The Objects of Her Affection

by Sonya Cobb

  Five

  Lucy had decided to drop out of preschool. She had loved the first few months, which were filled with the excitement of new toys, the box of dress-up clothes, and the child-size sink where she was allowed to serve herself water. Now, having reached the advanced age of three and a half, she could not face another early-morning stroll through Center City, had no interest in another round of “The Wheels on the Bus,” and was bored to tears by her cubby, which was decorated with her name, a yellow heart, and a hook where she had once proudly hung up her coat all by herself.

  Now she was like a cat being taken for a walk on a leash, flattened on the ground, hissing. When Sophie tried to put shoes on her feet, she balled them into fists. She ate her breakfast in tiny bites, chewing in slow motion. When it was time to walk out the door, she would become engrossed in highly urgent tasks, such as reuniting every single Magic Marker lid with every single long-dried-out Magic Marker. Any attempt to interrupt this project would cause her to fling the markers across the room, throw herself to the ground, and pound the floor.

  The morning after Sophie’s visit to the museum, Lucy put on an elaborate performance as The Child Who Is Too Gravely Ill to Attend School. Her stomach hurt, her throat burned, she couldn’t hear, her nose was running, she felt like throwing up, she had cavities. She began to hack like an old woman with emphysema.

  “Let me see your throat,” Sophie said. Lucy opened her mouth as wide as it would go, and Sophie peered solemnly inside, wondering why three-year-olds never had morning breath.

  “All right. Let me feel your forehead.” Lucy watched her mother carefully as she gauged her temperature. “Let’s have a look in your ears now.”

  “Am I sick, Mommy?” she asked softly.

  “I’m still checking.” Sophie held a tissue to her nose. “Blow.” Lucy blew as hard as she could. Nothing came out.

  “I’m going to feel your tummy now.” She pressed lightly on her stomach. “Okay…”

  “Maybe I should take some of the grape medicine,” Lucy suggested.

  Sophie sat back. “In your condition,” she said, “medicine will only make things worse.”

  “My kudishan?”

  “It looks like antipreschoolitis. It’s very important to dress warmly, and eat a good breakfast.”

  For the rest of the morning she played along with Lucy’s delusions of illness, murmuring sympathetically and giving her warm milk. Once Lucy had cheerfully finished her cereal and Brian was dressed and waiting by the front door, Sophie took Lucy in her arms, felt her forehead again, and looked in her ears and her throat.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What, Mommy?”

  “You’re cured! It’s a miracle.”

  She quickly transferred Lucy into Brian’s arms, along with her lunch box, then opened the door and waved good-bye. Lucy’s eyes were narrowed, but by the time she stiffened her legs and gathered breath for a scream, the front door had swung shut with a thud.

  Once Elliot was dressed and installed on the living room floor with a pile of Tupperware, Sophie sat on the couch and reached into her bag for her laptop. As she pulled it out, the front of the bag slumped against her hand, heavy with the contents of its inner pocket. She pulled her hand back and pressed it against her belly, becoming still. She sat like that for a few moments, huddled inside her secret, insulated from everything around her, including Elliot, who was absorbed in his own private world of plastic towers.

  She remembered now how she had told Brian she was late for a conference call, then asked Marjorie to escort her out of the offices. After emerging on the second floor balcony, she’d hurried past the monumental baroque tapestries lining the walls and quickly descended the wide, dizzying staircase in the center of the Great Hall. Striding toward the entrance, her mind already flying through the heavy doors, past the columns and down the steps, her breath snapped back into her throat at the sight of two figures silhouetted against the glass. A museum guard in ill-fitting blue polyester, his rear resting on a tall stool, was craning his neck over a dark shape, which was held out by a woman in a short dress and flat shoes. The shape, Sophie saw as she drew closer, was a purse. The woman was holding it open for the guard. He was peering inside.

  Sophie had not slowed, had not hesitated; she’d merely jerked her eyes away and continued on her trajectory, giving the door a businesslike shove and trotting down the steps like someone in a great hurry to do important things.

  Now, moving much less deliberately, she pulled the mirror out of her bag and laid it flat on the palm of one hand. The glass was almost absurdly small in proportion to the wide frame, which was edged in black wood. A bit of silver filigree protruded from the top edge, with a ring for hanging the mirror on a nail. She admired the casually lifelike poses of the women seated in each corner, the graceful arrangement of their muscled arms and legs, the draping of their robes. A welter of finely drawn detail—from oddly mechanical-looking scrolls to a staccato line of beads and notches forming a delicately textured border—constrained the design in a formal, balanced composition. Sophie couldn’t believe the amount of effort that had gone into such a mundane object. So much labor for a simple mirror frame—those were the days!

  Which days, exactly, she couldn’t really say. It was pretty old—she could see that in the tarnish of the silver and the mottled look of the glass. But she had no way of knowing if it was late Renaissance or late Reagan administration. If she had to guess, she would’ve said it was a twentieth-century reproduction of something from an earlier, grander time.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. What did it matter how old it was? It wasn’t supposed to be here, lying on her now-sweaty hand. It was supposed to be in a museum, on a storage cart, being readied for its journey to a faraway warehouse.

  Of course she would take it back. It was just a harmless prank. She was like that guy in the news who had decided to test airport security by planting a gun in the airplane bathroom. She’d just sneak the mirror back into Brian’s office, and if she got caught she’d explain that she was making a point about careless storage practices.

  Which would get Brian fired. It would probably be better to say it had been a mistake. She thought it was her mirror. Or, she had dumped out her bag and accidentally gathered up the mirror with the rest of her things.

  She lay her head back on the couch. Lying to a three-year-old was one thing; it would be far too embarrassing to tell one of these fantastical stories to Brian’s boss. She took the mirror into the kitchen and wrapped it in several plastic grocery bags. She slipped it into the back of a cupboard, between some cookie sheets that nobody was likely to use for another decade or so. She needed time to think.

  The babysitter wouldn’t be coming for another hour, so she strapped Elliot into the stroller and went for a walk around the neighborhood, ambling pensively through allées of ginkgos and decorative pears waving their freshly unfurled leaves. She needed to think things through logically. Working backward from her desired outcome, she should be able to find a stream of clear, rational steps that would solve her problem with elegance and efficiency.

  Option A: Return to the scene of the crime and hope that Brian would leave her alone in his office. She could try to go when he wasn’t at work, but she would still need an escort to get to his office—and anyone who did that would be unlikely to leave her there by herself. Even assuming they did, what if the cart was gone? She couldn’t just stash the mirror in the midst of Brian’s mess—that would get him in as much trouble as stealing it.

  Option B: Confess to Brian, and let him return the mirror.

  Option C: Throw the mirror away, bury it in the backyard, toss it into the Schuylkill River. It sounded like no one would miss it. Some old lady had probably bequeathed her silver to the museum, and some overworked curator had just stuck it all in a storage closet until he had time to assign accessio
n numbers and object cards. If the mirror was worth anything, someone would have taken better care of it.

  Her mind followed each scheme to the end of its path, analyzing its logic and contemplating alternate sequencing. It was a process that, in her work, usually delivered her to a point of gratifying clarity. But this time she found herself getting more and more lost in forks, loops, and branches, unable to manage dynamic interactions, fogged in by confusion. She turned onto the avenue for the second time, nodded a greeting—again—to the grocer pushing his broom. Elliot squirmed in his seat; she looked at her watch. It was time to go back.

  ***

  The red jersey dress, Sophie decided, was too unforgiving. At least the black one was covered in sequins, which served to create some visual confusion around the more plush areas of her waist. She wasn’t sure if sequins were appropriate for the museum party they were going to—she would probably be the youngest person there, and definitely the sparkliest. But she didn’t have a lot of other options. She tugged on her “foundation garment.” Constructed of thick, industrial-strength elastic, the beige underthing flattened her belly into a smooth, taut drum. The waistband, which actually stopped just below her bra, was a wide strip of rubber that gripped her skin and left a red welt. The leg bands were made the same way, preventing the underwear from creeping northward. Wearing it made her feel like a tightly swaddled baby.

  During the four years that she spent either pregnant or breast-feeding, Sophie’s body had expanded, contracted, bulged, and cracked more often than a Philadelphia sidewalk. Both babies were large; Elliot had caused her old stretch marks to splinter into new ones—purple zebra stripes that later faded and sank, creating silvery crevices across her belly. During both pregnancies her breasts had ballooned, swollen and tender; upon weaning they collapsed, exhausted, onto her rib cage.

  She’d lost all of her pregnancy weight while breast-feeding Lucy, but gained it back the minute she got pregnant with Elliot—a huge baby who’d sprawled all over her lower abdomen and seemed, toward the end, as uncomfortable with the arrangement as she was. After he was born she wore her smaller maternity clothes for a few weeks, but then, as he nursed more and more voraciously, her body had melted away like a stick of butter in the microwave.

  Now that Elliot was weaned she was going back to her old weight, but her body was like a borrowed dress that had been returned all stretched out and wrinkled. She lifted her soft, empty breasts into a push-up bra, then pulled on the black dress and stepped into some strappy heels. She eyed herself in the mirror—from the side, from behind. Despite the undergarment’s best efforts, her belly still swayed forward, an echo of her pregnant self. She sucked it in, mashing it with her hands. The elastic made her stomach feel oddly anaesthetized.

  She rummaged among her purses and pulled out a black leather bag that was too large and casual for her dress. She frowned at herself in the mirror one more time, then headed downstairs.

  “You can call me any time tonight,” she said to the babysitter, who was feeding the kids their dinner. “We’re right around the corner, so…” She went into the kitchen and rummaged through a cabinet, blurting instructions over her shoulder.

  “Keep Elliot’s monitor on after you put him to bed—he might decide to climb out. And be sure you dry Lucy’s face really well. She’s getting chapped.”

  She kissed the children’s heads and placed conciliatory cookies on their plates. “Mommy, don’t go. Why don’t you stay?” whined Lucy. Sophie blew her one more kiss, ignored the question, and pushed through the front door into the humid night air.

  Brian was waiting outside the museum’s west entrance, scanning the crowd of valets and patrons milling outside. Sophie felt a nervous flutter as she approached, in the moments before he caught sight of her. When he did, his body became still and his eyebrows lifted. She felt blood gather in the tips of her ears.

  “Wow,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “You’re beautiful.” Sophie searched his face for hints of flattery, but she didn’t need to: Brian was the most resolutely sincere person she’d ever known. She ran her fingers along the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, feeling the cautious gratitude that comes with too much luck. Brian turned and led her inside, gallantly preceding her through the heavy revolving door. As they crossed the polished stone floor Sophie walked on her toes, not trusting her wine-stem heels.

  “Help me keep an eye out for Howard from Prints and Drawings,” Brian said. “He promised to introduce me to this woman Mrs. Weber—she was best friends with Fifi Belmont, Wilder’s other granddaughter.”

  “Wilder’s the guy—”

  “Who had the Saint-Porchaire candlestick. I’m hoping I can get Mrs. Weber to tell me some stories about the family, maybe introduce me to some of Wilder’s descendants. I realize how far-fetched it all is, but I have to try.” Sophie marveled at the way Brian’s work filled every moment of his life, every crevice of his mind. He never stopped thinking about it. She remembered feeling that way, just out of college, when she’d been obsessed with the three-dimensional galaxies of hypertext; and later, when writing code began turning into something of an art form. But then, when she started freelancing, the work had gradually become less about exploration and creativity, and more about paying the bills. She wondered when, if ever, she might rediscover the joy in it.

  They emerged into the soaring central hall, which echoed with laughter and jazz. Redwood-size columns rose to the roof and dwarfed the partygoers below; a trumpet solo bounced brassily against the stone. At the top of the grand staircase a towering statue of Diana alighted, weightlessly balanced on the toes of one long foot, her strong fist punching her bow forward, the other hand a knot of knuckles pulling the string taut. She was lightness and strength and beauty and danger, the museum’s guardian huntress overseeing every opening and cocktail party.

  Sophie and Brian wove through the gathering crowd toward the bar, where they met Brian’s boss, Ted. Tall and thin, with long ears and sagging eyes, Ted had worked at the museum for decades, and, it seemed, would be there forever, pacing its corridors long after taking his last shaky breath. Now he was thrusting glasses of wine into Brian’s and Sophie’s hands, his eyes darting over their heads and into the crowd.

  “Mr. Burnett is here,” he said, using his head to point. “I really think you should say a word to him tonight. Plant the seeds for the Lyon auction.”

  “Got it,” said Brian. “What about you—can I get you a drink?”

  Ted shook his head vigorously, making his jowls tremble. “Oh dear no. Thanks. I saw Mrs. Paul scurrying around here somewhere. You should thank her for approving the Milan purchase. She needs to hear from the whole department—make her feel really special.” Then, giving Brian a pat on the shoulder, he prowled into the crowd, sniffing out money and egos with his long, nervous nose.

  “Why does he need to come to every single one of these things?” Brian muttered into his wineglass.

  “Sorry,” Sophie said. She knew how much Brian despised the predatory chitchat that was required of him at these parties: the tissue-thin flattery and weightless smiles, all designed to flush large checks out of jeweled clutches. He was terrible at it, or so he thought, which actually made him good at it. Museum patrons—particularly the women—were disarmed by his scholarly reserve, his devotion to the objects, his blithe, detached air in the presence of elephantine wealth.

  “Let’s dance a little before you go to work,” Sophie said, setting her empty wineglass on a passing tray. She pulled Brian onto the dance floor, where they leaned into each other and shifted vaguely from foot to foot. When did formal dancing dissolve into this strange shuffle, Sophie wondered, admiring one septuagenarian couple that seemed to be executing actual dance steps. She rested her cheek against Brian’s shoulder, feeling his voice vibrate inside his chest.

  He was asking her about work, whether she was doing anything interesting. “Nothing,” she said, “
as interesting as this.” She smiled up at him, and he brought his lips to hers, and as they kissed she was flooded, simultaneously, with the warmth of desire and the chill of dread. She closed her eyes, trying, like Elliot, to become invisible by making the rest of the world disappear. When she opened them she saw the glinting tip of Diana’s arrow just over Brian’s shoulder, and then, just off the dance floor, Howard, from Prints and Drawings, trying to get Brian’s attention.

  “There’s Howard,” she said, pulling away.

  “Aha,” Brian said. “Sorry. I won’t be long.”

  Sipping her second glass of wine, Sophie watched her husband work. Howard had led him over to a small, plump woman in a brown dress that was embellished with black and white feathers. Her tiny mouth was painted bright red. Sophie assumed this was the woman connected to Paul Wilder; what she didn’t understand was how this elderly person, who had once been friends with someone related to the guy who’d bought some candlesticks, was supposed to help Brian track down a missing Renaissance masterpiece. But to Brian no lead was ever too faint, no alley too blind, and it was often sheer persistence, more than depth of knowledge, that gave him an advantage over his less resolute colleagues.

  Howard had taken his leave of them, and was chatting with a tall couple in their forties. The woman wore a simple black sheath, and the man had on a tuxedo with no tie. Their haircuts were straightforward, their faces bland, jewelry minimal, yet they shone with wealth. Sophie tried to figure out where, exactly, the sheen came from. Howard, perfectly presentable in his traditional tuxedo, didn’t have it. His colleague Nancy, who had appeared at his side, didn’t have it either. Sophie decided it was the graceful drape of the tall woman’s dress, and its perfect length (just to the top of her shoe’s delicate ankle strap), despite her considerable height. Nancy’s dress, also black, pulled a little across the shoulders. But was that really it? Or was it the tall couple’s bearing—watchful but relaxed. The air of creatures who knew they were surrounded by hunters, but who could, when necessary, leap swiftly into a waiting car and be whisked away to their leafy refuge on the Main Line.