All the Little Pieces - Jilliane Hoffman

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grabbed the stack of napkins from her purse. ‘Did you run away from Mrs Wackett and Ms Ellen? What did we talk about?’

      ‘No running.’

      ‘That’s right, Forrest – no more running.’ Maggie might have taken too long to learn how to walk, but once she did, she went straight to running and never stopped. Jarrod had nicknamed her Forrest Gump because she didn’t stop until she got tired, which was … well, never. Faith handed her the napkins.

      Maggie’s face went dark again. The napkins fluttered to the floor. ‘Don’t call me Forrest Grump.’

      Faith tried not to laugh.

      ‘It’s not funny.’ Maggie smashed the ice-cream cone which she still held in her hand face down on the table and crossed her arms. Jarrod had named that look the Incredible Sulk.

      Faith had seconds to defuse the bomb. ‘You’re right; no one should call you names,’ she said, picking up the napkins. ‘That’s not nice. Please wipe your hands.’

      ‘Like Melanie.’

      ‘That’s the new girl?’

      ‘It’s an ugly name.’

      ‘Why don’t you like her?’

      ‘She called me a name.’

      ‘What was that?’

      ‘She said I was a weirdo and that no one wanted to play with me ’cause I play weird.’

      Faith felt something stab her heart. She crushed the empty water bottle with her hand. ‘That’s not nice. I understand why you got upset, but you can’t hit her.’

      Maggie turned to run off to the ball pit, then stopped midway and ran back. ‘Are you mad?’ she asked, looking at Faith strangely, her head cocked.

      ‘I’m mad that someone said something mean to you. And that you won’t listen to me or Mrs Wackett.’

      ‘You was mad yesterday,’ Maggie said slowly, as if she wasn’t sure she should proceed. As if there was another thought floating around in her head and she was toying with throwing it out there by testing the temperature. ‘Really, really mad …’

      Faith swallowed hard. Perhaps it was the guilt hangover that was making her paranoid. Maggie had been asleep the whole time in the back seat – she’d checked on her. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, hoping to disguise the anxiousness in her voice. ‘Are you talking about at Aunt Charity’s? When we had to leave Aunt Charity’s? What are you talking about?’

      Maggie squirmed in her shoes uncomfortably and looked around the gym.

      ‘Yes, I was mad at Aunt Charity’s,’ said Faith. ‘My feelings were hurt, the same way yours were when Melanie called you a name you didn’t like. Do you want to talk about it?’

      ‘I don’t like it when you’re mad,’ Maggie said, her eyes wide and tearing up, her lip puffing. ‘You’re scary, Mommy.’

      But before Faith could pull her close to ask her what she meant by that, the tears were gone and she was off running, squealing with delight as she dove into the ball pit face-first.

       15

      She was in bed when she heard the rumble of Jarrod’s garage door opening, followed by the chirp of the alarm being unset and the slam of the door. Then the rattle of pots being manhandled and cabinets opening and closing. The ding of the microwave. A plate clinking when it hit the sink.

      ‘It’s me!’ Jarrod finally called out, in case Faith was hiding in a closet, frying pan in hand, waiting to give it to the ballsy burglar who was busy fixing himself a snack before heading upstairs to raid the jewelry box.

      ‘Hey there, honey,’ he said with a smile as he came into the bedroom eating a Yodel a few minutes later. He walked over to the bed and kissed the top of her head.

      ‘Hi, yourself,’ she replied, muting the TV. ‘It’s almost eleven. You’ve had a long day.’

      ‘Did you get my text?’

      She nodded.

      ‘We wrapped twenty minutes ago.’

      ‘Did they settle?’

      He nodded. ‘The wife broke. She was what was holding everything up. She wanted the beach condo in Hollywood and my client didn’t want to let it go. But money always talks; he stroked Mrs Valez numero uno a check for three hundred thousand, signed over the house and half the pension, and that was it.’

      ‘Oh,’ she replied softly. ‘Is there a number two waiting in the wings?’

      ‘We’ll see,’ Jarrod answered charily, realizing too late that he had walked into the wrong neighborhood. He was a divorce attorney with a practice that thrived on the break-up of relationships and sometimes he forgot how his flippant comments could sting. ‘How was your day?’ he asked, stripping off his tie, trying his best to turn around and get out of the conversation.

      ‘It was OK. How many years was this one?’

      ‘Sixteen. No kids, though.’

      She nodded absently, watching TV that had no sound. Faith had often wondered if there was a number in marriage that a couple could make it to where they were finally safe from divorce. A buoy to swim for. Ten? Twenty? Fifty years? After Jarrod left the PD’s office for what was supposed to be the civil practice of family law, she realized that no number was magical, no marriage was safe, and that there was nothing civil about divorce: when someone wanted out, they could be as emotionally ruthless and cold as the gun-toting stranger who wanted your watch. Before Jarrod began to dismember relationships for a living, Faith was a much more romantic person, a naïve person, believing in forever and always. She used to think that she and Jarrod would be different from other couples, that they wouldn’t have to rally back from the stresses that put more than 50 per cent of marriages under because they wouldn’t put themselves in a position that required a rally. She used to think that if she just observed her vows, if she did all the things she promised she would, that one person alone could hold the whole marriage together. When his intern, Sandra, called crying and distraught last year, two days after the firm’s Christmas party, she’d guilelessly thought it was a wrong number, that Sandra had somehow dialed her boss’s house by mistake – maybe a butt dial or she had hit the wrong name in her contacts. She kept telling her to calm down and speak slowly, even soothingly calling her ‘honey’ because she was having a tough time understanding what the girl was saying, which turned out to be quite true – she had a tough time understanding how her husband could sleep with his twenty-four-year-old law school intern when everything about their marriage had looked and felt perfect to her. It was like living on a sinkhole – the ground had given way that morning without warning, and in a five-minute conversation it had swallowed life as she knew it whole. There was no proverbial crack in the dam, no pre-existing, marriage-threatening conditions that were exploited by a sexy intern on a mission to snag herself an associate’s position and maybe a husband of her own. Even Jarrod couldn’t offer an explanation for why he’d cheated – only an apology. He kept promising her their buoy was still out there, somewhere, but she couldn’t see it.

      ‘We’re good,’ Jarrod said kissing her on the head again. ‘No worries.’

      She nodded. ‘Are you hungry?’

      ‘I had something downstairs. I see you went to Pasquale’s.’

      ‘I picked up a stuffed shell for you. Maggie had ice cream.’

      Jarrod shook his head and went into the closet to change. Ice cream for dinner usually meant a red-light day.

      The news at eleven started and she turned on the volume as the comely anchor excitedly started to list the night’s upcoming top stories. The Explorer was back

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