Parts Unknown

Parts Unknown - By S.P. Davidson


Prologue





I stood paralyzed in the Rite-Aid card aisle. Not one card was right. “My Dream Come True.” “I’ll Love You Forever.” “Our Love is Meant To Be.” Ridiculous pictures of penguins, or ribbons, or silhouetted couples walking hand-in-hand in the sand. Our love isn’t like that at all! I thought, frustrated. It just felt wrong, buying one of those over-the-top cards, even though I knew George would do so for me. I knew he’d come home with a spray of flowers and one of those mushy cards. Maybe some pastel-colored lingerie, or cultured pearl earrings I’d never wear. Something you could tell he’d hurried into downtown Pasadena to buy during his lunch break, checking off an imaginary list titled “appropriate anniversary gifts.”

“Oh, the hell with it!” I muttered, grabbing the first card I saw—a large heart-shaped confection with imprinted lace edges. “To My One and Only Love,” it read in foil cursive. The lengthy poem in front appeared to continue inside, but I couldn’t bring myself to read the entire thing without gagging. Something about how we would walk hand in hand through life, always by each other’s side, with a love that never died. Well, that was about right anyhow, I reflected, digging through my cluttered purse for change. George would never let me leave his side. We’d be forever stuck together like the magnetic princess-and-frog salt and pepper shakers Aunt Dorothea had given us as a wedding present. Sometimes I just wanted to fling those garishly colored things at the wall.

I crossed the street to Larchmont Village Wine & Cheese and purchased an appropriately festive gift—a bottle of port. I couldn’t stand the stuff myself, too sweet with an undertone of wet socks, but George loved to pour himself a glass of port after dinner, swirling it thoughtfully as he propped his stocking feet up on the ottoman in the living room. All he needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket, I’d think, and he’d fit right in to the nineteenth century. My lord and master.

A sparkly bag to put the booze in and presto—our fourth anniversary. Our sixth year together.

The funny thing was, by marrying George, I’d finally given in. No more mucking about in low-paying jobs, barely surviving paycheck to paycheck, following some half-assed dream of artistic fame I could never carry through. I was ready to conform, and I had purchased the beige-colored clothing to prove it.

But marrying me—barely employed, almost half his age—that was the one crazy, wild, out-of-character thing George had ever done. That March afternoon four years ago, I’d walked down the makeshift aisle in George’s mother’s backyard, my heels sinking into the damp grass.

Sparse rows of guests with polite, vague smiles; George’s mother staring stonily straight ahead, as if at a funeral. My two brothers: Marty in a too-small suit, his bony wrists sticking out of the cuffs. He sat next to the aisle, and as I passed him, he mimed a hanging motion, crossing his eyes and lolling his head back, hand pulling on an imaginary rope. I kicked him furtively as I walked by. And Alex, sitting with his fiancée, Sheila, intentionally several rows distant from Mom and Marty. I hardly recognized him, with slicked-back hair and a suit that looked more expensive than my wedding dress.

Mom was crying, but she cried so easily.

And I hardly touched Dad’s arm as we walked together down the aisle, slipping in the mud. Thinking, So there you go. This is how it ends, after all.