in the flower beds near the house the first crocuses thrust spikes up toward the sun. One day we wake up and the great lawn, previously brown and matted, has erupted in a carpet of bright green.
We move cautiously around the house, the four of us, blinking in the clear spring light, still as skittish as fawns around each other. Only one of us is fearless enough to fill the house with shrieks and giggles and wails of disappointment, but she’s only seven months old. Her name’s Judith, but we all call her Daisy; and we dote on her, mother, grifter, and broken brother alike. Daisy looks like a doll with her flaxen hair and her fat pink cheeks and those pellucid blue eyes, the last of which none of us ever comments on, although we all occasionally experience a shiver of discomfort when they fix directly on us.
I’ve been spending my days going through the rooms of Stonehaven, one by one, documenting the contents of each—this time, with the owner’s permission. Each painting, each chair, each silver spoon and porcelain clock is to be noted, described, photographed, cataloged, and archived. I’m already on my fourth binder. Sometimes I’ll look up and realize that I’ve just spent five hours researching the provenance and history of a Bourbon-era armorial vase, so consumed with cartouche and fleur-de-lis that I forgot to eat lunch.
So far, after six months of work, I’m on room sixteen out of forty-two. Vanessa and I haven’t discussed what will happen once I’ve finished them all; but I have at least a year to figure it out.
The job was Vanessa’s suggestion. She came to see me during prison visiting hours, two months before I was released and only a few weeks out from her due date. Her swollen body barely fit in the molded plastic seat of the visiting room chair. She was one of those women whose bodies cling to pregnancy, and every part of her—hair, skin, chest, belly—seemed to be bursting with life. I wondered if she was making up for all those years of fashion-induced starvation.
“I’m offering you a job as an archivist,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I can’t pay a lot, but I’ll give you room and board and cover your expenses.” She picked at her fingernails, glossy from prenatal vitamins, and smiled nervously at me. “I’m looking into long-term options for Stonehaven. I might donate it to this organization my mom used to support, Mental Health Association in California. They’re interested in starting a school for kids with special needs. Like, you know, Benny?” She flashed a nervous smile at me, and I thought, Oh, so that’s going to be her penance. “Anyway, it’s going to take a while, and in the meantime I’m going to get rid of a lot of the antiques. I need someone to help me figure out what to sell, what to keep, and what to donate.” Another pause. “I figured you’ve probably paid more attention to the contents of that house than anyone has in decades.”
At first, I wasn’t so sure about this. I’d assumed I’d head back to the East Coast after my release, and see what kind of art world jobs my damaged record might allow. I wanted to get far away from the West Coast and my sordid history here, start over fresh. And it was possible she was just trying to buy my silence. But about what? We both had a lot to lose with exposure.
The more I thought about it, the more Vanessa’s idea made sense. We were tied together now, she and I; even if I moved four thousand miles away I would never be able to escape that bond. Vanessa was probably my best shot at reclaiming some legitimacy in life. Plus, if I was going to be honest with myself, wasn’t there also a little surge of excitement at the idea of really getting to study Stonehaven up close? To truly learn its secrets after all these years?
“You trust me not to steal the silver?” I said. “Remember, I’m a convicted felon.”
She gave me a shocked look, then laughed, a slightly hysterical sound that broke through the cacophony of the visiting room. “I think you’ve already paid your debt to society.”