Read Online The Uses of Enchantment by Heidi Julavits - Free Book Online
Authors: Heidi Julavits
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growing nervousness. When faced with the prospect she realized: she did not want to be left in the house alone.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Bolt,” Regina replied, as though this explained anything.
“Who’s Mr. Bolt,” Mary said.
“Mr. Bolt? The art appraiser?” Regina feigned impatience. She knew damned well that Mary had no idea about any Mr. Bolt.
A familiar dullness descended over Mary. Though a presumably full-grown adult, she was still able to inhabit, quite instantly and quite viscerally and with quite a hefty dash of self-pity, the childhood terror of being left out of something.
“It’s for the tax write-off,” Regina said. “I can’t stand here and explain it to you. We’re late.”
“What tax write-off?” said Mary.
Regina glanced toward the conspicuously blank space on the living-room wall where Abigail Lake used to hang.
“You’re selling her?” Mary said, dumbfounded.
“We’re getting her appraised . For the tax write-off.”
“But how can we justify a tax write-off if…”
Mary noticed Gaby absently tweedling the green ribbon hanging from her coat’s buttonhole.
“I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Bigelow,” Regina said. “Abigail Lake belongs at the historical society.”
“But the painting’s only ten years old,” Mary said.
“Last I checked, 1989 was still a part of history,” Regina said. “At least in the reality I inhabit.”
Her sisters departed. Mary returned to the box-strewn living room, nerves ignited. She sat on the couch in her pajamas, trying not to brood over the situation nor further freak herself out, even though the house creaked and rustled around her and she couldn’t snuff out the irrational suspicion that she was somehow endangered.
To calm herself she stared at the space on the wall where Abigail Lake had once hung; the previously shaded portion of wall was paler than the wall around it and appeared, in this light, as a fossil-like depression in the plaster. The punted andirons, she noticed, had been stored safely inside the coal hod, which had been tucked inside the fireplace. After twenty-five years of out-of-service drafty space consumption, the fireplace’s “working order” had finally been restored last month, its chimney a justifiable household expense only now that Dad was selling the house. Mary would have found this detail touchingly indicative of her family’s penchant for parsimony where warmth, both literal and figurative, was concerned; but given the uncomfortably close parallel this act shared with her own last-minute attempts to restore working order, as it were, to her relationship with Mum, she viewed the new fireplace as further rebuke of her family’s—of her own—self-defeating ways.
She returned her attention to the blank space on the wall. Poor Abigail Lake, she thought. Yes, she too was disappointed that her mother had left her nothing more meaningful than a painting she despised and was furthermore meant to share with her sisters, none of whom lived in the same town. But to take this disappointment out on Abigail Lake—to donate her along with the throw rugs and the andirons—struck Mary in that tender place she reserved for the outsize pity she experienced on behalf of inanimate objects. Easier to be ruined by the sight of a child’s abandoned stuffed duck on the sidewalk. Easier to be ruined by the rejection suffered by a well-intentioned if misguided birthday gift—an ugly purple scarf. Easier to be ruined by “the pain” experienced by an ugly and unwanted purple scarf than the death, say, of one’s own mother.
Returning to the foyer, Mary checked the to-do list on the credenza. Second on the list, beneath “M’s Closet,” was “M’s Desk.” An arrow traversed the paper and pointed to three keys on a ring with a masking-tape tag ( KEYS TO DESK ) resting on the credenza.
Looking at the keys, her immediate conviction was that she would find Miriam in one of her mother’s desk drawers.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Bolt,” Regina replied, as though this explained anything.
“Who’s Mr. Bolt,” Mary said.
“Mr. Bolt? The art appraiser?” Regina feigned impatience. She knew damned well that Mary had no idea about any Mr. Bolt.
A familiar dullness descended over Mary. Though a presumably full-grown adult, she was still able to inhabit, quite instantly and quite viscerally and with quite a hefty dash of self-pity, the childhood terror of being left out of something.
“It’s for the tax write-off,” Regina said. “I can’t stand here and explain it to you. We’re late.”
“What tax write-off?” said Mary.
Regina glanced toward the conspicuously blank space on the living-room wall where Abigail Lake used to hang.
“You’re selling her?” Mary said, dumbfounded.
“We’re getting her appraised . For the tax write-off.”
“But how can we justify a tax write-off if…”
Mary noticed Gaby absently tweedling the green ribbon hanging from her coat’s buttonhole.
“I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Bigelow,” Regina said. “Abigail Lake belongs at the historical society.”
“But the painting’s only ten years old,” Mary said.
“Last I checked, 1989 was still a part of history,” Regina said. “At least in the reality I inhabit.”
Her sisters departed. Mary returned to the box-strewn living room, nerves ignited. She sat on the couch in her pajamas, trying not to brood over the situation nor further freak herself out, even though the house creaked and rustled around her and she couldn’t snuff out the irrational suspicion that she was somehow endangered.
To calm herself she stared at the space on the wall where Abigail Lake had once hung; the previously shaded portion of wall was paler than the wall around it and appeared, in this light, as a fossil-like depression in the plaster. The punted andirons, she noticed, had been stored safely inside the coal hod, which had been tucked inside the fireplace. After twenty-five years of out-of-service drafty space consumption, the fireplace’s “working order” had finally been restored last month, its chimney a justifiable household expense only now that Dad was selling the house. Mary would have found this detail touchingly indicative of her family’s penchant for parsimony where warmth, both literal and figurative, was concerned; but given the uncomfortably close parallel this act shared with her own last-minute attempts to restore working order, as it were, to her relationship with Mum, she viewed the new fireplace as further rebuke of her family’s—of her own—self-defeating ways.
She returned her attention to the blank space on the wall. Poor Abigail Lake, she thought. Yes, she too was disappointed that her mother had left her nothing more meaningful than a painting she despised and was furthermore meant to share with her sisters, none of whom lived in the same town. But to take this disappointment out on Abigail Lake—to donate her along with the throw rugs and the andirons—struck Mary in that tender place she reserved for the outsize pity she experienced on behalf of inanimate objects. Easier to be ruined by the sight of a child’s abandoned stuffed duck on the sidewalk. Easier to be ruined by the rejection suffered by a well-intentioned if misguided birthday gift—an ugly purple scarf. Easier to be ruined by “the pain” experienced by an ugly and unwanted purple scarf than the death, say, of one’s own mother.
Returning to the foyer, Mary checked the to-do list on the credenza. Second on the list, beneath “M’s Closet,” was “M’s Desk.” An arrow traversed the paper and pointed to three keys on a ring with a masking-tape tag ( KEYS TO DESK ) resting on the credenza.
Looking at the keys, her immediate conviction was that she would find Miriam in one of her mother’s desk drawers.
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