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LJ IDOL - Week 12
Prompt: MacGuffin

My grandmother lived in a dollhouse. Not an actual dollhouse, of course, as she was a grown, human woman, but that’s what her house reminded me of. It was a Victorian style home in an upper-middle class neighborhood. The windows were all dressed in white shutters with blue-striped, vinal overhangs and wrought iron embellishments. The lawn was finely manicured and lined with beds of mums and daisies and flowering bushes.

Inside was just as enchanting. As an adult, I recognize it as dated - gaudy even - but as a child I found it extremely charming. There was Damask wallpaper, ornate chairs in the sitting room, china cabinets and curios everywhere. There were canopy beds in the guest rooms. There was a big sun porch filled with books and white, wicker furniture; a breakfast nook with a long, cushioned bench seat. There was a massive grandfather clock whose rhythmic tick could be heard from any place in the house, if you were quiet enough. Area rugs strewn across wooden floors, an old-style radio playing a stream of Dean Martin, an ornate fireplace with gold detailing, various family pictures framed and sitting on the mantle.

Her home was ripe with treasures - tiny, decorative tea sets, a marble statue of a sitting dog, a wooden chess set, a small, hand-painted globe. I found myself gravitating towards these odds and ends, finding them to be so unique and interesting. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, surrounded by oddities in every room.

One night, my parents had a wedding, and so I was sleeping over. I vividly remember keeping her company while she got ready for bed. I was perched on the dressing table bench beside her, watching as she removed her makeup and took down her pinned hair. Her dangling, teardrop earrings were removed next and as she opened her jewelry box to place them gently inside, I gasped, immediately taken by the assortment of shining, sparkling, colorful things nestled inside.

She smiled and pulled the jewelry box onto her lap, lifting the lid so I could see it's contents. It was filled with bold pieces and delicate gems and shimmering metals. I know now that a vast majority of it was flashy costume jewelry, but child-me saw a collection of wealth and riches. I was in awe.

“Would you like to try some on?” she asked, as I had not yet learned the art of the poker face.

I simply nodded.

“Well, go ahead. Let’s see how they look on you.”

I know I hesitated. These seemed like the very sorts of things mom would explicitly tell me not to touch. But, self-control was a limited resource in my younger years and the encouragement was too much to contend with. Gently, I began pawing through the pieces. I pulled out delicate rings that dwarfed my fingers and heavy necklaces that hung down to my lap. But as I dug deeper, my hands found the piece de resistance: a lobster brooch.

The pin was comprised of an ivory-colored oval with a brushed metal lobster sitting on top. I know the description doesn’t do it justice, but that’s my best attempt. Why I had an instant attachment to this extremely random piece, I’ll never know. I’d never worn a brooch in my entire life and I had no special affinity for lobsters, but it was by far my most favorite find.

I didn’t put it on. I held it and ran my fingers across the surface, studying the tiny lobster’s details. I held it up to the light, against the shirt of my pajamas, out on my palm. And then it was time for bed so I put it back and gently closed the box's lid.

The next morning, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the lobster pin. My grandmother was down in the kitchen starting to prepare breakfast and I remember attempting to nonchalantly inch up the stairs to her bedroom. When I’d made it to the landing, I crawled on all fours across the carpet, making my way over to the dressing table. I stood and walked my fingers to the jewelry box, sliding them beneath the cover. I didn’t need to open it all the way. I knew I’d placed the prized pin right on top the night before.

Let me be clear that I wasn’t attempting to steal it. I truly just wanted to hold it and look at it. Yet, somehow this felt criminal. And so I was hyper-aware when the stairs began to creak under the weight of someone’s footsteps. I had just enough time to return the brooch, but not enough to come up with a reasonable excuse for being in there, so I simply froze in front of the dressing table like a deer in headlights.

“Oh, here you are! Breakfast is ready. Come down.” It was my grandma. She smiled and turned away.

We’ve discussed this exact moment many times. I remember it so clearly, but my grandmother not so much. I believe she was turning away to give me the opportunity to put back anything my sticky fingers might have taken, but she says she can’t recall that specific period of time, nor believe that she would ever suspect me of being a little thief. I, however, still insist on adamantly pleading my innocence, swearing that I had never intended to take it. It’s become somewhat of a running joke in the family.

Later on that morning, I accompanied her to her room under the guise of wanting to watch her get ready for the day. My real motivation was being near that odd lobster pin. Ever the failing con-artist, she immediately noticed that I was hovering near the jewelry box.

“You can open the box,” she said.

“What box?” I asked, feigning disinterest.

“The jewelry box.”

“Oh, that box?”

I pretended I wasn’t absolutely fiending for another look at that lobster brooch, lifting the lid and eyeing a few other pieces. But, again, the self-control stores were limited and soon the object of my interest was in my hand again. My grandmother milled about the room, watching me from the corner of her eye.

It was then that I heard the roar of a car engine pull into the driveway. I recognized those rumbles and, even without looking, I knew my parents had arrived to pick me up. I’m sure I looked positively crestfallen.

My grandmother glanced over and smiled.

“Would you like to keep that lobster pin?” she asked.

I believe my eyes practically fell out of my head. I could have this priceless treasure? This odd, unique piece that I had absolutely no reason to be drawn to, yet inexplicably was?

“Yes!” I answered, without pretense.

“Well, then it’s yours.”

My grandmother told me, many years later, how the entire existence of the brooch was a complete mystery. She also had no special connection to lobsters and had no idea when she’d even acquired it. I had dug it out from the very bottom of the jewelry box, hidden among the earrings with no mate, the necklaces that turned her chest green, and other such misfits.

Ironically, I never wore the pin either. Surprisingly, gaudy lobster brooches weren’t really in style for young girls in the late 90s. But boy, did I ever treasure that thing. I still have it, all these many years later, and if you wanted to see it, I’m sure I could dig it out of the bottom of my jewelry box for you.