Garrett pushed his sleeve up, revealing thin, wiry forearms. His sat across from Mr. Williams, and they grasped hands and locked eyes.
Garrett took a deep breath. “Say ‘go,’ Leona.”
“Go?”
This was a death match in its ferocity. Red faces, veins bulging on straining muscles, necks locked into place. These two played for blood. I held my breath and resisted the urge to cheer for Garrett.
Grunting, their joined fists wavered, tilting one way and then the other, until I saw Mr. Williams slump slightly, almost imperceptibly, and Garrett took advantage, bringing Mr. Williams’s knuckles to the table.
Garrett jumped up and threw his fists in the air, a whippet-thin Rocky Balboa. “Yes! Yes!” Then he remembered his manners and offered his hand for a quick shake. “A worthy opponent.”
“We will meet again,” Mr. Williams said, rubbing his wrist. “Boy, you’ve got steel in that skinny arm of yours.”
Garrett grinned. “To the victors go the spoils.”
Mr. Williams looked at me. I couldn’t read his expression, but his features softened slightly. “You’ve got five minutes. I mean it. Any more than that and I’m coming upstairs for a rematch.”
Garrett’s hand slid down my arm until he could wrap it around my fingers. His skin blazed, probably from the arm wrestling. So much for not touching. “This way, Leona.”
On the way to the stairwell, we passed an industrial-sized kitchen and a modest living room. Garrett led me past both without explanation, his focus on the stairwell in front of us. So. Our tour had one destination. His bedroom.
What could possibly be done in five minutes? I banished teenage memories from my head and tried to be practical.
“This way,” he murmured as we reached the landing.
Garrett’s room wasn’t at all what I expected, but I should have known better. First off, it wasn’t private. (What was I thinking? He wasn’t living in a hotel.) Second, it was noisy. Dormitory style. Men of all shapes, colors, and ages lay on cots or hung out on the floor, some playing checkers or chess, others mumbling to themselves. One man, a urine stain featured prominently on the front of his sweatpants, stood in the middle of the room, openly staring at me.
Garrett ignored them all, tugging me over to a cot in the corner. The cinder-block wall would be at his back while he slept. He threw his duffel on the desk beside it. Taped to the cinder block were a few photos, some slips from the inside of fortune cookies, a funky collage made up of candy bar wrappings, and a menu calendar with the name Episcopal Mission typed at the top. “This is mine,” he said, with a strange note of pride in his voice.
I made some complimentary noises, but inside all I could think was, No, it isn’t yours. None of this is. But if you let me, I’ll help you find something that could be.
“Thanks for the tour,” I said, forcing a smile. “I better get downstairs before Mr. Williams stomps up those stairs looking for a fight.”
“I’ll walk you down,” Garrett offered.
“You stay put,” I said. “You’ll need your strength for all of those interviews coming in.”
“I don’t think I make for an impressive candidate.”
“You’re going to be great,” I said emphatically. “We’ll practice until you’re completely confident.” I punched him lightly on the shoulder. “And if it doesn’t work out, you can always arm wrestle for the job.”
He laughed, but the sound was hollow. “We’ll see.”
“Meet up on Thursday?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I felt bad about leaving him in that room, like a child forced to leave a puppy languishing in the pound.
Mr. Williams stood waiting for me in the lobby, his cold, rent-a-cop eyes dully checking me out, his earlier friendliness gone. “What are you doing here?” he asked, after I politely thanked him.
“Garrett’s a friend. He tutors my niece at the library, and I offered to help him with his resume.”
He nodded. “You interested in him?”
Embarrassment lit every freckle on my face. “I said he’s a friend.”
“Garrett’s a nice kid, but these guys, they all have problems. You know that, right?”
“That’s not fair. Everyone’s got problems.”
“Very true,” he said evenly. “But did you see anything up there that might tell you their problems are a little different from most people’s?”
I thought of the man standing in the middle of the room like a statue, not bothering to change his pants after soiling them.
Garrett had issues, I wasn’t naïve, but he wanted to change his circumstance. He wouldn’t accept my help if he didn’t. “Does that mean I’m supposed to not be friends with him? He’s going through a tough time. I hope to help him in a small way. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all,” Mr. Williams said, holding the door open wide so I could pass easily. “It’s just to these men, kindness never comes without a cost. They expect it to hurt eventually, and it usually does, because kindness isn’t charity. You can’t drop it off and go home, all pleased with yourself. These guys don’t know what to do with it. You’ve got to help them understand.”
“Maybe I can do that for Garrett.”
“Maybe,” he said. “And maybe you should just leave him alone.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“Yeah,” he said before closing the door. “It is.”
CHAPTER 13
I took a page from Donal’s rules for living and successfully dodged Carly throughout the weekend. Home-health visits ate up my Saturday morning, then homework, and in the evening I joined up with some girls I went to high school with for a ladies’ night out. Carly chauffeured the kids to birthday parties and activities all day on Saturday, and Sunday meant church, catechism class, and a family dinner made blessedly chaotic from spills and crying and general Brophy mayhem. Every time I glanced Donal’s way, he looked at me with pleading, terrified eyes, but Carly was too much of a whirling dervish to notice any weirdness was going on.
Or so I thought.
“We’re going out for coffee,” she shouted down the stairs as I blinked my eyes open Monday morning. “Help me get the kids off and we’ll take Josie to McAllister’s Café. I want to talk to you.” Her voice sounded remarkably un-Carly-like. Strained and pinched.
Oh, no. She knew.
But she wanted to speak to me in public. Would my own sister assassinate me in a crowded breakfast restaurant? No, too many witnesses. Still, my heart raced. Maybe she was so furious she didn’t trust herself to be alone with me? Or maybe she needed backup? The women that Carly befriended scared me a little.
I took an age to shower and dress, desperately hoping she’d forget or get tired of waiting. By the time I trudged up the stairs, the kids were already eating breakfast, but Carly didn’t say a word, and my heart beat a little faster. I threw myself into helping pack lunches and zip backpacks, and then joined in the frantic search for fleece jackets, picked wood chips off Patrick’s, located Maura’s stray leopard-print Converse, and lectured Kevin when he left the light on in the bathroom. After a minor tornado of kisses and goodbyes and “be good todays,” they were out the door.
“She’ll be back in ten minutes,” I told Josie, who sat slumped in her high chair, face covered in oatmeal. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we’re off to my execution, gangland-mama style. It’s not a good idea to keep things from your mother. She’ll always find out. Keep that in mind.”
Josie batted her eyes at me, and promptly spit up.
McAllister’s Café acted as the unofficial clubhouse of the ladies who toddlered. It was loud, the buzz of gossipy conversations punctuated by the shrieks and whines of the under three set. With tables set so close you could not only hear the conversation next to you, you could participate in it, I wondered why Carly would choose this setting if she wanted a fight. Not that I’d give her one—keeping Donal’s secret unsettled me, and I’d much rather have everything out in the op
en.
Carly swooped through the crowded restaurant, Queen Bee in this coffee-scented sorority house, all eyes turned to her exotic presence. I had to give my sister credit—she and Donal had only lived here a few years, but she’d put down roots quicker than a dandelion. I couldn’t tell what these women really thought of my sister, but they did invite her to birthdays and showers, mani-pedi outings, and wine-tasting excursions. Many of them lived in Willow Ridge, an exclusive enclave full of homes built to resemble French châteaus and Italianate estates, and an actual train track ran between our neighborhood and theirs. Carly said the divide didn’t matter once she’d crossed the four-child threshold—being a goddess of motherhood somehow canceled out any class differences—and they worshipped her as a fount of no-nonsense advice and symbol of do-it-all she-woman ferocity. But I wondered how many really liked her—or better yet, really knew her.
We grabbed the only remaining table, and the waitress materialized instantly. I ordered a three-egg skillet with a side of pancakes. If this was going to be my last meal, I wanted it to count.
Carly pulled a notebook from her diaper bag, along with a chewed-up pen. She was going to take notes as she took me down? That threw me.
“I want to talk to you about Donal.”
I studied my trembling hands. “I want you to know . . . I mean . . .”
“Let me ask you before you make any excuses,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It isn’t?”
“It’s a party, not an inauguration.”
“A party?”
“For Donal’s fortieth.”
“That’s at the end of November.”
“Which is why we’re having it at the end of October. I thought costumes would be fun, and we can decorate the garage and put tables on the driveway . . .”
My mind drifted. In a month’s time, Carly, Donal, and the kids could be across an ocean. The waitress brought my skillet, and I could barely look at it. I broke the yolk on one of the eggs and let it run.
“Are you listening?”
“Yeah. Party. Costumes. Got it.”
“And you’ll help?” she asked, dropping some finely chopped melon on Josie’s tray.
Donal’s secret choked me from the inside, making it difficult to breathe. “Yeah,” I managed to squeak out. “I’ll always help.”
Carly grinned at me. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”
I picked at my breakfast awhile longer. I couldn’t taste it.
Carly speared a wedge of pancake from my plate. “What’s wrong with you? Is it the baby thing?”
I sighed. “It has been on my mind.”
“Maura said you’d gotten friendly with Garrett the Tutor.”
“His last name is Winston.”
“That sounds . . . distinguished.”
“You were right,” I said. “He is really nice. Sweet. So much so I feel bad about even thinking about asking him, like I’m a predator or something. Maybe I should cross him off the list.”
“If you’re not going to get rid of the list outright, that would probably be for the best.” Carly’s voice turned somber. “He’s been surviving on the streets for a year and a half—even if these suburban streets are pretty boring, you don’t know what he’s experienced. You don’t really know him.”
I thought of Garrett’s spare cot, the meager decorations taped to cinder block, the guileless joy with which he goofed around with Mr. Williams. “I feel like I’m building a friendship with him. Right now that’s what’s most important to me.”
“Uh-huh,” Carly said as Josie let loose a high-pitched squeal. Carly handed her a wedge of pancake to calm her fussing. Then she stuffed one in her own mouth, probably for the same reason.
I was quiet on the ride home, distracted. Josie managed to fall into a deep sleep in the five minutes from the restaurant to our house, and when I carefully pulled her from the car seat and into my arms, she snuggled against my sweater and pressed her hot little cheek against my neck. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to imprint the memory. It hurt to imagine living without her.
“Lee! Come here right now.”
Something in Carly’s voice had me moving as fast as I could with a babe in arms. She stood on the bottom stair of the front stoop, pointing at a plain, brown-paper-wrapped box as though the Unabomber had just delivered it.
“It’s here,” she said, giggling.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Yeah.”
She picked it up, and we went inside. I laid Josie down for her nap. When I found Carly in the kitchen, she stood at the table, leaning over the box with a steak knife.
“Are you going to kill it, Norman Bates?” I asked her.
“If you’d taken one more second, I was going to rip it open myself. I can’t wait to see what’s in there.”
I took the knife from her and cut through the wrapping tape.
“So you’re really considering the turkey-baster method,” Carly said wryly, turning over the plastic-wrapped “specimen cup” in her hand. “Is Dr. Bridge sure this works?”
“I don’t think she’d have me waste my money if it didn’t.” I was doubtful, though. It all looked so flimsy—the rubber tubing fitted to the syringe did look like a turkey baster. “It’s kind of an ignominious start for a person, isn’t it?”
Carly laughed. “The backseat of a car is embarrassing. So is the bathroom at the Emerald Palace on free fish-and-chips night.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s how young Kevin got his start. Why do you think he likes fish sticks so much?”
It felt good to laugh with her. “You’re terrible.”
“And you’re chickening out, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice softer. “It’s okay if you do. More than okay.”
I wasn’t going to give up. Wishing my life hadn’t turned out like this didn’t mean I’d given up on changing things around. “I’m not,” I said. “This is simply making everything very real all of a sudden. Now that I have it, I have to use it.”
“You don’t have to. We can always sell it on eBay.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Carly laughed, and we wrapped it all back up again.
“Do you think Dr. Bridge would come and help . . . facilitate the procedure?”
“Offer that woman wine and she’ll go anywhere.”
I ran my finger over the tape, closing up the box. “Will you be there, too?” If you’re not standing in a misty Irish field? I was surprised by how much I wanted her there, cutting the cord and seeing more of me than I’d ever see of myself, sleeping in one of those spine-mangling cots next to my bed, and jotting down feeding times and pooping schedules.
Carly sighed. “When you look at me like that, I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health
Private Message—Darryl K to Leona A
Darryl K: So, I was thinking about that crazy thing you wanted to do. Did you do it?
Leona A: Not yet. Giving it serious thought, though.
Darryl K: Not good enough.
Leona A: These things take time.
Darryl K: No, these things take action.
Leona A: Just because I’m not ready right this moment doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it.
Darryl K: Do you still want to?
Leona A: Yes. Yes, I do.
Darryl K: Then put yourself on a deadline. Pick a fixed date by which action MUST be taken!
Leona A: That sounds sensible.
Darryl K: I’m waiting . . .
Leona A: Okay . . . how about the week of Thanksgiving? It seems appropriate. If all goes well, I’ll have much to be thankful for.
Darryl K: I’m going to hold you to that.
Leona A: Huh. I never thought you would be the one keeping me accountable.
Darryl K: Oh, I’m full of surprises.
CHAPTER 14
“What did you decide about that thing?�
�� Jerry said. He sat in his recliner, feet up, munching on roasted peanuts and half watching Cheers reruns. He asked in an offhand, casual manner, but his pink cheeks told me otherwise. I decided to mess with him.
“What thing?”
“You know . . .”
“Not sure what you’re talking about.”
He gave me a pointed look. “Fine. If you want me to say it. Have you been to the sperm place to pick a guy?”
I bent at the waist, trying not to pee from laughter. “No, I’m waiting for a coupon.”
“Just trying to make conversation,” Jerry said, glaring at me.
“I know. I’m sorry. No, I haven’t done anything. I can’t afford one of those places. You know they charge five hundred dollars a pop? And some are duds.”
“Don’t they check? What kind of guys do they have going to these places?”
“No, I meant, they just might not work for me. Or my egg might be the dud. Then I’ll need another. I might as well save the money for when the baby comes.”
“How is the baby gonna come, then?” Jerry said, not unkindly.
“I might ask someone. A friend.”
“Helluva friend.”
“Maybe some people are generous that way,” I said while straightening up the room. “At least I hope so.”
Jerry’s eyelids started drooping as I switched topics, rambling on about Kevin’s undefeated football team, Maura’s latest sassy comeback, and the art award Patrick won for his copy of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
“Who screamed?” Jerry said, jolting awake.
“Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap?” I wondered if his sleep habits should disturb me. I made a mental note to find out if they were normal for his age.
Jerry cleared his throat. “Only for an hour. You’ll stay, right?”
“Of course.” I reached out to help him up.
He was slower than he’d been before, his back taking a long time to straighten. When it did, he looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but if I was twenty years younger and not still in love with my wife, I’d help you have a baby, Leona. And if I’d be willing, you’ll find someone who doesn’t have the same hang-ups.”
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