All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  “You need to be ready,” I countered, ignoring the look of utter fear in his eyes when I checked the rearview mirror. I had a thing against fear ever since my talk with Carly. I was going to stand up to it in all shapes and forms. “And this way we can take advantage of the fact that Maura has an Institute Day, so she can help us.”

  “You’re going to look awesome, Garrett,” she said, bouncing in her seat.

  We stopped at a red light, and I looked back. Garrett hugged his omnipresent duffel bag and folded himself into a tighter ball. “Maura has great taste in clothes,” I said. That was playing dirty, but I knew he couldn’t resist her obvious excitement at helping him.

  “Okay,” he said uneasily. “As long as it doesn’t take very long.”

  The Goodwill men’s section boasted an entire wall of suits in a rainbow of colors—some a little rough and outdated, some obviously donated by wealthy dudes with money to burn. I found a bunch in Garrett’s general size and shuffled him off to the dressing room with some surprisingly starched white dress shirts and a red-striped tie Maura found in an accessories bin. Maura and I sat on a bench, watching Garrett’s feet as he pushed them into some gray flannel slacks.

  “This is like a fashion show,” she said, twirling her scarf with excitement. Every part of her was moving in some way, reminding me of what I felt like when I was young and had more energy than I knew what to do with. Impulsively, I moved to hug her, and she flinched away. The rejection stung, but I should have known she wouldn’t like it, and deep down I knew that taking her moodiness personally was a mistake. It wasn’t the embarrassment that bothered her, but the confinement. I didn’t want to be the adult who spent my energy trying to corral hers. I leaned back to give her some space.

  “So what’s going on with you?” I asked casually. Garrett’s elbow shot out of the curtained dressing room, and we laughed, breaking any remaining tension. “What’s new and exciting in the life of Maura Brophy?”

  “I don’t even know how to answer that,” she said, her voice sounding jaded and world-weary. “Ava and Justin are going out. Like out, out.” She stopped, thought for a moment, and placed one small hand lightly on my arm for about half a second. “Don’t tell my mom, okay, Auntie Lee?”

  Add it to the list, I thought, my heart shrinking like a raisin in my chest. “What does that mean, out, out?”

  “You know, like they text. Sometimes they meet up at Starbucks or that park by the highway, the one with all the picnic benches.”

  “To do what? Kiss?”

  Maura shot me a look. “Seriously?”

  “What? More than kiss?” I sputtered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with experimentation.”

  “Who said that? Not your mother.”

  “Why do older people always pretend to be okay with sex and stuff when they’re really not?” Maura scoffed. “It’s all such a lie.”

  “Who said I was okay with you having sex? I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend or not. You’ve got to give me a minute to catch up with your status.”

  Another withering look. “Oh, God, Auntie Lee. I don’t have a boyfriend yet. I don’t even have a period.”

  “Do you need one before the other?”

  “I do,” she said. “None of my friends take me seriously because I’m still a kid. It’s embarrassing to be a freak of nature.”

  “You are not a freak. Who told you that?”

  “Nature told me. I’m being ignored, passed up because I’m defective.”

  “You are not—Oh, my God.”

  I gasped. Maura’s eyes bulged out of her head like a Looney Tunes character.

  Garrett stood in front of us, looking like a contestant on America’s Next Top Model, testosterone edition. The suit broadened his shoulders and tapered his waist, its rich gray color bringing out the tiny flecks of green and gold in his blue eyes, and the red tie contrasted nicely with the rich, deep darkness of his raven-pelt hair. Just looking at him turned me into a poet.

  “Is it wrong?” he asked, biting his lip. “It’s wrong, isn’t it? That’s why you’re looking at me like that.”

  “It’s far from wrong.” I stood, reaching out to smooth the tie and adjust his collar. Who was I kidding? I wanted an excuse to touch him.

  “Why do you ladies look like I suddenly grew another head?”

  “Every girl loves a makeover,” I explained, smiling up at him. “And this is a majorly successful one.”

  Garrett focused his attention on Maura. “Is that right?”

  She nodded like a bobblehead, his beauty stealing away her ability to speak.

  His stiff posture loosened a bit. “The total for all of this is forty-one dollars and fifty-eight cents with tax.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, math geek, I think we have a winner.”

  Garrett looked troubled. “I don’t know about that,” he said softly. “But this suit is certainly nice.”

  In every neighborhood, there’s a house that draws children to it like flies to fruit. Usually, it isn’t the one you’d think—the one with state-of-the-art sports gear and a play gym built by a team of engineers—but the one where chaos is not only tolerated but also welcomed, where the mom screeches and threatens but her pantry is always full and her heart open, the house where kids are left to mostly work things out for themselves. Casa Brophy was it.

  When Maura and I pulled into the driveway, a gang of unruly fourth and fifth graders approached us Lord of the Flies style, battered and dirt streaked, carrying sticks, leaves in their hair, looking as though they might tie us up and feed us to a wild pig. A basketball flew past our window, and half the kids ran recklessly into the street to retrieve it.

  “Be careful!” I shouted out the window.

  “At the last second, they look,” Maura said. “I hope.”

  “Teachers must love Institute Day.”

  Maura sighed. “My mom doesn’t.”

  Someone cried out, and two boys wrestled each other on the pavement. “I’ll take care of it,” Maura said as we exited the car. Like a pro, she separated the two by yanking on their collars. “Either you stop fighting or you start walking home,” I heard her say as I went into the house.

  The scene inside the kitchen was also thick with the tension of impending chaos. Carly didn’t acknowledge me right away—she sat at the kitchen table, staring into space and jiggling Josie on her knee so jerkily the baby’s small mouth turned down and she stared at her mother with watchful intensity. At first I thought it was my presence causing the strain—Carly and I hadn’t spoken much since our argument—but then I noticed her gaze shift to Donal, who pushed a mop over the floor like he was intent on rubbing the gloss off the hardwood.

  “Don’t you think it’s clean enough?” Carly muttered.

  Donal stopped and leaned the mop against the counter. “Of course, yes, you’re right.” He glanced at the dish rack, which was empty, and at the empty table. “Josie’s due for a nap, isn’t she?” He didn’t wait for Carly to answer before sweeping the baby into his arms. “I’ll bring her up, then.”

  “He knows,” Carly moaned after we heard him dash up the stairs. “He’s been acting so strangely. Do you think he hates the idea of a party?”

  “Donal is kind of private.”

  “Donal? The man pisses outside in front of the neighbors when he’s mowing the lawn. Since when did he get so introverted?” Carly ran her index finger over the scratched table. “It’s the money he’s worried about. He doesn’t want me spending it.”

  “It might not be a good idea. With Christmas coming up,” I said hurriedly. The secret-keeping part of my brain pushed against its constraints. I wanted to let it out, but then I had to give Donal a chance to come clean. But it had to be soon.

  “My husband is turning forty,” Carly said. “That demands celebration. I’ve put some money to the side, and I’ll figure the rest out.”

  “I’ll help where I can,” I said, my voice sounding gauzy and unfam
iliar.

  Carly looked at me sharply. “What happened today? Was it a bust?”

  “No, Garrett found something great,” I said quickly, eager to change the subject. “The suit was a little bit dated, but he looks amazing. Like a model.”

  “You like him.”

  “Of course I like him.”

  “No, you like him, like him.”

  “Now you sound like Maura.”

  Carly scooched closer. “What’s his story? Has he told you anything?”

  “Not really. He’s kind of the strong, silent type.”

  “I’m not familiar with silent, but strong sounds pretty good to me. He’s skinny, but he’s got shoulders you can hang on to.”

  My mind immediately leaped to an image of Garrett in that gray suit, those shoulders of his straight and proud under the fabric. “I’m trying to help him. I think he needs a little push is all.”

  “I can see that. Give him a shove if he needs it. That man is wasting his talents.”

  “What do you think did it? Why is he living in the back of a church with men who piss their pants and don’t even notice? Doesn’t he care for his future?” My voice must have sounded more upset than I’d realized, because Carly’s sharp edges softened.

  “Are you thinking about a future with him? I thought that wasn’t your endgame.”

  “I don’t want hearts and flowers. Like I said, I want to help him. I don’t even care about what he can do for me.”

  “You don’t? You aren’t thinking this is a reverse Pretty Woman? I can see it in your eyes. You want to be living in some loft somewhere in the city, with skylights and big-bottomed red-wine glasses, and you’ll be sitting on your balcony laughing with him about how he was homeless when you met and you were ready to take out a ‘woman seeking sperm’ ad in Craigslist.”

  “That is so not what I want from him.”

  “Have you asked him yet?”

  “The time isn’t right. It’s not an easy thing for me to ask. I’m going to help him get his life sorted out, and then I’ll broach the subject.”

  “After he’s back to the land of regular paychecks and Starbucks runs, he might look at the issue differently.”

  “Where are you going with this? I can feel you shifting into manipulation mode.”

  “And what you’re doing isn’t? Playing dress up, finding him a job, molding him. It’s not right, and I’m allowed to worry about you. This whole thing isn’t going to work out the way you hope.”

  “I’m helping him. Don’t make it into something dirty.” And with that, I retreated to my basement lair, trying to avoid the Carly-like voice inside my head telling me she just might have a point.

  I did want to ask Garrett. I also wanted to help him get his life together. But I also wanted to undo the cord holding his hair back and run my hands through it like a model on the cover of a romance novel. Did that make me a creep?

  I had no one to ask. Except I did. Darryl. I flopped onto my bed and reached into my bag for my laptop. When I tugged open the zipper, a small piece of paper came floating out. On it was Donal’s spidery handwriting:

  Kara called. Appeal denied. I’m going to tell Carly soon, but please keep it to yourself for now. She needs to hear it from me. Be sure to take a morning jog tomorrow and I’ll catch you up.

  Donal

  CHAPTER 16

  “You haven’t told her yet.”

  “I will.”

  “You need to tell her soon.”

  “Or you will?”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “But I’ll make your life miserable shaming you into it.”

  “I’m shamed enough as it is. I want to do it properly. I’ve got to get it right in my head before I talk to your sister. A little time. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Donal started driving. The van lumbered through the suburban streets, aimless and awkward, like us.

  “You look like a complete mess,” I said. “You know that, right?” His greasy hair hung long over his ears. He wore a flannel splattered with something that resembled carrot soup, and his work jeans, generally worn but clean, looked like he’d tossed them on after taking a run with the bulls.

  He glanced over at me. “You aren’t exactly a vision yourself.”

  My long-sleeve T-shirt, damp with perspiration, advertised a local pizza joint. My running tights had such stretched-out knees they looked like doorknobs. I couldn’t find any hair bands, so strands stuck to the side of my face, the damp ends growing chilly.

  Donal sighed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just—I feel like digging a hole and climbing in.”

  I moved to pat his shoulder and stopped, thinking about what Carly said. He should be fighting for his family. He didn’t need my sympathy; he needed a fire lit under his ass. “What did Kara say about preparing for court?”

  “She didn’t. She only confirmed I’ve got the hearing scheduled in two weeks’ time. After I tell Carly, we’ll talk about the best course of action.”

  “You’ve got to be proactive. Have Kara give you specific advice based on her experience. That’s what you’re paying for, isn’t it?”

  Donal went quiet for a long moment before saying, “Do you think it matters, Lee? I’m fucked.”

  “We all are if this doesn’t work out, so I’d say you need to press her for details. What’s the exact date of the hearing?”

  “First of November. All Saints’ Day. Think that’s good luck or bad?”

  A few days after the surprise birthday celebration. How would we make it through the party without our fear spilling out like beer from a tipped cup? “I don’t think it matters one way or the other. Good planning makes luck irrelevant.”

  Donal stopped at a light and turned to me. “That doesn’t sound like you. Something’s made you different. What is it? Is it the baby thing?”

  I shrugged off his question. We drove out of our suburb, through the vibrant forest preserve, and onto the more crowded blocks as we neared the city. The blocks turned familiar, landmarks popping in my head.

  “I know where we are,” I said. “Make a right on the next block.”

  “Park here,” I said, and we rolled to a stop in front of the Pietrowski residence. I sat there, staring at Jerry’s front door. A beige drop cloth covered the stoop, and a can of paint, a brush, and a roller were shoved into the crevice between the railing and the door. Paul was there. Somewhere. Lurking.

  Donal killed the ignition. “Are we going to rob this place?”

  “This is where Jerry lives.”

  “The amputee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t he fire you?”

  “His son did, yeah.”

  “Did he welsh on your final paycheck? Want me to rough him up?”

  I took in my brother-in-law, jittery with caffeine and skinny as a rail, and laughed. “I’ll do the roughing up, if necessary. Let’s just sit here a minute while I grow a set of balls.”

  Donal leaned back and crossed his arms, watching me carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman do that before. This morning has taken an interesting shift into the miraculous wonders of fringe science.”

  Ready, I unclicked my seat belt. I was going to say goodbye to Jerry properly, whether Paul liked it or not. I wasn’t going to let him bully or threaten me. I wasn’t going to hear the word “no.” He demanded I better myself? Well, this was the better me, and he’d just have to deal with it.

  Paul lumbered around the side of the house, carrying another can of paint and some mixing sticks.

  “Holy shite! You didn’t mention his son was Hulk Hogan. You are definitely doing any roughing up today. A couple of rounds with him and I’ll be begging to be deported.”

  We watched Paul mix the paint, massive arm in motion.

  “Sure to cause a paint tsunami,” Donal muttered.

  Paul worked methodically, so completely focused he didn’t notice us until he stood to pour the paint into a tray. His eyes caught mi
ne, and I squirmed in my seat. Do not chicken out, better Leona. Do not chicken out.

  I took a deep breath and tried to exit the van casually, tossing Paul a nonchalant wave that he met with a look of utter perplexity.

  “What are you doing here? I paid your final check.”

  “I never got a chance to say goodbye to Jerry,” I said, my voice sounding too loud, too strained. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

  Paul walked slowly toward me, stopping just a little too close. It was a big man’s trick, meant to intimidate. “It’s not possible,” he said, shrugging. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll be sorrier if you don’t give this well-meaning woman a chance to say goodbye to someone she cared for,” said Donal from behind me. I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Why are you giving her such a hard time? Lee’s a good person. You must know that if you spent more than five minutes with her.”

  “I never said she wasn’t,” Paul answered, giving Donal a long look. “My father is at the doctor’s office.”

  My mouth dropped open. “He drove? Are you nuts?”

  Paul wiped his hands on a towel hanging from the pocket of his jeans. “You’re a man of the trades, aren’t you?” he said, addressing Donal.

  “I do well enough.”

  “I’d like to speak with Ms. Accorsi privately for a moment, but that paint needs to be used sooner rather than later. Do you mind?”

  “Do I need to worry about the private nature of this conversation?”

  I almost missed it, but Paul’s thin mouth hooked up at the corner. For him, this was a grin. “I promise to be a gentleman.”

  “Then I think I can manage slapping a bit of paint on,” Donal said tersely, and he immediately got to work, a paintbrush as familiar to him as his hand. Paul watched him for a moment, then, satisfied my brother-in-law wasn’t going to splatter the concrete with forest-green droplets, gestured for me to follow him into the house.

  I’d only been gone a week, but it smelled different, more antiseptic, more like a hospital.

  “Would you like some tea?” Paul asked as he filled a kettle. “It’s peppermint. Good for digestion.”