The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  Before she realized what she’d done, she’d created a pile of confetti. I don’t even remember tearing off the page. . . .

  It wasn’t surprising. Subterfuge was new to her. It had not been a part of her life until a year ago when her kidneys had given out. Nor was it the norm for sufferers of kidney disease. Most patients didn’t try to keep their dialysis a secret. Most people let others know about whatever disease was racking their bodies. Most people let others in.

  She was not most people. Never had been, and wasn’t about to start now.

  Logic said that people would help. They wouldn’t think badly of her just because her kidneys were bad. Surely she could trust her friends and family.

  But what if she couldn’t? What if they started treating her differently, making her feel sicker than she was by their pity routine? Since she wasn’t completely sure how they’d react she didn’t dare risk it. Just as you couldn’t unring a bell, you couldn’t untell a secret. Hence, Gennifer’s thrice-a-week trips to the dialysis center at 4:30 in the morning were necessary. Get it done before the world was up.

  And before she had to be at work.

  Until this morning it had been so far so good. She was good. She was superwoman. Hear me roar.

  Wanting to maintain her superwoman status was the main reason Gennifer hadn’t told even her family about this flaw in her health. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t have given her sympathy or supported her. Douglas was a good husband and seventeen-year-old Sarah was a good child. Good, good, good. The trait was epidemic in the Mancowitz household.

  Her husband and daughter were not the main cause of her keeping the secret. The problem lay in her nearly obsessive revulsion to feeling out of control. There was no way she could show them her weakness. She’d spent way too many years establishing her competence and self-sufficiency. She couldn’t throw that away. At least not yet. Not until it was absolutely necessary.

  As it was, she was handling things. She had fit the dialysis into her schedule with neither work nor family the wiser. She’d adjusted her eating habits with nary a comment. And she’d even finagled things so Douglas had not seen the implanted port in her arm. All of this gave her yet another reason to be proud of her ability to run things her way.

  Her intercom buzzed. “Call on line one, Ms. Mancowitz,” Mary said.

  “Thank you.” Gennifer pulled out her trash can and with a swift swipe of her hand, swept the confetti debris out of sight.

  If only the current problem could be handled as easily.

  Her life was complicated. But it worked.

  Yet as she told herself that lie, an oft-repeated truth wagged its finger: What a wicked web we weave when first we practice to deceive.

  One of these days she’d get caught and would have to come clean.

  But not today.

  * * *

  Angie Schuster paused before opening the door of her SUV in order to check her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Not that the people at the city shelter cared whether her face was on just so as long as the back of her car was filled with donations, but being well-groomed was not a habit she felt compelled to break. Years ago, her husband, Stanford, had informed her that her facial features completely washed out without lipstick, so she had made every effort to honor his tutelage and direction by being properly made-up on every occasion.

  Satisfied her Coral Reef lipstick was not spotting her teeth, she slipped the car keys into the small shoulder bag that bisected her chest from shoulder to hip, and got out of the car. On the way to the entrance she passed two disheveled men smoking cigarettes. Such a nasty habit. It wasn’t good for them. Stanford had stopped recently—though certainly not because of her influence.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said with a nod.

  Their foreheads dipped a bit in confusion. One nodded, then looked away. The other said, “Hey.”

  Then, at the last minute the Hey Man rushed toward the door and opened it for her.

  “Why, thank you,” she said.

  He beamed.

  Angie loved when the goodness in people burst out. Although she often worked with those who were down-and-out, she refused to adjust her actions to their level. Raise them up. That was the way to change the world. That’s what Stanford had done with her.

  Once inside, Angie looked for Josh Cashinski, the man in charge of the shelter. She saw him by the pass-through window of the kitchen, giving instructions to a bearded man with long stringy hair. The white cleaning rag in the man’s hand was in stark contrast to the dirt and drudge of his grooming. Was it a flag of hope that would lead him out of the hole he’d been living in? Such thoughts fueled her. Hope. It was all about hope.

  Josh saw her and quickly finished his conversation in order to greet her with a customary hug—which, considering the muscles in his torso looked like he could be the poster boy for a gym, was like receiving a hug from a grizzly. “Angie, oh reigning queen of compassion.”

  She pointed at a red stain on his gray T-shirt. “Marinara?”

  “What can I say? The cook’s recipes are rubbing off on me. Literally.”

  “It’s not your own recipe?”

  “Me? Cook? Joe does the cooking. I stir. And open the cans.” With a fingernail, he attempted to chip away at the edge of the stain. “What can I do for you today, Angie?”

  “I come bearing gifts.” She crooked her finger at him, led him out to her vehicle, and opened the back of the SUV. “Blankets,” she said. “I found a good sale on fleece and put a binding on them. Since it’s fall, I thought you’d be needing them.”

  Josh fingered the piles. “There must be two dozen.”

  “Twenty-eight,” she said. She pulled out a pink one, patterned with teal stripes. “I hope some of these aren’t too garish. But I thought they were pretty. Some of the homeless women might like them.”

  “They’ll love them.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Once again, you are my Lady of the Good Deed.”

  “Only giving a bit of what I’ve got, m’lord.”

  Josh moved to the curb and called to the two smoking men. “Jordie? Rashaun? Come help.”

  Hey Man flicked his cigarette away immediately, while the other took one last drag before coming forward.

  “Take a gander at these blankets Mrs. Schuster made for you guys. Aren’t they wonderful?”

  Hey Man fingered the edge of a navy one then looked at Angie. “You made these? For us?”

  “You like that one? It’s yours. It’s very long,” she explained. “I made some of them a good eight feet long, with a tall man like you in mind.”

  The man’s eyebrows touched each other, and he nodded but seemed unable to say anything.

  Josh broke the moment. “Consider that one yours, Jordie. Now, let’s get these inside so Mrs. Schuster can be on her way.”

  The three men took all the blankets in one trip. Angie held the shelter door for them but did not follow them inside. She hurried back to her car. She didn’t want to risk another thank-you from Jordie. She’d cry; she knew she would.

  She pulled away, but in her side mirror spotted Jordie coming back outside. He spotted her, took a few steps toward her car, and raised an arm.

  She looked away. I know, I know. You’re welcome.

  More. She needed to do more.

  * * *

  Talia Soza strapped her two-year-old son into the car seat after picking him up at the sitter’s. “How was your day, sweetie?”

  Tomás bounced in his seat. “Hop! Hop!”

  “You learned how to hop today?”

  “Bunny hop!”

  “Very good. When we get home you can hop for Papa.”

  “Hop! Hop! Papa hop!”

  No, Papa won’t hop. They’d be lucky if her husband got out of his recliner. It wasn’t Nesto’s fault. He had a congenital heart defect that his own father had suffered from—and died of—when he was only forty-two.

  Nesto was thirty-five.

  As Talia drove home she
mentally rummaged through the refrigerator. The October day was cold so soup would be good. Taco soup even better. She thought they had half of the last batch she’d made in the freezer. She’d whip up some Jiffy corn bread. Tomás had devoured three pieces last time she’d made it—though Talia realized the toddler probably liked the honey more than the bread itself. In that respect he wasn’t much different from Talia, who only used french fries as a way to eat ketchup, and lettuce as a vehicle to scoop up ranch dressing.

  Her mind moved on to the other to-dos of the evening. There was laundry to finish, the living-room carpet needed a daily vacuuming for Nesto’s sake, and there was new weather stripping to put on the front door. Last weekend during a cold snap they’d practically had a wind coming through. They couldn’t afford to have Nesto catch cold.

  They couldn’t afford a lot of things. Ever since Nesto had been told to quit his job as the foreman of a six-man landscaping crew (on doctor’s orders), Talia had been forced to reenter the workforce, something she’d not wanted to do. Ever. She loved being a stay-at-home mom. It was enough for her. Plenty. But now, doing the housework, taking care of her family, plus working full-time outside the home . . . the gloss had been rubbed off the homemaker title.

  Talia was the assistant to the events coordinator at the Royal Park Hotel. She was highly unqualified—except for her waitressing experience back in high school and a short stint in retail management before she’d gotten married. But she had hit it off with the head honcho, Wade Hampton, and had somehow ended up being hired.

  She enjoyed her job. Sometimes. Yet the hours and the responsibility, added to the hours and the responsibility of taking care of Tomás and Nesto, and the house, and the yard, and the bills, and, and, and . . .

  And a new baby on the way. Talia patted her seven-months’-pregnant belly, forced the pity party aside until it could do some good, and pulled into the driveway.

  Life called.

  * * *

  It was weird being home for dinner. Margery was used to leaving for work at the Chug & Chew at four and never getting home until after 1 a.m. Even on her nights off she and Mick rarely sat down and ate a meal together. She wasn’t sure whose fault that was, but heating something from the fridge and eating in front of the TV was the norm. And more often than not, Mick had a reason he couldn’t come straight home after work at the garage. She’d asked why a few times, but he’d never given her a straight answer. She’d had to be satisfied with “stuff.”

  But she wasn’t satisfied. Not that there was much she could do about it.

  Margery checked the pasta water she’d put on to boil, then dipped a spoon into the red sauce in the other pot and stirred. She’d positioned the empty Ragu jar at the bottom of the trash can, not wanting Mick to see that the dinner wasn’t made from scratch. Not that he’d taste the difference, but sometimes Mick was weird that way. It was best to cover the bases, think ahead. So much of her life was spent anticipating what might happen if she did or didn’t do thus and so.

  She glanced at the tiny kitchen table set for two. Although they didn’t own china, she’d dug out the two wineglasses Mick had stolen from the Chug & Chew the first time he’d gone in while she was working. And she’d folded each paper napkin into a fan shape and set them under the forks. She’d even lit a vanilla candle. It was as nice as she could make it. She’d even made Mick his favorite strawberry Jell-O cheesecake. Food soothes the savage beast?

  That didn’t seem exactly right.

  Music. Music soothes the savage beast.

  Toward that end Margery moved to the stereo and looked through the CDs. Mick’s favorites were Gretchen Wilson or Hank Williams, but she wanted music without words. Romantic background music. She walked her fingers over the CD titles, stopping on a Mannheim Steamroller disk: Fresh Aire V. It had been years since she’d played it.

  Once the music started she took a quick detour to the bathroom to check her hair and makeup. Today at work at the drugstore she’d splurged and purchased some new light orange Passion lipstick from the cosmetics display she’d created. Her peachy lips looked nice. But her eyes looked old. Tired.

  She smoothed her hair, which was pulled into a low ponytail. She never wore it down anymore. Quick and easy, out of the way. Maybe she should get it cut off in one of those flippy-dippy styles people wore.

  Mick would kill her. He liked it long and made rude comments about women with short hair. At least he used to like long hair. She couldn’t remember him saying much of anything about her hair lately. Or her looks. Or . . .

  She let her hand fall. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d said anything nice to her.

  Leave. Just leave.

  Margery saw her reflection shake its head. This wasn’t the first time she’d had such a thought. The urge to walk out came in waves. Sometimes she thought about it daily, and other times she could go weeks without considering such a thing. Did other wives think such thoughts? Most of the friends she had at the bar were divorced. The owner was on his third wife. Ten years was a good run, wasn’t it?

  But I want a baby.

  She pulled the fabric of her flowered skirt tight over her belly, imagining it plump with child. There’d been a baby there once. A baby conceived out of wedlock, but no other since they’d made things legal. How ironic that the baby they hadn’t wanted turned out to be the only one they’d had.

  Or nearly had. The baby had been born too soon—on their wedding day. Another irony. To get married because of a baby and then suddenly to not have that baby.

  I should have left back then.

  Such thoughts did no good. She had to think of the present. Of the future. If they had a baby, things would be better.

  Yet not having a child didn’t seem to bother Mick. Margery ached from the need of it. Having a baby would be proof she existed, proof there was a reason she was here in the first place. She couldn’t think of anything else she’d done that was worth mentioning. Margery Lamborn, wife of Mick, clerk at Neighbor’s Drug.

  Whoop-de-do.

  There had to be more to life than this.

  She heard a popping sound from the kitchen and ran to the stove. The tomato sauce was sending volcanic bursts over the top of the pan. She turned the heat down and stirred, relieved it wasn’t burned at the bottom.

  Mick’s truck pulled into the driveway and Margery’s stomach clenched. Help. Please help it go okay.

  He came inside, making the door hit the closet behind it. She could gauge his mood by whether or not the door hit the closet.

  “Hi, hon,” she said, presenting herself in the living room. She hoped to catch him for a hello kiss on his way to the bedroom to change. But since that was not the usual scenario, when she came close, he balked, then gave her a once-over.

  “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I—”

  “And what are you so dressed up for?”

  She put on her best smile. “I got a new job. Started today.”

  He stopped unbuttoning his blue mechanic’s shirt with MICK embroidered on the pocket. “You’re working two jobs?”

  She never imagined he’d think that. “No . . .”

  “Surely you didn’t quit the Chug?”

  “I did. I—”

  “Why would you do a dumb thing like that?”

  Needing distance, she walked toward the kitchen, then remembered the dinner. She turned back to him, trying the smile again. “I want us to spend more time together, Mick. Eat together. Spend evenings together.”

  “I like things the way they are.”

  She didn’t know what to say. “But . . . but we don’t see each other.”

  He shrugged. He shrugged! As if it didn’t matter? She wanted to flail at him, beat his chest, and demand he take the shrug back. Demand he care about this marriage as much as she did.

  Instead she said, “I made us a special dinner.” She presented the set table as a game-show prize.

  “What is it?”

  “Spaghetti
. And salad. And garlic bread.”

  He pointed to the glasses. “You blew money on wine? You know I don’t like wine.”

  “You can have beer in yours.” She opened the fridge, presenting the topper. “I also made a Jell-O cheesecake.”

  “Strawberry?”

  Her stomach relaxed. “Of course.”

  Mick pulled his shirt out an inch. “How long till dinner?”

  “Ten minutes?”

  He nodded and headed for his usual shower.

  This would work. It had to.

  * * *

  Margery was glad when Mick turned over because the movement stopped his snoring. When she couldn’t sleep his snoring was salt on her wounded nerves.

  Although the romantic evening had ended as she’d intended, getting there had been like traveling a rutted road. Just when she’d thought things were moving along smoothly, Mick would say something that jarred them into a pothole.

  He was mad about her quitting the Chug & Chew—but not for the reason she’d expected. She’d braced herself for an argument about the wage difference, but Mick had skimmed over that and had focused on the fact that she would now be home in the evenings. It had taken a good five minutes of back-and-forth for her to pinpoint the reason for his objection, but finally he’d come out with it.

  “I like having time alone, Marg. Is that plain enough for you?”

  Too plain. Yet not plain enough. Why did he like having time alone?

  “Can’t a man have a moment to himself?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Too much togetherness can be a bad thing.”

  And not enough togetherness can kill a marriage.

  Mick started snoring again. She extended a hand to nudge him into silence, but stopped short.

  What good would it do? Mick would do what Mick wanted to do when Mick wanted to do it.

  She wrapped her pillow around her ears and sought the oblivion of sleep.

  3

  We pleaded with you, encouraged you, and urged you to live your lives in a way that God would consider worthy.