The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  She opened the file. “So, Mr. Lamborn.”

  His smile changed him from menacing to safe. “Mick.”

  “Mick.” She read the charges. “Possession with intent to sell.”

  “I was framed.”

  Gennifer looked up. “By whom?”

  He added a shrug to his grin. “I always wanted to say that.”

  Gennifer was unsuccessful in containing her smile, but tried to cover it by looking back at the file. “You’ve been arrested twice on a drunk and disorderly and an assault.”

  “Bar brawl. I won.” He winked. “I always do. And I will here too. With your help, right, Gennifer?”

  “Ms. Mancowitz.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll get me off, right?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He reached across the table, nearly—but not quite—touching her hand. “The deal is, I got a wife and two kids to support. I can’t go to jail. I admit I had the drugs, but they weren’t mine.”

  “A friend gave them to you?”

  “You bet. An unlawful friend who doesn’t realize the damage drugs can do to a life.”

  “So you don’t personally use.”

  He made a cross over his heart and raised his right hand. “Can’t say I’ve never partaken of the product, but I can say I don’t do it anymore. I won’t touch the stuff. My family is too important to me. This is a genuine case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “In possession of the wrong thing.”

  He touched the tip of his nose. “Right-on, Ms. Mancowitz. Right-on. Now we’re on the same page.”

  Speaking of, she looked through the rest of his file. She knew his type: wild, fun-loving, but a mean drunk. Yet not a huge threat to society. And since drugs hadn’t been involved in any of the other offenses . . . she closed the file with a snap and pushed her chair back. “Let me see what I can do.”

  He came around the table and shook her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Mancowitz. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” As he left the office, he turned back and winked. “You’re a good lawyer. I can tell. You’re worth every penny I’m paying you.”

  She nodded and gathered her things. Only on her way out did she get the joke.

  Very funny.

  * * *

  Gladys picked up the phone. “Neighbor’s Drug, may I help you?”

  “Gladys.”

  It was Aunt June. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your mother . . . she’s sick.”

  “How sick?”

  “A bad cold. A cough now too. You know how it always goes deep in her chest.”

  “Bronchitis?”

  “The doctor says no, but I think it is.”

  “What’s his number?” Gladys heard a relieved sigh. June gave her the number. “I’ll call him right away. You want me to come down there?”

  “No, no,” June said. “Wait till she’s better. Then we can have a proper visit.”

  “You take care of her, June.”

  “I always do.”

  Gladys called the doctor.

  * * *

  In spite of the flowers on Talia’s desk not being from her husband, they did lighten her mood. For the first time in ages, she felt special. All day.

  Which gave her a positive attitude for the evening’s festivities. Tonight, she and Nesto were going on a date. She’d already made reservations at Palomino’s, and if Nesto felt up to it, there was a string quartet playing downtown.

  Spurred by Wade’s kindness, she’d made a point to think of every detail. There was only one glitch. Although she’d made arrangements with Margery to babysit, she’d never gotten Margery’s phone number and they’d never finalized a time. So on her lunch break, she ran over to Neighbor’s to make sure everything was set.

  Talia found Margery arranging Rolaids on the antacid shelf. “Just the woman I want to see.”

  Margery stood, knocking into the shelf, making four bottles fall to the floor. “Oh, dear . . . hi, Talia. I’m all thumbs.”

  A trait that was not a good thing when dealing with a two-year-old. Talia let it pass and handed Margery a Rolaids bottle that had rolled across the aisle. “I just stopped by to finalize a time for tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  Talia tried not to gawk. “You promised to babysit?”

  “Oh!” Margery fumbled another bottle of Rolaids. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  Talia saw her beautiful evening dissolve. “Can you still do it?”

  Margery looked over the racks toward the pharmacy. “This was going to be at your house, right? I mean, I was coming to your house.”

  “Yes, that’s usually easier when there’s a baby involved.”

  Margery let out a breath. “Good.”

  Talia suffered doubts. “Maybe we should do this another time.”

  “No, no. You can trust me, Talia. I’ll be there. You’ll have a lovely time out with your husband, and you’ll give me the pleasure of being around a baby. I love babies. They’re so full of joy.”

  Talia laughed.

  “What?”

  Only in hindsight did she realize the punch line to her laughter was the word joy. “Tomás is full of lots of things: energy, orneriness, mischief, and stubbornness, but joy?”

  Margery’s face was serious. “Absolutely.”

  This young woman’s positive attitude overrode Talia’s wariness. It might do Tomás some good to be around a person who saw the good in his feisty little soul. “How’s seven sound?”

  * * *

  “Gog!”

  “Dog, that’s right!”

  Impatient with the current page of the book, Tomás turned to the next page where his finger pegged a cat. “Ki-ee!”

  “Kitty.” Margery cuddled his head beneath her chin, loving the wriggling weight of him on her lap. It felt completely right and good.

  Tomás had enough of the book and squirmed out of her lap to the floor. He toddled over to a plastic farmhouse populated with animals. He dropped to his stomach and banged a cow into the farmer with gusto.

  She regretted the absence of his warm body yet enjoyed being able to look at him. He was so perfect with his wavy black hair and baby-smooth skin. Even the way the leg of his jeans was caught up on his little sock was adorable. And as he looked back at her and grinned a toothy grin, she felt a resurgence of her quest to have a child. It was the reason she was alive. It would fulfill everything.

  Then why isn’t it happening? Why haven’t I gotten pregnant?

  She knew the reason and pulled a pillow to her chest to protect herself from the truth. God was hesitant to give her a new baby because she hadn’t done enough to protect the first one from harm. If she wanted God to give her another chance with another baby, she had to earn his favor. She had to take whatever life threw at her and deal with it. She had to be strong and compliant and humble. And she couldn’t complain. God hated complainers.

  So did Mick. If she hadn’t complained she would still be living at home, and she’d still have a chance to make the baby that would bring happiness into their lives.

  I’ll call him.

  She spotted a phone on the end table, pulled it into her lap, and dialed. She’d make things right. She’d get home again. She had to.

  Mick answered. “Yeah?”

  Her heart flipped. “Mick. It’s me.”

  “So?”

  “Uh . . . how have you been?”

  “What do you care?”

  Her throat tightened with pending tears. “I’m really sorry I upset you, Mick.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Is everything working out with the . . . you know. . . the court?”

  “I’ve got it covered. I gotta go.”

  “I’d like to see you.”

  “What for?”

  The tears came. “Mick . . . I love you.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  Click.

  Margery fumbled the phone into its stand, knocking over a picture on t
he table. She righted it, then pulled it into her lap. It was a photo of Tomás at about six months, dressed in a red velveteen outfit for Christmas, the bow from a package resting on his head. She wanted a baby to spoil at Christmas. She wanted pictures of children on her end tables. She’d plaster them all over the walls. She’d be the best mother ever. No one would love their baby more than Margery. No one needed a baby as much as she did.

  Tomás came toward her, a tractor in hand. “Rmm. Rmm,” he said, making it run up her leg.

  She scooped him up and held him close. Then she stood, found her purse, and tucked her coat under her arm. She opened the front door, then realized Tomás needed a jacket too. She looked around the living room, but there was no coat or sweater around. She raced up the stairs to his room with him bouncing on her hip. She found a jacket, but surrounded by his things, she thought of other items she’d need: diapers, clothes, wipes, a blanket. . . .

  And food! Milk, his cup, bibs, a spoon, jars of junior baby food.

  So much to do, so little time.

  In order to work faster she set Tomás on the floor. She filled a diaper bag with supplies, grabbed the toddler, and headed to the kitchen where food was added. This rushed scavenging was becoming a habit, first at home this morning, and now this evening. Desperate times required desperate action. . . .

  Tomás fussed and pushed against her shoulders, wanting down. “Want to go bye-bye?” she asked. She set him on the counter and put on his jacket. “Let’s go bye-bye. We’ll have fun. Yes?”

  The way her heart beat in her chest, the way she was sweating, the way her breath came in ragged bursts . . . fun?

  She couldn’t think about that.

  One last look around the room—there! His pacifier. She couldn’t leave without his pacifier. Margery took Tomás out to her car. She didn’t have a car seat but placed him in the passenger side and put the seat belt around him. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

  She ran around to the driver’s side and got in, started the engine, and pulled away. “We’re off, little buddy,” she said. “Yay!”

  He began to squirm.

  “Sit still, bud.”

  He started to cry and pulled at the seat belt.

  She tried to calm his busy hands. “Come on, buddy. You have to leave that on. I want you to be safe.”

  Honk!

  Margery veered to the right, just missing a car in the other lane.

  She veered to the left, just missing a parked car.

  She straightened out. Safe, but shaken.

  Too close.

  Tomás was in full voice now, the sudden jerking adding fear to his frustrated cry. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Shh. Shh. It’ll be all right. Hold on, just a minute.”

  As soon as she could, Margery pulled to the curb and stopped the car. She undid her own seat belt and released the baby from his. “Come here, bud.”

  He didn’t come to her, but slid onto the floor.

  She patted the seat. “Come up here. Come on. Come give me a hug.”

  “No!”

  He certainly had that word down.

  She took the keys out of the ignition and jangled them. “Come play with these.”

  Tomás wasn’t interested but poked the button on the glove compartment. “Ope. Ope.”

  “No, no, baby. Leave that alone.” She remembered she had food in the diaper bag and reached into the backseat. “Want a cracker?”

  That got him interested. “Come on, then.” She got two out of the bag. He climbed onto the seat, but she held them just out of reach. “You have to sit down first.”

  He frowned. “Cack!”

  “No cack until you sit down and get your seat belt on.”

  He stood on the seat facing backward and bounced—and whined. “Ca-a-a-ck!”

  “No cack. Not until you sit down.”

  Suddenly, as if he’d deflated, he dropped onto the seat. “Good boy.” Margery set the crackers safely out of his reach and buckled him in again. He took his reward greedily, taking one cracker in each hand. He was happy.

  She was exhausted.

  She started the car and pulled away from the curb, but within seconds realized she had no destination in mind. She had no place to go. For where could she take this child? She didn’t have a home. She was living in her car.

  He is not yours.

  It was such a simple statement, but one that reeled in the logic that had so recently left her. It made her pause long enough to weigh what she was doing.

  What had she been doing?

  Margery brought a hand to her cheek and found it warm. She shook her head against the nearness of her crime. If Tomás had not rebelled against the seat belt, if the car had not honked her into reality, if . . . if . . . if . . .

  She turned the corner and headed home, taking Tomás back where he belonged.

  * * *

  The restaurant had the most beautiful yellow mums on the table, yet not anything as pretty as the ones on Talia’s desk.

  Nesto tore off a piece of bread and ate it, sans butter. “Then Dr. Phil told them how to make it . . . work it . . .” He hunted for the English phrase.

  “Make it work? Work it out?”

  “That’s it. Great show. You should have seen it.”

  “I was working.” Talia hoped he’d get the full implications of her words.

  He didn’t, but went right into a play-by-play of another Dr. Phil show. Was he that clueless? Couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested? Talia tried to concentrate on her veal with mushroom sauce, but would have rather escaped to the restroom where she could find solace from this insipid small talk. She knew her husband didn’t have anything to do all day but read and watch TV, but tonight’s monologue disturbed her. It was obvious these shows had become the highlight of Nesto’s life. When she’d been the one to stay home she hadn’t let herself become so obsessed. Of course, she hadn’t been sick either.

  Guilt made her pay attention, smiling and nodding at all the right places. “That Dr. Phil seems to be a smart guy.”

  Nesto put his fork down. “You’re not listening.”

  “Sure, I’m listening. You were talking about Dr. Phil and—”

  “Earlier. I talked about Dr. Phil earlier. Now I’m talking about Oprah.”

  Since the excuse “I get them confused” wouldn’t work, Talia found herself without defense. “Sorry,” she said.

  He pushed his plate away a few inches. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry I bore you.”

  “You don’t bore me.” She hoped the lie rang true.

  Nesto rearranged the napkin in his lap. “I know I’m not the man I was, Talia. I know it’s hard taking care of me, the house, Tomás. I am high work, high . . .”

  “Maintenance?” It was not the time to fill in the blank.

  “I’m more high maintenance than the baby. I’m pitiful. . . .”

  She wanted to move around the table and hug him but knew it would be too conspicuous. Instead she extended her hand toward him. His hands were in his lap and she waited—and hoped—he would complete the connection.

  He did not.

  She pulled her hand away, taking a roll from the bread basket. Talia never would have imagined that she and Nesto would ever have trouble keeping a conversation going over dinner. They’d always been able to talk about anything. Nesto had prided himself on being up-to-date with the current events of the day.

  Had prided himself. Had.

  Now he never read the paper and refused to watch the news. “I don’t want to be sad,” he’d say. And watching dysfunctional families cheered him up? Maybe because their dysfunction made their own family’s relationships look good?

  If so, Nesto was kidding himself. In Talia’s eyes their relationship was becoming a contender for Dr. Phil’s waiting room. If they ever had a program on “Spouses of the Critically Ill” she’d sign up. It would be nice to get a professional’s spin on what she was going through.

  Not that Nesto wa
sn’t going through anything. Sometimes she was guilty of having that slip her mind. He was the one who’d had the ability to work stripped away from him. He was the one who’d had to give up many facets of his life that defined his manhood. He was the one who could barely walk across the room without feeling pain. And ultimately he was the one who was facing, at best, the pain of a transplant and a lengthy recovery, and at worst, death.

  So what if he didn’t ask her about her day? Were a few extra chores around the house that big a deal? And so what if he couldn’t make love to her anymore? She was being selfish. He was alive. And he did possess hope for the future. She couldn’t let her petty concerns derail that hope. She couldn’t let—

  “Let’s go!”

  She blinked.

  He tossed his linen napkin on his plate and raised a hand. “Waiter? Check, por favor.”

  “Nesto, what’s wrong? Why—?”

  He flashed her a look as the waiter approached. “You know very well why. I’m alone all day with no one to talk to.” He pointed at her. “When I do have an ear, you choose not to listen. Eu sou frustrado.”

  The waiter looked concerned. “Is something unsatisfactory?”

  “It’s fine,” Nesto said. “We’re going. Check please.”

  “Would you like me to box up your meals?”

  “No,” Nesto said, “we’re leaving n—” He suddenly put a hand to his chest and sucked in a breath.

  Talia was around the table at his side in seconds. “Calm down, honey. Calm—”

  His words came out in a pulled whisper. “I will not . . . calm . . . down!”

  After scribbling in his black leather case, the waiter handed the check to Talia. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, he’ll be all right in a few minutes.” She started to get her purse, but Nesto snatched the check from her hand.

  “I’m the man. I’ll pay.” With fumbling fingers he retrieved his wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer. It took all of Talia’s willpower not to offer help. Eventually he got out the correct amount. The waiter said good night and retreated.

  Talia noticed they’d gained the discreet but curious eyes of the other diners. She hoped Nesto didn’t notice. He was not one to like such attention.