The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  “Don’t tax yourself.”

  Gennifer took a step toward her. “You will not talk to me like that.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Polite. We’re engaging in polite conversation. How about we disengage?”

  The fight went out of Gennifer. How could she make a prosecution witness writhe on the stand yet couldn’t withstand a few barbs from her own child? She turned toward the door, yet had one more question. “What does this Angie person do?”

  Sarah offered her the oddest smile. “She spends time with me.”

  Ouch.

  The phone rang and Sarah answered it. “Oh, hi . . . well . . . okay . . .” She looked right at Gennifer. “No, I don’t have to ask my mother. She doesn’t care. Sunday’s fine. It’s not like we go to church or anything. Sunday at eleven. See ya.” She hung up and pointed at her notebook. “I have homework. . . .”

  “Who was that?”

  “Angie.”

  Gennifer waited for more details. Nothing. She despised how Sarah was making her work for it. “What did she want?”

  “We’re doing something Sunday. Together.”

  “What?”

  “Going downtown.”

  “To . . . ?”

  Sarah turned her back on her mother and sat squarely at her desk. She opened her notebook. “We’re serving lunch at a homeless shelter.”

  “Why?”

  Sarah glared over her shoulder. “To help those in need. To think of someone other than ourselves. Angie is a good person. I’m happy to help.”

  Gennifer had already had enough of this Angie woman but couldn’t think of a way to knock the saint from her pedestal. Plan B came into play.

  “The shelter’s in a bad part of town.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “We don’t have many homeless people in the suburbs, Mother.”

  “It’s not safe there.”

  “I’ll be fine. Angie will be with me.”

  Gennifer suffered a quick thought—I’ll go with them—but quickly discarded it. Spending her weekend serving up slop to the poor was not on her list of the top one thousand things she’d like to do.

  Sarah picked up the phone and extended it toward her mom. “You want to call her? make yourself feel better? Or how about doing a background check using your police connections?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being concerned, Sarah.”

  “Wrong, no. But you have to admit it’s odd that you’re concerned, Mother. It’s not your style. Not lately anyway.”

  The lawyer was made speechless.

  Sarah turned back to the desk. “Close the door on the way out, please.”

  Gennifer withdrew—and shut the door quietly behind her. What else could she do?

  * * *

  Margery settled into the backseat of her car in the parking lot of the Super 8. She’d parked next to another car, but not so close to the office entrance as the previous night. No one had bothered her then and until they did, it was a relief to have a place to go.

  One less point of survival to deal with.

  Yet she still had some bugs to work out regarding this homeless style of living. For one thing, boredom. With no home to hang out in during the hours between work and sleep, she had to find something to do. There were only so many evenings when Talia would need her babysitting services—and Margery wasn’t sure she wanted the temptation of Tomás in the near future. And without money, shopping was pointless—and more than a little depressing. She couldn’t afford to see a movie, and restaurants didn’t like nonordering loiterers. She’d even considered sneaking back into work, but since the entire front of the store was covered with windows, she couldn’t hang out there. The fantasy of getting stuck overnight in a department store full of clothes, furniture, and electronics was one thing, but spending time amid the cough syrups, greeting cards, and toilet paper of Neighbor’s was another.

  She punched her pillow and tried not to think about it. She had another twenty-four hours to come up with something different.

  The seat was hard against her hip and she longed for a mattress. Or a warm body. When was the last time she’d slept alone?

  She let a puff of air escape. What a joke. No, she and Mick may not have purposely spent nights apart but there had been plenty of evenings when Mick didn’t show up, and she never knew where he was—and didn’t dare ask. She knew better than to rile him.

  She pulled her purse close, needing to hug something against her chest. Memories of little Tomás returned. If only she had a child, that would make everything better. She would never be alone if she had a child. They could be a duo. A pair. Her life would mean something if she had a child to love.

  She gently draped her hand over the purse, keeping it safe and warm.

  9

  God blesses those who mourn,

  for they will be comforted.

  MATTHEW 5:4

  Spinal meningitis. I didn’t know what the big words meant, but I would never forget them.

  Those two words took my best friend, Susie, away.

  First Grammy, now Susie. Two too many people gone in my eleven years of life.

  What surprised me the most was that Mama agreed I could go to the funeral. “If it’ll stop your bawling, go. I’ll drop you off.”

  Once inside the church, I didn’t know what to do. The memories of Grammy’s funeral had faded. I saw Susie’s mama and daddy, but they were way up front, all huddled together crying, so I didn’t feel right about going to ask if I could sit with them.

  I saw a few of our classmates and thought about going to sit with them, but they were with their parents, so that didn’t feel right either. So I slipped onto a bench in the back row and scooted over enough for two places. Maybe a couple would sit there and I could pretend I belonged to them.

  I spotted a line of people to the left, at the back, and saw glimpses of the coffin. Susie was in there!

  I turned my head away, looking forward. I couldn’t see my friend. Not in a box.

  But then I remembered some of the stuff Susie had told me about heaven during this last year, that by believing in that Jesus guy and admitting you’d done wrong in your life you got a surefire ticket there. I’d even gone up front in church one Sunday and told Jesus I was his.

  Susie had told me heaven was full of light and music and angels and trees. We’d argued whether the trees would be greened up like springtime or all pretty colored like fall. I’d voted for spring and Susie voted for fall, and we’d decided to leave it up to Jesus to choose. Or maybe mix and match. Things like that could happen in heaven, Susie said.

  Had said.

  I looked toward the coffin again. My friend was gone and I needed to see her one more time. I needed to tell her I’d come to the funeral, tell her I remembered all about heaven and would see her there.

  Going to glory.

  I laughed and the people in front of me looked back. But it wasn’t funny laughter; it was happy laughter. If Susie had gone to glory, she’d see Grammy! Although they’d never met in the here and now, I knew—just knew—they’d like each other bunches up in heaven.

  I had to tell Susie that right away so I hurried to the line that was walking by the coffin. It was shorter now, as people were sitting down. Most people looked at Susie and cried, then moved on. But I didn’t want to cry. I had good news for her.

  Susie was wearing her red velveteen Christmas dress. Her hair looked pretty, but her skin looked kinda ashy like she needed fresh air. That’s what she needed. And since it was fall . . .

  I suddenly wondered if the trees in heaven would be fall trees since Susie had died in the fall. September sixth: 9–6. I hoped so. I wanted Susie to be right about the trees—for her sake.

  There was a couple behind me, so I didn’t have much time. I leaned as close as I could and whispered toward my best friend’s ear. “It’ll be okay, Susie. I’m here today, and better’n that, Grammy’s up in heaven. So look for her. She’s wearing a red dress too and is probably singing. You’ll
like her. I promise.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and the people behind me were whispering between themselves, looking at me as if I were crazy. I only had time for one more thing, “Frog says hey.”

  I didn’t go back to the bench in the back row after that. I didn’t need to.

  I went out the big doors into the sunshine and walked under the red fall trees.

  10

  Truthful words stand the test of time,

  but lies are soon exposed.

  PROVERBS 12:19

  In theory, taking a shower with a handheld sprayer in a restroom that was tiled wall to wall was a good one. But in application . . .

  Margery hung her change of clothes on the purse hook on the back of the door but when she got shampoo in her eyes, she jerked the spray and doused her clothes—and the towels.

  Putting on damp clothes was the least of her worries. Her long wet hair would take hours to dry. When she’d stopped at home she had purposely left their hair dryer behind seeing’s how Mick also used it. Margery had been sure the hand blower in the restroom would do the trick. The air-direction spout could be turned around so it blew upward. But it didn’t have near the power of a hair dryer. She thought about grabbing one off the store’s shelf, but using the water sprayer was pushing it. To use a hair dryer was too much—and the packaging was complicated with little twist ties around the cord and boxes within boxes. If only her hair were short, in one of those truly blow-dry styles.

  The hand dryer shut off, punctuating the idea. Margery moved to the mirror. The only reason she’d kept her hair long was because Mick liked it that way.

  And Mick’s not around.

  Time was running out. Gladys would be at work within the hour. If Margery was going to do this thing . . .

  She knew right where the scissors were sold in the home-accessories aisle, right near the little packages of thread, needles, and pins. She made her way in the dark, then hurried back to the restroom. She combed through her hair, took a deep breath, held out a hunk of it, and cut.

  There was no going back now.

  Margery was surprised by the spring in her hair once its weight was gone. There were actually waves. The desire not to be stuck with a little-Dutch-boy bowl cut gave her courage and she cut further, making layers. Cutting the back was difficult but doable. She wasn’t bad at this. Maybe she could go to beauty school. . . .

  The whacking complete, she ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it. It was genuinely cute. Bouncy. And nearly dry.

  She nodded to her reflection. “Good choice, Margery.”

  Then she suddenly realized a lot of time had passed. She spun around, looking at the restroom that was still wet from the shower and which now was strewn with clumps and wisps of stray hair she’d dropped on the way from cut to trash. She gathered the towels and began the cleanup.

  Suddenly, she heard the bell on the front door. Gladys! She held her breath and listened. She was thankful to hear Gladys in the pharmacy section of the store. But when Gladys inevitably went back to the office to get money for the register Margery would be doomed. The restroom was right next door.

  Gladys was singing, “‘Jeremiah was a bullfrog. . . .’”

  Margery’s only hope was to grab all her things and go out the delivery door. She’d never used that door because her key fit only the front, and now she wished she’d paid attention to whether it also had a bell attached to it.

  Her memory grabbed on to the sound of a doorbell. The back door didn’t have a bell when it opened, but it had a doorbell that deliverymen pushed when they wanted someone to open the door.

  It might work.

  If she left now.

  With one final sweep of the towel over the floor, Margery shoved all the toiletries into her purse. She gathered her dirty clothes along with the wet towels, and readied herself to open the restroom door.

  “‘. . . singing, joy to the world . . .’”

  Holding the center lock button so it wouldn’t click, Margery turned the knob. The door opened without a sound. She exited and headed to her right, into the small storage room that held the delivery door. The room had no window and was dark. She ducked into the darkness and paused a moment, hoping her eyes would adjust quickly.

  Gladys started the second verse as Margery made out the faint edges of boxes and shelves. The path to the door was clear.

  Her movements were fluid and fast. There was no jangling bell. The early morning air was cold; she closed the door behind her with only the smallest click.

  She ran to her car, dumping the items in the back. Once in the driver’s seat, she pushed a hand against the beat of her pounding chest. That was too close.

  Margery looked at the car’s clock: 6:04. Why was Gladys at work so early?

  It didn’t matter. From now on, Margery would have to come even earlier.

  * * *

  Gladys shivered at a rush of cold air, froze in place, and looked in the direction of the store room. It was as if the back door had been opened.

  That was ridiculous. She’d checked the door last night upon leaving.

  She shivered again, though not from the cold. She needed to check the back and scanned the pharmacy for something to use as a weapon. There wasn’t much. Would a burglar be afraid if she tossed a bottle of pills at him?

  Pills. Drugs. Maybe someone was after drugs.

  Gladys picked up her cell phone, ready to call 911. Weapon, weapon . . . she needed something.

  She remembered on the customer side of the Drop-Off counter was self-defense pepper spray. She tiptoed around and was thankful the thing wasn’t encased in some noisy wrapping. She readied her finger on the trigger and headed toward the back.

  Local Pharmacist Overpowers Drug Thief. Film at eleven.

  Gladys edged to the corner of the hall that led past her office and the restroom, and made her way into the storage room. The light from the pharmacy did not turn the corner, so darkness reigned.

  But it would not be victorious.

  Gladys had always hated movies where people heard a bump in the night and went to check on it—in the dark. She’d often found herself yelling at the screen, “Turn on the light, you doofus!” After all, a person could always switch the light back off. But surely, the knowledge gained by seeing who was there was more worthwhile than tiptoeing blindly into a black hole. Especially when one needed all the sight perks one could get.

  True to her convictions, Gladys readied her pepper spray, strode around the corner, and flipped on the light in the storage room. The “Aha!” that came out of her mouth was unexpected, appropriate, but unheard by anyone else.

  Because there was no one there. Gaining courage, Gladys looked into every corner and behind every stack of boxes. No drug thief present.

  What about the door? It was shut. The lock in the doorknob was engaged.

  But . . . the dead bolt was not.

  Had someone left via this door? Had her early morning work surprised the seedy culprit who expected her to be in at a later hour?

  Had he stolen anything?

  She hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the pharmacy, but there were other things to steal. Gladys marched into her office but found the money box intact. Next, she entered the main part of the store and flipped on all the lights. The register never contained more than a hundred dollars in change and it was all there. She strode up and down each aisle but found nothing out of place. Had she scared the thief off before he could steal anything?

  Gladys stood in the middle of the candy aisle and let herself breathe. She rubbed her head. She needed some Excedrin and went into the restroom for some water.

  But after taking the pills she noticed there were water droplets on the mirror. And there was a distinct shine on the wall to her left. She touched it. It was wet. Stepping back, she saw the hint of water on the floor.

  Any stray moisture from yesterday would have long ago evaporated. Which meant the thief had used the restroom—and was messy about it. None of
this made sense. The only thing Gladys was sure about was that she was going to call an alarm company.

  Take that, you criminal.

  * * *

  Gladys met Margery as she entered the front of the store for work. The older woman’s face was pulled and her red hair seemed to glow especially bright.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Gladys slipped a hand through Margery’s arm and led her to the register. “I hate to worry you but we had a break-in last night and—”

  “Break-in?” Margery’s stomach tightened.

  “Or break-out, or something,” Gladys said. She took Margery’s purse and put it away in the drawer under the counter. “I was here early and felt a cold rush of air, as if the back door had been opened. And it had.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The dead bolt wasn’t engaged. The dead bolt from the inside. I know I locked it last night.”

  Margery didn’t remember unlocking any dead bolt when she’d escaped out the back, but she’d been running on adrenaline so it was entirely possible. “Are you sure you locked it?” she asked.

  “I’m sure.” Gladys paced in the checkout lane. “And there’s more. The restroom was wet.”

  “What?”

  “The walls and the floor, even the mirror. It was as if someone had used it. I don’t know . . . maybe they bathed in it.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe a homeless person broke in and used the facilities.”

  You’re way too close. Margery thought about the shower sprayer. She hadn’t had time to put it back. “Did they take anything?”

  “Not that I can see. But they would have if I hadn’t shown up early.”

  Which led to another question. “Why were you here so early? We’re not that busy, are we?”

  Gladys stopped pacing and looked toward the pharmacy, then at Margery, then to the floor. “You may not know this, but my eyesight isn’t very good.”

  Margery had guessed as much but only nodded.

  “I’m finding the need to be extra careful. To check things twice. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt because of a mistake I made. So I’ve decided to start coming in early.”

  So much for showers. Then Margery thought of a solution. “I could help you. Check things for you. I’d help however you need help. Then you wouldn’t have to come in so early anymore.”