The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  Back. Back. Back. If only she could rewind the past week and go back before any of this had caused her to be curled in the back of a car, trying to sleep.

  Yet even if she could go back in time, Mick would still have been arrested. He would still have needed bail money—that they didn’t have. And they probably would still have had the argument that had gotten her kicked out of the house. Which meant . . .

  It isn’t my fault.

  Her eyes were wide-open now, and though she did not sit upright with the revelation—not wanting to ruin all her hard work—mentally, she stood at attention, paced, and even punctuated the air with a finger, emphasizing the truth. “This isn’t my fault!” she said aloud.

  Then why do I act like it is?

  With a sigh she closed her eyes. The answer was simple: she was a wimp. Confrontation must be avoided at all cost. Don’t rock the boat, keep the peace, blessed are the peacemakers . . .

  And worn are the doormats.

  She forced herself to keep her eyes closed, hoping to keep herself blind to the truth.

  Good little doormat.

  * * *

  Tap, tap, tap! “You there. Wake up.”

  Margery shot to wakefulness and squinted at the beam of light coming in the back window of the car. She put a hand in front of her eyes.

  The light moved away from her face and she spotted a police uniform. “Get out of the car,” the officer said.

  She did as she was told and felt cold air brush over her as the jacket-blanket fell away. Her foot got caught and she stumbled upon exiting, making her already sore ankle scream in pain. The officer righted her with his free hand.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She brushed some stray hair away from her face.

  “Do you have some ID, miss?”

  “In my purse.”

  “This your car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Registration too, please.”

  She got out the paperwork.

  He checked the names, then handed it back. “Why are you sleeping in your car?”

  Margery was relieved she could tell the truth—or part of it. “My husband and I had a fight.”

  “So he gets the warm bed and you get the cold car?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m sorry for your troubles, Mrs. Lamborn, but you can’t sleep in the park. It closes at midnight.”

  She wanted to ask, Then where can I sleep? but sensed it wasn’t a good question.

  “The Super 8 over on Grant has inexpensive rooms,” he said. “It’s in a safe neighborhood. They might even give you a reduced rate since it’s so late.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  She still had half the night to get through. “Thanks. I’ll go there.”

  “You do that,” he said. “Then make up with your husband, all right?”

  Although he stepped toward his police cruiser, he did not get inside. He was waiting for her to leave. She got in and drove toward the park’s exit. He followed. At the intersection onto the main street, she had no choice but to turn left, toward Grant. Unfortunately, he turned left too.

  After two blocks it was obvious he was going to follow her all the way to the Super 8. Was it wrong for her to wish he’d get an emergency call that would take him elsewhere? No way could she waste money checking into a hotel. Every penny was precious.

  She spotted the brightly lit Super 8 sign on the right. She checked her rearview mirror. Mr. Cop was still following her. She put on her blinker and waved to him as she turned in and he kept going straight.

  But now what? If the cop drove around the block and saw that her car was gone would he put out an APB and go searching for her?

  There was a parking place three spots from the office door, just out of any hotel clerk’s sight line. She pulled in. The overhead light of the parking lot was like her very own spotlight. She turned off the car and looked back at the street, watching for the cop. There wasn’t much traffic, but after a couple minutes she decided he’d forgotten about her.

  But then she realized his intervention might be a blessing. The parking lot of the motel was well-lit and held enough cars to make her feel safe. And there was a person awake in the office close by in case of emergency.

  It was worth a try.

  With one last scan for witnesses, Margery climbed over the front seat and settled in for the long night’s journey into day.

  7

  He will wipe every tear from their eyes,

  and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain.

  REVELATION 21:4

  I shared my secret on a perfect night. It was my first sleepover ever. Susie and me planned it for a week. She insisted we make a list of special foods we wanted to eat and special things we wanted to do.

  “Mom will go to the grocery store just for us, and she said we could stay up real late.”

  I couldn’t imagine my mama spending money on the junk food on our list: potato chips, Oreo cookies, orange slices, Hershey’s kisses, and root beer. Actually, the only food that had been my idea was the root beer. The rest were Susie’s, but I knew I’d love all of it. We were both ten now, and Susie hadn’t steered me wrong yet.

  That night, after eating broiled peanut-butter sandwiches and chips, we settled into the family room with the goodies, lay on our stomachs, and watched slides of Susie when she was little. She was such a cute baby. Grammy had told me I’d have a baby someday. . . .

  Then we moved to Susie’s room, and she taught me how to play Monopoly and even let me be the banker. At one in the morning, Susie’s mom came in and asked us to be quiet, and we went to bed. Her mama even kissed me good night, just like she kissed Susie. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  Susie had the neatest bed—a trundle, she called it. She slept in the regular bed and I pulled out the hidden bed and slept right beside her. I’d brought Grammy’s pillow along and it looked real pretty on that trundle. Even though the lights were out, that didn’t mean we stopped talking.

  That’s when I decided to tell Susie my secret. If anyone in the world could be trusted with it, it was her. “Want to know a secret?” I asked after we’d played flashlight tag on the ceiling.

  Susie’s flashlight went off. “Of course.”

  I nearly turned my flashlight off too, but didn’t want to do the telling in the dark—plus I wanted to see Susie’s face when I told her.

  As if knowing what I was thinking, Susie turned on the bedside lamp. I switched off my flashlight and we both turned on our sides, facing each other.

  I decided to start with the best part of my secret. “I have a special number in my life.”

  “What do you mean, special?”

  “A number that comes up over and over and over.”

  Susie leaned her head on her hand. “What number is it?”

  “Ninety-six.”

  Susie didn’t say anything at first, then, “Why ninety-six?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s always been that way.” I told her a few of the times when number 96 had appeared in my life. The Highway 96 that took me to Daddy’s house when he came and got me for a visit. The 96 on our license plate last year. And Grammy living at 96 Maple, and dying at age 96.

  “That’s weird,” Susie said.

  Which made me ask the question I desperately wanted answered. “So . . . does that make me weird?”

  Susie sat up and pulled my satin pillow into her lap, tracing the edge of the fringe, making it flip and dance. “I’m not sure. Maybe it just makes you special.”

  I didn’t expect the tears.

  She crossed from her bed to mine and hugged me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  All I could do was shake my head. I didn’t want Susie to feel bad, because these weren’t bad tears. They were happy tears. Relieved tears.

  Suddenly, she must have realized it too because she pushed me to arm’s length and said, “I s
aid you were special. There’s no reason to cry about special.”

  I sniffed loudly. “It’s just that Mama and Daddy don’t think it’s special. That’s part of why they broke up. I heard them arguing about how Mama didn’t like Daddy ignoring my weirdness. She wanted a normal child and said I’d never have a chance to be normal if he kept ignoring my problem, pretending it was okay.”

  “They broke up over a number?”

  I hesitated. The number was only part of it.

  “What?” Susie said. “What else?”

  This would be harder to explain, but since I’d come this far . . . I pulled my knees up to my chin and tucked my nightgown under my feet. “Death. Mama says I have a sick view of death.”

  Susie scooted back to her bed. “What sick view?”

  I hated the look on my friend’s face, like she was disgusted or, at the very least, scared of something I might say.

  But I said it anyway. “I’m okay with it. Grammy said we are all born to die.” That’s about as simple as I could put it, but by the blank look on Susie’s face, I had to say more. Maybe I’d talk about the other thing Grammy had told me. “Grammy said I’m going to be the good nearby for somebody and get married and have a baby. That I was born to do some—”

  “Born again. Maybe that’s it,” Susie said. “I’ve heard Pastor Bob say that in church. We have to be born again.”

  Born to die? Born again?

  I was confused.

  Susie moved close again. “It’s something about needing to be born again so you can go to heaven.”

  “But how do we do that?”

  Susie shrugged. “I want to have lots of babies.”

  Then suddenly, it hit me. The answer. “Since Grammy told me I was going to have a baby, and Pastor Bob says we need to be born again, then maybe we need to have babies so there’s another one of us running around in the world. Another Susie. Another Gigi. A better one.”

  Susie’s shoulders dropped. “That doesn’t sound quite right.”

  No, it didn’t. Would I ever get this figured out? It was all such a mishmash. I tried again. “But maybe having a baby, being born again, that’s the way to heaven and—”

  “Dying’s peaceful,” Susie said. “Calm. Like taking a breath of fresh air. And when you let it out, everything’s different.”

  I smacked my hands on the blanket, relieved we agreed on something. “That’s what I’ve always thought.”

  Susie pulled her knees to her chest just like me. “Mom says when we die we take our last breath here then take the next in heaven, with Jesus. And everything’s okay there.”

  “No more crying,” I said.

  Susie’s eyes widened. “That’s right. Where did you hear that?”

  I couldn’t remember. Maybe Grammy? “So it’s true? There’s no more crying?”

  “That’s what the Bible says. Dad told me that when Grandpa died.”

  Since Susie knew about heaven stuff . . . “So what else do you know about heaven?”

  Susie bit her lower lip while she thought. “You see your relatives there, the ones who’ve died. I’ll see my grandpa. And you’ll see your grammy.”

  “Really?”

  “And there’s angels and seraphim and stuff.”

  “What’s a seraphim?”

  “I think it’s a band. I know there’s music. Lots of music.”

  “I like music.”

  Susie’s feet popped out from under her nightgown. “I wonder if they’ll have dancing there.”

  “No way,” I said.

  Susie climbed off the bed and started dancing around, twisting and gyrating until I laughed.

  “Come on!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bed. We danced together.

  I thought it was odd there wasn’t anything ninety-six the whole, entire evening.

  ’Cause there should have been.

  8

  Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind

  or the mystery of a tiny baby growing in its mother’s womb,

  so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things.

  ECCLESIASTES 11:5

  Talia unlocked the door to the Events Office, flipped on the light, and was immediately assaulted by the sight—and smell—of flowers.

  She beamed at the sight of them: yellow mums, orange lilies, and purple asters. She dropped her purse to the floor and bent down to inhale their fragrance. Heavenly.

  She spotted the card and was thrilled to see her name on its front. She’d assumed the flowers were for her, but until one saw the card . . . Nesto, my darling Nesto, you’ve really come through for—

  Hope these lighten your load. Wade.

  Wade?

  He popped his head in the office door. “I see they came.”

  She slipped the card back into its envelope. “They’re lovely. You shouldn’t have.”

  He took off his coat and put it on the rack near the door. “I want to keep my best employee happy.”

  “I’m your only employee.”

  “But a happy one, yes?”

  She had to admit it. “Yes. Thank you.”

  He put a hand on her arm. “You’re welcome.”

  He went into his office and got to work. She, however, had a harder time of it.

  * * *

  Going past their trailer without letting Mick see her was tricky. The Country Cousins Trailer Park had only one entrance. One exit. One gravel-covered street with homes on either side. Mick had often complained that he could have lobbed an empty into Mrs. McCraedy’s trash can across the narrow drive as easily as he could his own. He’d even done it a few times when he was less than sober, and Margery had had to go apologize. They had nice neighbors all around. Good people. Good people with a well-established grapevine who surely knew all about the current troubles going on in the Lamborn household.

  Actually, when it came to friends, Margery probably could have gone to one of these neighbors and pleaded her need for temporary shelter. They’d all witnessed Mick’s temper—sometimes directed at them. But the proximity to Mick would be too much, the interior space too tight, and the threat of Mick’s anger being directed at her good Samaritan . . . it was not an option.

  Margery slowed the car at the entrance to the neighborhood, mourning—not for the first time—that she couldn’t see the front of their trailer from here, couldn’t see if Mick was home or not. He should have left for work by this time, but she couldn’t risk being wrong. Her only choice was to park a block away and walk in.

  So that’s what she did, making sure she had her list of needed items in her pocket. But as she walked past the second set of homes, as she saw the face of Meyer Collins in the window of Lot 4 watching her, she decided her exit had better be out the back way, cutting through the shallow woods that divided their neighborhood from the bordering, more traditional residential areas.

  Once she got to the fourth set of homes, she saw Mick’s car was gone. She walked faster, readying the key to the front door. With a look toward Mrs. McCraedy’s—luckily, the woman was a late sleeper—Margery was inside, the door closed behind her.

  How odd to be home yet not be welcome there. The living room showed evidence of Mick’s day at home: dirty dishes, a pizza box, beer cans, the TV Guide on the floor near the remote. It was obvious he hadn’t missed her.

  She felt one of the cans. It was half full. She was on her way to the kitchen to empty it out when she realized she should leave as little evidence of her visit as possible and hope Mick wouldn’t notice. Depending on the depth and length of his anger, she might have to sneak back in again. She put the beer can back.

  Retrieving her list, Margery got to work. She’d thought about using a suitcase, but since they were in the storage unit out back, she went with the next best thing: a black garbage bag. Being the heaviest items, clothes had to go in first. Conservative clothes. “Boring clothes,” Mick would call them. But the clothes he liked seeing her in—short skirts, tight tops, and high he
els—were not appropriate at Neighbor’s Drug. She dug deep in the back of her closet and found khaki and navy pants, some longer skirts, and some tops that covered her midriff and didn’t wrinkle. A few pairs of shoes with lower heels, underwear, and even some hose. Towels, blanket, pillow . . .

  The bag was nearly full.

  She went into the bathroom and gathered her toiletries, adding a few things she hadn’t thought about like aspirin, face cream, and soap.

  Margery moved back to the living room, her eyes scanning, assessing, making decisions. A box of Ritz crackers caught her eye. She hadn’t even thought about food.

  She left the Ritz where they were but dove into the cupboards. Saltines, a jar of peanut butter, raisins, a bag of chocolate chips, a box of Velveeta. She longed to fill her bag with canned goods and an opener, but it was already heavy, and she had the trek through the woods ahead of her. She finished her scavenging with a plate, eating utensils, bowl, and cup. And a roll of paper towels.

  Margery noticed the clock on the microwave. Gladys would be at the store in forty-five minutes, and Margery still needed to get cleaned up and changed for work.

  She looked longingly at the shower but didn’t dare risk it. She compromised by setting her sack down, freshening up in the bathroom, and putting on clean clothes. She put the ones she’d been wearing at the bottom of the clothes hamper. As if Mick would notice . . .

  She gathered her long hair into a low ponytail, hating that it needed washing. Tomorrow. She’d get a proper shower at the store tomorrow.

  She laughed. Proper? Hardly. But it would have to do. So much would have to do.

  With one last look at her home, she locked up and headed into the woods.

  * * *

  Pro bono work was the pits. Not that Gennifer found the rest of her clients to be lovely people, but the ones who didn’t have the money to hire their own lawyer often made her skin crawl. If she never had to defend another drug case . . .

  Best get it over with ASAP. It was hard enough dealing with the dialysis, her paid work for the firm, and her suspicions about Douglas—who might be coming back from Chicago tonight—much less have to sit across the desk from a guy with tattoos running up his arms, grease under his fingernails, and the glazed look of a man who didn’t care two hoots about anything.