The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Annie turns to me, and my eyes jump between the real-life apparition in front of me and the waxy effigy in the painting. Annie, with her flushed cheeks and bottomless black eyes and delectable mole, looks nothing like the girl in the picture resting her hand on her sister’s shoulder. There’s no mole. There’s no vibrancy at all.

“That’s my great-whatever-grandfather,” Maddie says, pointing. “Who dug the Erie Canal. That’s where the money came from. At first, anyway. Later it came from shipping. And subways; they owned part of the IRT. I always thought he looked like kind of an asshole. And that’s his son, my great-whatever-grandfather minus one. I don’t remember their names. But I know they all died together, except for the boy.”

Annie’s eyes go wide, and she steps nearer. “Eddie,” she whispers.

We all peer closer at the little boy, with his jaunty foot and impish smile.

On the index finger of his right hand, where it dangles down along his father’s back, is an oval smear of red paint, with tiny flecks of gold.

“Oh my God, that’s it!” Annie cries, pointing. “Look!” She rocks up on her toes, excitement vibrating off her, as though invisible fireworks are going off over her head.

“Wait. Are you sure?” I say, hurrying forward to see. I squint at the painting, trying to make the blur of paint resolve into a recognizable shape.

“Sure I’m sure,” she says excitedly. “It’s my cameo!”

“But you said it was painted last year,” I point out. “You didn’t have the cameo then.”

“Daddy had it restored at the Met conservation lab a couple years ago,” Maddie says, sounding sheepish. “They told us the boy had been repainted. Changed the color of his suit. Maybe he added the ring later?”

“Eddie.” Annie smiles, her eyes going soft. “It wouldn’t surprise me, him being vain. And the cameo would’ve been too big for him to wear on the proper finger. He’d wear it that way instead. I must have given it to him.” She looks at me. “But why? Why wouldn’t I give it to Beatrice? It doesn’t make any sense. And what happened to them?” Annie paces back and forth in front of Maddie’s fireplace, her fists pressed to either side of her head.

We all climb into the chintz sofas to think. Tyler starts to put a Chuck Taylor on one of the antique coffee tables, but stops himself.

“So, if Maddie’s great-whatever-grandfather got the cameo,” Tyler mulls, my camera in his lap, “does that mean Maddie’s mom would have it now?”

“Actually,” Maddie says, avoiding eye contact with all of us. “No. Not exactly.”

At that moment a bent-backed uniformed woman shuffles in carrying a heavy tray heaped with sandwiches.

“Good evening, Miss Malou,” the woman says with a raspy smoker’s voice. She’s as old as the elevator guy. I’m concerned the tray is too heavy for her to carry. My instinct is to get up and help, but that doesn’t seem like what I’m supposed to do, so instead I sit and do nothing and feel like a jerk.

“Thanks, Etta,” Maddie says, not getting up from where she’s slouched down in the sofa, boots splayed and in the way.

The woman sets the sandwich tray down on the coffee table with a grunt, and then shuffles back out without acknowledging any of us.

Tyler picks up one of the sandwiches and sniffs it. He makes a face.

I pick one up and stuff it into my mouth without hesitating, which is a mistake. I suppress a gag. It’s cucumber. And mayonnaise. And nothing else.

Maddie eyes me, laughing silently.

“So,” I say through a mouthful of sandwich. “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

Maddie sighs and stares up at the ceiling.

“Don’t laugh,” she warns.

Tyler and Annie and I all look at one another and nod.

Maddie sinks lower into the cushions.

“I bet it’s at the New-York Historical Society,” she says. She waggles one booted foot thoughtfully.

“What?” I say, rather intelligently, I think.

“My dad loaned them a ton of stuff last year. All these papers and crap, I don’t know. Junk. Stuff his WIFE”—she yells that last word—“didn’t want.”

“Crap,” Tyler says.