All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  Darryl K: I like the rush of getting it in just under the wire. 11:59 p.m. it is.

  Leona A: Thrill seeker.

  Darryl K: You don’t know the half of it, sweets.

  I thought about Darryl while driving to the Goodwill, an errand I was squeezing in before my appointment with Suspicious Estelle.

  I’d never been one for online dating. The whole idea seemed too fraught with uncertainty, and here I was, wondering if this stranger I met on the Internet might be amenable to giving me his sperm.

  Yeah.

  But Darryl didn’t seem like a stranger (said every Lifetime movie heroine before falling into the arms of a charming psychopath). Yes, it was stupid, but our connection felt real, our blossoming friendship unforced. I liked the possibility of his words waiting for me when I logged on to the computer. Darryl was funny and smart and, apparently, a thrill seeker—all attractive traits.

  My mind skipped back a few terms, to Bio 101 and those little genetic squares meant to determine eye color—all those big Bs and little bs. Carly had inherited our dad’s deep brown eyes, the big, badass dominant Bs. My mom’s baby blues were the scrappy little bs. Mine were hazel, like I couldn’t make up my mind and settled for something in the middle. What about Darryl? Piercing blues? Steady, no-nonsense browns? I hadn’t a clue.

  I wondered—did the chart work for predicting all traits?

  Carly said that I should find someone to neutralize my less attractive qualities. Darryl believed in embracing risk. Could his adventurous spirit (A) cancel out my mild agoraphobia (a)? He was also (S)mart and (F)unny and a little (b)rash. I smiled to myself, amazed at what a person could learn from a few online chats. Darryl shot to the top of my short list, pulling ahead in a race he didn’t known he’d entered. Something told me he’d be fine with it.

  Darryl was the guy who’d look at the whole thing as a lark. Darryl was the guy who’d have no problem giving his specimen to a courier. Darryl was the guy who might want a photo every year, or maybe one semi-awkward meeting at an interstate rest stop halfway between our homes.

  Darryl was the guy.

  Or not. I still hadn’t seen him, nor did I know where he lived, how old he was, or if he carried major genetic baggage. Did it matter if he actually took me seriously? If he didn’t think I was a complete nutcase?

  Maybe he should. Paranoia set in. What if he reported me to Professor Larmon for harassment? What if I got kicked out of the class, or worse, expelled from the program? What if neither of those things happened, but Darryl turned out to be a rapist or a stalker, or maybe he was sitting in jail, taking online classes to pass the time on a life sentence for triple homicide? He hadn’t revealed much of himself, and though we were constantly told to respect other students’ privacy online, most people couldn’t wait to discuss every dirty detail of their personal lives. Was there something really wrong with him?

  You fear too much, Leona.

  Wasn’t fear supposed to be a gift?

  I walked into the Goodwill store, and the musty-smelling chaos of other people’s discarded stuff put a temporary halt to my internal rumblings. I could never resist the anarchy of a good thrift shop—the clothes had lived harder lives than I ever did, and the stories they told fed something deep and needy in the heart of my oft-neglected imagination. I quickly found a teal silk sweater (with the tags cut out, the fashion version of an untraceable handgun), a lined corduroy miniskirt (lined = old—er—vintage), and a tasseled purple scarf I thought Maura would like. Tucking my treasures under one arm, I wove through the jungle of used furniture in the back of the store, searching for a decent full-length mirror. I found one propped against a dilapidated sofa, but its wood frame was amateurishly stenciled with Disney princesses—Belle, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty winked saucily while I stared at my reflection. Imperfect, but I figured Jerry might get a kick out of it, and at five bucks it was a great fit for my meager budget. I made my purchases and slid the mirror into the backseat of my Honda, threading a quarter of it through the open window.

  “Someone’s going to steal that,” warned Suspicious Estelle when she opened her door.

  “Maybe I’m a risk taker,” I said, smiling at her, and she shook her tiny silver-tipped head, mumbling about my lack of common sense.

  I followed Estelle inside her cramped English Tudor. The house always smelled a little moldy, but today another more pungent scent overpowered the mustiness. I dropped my bag in the foyer, wallpapered claustrophobically in swirling green and brown patterns, and waited. Estelle only let me into the house incrementally.

  “Why don’t you come into the kitchen?” she said. “You can make me some coffee.”

  My smile hardened. “Perfect.”

  Usually, we avoided her kitchen. It was a small, dark cave, last decorated sometime during the Nixon administration, when the middle class finally rejected the dreamy pastels of the Eisenhower era in favor of the earthier, more somber avocado green and mustard yellow. I searched her overstuffed pantry, but the only coffee she had was instant. I filled a kettle and placed it on the burner, and then searched through Estelle’s collection of mugs until I found two without chips. Sitting quietly at her small drop-leaf table, she watched my every movement, blue-veined hands turning on her lap.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked, stirring the coffees with a teaspoon. “Or are you going to make me figure it out myself?”

  “You shouldn’t use a silver spoon to do that. The acid will ruin it. That teaspoon was my paternal grandmother’s. A family heirloom.”

  I washed the spoon and dried it carefully with a dish towel. “All better?”

  “No,” she said, dropping her chin. “It’s not.”

  “Estelle. What’s the matter?”

  She took her coffee and made a face after tasting it. “Go look in the bathroom,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “The downstairs one.”

  In the few moments it took to reach the bathroom, my imagination zipped between a thousand different scenarios, all of them involving blood and gore and quick, frantic calls to 911. The reality wasn’t that far off, though apparently I needed a priest instead of an EMT, as an exorcism was in order. Pea-green dried vomit covered every surface of the closet-sized room, including artful Rorschach splatters on the mirrored wallpaper. Fighting a dry heave of my own, I returned to where Estelle sat in the kitchen, calmly sipping coffee.

  “Do you feel all right now?” I slipped a palm over the papery skin on her forehead. It was cool.

  “Yes, but—” She looked up at me, her eyes swimming with tears. “Do you think it’s a sign of something serious? My brother had stomach cancer. I have it now, don’t I?”

  I’m just a home-health aide, I wanted to say, but anyone even peripherally associated with the medical profession was an expert in the eyes of a borderline hypochondriac, a thought that both horrified and amused me. “There’s probably a more likely explanation,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “What did you eat before going to bed?”

  “I went out to the diner on Thatcher Street,” she reported. “The waitress suggested the eggplant parmesan, but I didn’t want that. Too salty. I had the whitefish with creamed spinach.”

  “I’m not a doctor, Estelle, but I think food poisoning is the more likely culprit.”

  She thought about this for a moment. “I thought it smelled funny.”

  “I can call your doctor and make an appointment,” I offered, though I could tell whatever had bothered her stomach had long since exited. “Or I can call your daughter-in-law. Maybe she can come sit with you for a while?” And maybe clean up the puke?

  Estelle snorted derisively. “She only comes over when she wants something. No need to call anyone. I’ll be fine.”

  Okay, then. I dove into the mess under the sink and pulled out some rubber gloves and bleach cleaner. “Guess I’ll get to work.”

  “I’d open the window if I were you.”

  Twenty minutes later, Estelle’s bat
hroom was clean and I was feeling an exhilarating mix of self-righteousness and adrenaline as I breathed in bleach fumes. No task was too much for me to handle! I was the ultimate home-health aide, caretaker of the aged, the vulnerable, the emotionally needy—

  “Leona?”

  I followed Estelle’s voice into her small, mushroom-colored living room. “How can I help you?” I asked, feeling like a minor superhero. Vomit-Cleaning Woman. The Puke Blaster. Super Mega Bleach Babe.

  “I was wondering if you’d finished,” she said, interrupting my thoughts as she hauled her feet onto a tasseled ottoman. “I have a list of tasks for you to complete today, and you’re only here for another hour.” She handed a slip of paper to me. Written in neat Catholic schoolgirl handwriting was a lengthy to-do list. Change the linens. Water the plants. Mop down the basement. Iron the curtains. Dust the—

  All thoughts of heroism evaporated into the musty air. I returned the list, heart thumping with indignation. “My job is to assess your health and assist with general living. I am not a maid.”

  “All of these requests fall under those parameters,” Estelle said, her voice stiff. “I was told you would help me with the things I had difficulty doing for myself.”

  Though barely five feet and suffering from osteoporosis and arthritis, Estelle’s health was relatively decent. I wanted to tell her where she could stick her list, but then I remembered her third malady, loneliness. “I’ll water the plants, change the linens, and clean the floor,” I said, gritting my teeth, “but I’m not ironing. I don’t even do that for myself.”

  Estelle nodded, and I got to work. My enthusiasm had waned, and I moved slowly, finishing up just as I needed to leave for Jerry Pietrowski’s house.

  “See you on Thursday,” I called to her where she still sat in the living room.

  “Wait,” she said. “Your purse.”

  She couldn’t be serious. I’d washed her dried vomit from the walls, scrubbed her toilet, and made her bed so tight she could bounce her dentures on it. “What?”

  “Come over here and open your purse.”

  Hating myself, I dropped my bag onto her lap. She took her time picking through my belongings, providing running commentary on the things I needed to get through the day. “You’re getting too old to chew gum.”

  “It’s a vice I can live with,” I said, not bothering to cover up my exasperation. “Are you satisfied I didn’t swipe the silver? I’ve got to get to Mr. Pietrowski’s.”

  “You like him better than me.”

  “Well, he doesn’t give me a TSA pat down before I leave his home. He trusts me.”

  “Then he’s a moron,” Estelle said. She stood and ushered me to the door, closing it on my back, dead bolt falling into place with a thunk.

  Before I got back into my car, I took the gum out of my aging mouth and stuck it between the flaps of her mailbox.

  CHAPTER 8

  The guilt kicked in about three minutes later. The ride from Estelle’s to Jerry’s was usually my favorite part of home-health day—it’s three miles, mostly cutting through a long stretch of forest preserve, the two-lane roadway protected by a thick shroud of trees. It was a psychedelic light show in the fall, the leaves a swirling mix of orange, red, yellow, and magenta.

  Today I couldn’t enjoy it. Why had I let Estelle push my buttons? I’d taken on older clients because, having nursed my father during his prolonged illness, I was familiar with their challenges and thought I could help with the daily humiliations specific to aging. Bodily fluids, strange smells, open sores—nothing bothered me all that much. I’d even reached the point where I could resist the urge to search their faces, looking for the younger version, assuming it was better and more attractive than who they were now. I never asked them what they’d done, only what they wanted to do. I was proud of my ability to value who they were, right at that moment, instead of basing their worth on the past.

  But then Estelle proved I was full of shit. My dad always said no job is beneath those truly willing to work, a saying I believed to be true, but I’d snubbed my nose at what Estelle had requested. Was it so bad to want ironed curtains and a scrubbed floor? Clean linens and healthy plants? It wasn’t her fault she had trouble completing the tasks herself, and who was I to condemn someone for wanting to maintain her living standards? On top of that, she was right—her requests weren’t outside my job description. I was hired to help her live her days in a comfortable manner. And I’d given her a hard time about it. Just a home-health aide? It was plenty if I did my job right. I’d scrub her bathroom with a toothbrush next week if she asked, and with a smile on my face.

  Reinvigorated, I drove up to Jerry’s house, humming along with the radio, so distracted it took me a moment to realize that it was him swaying atop an ancient wooden ladder, bad arm propped against his striped awning, good hand wrist deep in his gutter, a full story from the ground. I swallowed my yell so as not to startle him, saying a casual hello as I grasped the ladder, steadying it. “What are you doing up there?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Is this the best idea?”

  He glanced down at me, a line of sweat dripping from temple to jaw. “You said I should get outside, so I am. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “I’d be happier if it were you down here holding the ladder and me up there cleaning the gutter out.”

  “It’s a sludgy mess, sweetheart,” he said, flinging some mud-colored gunk at the ground. “I wouldn’t make you do this.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it. Believe me, I’ve done worse.” I glanced around uneasily while he worked. Jerry’s block stood quiet and lifeless. The local kids didn’t get out of school for at least another half hour, and I was sure an assortment of parents and caregivers were inside, frantically trying to finish up whatever chores were easier done without little hands trying to help. If Jerry had fallen, no one would have noticed.

  “You could have waited until I got here,” I said, unable to keep the scold from my voice. “I don’t like you doing things like this alone.”

  “I’m not alone. Paul’s in the garage.”

  Great. Did he know his father was risking life and (remaining) limbs? I wanted to tell Jerry to get down, but his shoulders held a certain confidence I hadn’t seen, and his assured movements, reaching and grasping, reaching and grasping, were smooth and practiced. The beauty of muscle memory, I thought, and briefly wondered if maybe this was a start for Jerry. He couldn’t have his old life, but he could have a life, one that didn’t define activity as reaching for the ice cream bowl and pointing the remote.

  “Just be careful,” I muttered. “Remember, it’ll be me who breaks your fall, and you aren’t exactly a featherweight.”

  He laughed, and I clutched at the vibrating ladder. Its motion seemed to spill onto the lawn underneath me, until I realized the ground was shaking, too, and I looked up, certain we were experiencing the rare Illinois earthquake, but it was just Paul barreling toward us, face red, curse words flying. He nudged me out of the way and wrapped his two enormous paws around the ladder. “I said I would do it! Can’t you wait five minutes?”

  “I can do it myself,” Jerry said, his voice steely.

  Paul’s response was profanity laden but soft, the words coming out in a breath. He watched Jerry for a moment, and then addressed me, still speaking low. “Did you encourage him?”

  Jerry shifted on the ladder, turning his body to face Paul’s. “Leave her alone,” he said. “I’m coming down now. Happy?”

  “No,” Paul said flatly. “Not even a little bit.”

  “Why do I even ask?” Jerry said. He lumbered down, slowly, heavily. Paul gripped the ladder, his jaw working with unspoken anger. Once Jerry’s feet hit dirt, he took my hand, ignoring his son, who began to climb in his place. “Let’s go inside. It’s a hot chocolate kind of day, isn’t it? I’ve got the good stuff, not that powdered shit.”

  The old ladder creaked as Paul ascended, sagging with his weight.


  “I can do that for you before I leave,” I offered, keeping my tone light and overly cheerful, just shy of Mary Poppins.

  Paul answered through his teeth. “Not necessary.”

  As the aroma of melting chocolate permeated Jerry’s kitchen, its earthy sweetness lulled us into an easy silence. Still in his jacket, Jerry settled in at the kitchen table, feet up, eyes half shut. I found some canned whipped cream hiding in the back of the fridge and gave us each a squirt, making one for Paul, though I could hear him slowly edging around the house, the slap of mucky gunk hitting the pavement.

  Jerry took a sip of the cocoa and smiled. “You make it like my wife did. More chocolate than milk.”

  “There’s no such thing as too much chocolate.” I sat across from him and took in his pale face. He shivered, though I’d heard the clank of the furnace kicking on when we walked in. “You okay?”

  “Tired,” he said. “I’m an old man. Sometimes I forget that.”

  “Not that old. Aren’t the sixties the new thirties or something like that?”

  I expected him to laugh. His mouth drew down instead, and he shook his head. “People who say that are in their thirties. Wishful thinking.” He lifted the mug and rolled it over his forehead and across a cheek, stopping with it under his ear. “I can’t seem to get warm today.”

  “It’s a damp chill, even with the sun. It rained this morning.”

  He shrugged, like any explanation would do, because it wouldn’t change things. Jerry set the mug on the table. His weariness concerned me, but his expression—defeated and grim in a way I’d never seen—sent me scrambling for the door.

  “I have a surprise for you,” I said, making for the front door.

  “Very little surprises me, sweetheart.”

  “Trust me, this one is good.” I ran outside before he could sink more deeply into cynicism, and yanked the mirror from my backseat.

  “Close your eyes,” I said when I returned, feeling like Santa Claus as I moved through the kitchen and into the living room. Propping the mirror against the wall opposite the Barcalounger, I stepped back to admire my purchase before calling Jerry in.