Objects of My Affection (18 page)

He nods. I think I hear brain rattling. I've never seen him like this.

Trying to save him before he makes a fool of himself, I say, “Daniel, perhaps we should get started. If you want to come over here, I can show you the posters.”

He doesn't so much as glance my way. He grabs the stool that Nelson uses when he's checking Marva's vitals and sits on it. “I'll never forget the first time I saw one of your paintings. I was ten. It was a class field trip to the MCA. They had one hanging with a few other artists' just off the lobby.”

“Which painting?” Marva asks.

“She Felt Herself Aggrieved.”
Marva nods, and Daniel continues, “I sat down on the bench in the middle of the room, just wanting to look at it for a minute. Pretty soon all the kids filed through, and the teacher started telling me I had to get moving. But I wouldn't. It was
almost as if I couldn't. I'd never seen art like that in real life … ever. I wasn't prepared for the power of it. To see the actual brushstrokes. To have the energy of it right there in front of me—nothing blocking it. It was … the difference between looking at a girlie magazine versus seeing your first actual naked woman.”

“There's no naked woman in that painting.”

“Ah, but what a woman there was. Those eyes. I don't know what you were thinking when you painted those eyes but—” He stops—he makes a sound that's somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. “You're here! The artist is here right in front of me. Wow. Please. I'm begging. Tell me. What
were
you thinking?”

“Oh, that was so long ago. I haven't the faintest idea.”

“I don't believe for a minute that you don't remember. But fine, you don't want to say. I respect that—although if you change your mind, feel free to shout it out at any time.”

“Duly noted.”

“Anyway, I wouldn't leave. One of the moms that was chaperoning said she'd sit with me.” He gives a cheerful shrug. “I turned out to be the laughingstock of the fifth grade—apparently there were naked paintings further on.”

“A shame you missed out.”

“If only it was
Woman, Freshly Tossed
that was in that first room. I wouldn't have had to spend the rest of the year defending my manhood. Plenty of naked in that one.” He's quiet for a moment, then he jumps off the stool as if it were spring-loaded. “And I'm taking way too much of your time.”

Marva doesn't tell him to stay, but I get the distinct impression she was in no hurry for him to leave her side. She picks up her book. I can't imagine she can concentrate on her reading, though, with all of Daniel's carrying on. He's calling off each item to me as he sees it as if he were pitching As Seen On TV merchandise.
A banjo from
Deliverance!
A gen-u-ine
Willy Wonka
golden ticket!

“Could you keep it down?” I whisper. I grab on to his arm and
pull him into the hallway. “She feels bad enough about selling her most precious possessions without you rubbing it in.”

“Sorry. You're right. But, man, if I was her, I couldn't do it. It hurts to know this is all going to be split up. I am feeling actual, physical pain right now. Believe me, if I had the money, I'd be buying everything in there.”

“Unless you've struck it rich since the last time I saw you, that's not going to happen. I appreciate your input on this, but could you please bring it down a notch?”

He gives me his puppy eyes. “Got it.”

Those eyes get to me every time. “Tell you what. Would it help if I let you look around without me for a while? So you can dig in without me standing over your shoulders?”

“Probably.”

“Then have at it. I'll be in the kitchen.” I start to go, but then turn back. “And please leave Marva alone. She really does prefer the quiet.”

Nelson is sitting at the kitchen table. He's managed to shove enough aside so he can prop up a small, portable DVD player. He pauses what he's watching when I come in.

I lean against the island. “Am I the only one she doesn't like?”

“What, did she throw you out? Is she having wild sex with the new guy?” Nelson asks.

“I'm serious—she's friendly to you, right?”

“I wouldn't say friendly, but I've had worse. Sick people tend to be grouchy. And that's all I'm around all day.”

I steal a cracker from an open box he has on the counter. “How sick is Marva? If they've brought you in, it must be pretty bad.”

“Not really. For most folks, they'd have a friend or relative stop by, bring them food or run them to a doctor. But people who don't have anybody, they hire me.”

“It's so sad. I mean, her son's worthless, but I don't see that she has any friends either. I wonder why she doesn't.”

“Dunno.” He clicks
PLAY
on the DVD player. “Want to watch the rest of this movie with me?”

I kill an hour watching an entirely forgettable film. The credits roll, and Daniel still hasn't come to the kitchen.

When I go to check on him, he has the stool pulled up to Marva's bedside again and he's shaking his head and saying, “I can't believe Karl Lagerfeld would
do
that.” I feel jealousy rise to my throat like bile. It's completely irrational, but I want to shake Daniel and say,
Marva is
my
eccentric artist! You don't get to come in here and have her like you better.

“So, Daniel,” I cut in, “have you had a chance to look at everything? Maybe you could give me a few minutes and go over your findings?”

He jumps up and scoots the stool away back toward the wall. “In the nick of time, too. I've far overstayed my welcome.” He picks up Marva's book and hands it back to her. “I can't thank you enough for honoring me with your time.”

Oh, brother—could he be any bigger a kiss-up? What—is he vying to get in the will?

We head back out to the bungalow. As soon as we get there, Daniel plunks down on my couch. “I've got a plan.”

“Oh, do you?” I say icily.

He gives me a perplexed look, which makes me realize how silly I'm being. I stamp the jealousy. He's being incredibly generous to help me. “You can take all the DVDs and VCR tapes for the yard sale,” he says. “Pretty much everything else in there is worth selling online or straight to collectors. There's a place I know of that's supposed to be good. They'll take twenty percent off the top, but you'll still come out way ahead. You said there are guys that can move it all?”

When I tell him yes, he says, “Great. Oh, and don't touch anything that's behind the green chair. That's what she wants to keep. As for the rest of the house, I told Marva I'd come back to look again when I had more time. Worst-case scenario, you let me into that yard sale first and I'll check there's nothing I missed.”

“That's a lot of work for you. What kind of commission are you thinking?”

“Don't worry about it. Glad to do it.”

“That's not fair—I need to pay you something.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, if you insist, Marva could pay me in merchandise. Like that Bettie Page pinup calendar. If that wound up hanging in some horny college kid's dorm room, I'd hang
myself.
”

“The calendar I would have thrown away because it's out-of-date?”

“You're killing me.” He gets up and heads toward the door. “By the way, how are you handling Marva's photos? I saw a snapshot in her room of her with Warhol. What are you going to do with that?”

“Whatever she tells me to.”

“What if she tells you to shred it?”

“Then I'll shred it.”

“You can't do that. That photo is a piece of history.”

I shrug. “There's too much in there. Can't keep it all.”

“But it
means
something.”

“Daniel, some things have to go. If they're in the way, they're in the way. That's how it is.”

My words seem to incite him because his voice is steel as he says, “You can't let go of everything. Some things are worth hanging on to.”

I cannot believe that Daniel of all people would say that to me. He has the nerve to talk to me about hanging on—after he ran out on me when things got tough with Ash. Okay,
ran out
isn't entirely accurate, but he did leave. I'd dared to think we were forever, and I hadn't seen the end coming. I suppose if I thought back I could piece together when Daniel finally snapped, but I don't want to. I prefer to forget the whole thing.

Now here he is, in my life again, and it's dredging everything up. What was I thinking? I was a fool to believe I'd be able to work with him.

Daniel yanks open the door, his eyes not meeting mine. His voice is thick as he says, “I need to go.”

It's all I can do to bite back the urge to tell him not to come back. As much as I hate it, I need him.

I'm just not sure I'm ready for all the mess that comes along with his help.

The good thing about investing in people rather than things is that people don't have to be dusted.

—Excerpt from
Things Are Still Not People,
unpublished draft of a sequel to
Things Are Not People

I
manage to sleep in until 8:00 a.m. The first thought that pops into my head when I wake up is
I get to call Ash in mere hours.

The very thought gives me jitters. It's my chance to reconnect with my son—to speak directly to him instead of having our conversation filtered through whatever drugs he's on. It feels more important than a phone call. It's a bridge. If I want him to be willing to talk to me again, I can't mess this up.

I'm mulling what I'll say to Ash the entire time I'm getting ready for work. Mostly, I want to ask him questions—and not about his drug problem or his recovery. I'd prefer to avoid those topics. All I want to
hear is the mundane, everyday stuff. How does he like the food there? What's his roommate's name? Do they get along? What's his view from his room—can he see the ocean? I'll have ten minutes on the phone with Ash, and what I crave is ten minutes of
normal.

Of course, they're not going to let me do that. I'm sure Ash has a list a mile long of the issues we're supposed to work on—all the ways I need to change so he can get better. Strange how I can look forward to and dread something simultaneously.

To pass the time, I check my e-mails, which I haven't done in several days. It appears my mom has discovered the
FORWARD
button. There must be fifty messages from her. I'm so busy sifting through them that I almost miss the e-mail from Daniel. He's sent me the address for where to drop off Marva's memorabilia. I feel a twinge of disappointment when it's only that and a brief note:
We're on. Talked them down to 15% on the fee. I'll supervise. Make sure it's all boxed and sealed so I can itemize.—D.

Not sure what else I expected it to say. I grab a yogurt and a banana for my breakfast. By the time I let myself into Marva's house, it's after ten o'clock. Nelson is in the kitchen watching a movie.

“How's our patient?” I ask.

“Off bed rest. She's in her office. I'm hanging around today, but mostly because I add class to this place. And she pays me.”

I give a knock as I lean into Marva's office. “Good morning. Glad to hear you're feeling better.”

She's sitting in an easy chair, reading the newspaper. “Never felt bad. No idea what the fuss was about.”

“So, Marva, as long as you're up, I'm going to have the—” I stop midsentence. I'm about to tell her I'll bring the crew in to clear out the theater room. Only the image of Marva with Daniel yesterday pops into my head—how excited he was to meet her. How different she was with him.

Maybe I've been too focused on business? It's why I'm here, and Marva's certainly made it clear she's not interested in establishing any sort of personal relationship with me. But still …

I lean on the edge of an antique writing desk. “I didn't get around to showing this room to Daniel yesterday when he was here,” I say in what I hope is an inviting, chatty tone, borrowed from all those days I was laid off and watched
The View.
“So many beautiful paintings. I'm afraid once I bring him in here, I won't be able to get him out.”

Marva doesn't look up from her paper. “Mmm-hmm. He was a nice young man. Seemed to know his stuff. How long have the two of you been sleeping together?”

“Wha—?” Didn't see that one coming. “I … uh … he and I aren't …”

“He strikes me as a considerate lover. Is he?”

“Daniel and I aren't—” Marva is now peering at me over the top of her thick-rimmed reading glasses, her expression politely interested. “That is, we aren't anymore. We
used
to be. He's an ex-boyfriend. We split about seven months ago. But, yes, as a matter of fact, he was.”