While Madison went to pick up Timothy from day care, I showered and then changed into new clothes, leaving my old ratty stuff in a hamper that I knew would be spirited away when I wasn’t looking, my clothes laundered and folded and then returned with maybe even a ribbon tied around them. I put on some of the perfume Madison had picked out for me, which smelled like old silver and honeysuckle. When I finally went downstairs, I saw Timothy standing there, no sign of any adults. “Where’s your mom?” I asked, and he simply turned away and started walking down the hallway. I followed him, and we ended up in his room, which I hadn’t seen earlier that day. His bed was bigger than any bed I’d ever owned, so fluffy that I wondered how he didn’t suffocate instantly when he got into it. “So this is your room?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said. “Do you want to see my stuffed animals?”
“I mean, I guess,” I said. “Sure.”
There was a big chest and, with some effort, he lifted the lid. And then, like clowns from a VW Bug, out came so many stuffed animals that I felt like I’d dropped acid. Timothy pulled out a red fox with a bow tie. “This is Geoffrey,” he said, no emotion on his face.
“Hello, Geoffrey,” I said.
He pulled out an elephant with a thick pair of black eyeglasses. “This is Bartholomew.”
“Oh, okay; hi, Bartholomew.”
He pulled out a frog with a crown on its head. “This is Calvin,” he said, presenting him to me.
“Are you sure his name’s not Froggy?” I asked.
“It’s Calvin,” he said.
“Well, jeez; hey, Calvin.”
There was a teddy bear with a pink dress on. “This is Emily,” he said.
“Are these from some TV show or something?” I asked, trying desperately to understand this boy.
“No. They’re just for me.”
“What do you do with them?” I asked.
“I line them up.”
“Is that it? You just line them up?”
“Then I pick the best one,” he said.
When I was six years old, I used my birthday money to buy this giant box filled with action figures for boys at a yard sale. Barbies were too expensive, and so I played with these guys, all decked out in camo, interesting facial hair. I just made them stand-ins for the people in my town, and I worked my way through imaginary scenes about the life I wished I had. My figure was a doll of the Fonz from Happy Days, his plastic hands formed into thumbs-up signs. And my mom was this bearded dude with muscles and a denim vest and shorts.
One time, I was playing in my room and the mom doll said, “Lil, the mayor’s cat is missing,” and then my doll said, “C’mon, Mom, the Breaker Detective Agency is ON IT!” and I heard my mom’s actual voice say, “What are you doing?”
I looked up and my mom was standing in the doorway, staring at me.
“The mayor’s cat is missing?” I said, confused.
“Is that supposed to be you?” she asked, pointing to the Fonz. I nodded.
“And that’s me?” she asked, pointing to the Big Josh doll. I nodded again, but now I felt like maybe I’d done something wrong.
My mom looked at me with this strange expression, and now, thinking back, I feel like this was the exact moment when she realized that I wasn’t her, that I was a mystery to her and maybe always would be. I could see this flash in her eyes. And she said, kind of dumbfounded, “God, Lil, what’s in that head?” And she walked off. And I felt like a freak, even though what I was doing, pretending, was what all kids did. But my mom had no use for pretending. I think she thought it was stupid, was a kind of weakness. From that point on, I guess I sort of realized that my imagination, which made life tolerable, needed to be kept a secret from the rest of the world. But if you keep something hidden away, all tied up, it’s hard to summon it when you really need it.
And, so, maybe I understood Timothy a little. Or maybe I was jealous of him. “Can I play, too?” I asked him. He nodded and produced twelve more stuffed animals, lining them up along the floor.
“Okay, so I just pick the best one?” I asked.
“It has to be the best one,” he said.
There was a panda bear with a little guitar stitched to his paw. “I think this one.”
Timothy’s eyes kind of flashed with recognition, as if the seventeenth-century ghost who lived inside him had suddenly awakened.
“That’s Bruce,” he said, and I laughed a little at the name, so ridiculous for a stuffed animal.
“Is he the best one?” I asked.
He looked at the others, took his time. Finally, he said, “Today, Bruce is the best one.” He handed the panda over to me and I hugged it. It smelled so good, so clean.
While I held Bruce, Timothy gathered up the other stuffed animals and then put them away. He seemed pleased. I felt like I’d passed a test. Timothy touched my head, and I resisted the urge to swat his hand away.
“You’re good,” he said, and he smiled a little. Just then, Madison showed up. “Oh, are you two playing?” she asked.
“Kind of,” I said.
“Did you pick Bruce?” she asked.
“I did. He’s the best one,” I told her.
“The best one today,” Timothy clarified.
“Daddy’s home!” Madison suddenly said, and Timothy started to vibrate with, what, happiness? Excitement? Fear? “Daddy,” he said, now smiling, and he stumbled out of the room.
“Jasper’s here,” Madison said to me.
“Yikes,” I said. “Okay.”
I walked as close to Madison as I could without it being a three-legged race, and we found Timothy lifted into the air by Senator Roberts. There was genuine happiness on the man’s face, and this softened me temporarily, which was exactly what I needed to get through this moment.
“Daddy’s here!” Timothy said, and I could see the pride radiating off of his tiny body.
“I’m here,” Jasper said, not smiling, but not frowning.
Senator Roberts was tall, just enough to make him seem important. His hair was silver, not gray, like he was the emperor of some distant, icy planet. And his eyes were so blue, just beautiful. He was a handsome man. He wore a beige suit that fit him perfectly, a light blue tie with a silver donkey tie clip. He looked a little weary, like being important was a Herculean task. If any aspect of his appearance had been off by even a few degrees, he would have seemed evil. But he had the ratio perfect. I wouldn’t have married him, even with his money, but I understood why Madison would.
“Honey,” Madison said once Timothy had received his father’s full attention, “this is Lillian.”
He kept holding on to Timothy, who had hidden his face against Jasper’s chest. “Hello, Lillian,” he said.
“Senator Roberts,” I said.
“Oh, Jasper, please,” he said, though he looked pleased at the formality.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jasper,” I then said.
“You are almost mythical in this house,” he said, his voice so measured, so hypnotic, the right amount of Southern accent. It wasn’t Foghorn Leghorn and it wasn’t a newscaster in Atlanta. It was lyrical and honeyed and entirely natural. It sounded nice. “Madison thinks the world of you,” he continued.