All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  Darryl K: You are a romantic, Leona.

  Leona A: Maybe I am.

  Darryl K: Enjoy your night. I might go hang out at Denny’s. A Moons Over My Hammy is sounding pretty good right now.

  Leona A: Nothing beats a fried egg. Maybe we can hang out together sometime? I like greasy food and sludgy coffee. Rockford isn’t that far.

  Leona A: Darryl?

  Leona A: Darryl?????

  CHAPTER 18

  I pushed. I pushed and I shouldn’t have, and now I’d freaked Darryl so far out he’d probably block my private messages and dissolve our partnership and report me to Professor Larmon for sexual harassment and . . .

  Deep breath.

  Maybe he got another leg cramp and couldn’t find the baseball bat. Maybe his Internet service kicked out. Contrary to my general life philosophy, not every scenario eventually became the worst case.

  I took another breath and refreshed my student e-mail.

  Nothing.

  I couldn’t take it back. I wanted to, but it was out there, my invitation taunting Darryl, who probably didn’t know how to reply without hurting my feelings. The eye twitch I always got when I was nervous started fluttering. What if I’d ruined a perfectly good friendship?

  I would worry about that in the car ride over to Jerry’s. I didn’t want to ruin two perfectly good friendships in a day, so I got ready quickly, choosing a nice purple corduroy miniskirt and my silky teal sweater, and putting on more makeup than my usual swipe of mascara and lip balm. There are all kinds of ways to tell someone you love them, my father often said, and one of them was to not look like you were pulled up from the gutter to shake his hand. If this was the last time I saw Jerry, I wanted to leave him feeling nice about the time we spent together. I didn’t want him to only remember waking up to find me gone.

  Mrs. Lim answered Jerry’s door.

  “Some girl is here!” she bellowed, and gestured for me to come inside.

  I followed the diminutive woman into the kitchen. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she wore a pink velvet tracksuit with “Grandma” embroidered across her tiny butt in shiny silver thread. Orthopedic running shoes completed the look. They squeaked as she walked.

  Jerry wasn’t in the kitchen, but Paul was, looking characteristically dour. He stood at the sink, towering comically over Mrs. Lim. Her dark eyes moved from me to Paul and back again.

  “This is Leona,” Paul said, more an announcement than an introduction. He gave no indication he’d poured his heart out to me the last time I saw him, his mannerisms stiff and formal.

  “Sit,” Mrs. Lim demanded. “I’ll make you tea.”

  “That’s really not—”

  “Sit.”

  I sat. There was a sound from somewhere else in the house, more than a sigh, more like a groan.

  “He’s wearing it,” Mrs. Lim said to Paul. “Be prepared for some old-man attitude.” She glanced my way again, and her head twitched dismissively. “That fake arm is going to require a lot of care at first, so when I’m not around, no hanky-panky with your girlfriend here—you pay attention if he starts bitching about dry skin or swelling.” Moving toward the mugs, she nudged Paul to the side with her bony hip. It should have been like a feather pushing up against granite, but he jumped as if electroshocked. His face was crimson.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said quickly.

  “Then what is she doing here? In a sick man’s home? I thought I said no visitors. They steal energy.”

  I cleared my throat, reminding her that I was indeed a person. “Jerry’s not sick.”

  She turned off the kettle. “He’s trouble today. You shouldn’t see him.”

  “I told her she could have ten minutes,” Paul interjected.

  She assessed me with narrowed eyes, head to toe. “Are you a relative?”

  “I’m Jerry’s girlfriend,” I said, watching her eyes grow wide. “Well, ex-girlfriend. He dumped me for someone younger. I’m just here to say goodbye. I just miss him so much.”

  She choked, a seize ending in great hacking coughs. Paul glared at me while he produced a napkin into which she spit something wet.

  “Sweetheart, what are you doing here?” Jerry stood in the doorway. He cradled the prosthesis with his good hand. It almost looked real—the flesh the right color but wrong texture, the fingers rested at a slightly odd angle. Its offness matched the rest of him. Jerry looked like a sick man. Why hadn’t I noticed before? The skin under his eyes was sagging and discolored, and his shoulders appeared more rounded, almost stooped. Then I saw his eyes, and a shred of humor remained, enough to lift some of my worry.

  That was him. Jerry.

  “Ms. Accorsi has to leave soon, Dad,” Paul said. “She wanted a few minutes to speak with you.”

  “Lee can have hours!” Jerry exclaimed. I stood as he took my hand, not wanting him to have to pull me up. “Let’s go in the living room.” He shot dirty looks at Paul and Mrs. Lim. “It’s too crowded in here.”

  “You need to take your medicine,” Mrs. Lim insisted.

  “Ten minutes,” Paul warned, his voice tight.

  Jerry sat in his Barcalounger and I in my usual spot at his side on the sofa. “Would you get a load of this piece of shit?” Jerry said, hitting the remote against his prosthesis. “It chafes like hell.”

  “Should it?” I didn’t want to tell him I was nervous of infection, too.

  “The doc said it would for a while. As long as the skin doesn’t break, I should be fine.”

  Silence. I had too much to say—the ten-minute time limit overwhelmed me. I knew Paul would stick with it, and he’d probably send Mrs. Lim in to bounce me from the premises. I had no doubt she could throw my ass to the curb.

  I edged up the sleeve of his flannel shirt and examined the prosthesis more closely. The hand and lower arm had some give, not exactly fleshy, but close enough, with steel running underneath like strong bones. Just above his elbow, the plastic turned hard, the color Barbie-doll unnatural. I could see the edge of the plate crossing his upper chest, and the red and white wires controlling his very limited movement.

  “I’m battery operated,” Jerry said with a snort.

  “You’re more able,” I countered, unwilling to let him dismiss the enormity of the change. “Steadier. This will change your life.”

  “I’ve had enough change,” he said sadly. “This is window dressing, nothing more.” He drew his sleeve back down quickly and took my hand with his good, warm one. “When I woke up and you weren’t here, I felt like I did when Anna was first gone. I wasn’t sure where I was. This house means nothing to me, the furniture can burn for all I care. I need faces, smiles, to show me I’m still here. I got used to yours, sweetheart.”

  “I didn’t want to go,” I said, deciding not to shield Paul. “I would have been there if it were up to me.”

  “I think my son means well. That doesn’t mean he’s right. I’ll work on him, Leona. You’ll have your job back soon enough.”

  I wanted it back, but I didn’t want to cause more of a rift between father and son. My ego wanted Paul to recognize my value and to actually want me to return. “Do you like Mrs. Lim?”

  Jerry’s eyes clouded over. “You don’t want to come back.”

  “I want to,” I said quietly. “Of course I do.”

  “She’s brutal. Not a soft bone in her body. If you peeled her skin away, you’d see stone.”

  “She can’t be that bad.”

  “She doesn’t talk to me unless it’s to bark an order. She’s worse than my drill sergeant ever was.”

  “Are you taking your medicine?”

  “Do I have a choice? I hate it, Lee. It makes me feel like I live underwater.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “She spoons it into my mouth. Like I’m an invalid. Or an infant.”

  “Has she taken you to the YMCA?”

  “Once, I—”

  I started crying.

  “Oh,
Lee, she tricked me. I thought we were going to the grocery store.”

  “She’s good for you. Better than I was.”

  “I’m doing these things, but I feel nothing. I’m the Dead Sea inside. Don’t you understand?”

  “I understand that I can’t come back. Paul’s right. She’s doing a better job. She’s the more qualified person for the job. I can be a big enough person to admit that.”

  “All that stuff doesn’t matter. I thought you understood.”

  “I do, but I have your best interests at heart. That’s my job.”

  “You sound like Paul,” he scoffed.

  “Maybe he’s not entirely an asshole. Just half.” I checked my phone. Nine minutes had passed. I stood up and kissed Jerry’s forehead. “Give him a little time, but maybe, instead of trying to talk him into rehiring me, you could convince him to let me visit? I’d like to walk around the block with you.”

  Jerry sighed. “I’ll try, sweetheart.”

  I wanted to tell him I loved him, but saying the words almost seemed cruel if Paul barred me from returning. I smiled at him instead, but Jerry looked far away, as if I’d left already and he was trying to remember me. “Thanks for everything,” I choked out.

  I got into my car and pulled over a few houses down from the Pietrowskis’ because I could never mix crying with driving. The cry was ugly, snotty, breathless, and oddly satisfying, and I was so into it I didn’t respond to the sharp rap at my window.

  “Leona!”

  Paul bent at the waist and squinted into my car. “I would have gotten him a better one,” he said as I lowered the window. “They’ve got electric arms that move solely on brain impulses. I would have paid for it. He didn’t want it.”

  The wind picked up, and I shivered. “Get in the car.”

  “What?”

  “If you want to talk, get in the fucking car.”

  Watching Paul squeeze himself into my car confirmed my belief that if there was ever a sign I wasn’t meant to share my life with a man, my choice of a Honda Civic was it. He tugged on the bar beneath the seat, sending it all the way back, but still I worried his knees would punch through to the engine.

  “Comfortable?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’d be able to buy a new car if I hadn’t just had my work hours cut.”

  “Funny,” he said dully.

  We sat for a moment, listening to the howl of the wind and the leaves scratching against the car. “Why didn’t he want the nice one?” I finally said.

  Paul managed a small shrug.

  “You could have forced him, but you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t. I guess I wanted to give him control of something.”

  “Admirable.”

  “You’re being facetious.”

  “Why do you always need to point out the obvious?”

  “I have a hard time reading people sometimes,” he admitted. “Another reason why I’m not in a courtroom. I say things like that because I want to be sure I’m not making a mistake.”

  “You made one when you judged my character. You can trust me. I want to come back to visit Jerry. Will you let me do that?”

  Paul shook his head. “You’ll undermine Mrs. Lim’s authority. She’s better for him. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I think you probably picked up on that. Like I said, he wanted to stay in that house with you because you made him feel safe. He can’t stand being around her, so he does what she says. You tell me which one is better.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to be his aide again. I want to spend time with him.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Then why did you come out here? If I’m not part of his care, why did you want me to know he could have had a better prosthesis? Are you looking for some kind of approval? Do you feel guilty? If I’m the only one who can tell you you’re being a good person, then you need to rethink your social sphere.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve sought approval from anyone. That wasn’t what I meant. I suppose I wanted an opinion.” He placed his hand on the door handle. “I didn’t have the right to ask you.”

  “No,” I retorted. “You didn’t.”

  Paul opened the door and dislodged one massive leg from where it was wedged against the dash. The car groaned as he shifted his weight, leaning into the cold afternoon. “When you walked into the kitchen, I was surprised,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d show. I wasn’t sorry to be wrong.”

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Carver-Wittelsteins’ couples baby shower had valet parking.

  “Bet they didn’t expect anyone to show up on bikes,” Carly said, waving at someone in the house. She made a show of dismounting, obviously getting off on how ridiculous we looked. I hadn’t changed after my visit with Jerry, and Carly, dressed in a stretchy red wrap dress and gray high-heeled boots, had halted the valets in their tracks as she pedaled hard up the Carver-Wittelsteins’ gravel driveway. She’d insisted we leave the car at home because, according to her, their wine cellar was legendary, and we were both due to get “absolutely stinking pissed drunk.”

  I didn’t quite know why she thought I deserved a good boozing, but I understood why she felt entitled. Her argument with Maura—loud, teary, and vicious in that cutting, take-no-prisoners way mothers can spar with their daughters—jolted me from a comatose sleep around midnight. Carly screamed that Maura had missed curfew, and Maura screamed right back, insisting Carly hadn’t set one. It went on for too long, both of them repeating words like “trust” and “common sense” over and over, as if the other person weren’t listening. Which could have been the truth.

  Carly needed to make a new set of rules going forward, but she didn’t know how to write them, and Maura sensed her confusion. It wouldn’t take long before she exploited it, and Carly knew it.

  We passed our bikes to the eager valets. “We’ll take good care of these, ladies,” said the older one as he glanced at Carly appreciatively.

  She beamed at him and retrieved a brightly wrapped box from her basket before he wheeled her bike into an achingly clean three-car garage. I felt self-conscious as I followed her up a column of massive stone steps, then doubly so as the heavily pregnant Mrs. Sophia Carver-Wittelstein opened her door and looked at me with questioning eyes.

  “Donal couldn’t come,” Carly explained. “This is my sister.”

  Sophia smiled weakly. “What happened to Donal?”

  “He couldn’t make it,” Carly explained. “You didn’t specify what kind of couple on the invitation, so I thought Leona would be a good substitute. She’s willing to participate fully.”

  Participate?

  Looking troubled, Sophia took the gift from Carly’s hands and balanced it on her enormous belly. “I guess that’s okay,” she said while stepping back to let us in. “Welcome to my home, Leona.”

  Built of marble, granite, and metal, the Carver-Wittelsteins’ home was an Italianate homage to suburban architectural overreach. They believed in largesse as a general decorating philosophy, and this extended to the shower decorations—official-looking banners and flags, all in pink. Soft pink, moneyed pink, good-mannered pink, the kind that didn’t hurt the eye or call attention to its girlishness. The banners hanging from the fireplace bore flags scripted with the letter F or K.

  “What’s that all about?” I whispered.

  “They’re naming her either Faith or Karma,” Carly said while taking in the decor. “What a choice. One’s a crapshoot, the other’s a bitch.”

  “Karma is nice, but I kind of like Faith,” I told her, feeling that someone should defend the girl destined to crawl around on all that cold marble. “It sounds hopeful.”

  Carly shuffled me quickly over to the bar. She pointed to a bottle of red wine and held up two fingers at the bartender. “Faith will ultimately disappoint you,” she said as she took her first blissful sip of wine. “I’m partial to Karma. At least when sh
e takes a hit, she comes back stronger.”

  Carly’s cell phone rang, and she smiled faintly as she dug into her purse. “Maybe it’s Maura, though I don’t think she’s ever placed an actual phone call. Her thumbs must be broken.”

  “Do you think you’ll get an apology?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a kick?” The ringtone went silent as Carly pulled her phone from the depths of her bag, the case covered in the sticky pieces of a crushed hard candy and the remnants of a neon-bright Post-it note. She frowned at the screen. “Don’t recognize the number, but whoever it was left a message. I’m going to sneak off to one of Sophie’s other living rooms to listen. You’ll be okay without me? I’ll only be a few.”

  She was gone way longer than a few minutes. I nervously sipped my not-from-a-box wine while I watched the well-dressed couples congregate around small high tables in groups of four or six, chatting animatedly. The women were staunch believers in gold-toned highlights, Botox, and statement jewelry. The men were partial to checkered dress shirts and ironed jeans. Oddly, a number of them sported prominent beer bellies, Homer Simpson style. They seemed inordinately proud of them, smiling broadly as the women patted and rubbed their tummies.

  “Your turn,” said a voice from behind me. I whirled, nearly spilling cabernet down the rounded front of Sophia Carver-Wittelstein. She held up a contraption that chillingly reminded me of Jerry’s prosthesis. “It’s a fake baby belly,” she explained, hooking it over my shoulder. “Gretchen works at Marigold Maternity, and they keep these lying around so newly pregnant women can buy clothes for the later months.”

  “And you want me to put it on?”

  “All the guys do it,” she said, attempting to pout. Was Botox even allowed during pregnancy? “It’s so much fun. And we can’t start the games until you do.”

  Games? What the hell? I began to shove my arms into the straps.

  “Oh, no, you need to put it under your clothes so it looks realistic. The bathroom is down the second hallway to your right.”

  I downed the rest of my wine and made my way. The arched hallway led to a bathroom the Romans would have fought a hundred armies to secure, complete with pillars and a placid pool of azure water I guessed was the bathtub. The only thing stopping me from hiding there until the party was over was the thought of Carly crashing into the room and dragging me out by the hair.