too harsh on Mary Beth. She’s not as snooty and obnoxious as I’ve always thought her to be. Why in fact, she’s quite—

  “It’s the least I can do,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “I count my blessings every day that I have these wonderful children, so I owe it to the less fortunate to help them out when I can.”

  Or … perhaps Mary Beth is exactly as I thought. No matter. I’ll gladly suck it up and take what charity she’s tossing my way. Mary Beth has told me that my son’s not dead or back on drugs. Even if I am a pariah—both to Ash and to society—I’m a pariah with a son who is, at least at the moment, alive and well.

  I’m in the midst of giving one more plea for her to find out Ash’s whereabouts and ending the call when Daniel comes out onto the porch.

  “Was that the PI? Did he find Ash?” he asks as I tuck my phone back in my pocket, still stinging from having to hear the news from another mom. If only it’d been Mackenlively—then I wouldn’t be feeling so inadequate on top of everything else.

  I give Daniel the short version of Mary Beth’s call, noticing as I’m speaking that instead of feeling the sensation of unburdening myself, it’s as if I were admitting my shameful story to yet another person.

  When I’m finished, he crooks an arm around me in a hug. “Thank God, huh? You must be so relieved.”

  I wriggle from his embrace. “Where is everybody else? Is Marva seeing the last of the rooms?”

  “They’re still arguing. You’re happy, right? That Ash is safe?”

  “Yes, of course, but happy might be too strong a word. So why won’t that guy let Marva see the rest?”

  “He suspects we’re casing the joint. That we’re going to come back later to rob them blind. Is there something else about Ash you’re not mentioning?”

  “I told you all I know, which obviously isn’t much. So why is Marva putting up with that idiot? Why doesn’t she go look at the rooms whether he likes it or not?”

  “He’s brought up more than once that he has a shotgun—and he strikes me as the type who’s itching to use it.” Daniel tips his head, openly studying my face. “What’s going on, Luce?”

  “How would I know? You’re the one who was in there.”

  “I mean, what’s going on with you? You seem upset.”

  “You’d think they’d be out here by now.”

  “Was it the call? Are you upset about the call?”

  Daniel’s refusal to let it drop finally breaks me. “Of course I’m upset about the call. Who wouldn’t be? Just because Ash isn’t dead doesn’t mean that everything is peachy. Not that I would know how things really are with him, because he can’t be bothered to contact me.”

  “Yeah, that is pretty rotten,” Daniel says, nodding. “Can’t say I blame you for being mad about that.”

  Here it is again, the feeling that I need to defend Ash, even though I couldn’t agree with Daniel more—it is rotten of Ash. I don’t need Daniel pointing it out, though. I’m well aware of my son’s faults, as well as my own. “I’m not mad. I’m concerned. I’m sure Ash has a good reason for not calling, but—”

  “Yeah, like there isn’t a single pay phone in the entire state of Florida, right? Or the dog ate the paper where he wrote down your number? I tell you”—and I’m amazed at how agreeable Daniel’s tone is, as if he and I were on the same side of this argument, which we most certainly are not—“now that you know he’s alive, you must want to kill him.”

  “You know, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t make light of this.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “I know it isn’t. But you told me yourself, he’s got a place to stay and a few bucks in his pocket. He’s going to NA meetings. He’s having a fine old time. Meanwhile, you’re up here worrying yourself sick, and he can’t make a call? Sorry, but that’s shitty. You can make excuses for him all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that he owes you more than that.”

  “I don’t care what he owes me. It’s not like I’m keeping score.”

  Daniel presses his lips together, and for a moment I’m hopeful he’s going to drop the subject, but he continues, “You’re allowed to be mad.”

  “Oh, believe me, I am,” I say, hoping he picks up my hint.

  He does. “At Ash, I mean. He has you walking on eggshells again. You’re scared anything you do or say is going to send him back to using drugs, and he knows it. It�
��s just … it’s hard to watch him do this to you.”

  “Nobody said you had to watch. In fact, please don’t.”

  My words hit their mark. “What the f—,” Daniel says, his face flushed with anger. “That’s what I get? Because I’m being honest and telling you I don’t like the crap he’s pulling?”

  “This is not crap he’s pulling. You act as though he’s a normal teenager who’s breaking the house rules by staying out after curfew or sneaking a beer. Ash is an addict, and now he’s dropped out of rehab and is just stumbling along on his own. He could backslide. He could overdose. He could die. I’m not simply going to ignore that, as much as you might think I should.”

  Daniel doesn’t even try to keep his voice low. “Don’t twist my words. I’m not suggesting you ignore Ash. That’s the last thing I’d ever say. You may recall that I was the one who—”

  The door is swinging open, and I want to get in one last word as the others step outside. “Daniel—you asked me before if I get it?” I say barely above a whisper. “Well, I get it. I’m Ash’s mom. He’s my problem. Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Mine. This job with Marva is almost over, so don’t worry—I won’t be bothering you with having to look at me and my annoying crises anymore. In fact, consider it over now.”

  I’m waiting for the rush of satisfaction to hit at seeing the pain flash across Daniel’s face, but it feels more like that sandwich I ate at lunch doing handstands in my stomach. It all catches up … Ash … Marva … the painting … the job … the kiss … Daniel’s hurt expression … my rolling, tipping stomach …

  “Hon, you okay?” It’s Lynette, pausing in her litany of apologies to Marva to stare, concerned, inches from my face.

  “Yes … but I may be about to throw up.”

  “For Christ’s sakes!” Gil bellows. “Not in the bushes! I just trimmed those!”

  Lynette ushers me back into the house and chucks me into a bathroom inside a hallway. After assuring her I don’t need her help—I’m already starting to feel less queasy—I head to the sink and splash water on my face. The bracing cold calms me. After a short while—with my hairline and part of my shirt soaked—I turn off the faucets and use a hand towel to dry my face.