Protecting Marie by Kevin Henkes

drawers locked. Originally, this fascinated Fanny, because she had never owned anything like this before, never had the chance to be secretive in this way. There was no lock on her bedroom door, no lock on her jewelry box. Once, after receiving the file cabinet, it occurred to Fanny that having it during the days of the Stupid Hunts would have been a perfect solution to her problem. She could have placed Marie, or anything else she was worried about losing to Henry, in the cabinet and turned the key, guaranteeing safety. It would have been as simple as that.
    The key to the cabinet clinked against Fanny’s house key as she kneeled and pulled them out from under her shirt. She had worn both keys around her neck for years. The house key was solid and heavy and golden. The key to the file cabinet was thin and silver and nearly weightless. Fanny opened the bottom drawer. She laid the bottle of silver dragées down right next to Marie.
    The file cabinet was filled with many beloved things: three shells Fanny had found when she went to Martha’s Vineyard with herparents one summer; a translucent handkerchief stitched with rows of leafy daisies that had once belonged to Grandmere, Henry’s mother; a Christmas stamp from England, torn from an envelope, of a snowman looking at a child through a window; a black-and-white photograph of Henry as a boy riding a tricycle; a color photograph of Ellen as a girl drowning in a wave of Oriental poppies; three ribbons—one red, two white—that Fanny had won at a summer track meet for children at the university; and a sketch of Fanny, an infant, curled up with her fists at her mouth like a kitten, drawn by Henry.
    There were smooth stones from their cabin in the woods, a multicolored beaded necklace Ellen had worn to her high school prom, and a bicentennial quarter. There was a brittle maple leaf crown Ellen had woven for Fanny’s last birthday. And there was the small slip of paper on which were written directions to the farm where Nellie now lived. Fanny had unfolded and folded the paper so many times it was beginning to fall apart at the creases. She wondered if she’d ever have the courage to visit Nellie. She wanted to, and she didn’t. She thought she would; she knew she couldn’t.
    Before closing and locking the drawers, Fanny gingerly removed Marie. Marie was swaddled in a sheet of tissue paper so thin Fanny could see Marie through it as if she were embedded in ice. Fanny unwrapped her. The doll seemed so small and flimsy now. Her arms and legs were folded in against her body like the petals of a flower. Fanny peeled them away. “Will it be a merry Christmas?” she asked Marie.
    Marie lay in Fanny’s hand, still and silent.
    â€œThat’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Fanny. She bundled Marie up, placed her back in the file cabinet, and closed the drawer with a rmm-click.
    While Fanny straightened her room, she could hear the linen closet door open and slam shut. Again. Again. She could hear Ellen walk heavily across the floor. She could hear the floor creak and hangers clatter against one another and ring. Fanny knew that her mother was organizing, too. They were both killing time, waiting for Henry. Like mother, like daughter. Frowning, Fanny decided to quit. She would leave her dresser drawers open. She would leave her dirty socks on the throw rug. She plunked herself down on her unmade bed defiantly and rested her eyes. Within minutes, her whole body yawned, she was so drowsy. Spots swam beneath her eyelids. She tightened and relaxed her eyelids, and the spots pulsed like flames.
    As she was drifting off, Ellen’s voice kept replaying in Fanny’s head: “Scratch the surface of anyone and you’re bound to find complexities.” And “Secondhand pain is the hardest to deal with.” Ellen had said these things to Fanny while they had been cleaning up