Objects of My Affection by Jill Smolinski Page B

only.”
    â€œI’m working closely with her. If she’s sick, I need to be aware of her limitations,” I say, hoping that whatever those might be, they don’t slow her pace even further. “I don’t want to strain her.”
    He regards me as a bouncer might a pimply teen proffering a shady-looking driver’s license, but eventually says, “It’s a mild infection, but a persistent one. Not uncommon in people with diabetes. We’ve got her hooked up with antibiotics. The good news is, she’ll be able to move about”—he gives another look around the house for effect—“or at least try to.” He screws the cap off the water and heads toward the hall that leads to Marva’s office. “Back in a jiffy!”
    When Marva and Nelson emerge a few minutes later, she’s walkingwith a cane in one hand and pulling an IV pole on wheels with the other. She’s wearing a silky poncho and slacks, full face of makeup as always. That astounds me. When I’m sick, I tend to look as lousy as I feel.
    Nelson gives Marva instructions on how and when to remove the IV, then he’s on his way. It seems overly intimate for me to be hearing her medical instructions. It occurs to me for the first time how exposed Marva must feel. Her house and her possessions and her hoarding habit and even her health problems are splayed open for me to see. Whereas I haven’t had to reveal anything, not that she’d care to know.
    â€œAre you up for getting started?” I ask. “We can do the mudroom first since there’s that nice big chair in there.”
    She harrumphs, which I interpret as a yes, not taking offense. I’d be cranky, too, if I had an IV port buried in my arm.
    The mudroom is a few steps from where we’re standing in the kitchen. With anyone else, I’d wheel the IV pole. I have a hunch I’ll find it skewered through my gut if I so much as offer.
    We walk over, and before she sits, Marva says, “You seem relatively intelligent. Think you can handle remembering what I’d said I wanted to keep or dispose of yesterday?”
    â€œSure,” I say, giving her a pass on the relatively .
    â€œTake care of it. I have other things to do.”
    Yeehaw and hallelujah. I’m thrilled I’ll be able to work in peace. I don’t let it bother me that it’s a total waste of time that she’s now trusting me to redo what she made me undo because she didn’t trust me.
    Without having to wait for Marva to debate every decision, I’m finished so fast that I treat myself to a salad at a deli up the street. I can eat the peanut-butter sandwich I’d brought with me for dinner instead.
    When I get back, Marva is ready to work, which means I have to slow my pace to hers. It’s like that sound of a screeching halt they always play in TV shows— eeeeeeerch —as Marva says, “I wonder what’s in this drawer here.” Next thing I know, we’re sitting next toeach other on dining room chairs I swept free of piles. She’s painstakingly taking out each item from the cabinet drawer and reflecting on it. “This kachina doll … I believe it’s from the Hopi tribe … or Zuni …” She’s talking to herself more than to me, but I “mmm-hmm” her and tease it from her hands as quickly as I can. The sun sets and then rises again, and then days turn into weeks, months into years, as we make our way through that one drawer.
    I’m getting antsy as I wait for her to thumb through a bound manuscript she’s found. When she closes it, I see it’s the screenplay for the movie Pulp Fiction. There’s an autograph scrawled across the front that appears to be Quentin Tarantino’s.
    â€œThat was a great movie,” I say.
    She grimaces. “He’s so pompous, as if I’d want his signature. Do be a dear, will you, and put this in the theater