Read Online The Objects of Her Affection by Sonya Cobb - Free Book Online
Authors: Sonya Cobb
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to be tired.
The mirror was heavy in her hand. The oval glass was set in a rectangular metal frame whose raised decorations were bluish-black with age. She ran her finger over the chubby putti flanking the glass; four women dressed in flowing garments sat in the corners of the frame. She wiped her dusty finger on her jeans, a little guiltily. She knew she wasn’t supposed to touch anything without gloves on. Still, she didn’t put the mirror down. She was drawn to the frame’s endlessly retreating detail, the mysterious array of globes and cubes and strange devices that danced around the figures in an almost random arrangement that, when she stretched out her arm, coalesced into soothing symmetry.
Her fingers tingled. She let the mirror rest in her lap. Brian wasn’t coming back; it was a mistake to try to talk to him at the museum, anyway. He was too absorbed in his work, too busy with important matters. Besides, Sophie was filled with new determination to fix things and move forward—to do what Maeve had always exhorted her to do: grow up! She needed to find her own purpose in life, rather than waiting around for others to take care of her and give her life meaning. She decided to ask Marjorie to escort her out.
She put the mirror back on the cart, but it wouldn’t lie flat between the wide, spreading foot of a candelabra on one side and a bulbous coffeepot on the other. Several dozen souvenir spoons cluttered the bottom of the tray. Had the mirror been propped on something? She leaned it against an inkstand, but it tipped sideways toward the edge of the cart. She shifted the candelabra to one side, lining it up with a pair of saltcellars, then tried to move the coffeepot the other way. Its handle hooked a bronze figure of a milkmaid, making it teeter, but Sophie caught it before it fell. There were too many pieces on this cart. She tucked the saltcellars into one corner, shoved some spoons aside, and slid the candelabra further to the left. The mirror still wouldn’t lie flat. She felt despair begin to tread heavily on her brittle nerves. The mirror was heavy; it was about the size of a sheet of printer paper. She turned it one way, then another, but it was impossible to find a place for it among the neglected disorder of the cart.
She picked up the coffeepot, feeling her face flush; what if someone walked in and saw her juggling the objects like this? She remembered the look on the face of the art handler in the hallway, when she’d caught Sophie holding that silver candlestick. That was embarrassing enough; now, here she was with a mirror in one ungloved hand and a coffeepot in the other. Out in the hallway, she heard Brian giving Marjorie instructions; it sounded like they were headed toward his office. Sophie tried, once again, to fit the coffeepot and the mirror together on the cart, but nothing was working. She felt a sudden flash of anger, as sharp and unexpected as a leg cramp in the middle of the night. Why did she always have to be the responsible one? What if she didn’t feel like being the grown-up all the time? And why the fuck wouldn’t this mirror fit into the goddamned cart?
Brian and Marjorie were just outside the door. Swiftly, Sophie set the coffeepot on the cart. Then she put the mirror in the only place she could think of…a place where it fit quite neatly, where it wouldn’t be jostled or forgotten: the inner pocket of her bag, right between Elliot’s diapers.
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
The mirror was heavy in her hand. The oval glass was set in a rectangular metal frame whose raised decorations were bluish-black with age. She ran her finger over the chubby putti flanking the glass; four women dressed in flowing garments sat in the corners of the frame. She wiped her dusty finger on her jeans, a little guiltily. She knew she wasn’t supposed to touch anything without gloves on. Still, she didn’t put the mirror down. She was drawn to the frame’s endlessly retreating detail, the mysterious array of globes and cubes and strange devices that danced around the figures in an almost random arrangement that, when she stretched out her arm, coalesced into soothing symmetry.
Her fingers tingled. She let the mirror rest in her lap. Brian wasn’t coming back; it was a mistake to try to talk to him at the museum, anyway. He was too absorbed in his work, too busy with important matters. Besides, Sophie was filled with new determination to fix things and move forward—to do what Maeve had always exhorted her to do: grow up! She needed to find her own purpose in life, rather than waiting around for others to take care of her and give her life meaning. She decided to ask Marjorie to escort her out.
She put the mirror back on the cart, but it wouldn’t lie flat between the wide, spreading foot of a candelabra on one side and a bulbous coffeepot on the other. Several dozen souvenir spoons cluttered the bottom of the tray. Had the mirror been propped on something? She leaned it against an inkstand, but it tipped sideways toward the edge of the cart. She shifted the candelabra to one side, lining it up with a pair of saltcellars, then tried to move the coffeepot the other way. Its handle hooked a bronze figure of a milkmaid, making it teeter, but Sophie caught it before it fell. There were too many pieces on this cart. She tucked the saltcellars into one corner, shoved some spoons aside, and slid the candelabra further to the left. The mirror still wouldn’t lie flat. She felt despair begin to tread heavily on her brittle nerves. The mirror was heavy; it was about the size of a sheet of printer paper. She turned it one way, then another, but it was impossible to find a place for it among the neglected disorder of the cart.
She picked up the coffeepot, feeling her face flush; what if someone walked in and saw her juggling the objects like this? She remembered the look on the face of the art handler in the hallway, when she’d caught Sophie holding that silver candlestick. That was embarrassing enough; now, here she was with a mirror in one ungloved hand and a coffeepot in the other. Out in the hallway, she heard Brian giving Marjorie instructions; it sounded like they were headed toward his office. Sophie tried, once again, to fit the coffeepot and the mirror together on the cart, but nothing was working. She felt a sudden flash of anger, as sharp and unexpected as a leg cramp in the middle of the night. Why did she always have to be the responsible one? What if she didn’t feel like being the grown-up all the time? And why the fuck wouldn’t this mirror fit into the goddamned cart?
Brian and Marjorie were just outside the door. Swiftly, Sophie set the coffeepot on the cart. Then she put the mirror in the only place she could think of…a place where it fit quite neatly, where it wouldn’t be jostled or forgotten: the inner pocket of her bag, right between Elliot’s diapers.
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
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