Objects of My Affection (4 page)

I barely pause to wonder why she'd ask such a question before I think, With what I've been through in the past year? Is she kidding? I almost have to laugh.

“I prefer to think I'm easily amused.”

Marva stares at me without expression. I swallow over the dry lump that's formed in my throat. I've blown it. Why did I have to be glib? I couldn't have simply said,
No, I'm not
? I want to explain to her that's what I do when I'm on edge. I crack stupid jokes. Please don't take it seriously. Please understand that I need this job, even if I am entirely unqualified for it—even if I'm only a laid-off PR writer and hack author parading herself as an organizational guru. Give me this chance and I swear I'll—

Marva turns away, and the thump of the cane makes it clear she's going to leave.

I'm still silently pleading when Marva says, “Fine.” She flicks a hand dismissively toward Will. “I suppose this one will do as well as any other.”

When you hold on to everything in case you might someday love it/want it/need it, you block the path to what is truly valuable to you.

—Things Are Not People

I
t's 2:00 a.m., and I'm lying here while Abigail digs her feet rhythmically into my side. For a four-year-old, she can really go at it with force. She's managed to wriggle herself so she's lying horizontally on the bed, wedging me into the crevasse between the bed and the wall. Rather than attempt to push her away, I climb over her to the mattress on the floor, where her mother—my friend Heather—tucked her in earlier. Won't do me much good. Abigail is a pixie-haired, green-eyed heat-seeking missile. She'll find me again.

Ah, well. It's not as if I'm going to be able to sleep anyway. I'm too busy worrying.

I'd feel better about my first day on the job if I had an idea of what to expect. I want there to be a lady from HR, greeting me with an
employee packet and a video on sexual harassment in the workplace. Seems instead I'm on my own.

Will and I did talk awhile after Marva left as he walked me to my car. Although at first, all he could do was utter variations on “I don't get it. Why you?”

It went on long enough that I felt compelled to ask if he had a problem with me.

“You're fine. But she didn't even talk to you. As far as she knows, you could be a serial killer.”

“Or perhaps,” I pointed out, speaking slowly, “she trusts that her son wouldn't bring someone inappropriate into her home.”

He stared absently toward the house. “No, that's not it.”

Whatever. I'm to report to work at ten o'clock, although I'm free to arrange different hours with Marva. I can use the bungalow outside as an office. I don't have to do physical labor; there's hired muscle for that. Will's already hired an art expert, whom I'm to coordinate with to take any valuable art and high-end items to auction. The rest—the majority—is either trash or for a yard sale. Anything that doesn't sell will go to charity.

“Your mother certainly has a nice, big yard for a sale!” I said. “And this neighborhood will draw in the customers. People love—”

“You will
not
conduct the sale
here
,” Will snapped, as if I'd proposed running live nudie shows on the roof. “Do I need to explain the importance of
discretion
? I've rented a storage unit. Anything to sell is to be transported there. You will oversee the estate sale
there
, at the
facility
, when the job is complete.”

Boy, somebody got himself worked up mighty quickly. “Sounds like a plan!” I said, eager to prove he hired the right woman for the job.

“Naturally, you can't get rid of a single thing here without my mother approving it.”

“Nothing?” I'd already mentally been wielding an ax and smashing that ugly, cracked duck statue upstairs to smithereens.

“Nothing. I may have hired you, but she's the one paying your salary. And she decides where each and every item goes.”

“You don't mean what's obviously trash.”

“I mean everything.”

I picked up a crumpled potato chip bag. “This.”

“Yes, that.”

The objects in the house seemed to suddenly glow and dance and mock me. I'm no math whiz, but even I can figure out it's going to be impossible to personally handle all of what's in Marva's house in the span of time available to me. I have less than eight weeks—fifty-two days to be exact, and some of those are weekend days when I won't be working. It seemed doable when I thought I'd merely be pointing to entire piles and telling the work crew, “All this goes.” But piece by piece by piece … multiplied by a bazillion? The paperwork alone! I'm screwed. Her house is huge. Even my dinky two-bedroom house took some time to dismantle after I sold it.

My house.

Siiiiiiigh.

It's been a week since I packed up the last few things and drove away—seven days of playing musical beds with Abigail and being an awkward add-on to Heather's perfect family until I get back on my feet. (And I'm not exaggerating about the wonderfulness of her family. Her husband, Hank, is the poster husband for a nice guy. Their son DJ's only fault is being close in age to Ash, so every time I see him do normal high school things, it's a stab in the gut.)

To think a year or two ago I had what appeared to be a good life. A house, a job, and a son—things that at least let me pretend it all wasn't falling apart. I also had a boyfriend, Daniel, whom I was wild about and who I thought loved me back. That was, until he dumped me … and for a reason that hurt more than anything I could have foreseen. I'd rather it have been another woman than what it was.

Now all I have left is a closet-size storage unit and what I've brought with me here, which isn't much. Clothes, sundries … the bare essentials. The one precious item I've kept is a photo of Ash, which I keep tucked in my wallet. It's his senior portrait. He'd had the flu the day it was taken, although now I wonder if he wasn't sick at all
but hungover. Still, I love it. Ash is giving his usual smirk … the smile that tips more on the left side. His blond hair is falling into his eyes the way it always does. He has a slight sunburn across his nose. For the split second that the photographer clicked the shutter, Ash looks like any high school student with his whole future ahead of him.

I roll over onto my stomach, determined to get some sleep. Maybe I'm fretting over nothing. Will told me his mother is ready to do this. She might need prompting—a hand to hold hers and lead it ever so gently to release whatever's clutched in it—but I can do that.

I'm sure it won't be the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

M
arva is sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette when I pull up. I'm hyperaware of the rattling of my car's engine. It's long overdue for a tune-up, but I'm afraid to take it in because they're going to tell me what else is wrong with it. I drive a classic cherry-red 1971 Ford Mustang convertible that I've had for twelve years—although the top is broken so it's technically not a convertible anymore. As cars go, it's not “me,” but that's exactly why I bought it. It was my “F-you, Billy” purchase after my divorce, once my money was my own and I could afford to flip him off with the car he'd always coveted. I was surprised to find how much I actually grew to love it—the feeling of driving a car so sexy. Even when running errands around town, the Mustang suddenly made me feel as if I weren't the mom with her hair shoved back in a ponytail but, rather, the girl who dared wear black fishnets to the wedding. It brought out a side in me I didn't know was there. That's why, when I'm financially flush again, I plan to restore my car to its former glory. Put the top down and ride off into my shiny new life.

But I get ahead of myself.

“Morning!” I call out cheerily as I climb from the car. Marva is wearing a fuchsia print caftan and lots of bangly jewelry. Her legs are crossed, and I can see she's in flip-flops, though it can't be more than fifty degrees out. I grab the carry bag of organizational supplies I
brought and head up to the porch. “Looks like it's trying real hard to be sunny out today.”

She takes a drag on her cigarette and gives a noncommittal nod.

“It's been so rainy lately.”

When there's no reaction from her, I say, “I'm Lucy. I'm here to—”

“I know who you are.”

“Okay, great then.”

Not certain how to proceed, I make a show of noticing a bush off to the side of her porch. “Does that flower?”

“Please don't feel that you need to make chitchat. I quite enjoy the morning quiet.”

“It is nice, isn't it? So peaceful. I remember once when I lived right off a busy street and I'd wake up every morning to—”

Marva is barely suppressing her irritation as she looks away.

Oh. Right.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I say, “Do you mind if I show myself inside and take another look around? You can let me know when you're ready to get started.”

She waves her cigarette in the direction of the front door, which I take to mean go on in, so I do.

Squeezed into the living room, I'm startled all over again by the squalor. How does anyone get used to this?

For the next hour, I poke in any closets, drawers, and cupboards I can manage to wriggle into. It's funny what you can learn about people by what they keep. For example, I am learning that Marva might be a pack rat, but she's not a slob. There is a difference. Although there's a ton of stuff here, it isn't garbage. No food or dirty bowls or snuffed-out cigarettes, at least that I've seen. Then again, anything could pop up. My toes scrunch at the idea of mice scurrying across them.

At one point I am wedged beneath the dining table—butt in the air reaching for what I thought might be a huge diamond ring but turned out to be a broken piece of a chandelier—when I hear Marva: “May as well get this show on the road. What's your plan, Princess?”

“I have one!” I say, overeagerly I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I drag myself from beneath the table and face Marva, who is seated in the one cleared chair in the kitchen. “I have one,” I say again, calmly this time, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in her little nickname for me. “A plan on how to proceed. I believe you're going to be very happy with it.”

I pull the organizational system I spent much of last night devising from my bag, setting it on a tiny cleared space on the kitchen counter. I feel like an advertising exec giving a pitch to a client—but that's fine. Marva needs to be on board or it's not going to work. So I need to sell, sell, sell. The lucky news: I'm using Post-its. Who doesn't love an organizational system with Post-its?

“To start, I'd like to free up space, so that means clearing out some of the larger items first. I have these”—I hold up a handful of Post-its in a variety of colors—“so we can tag where each item is to go.” Then I hold up the chart I designed on the computer—a
pie chart
, because who doesn't love pie charts? “As you see here, pink is for anything that's trash, yellow is recycling, blue is charity, purple is yard sale, orange is auction—”

“Charity should be orange,” Marva says.

“Excuse me?”

“Charity. I've always thought of it more as orange, not blue. Blue is for recycling. Everyone knows that.”

“Um … okay … we can switch that.” I start rifling through my bag. If I learned anything from my years in advertising and PR, it's to placate the client. “I'm sure I have a Sharpie in here. We can make any changes you'd like. After all, you're the artist!”

“And why isn't there green?”

“Green? I just—”

“Green is a very calming color. I can't imagine going through this process, using these tags of yours, and not one of them being green.”

“No problem. I can get green. For now we can substitute a different color that's close to green—like we could use blue and yellow
together, right? That makes green.” I find the Sharpie pen and wait with it poised at the chart. “What category is green to you?”

Marva grabs for her cane and uses it to hoist herself to standing. “I can't see this working as it is. Tell you what: You run get those green tabs and make the changes to your chart. In the meantime, I have other things I need to handle. Perhaps we can reconvene later this afternoon.”

Perhaps? This afternoon?
It's not as if I can get started without her. She has to approve everything I do. “We don't have to bother with the tags right now,” I say. “You could point to things, and I can—”

“I'll be in my office. I don't want to be disturbed.”

She goes to the refrigerator and pulls out what appears to be a boxed lunch.

Oh, no, she's bringing provisions. I could lose the whole day. “How will I know when you're ready?” My voice is a desperate squeak. I can't help myself. If day one sets a tone for how this project is going to go, it's looking grim.