The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  Her mother appeared in the door. “Knock, knock? Am I the first one here?”

  If nothing else her mother was always punctual. “Mother, I’d like you to meet my boss, Wade Hampton. Wade, this is my mother, Angie Schuster.”

  They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Talia had to admit her mother looked nice. She wore a peach wool blazer over a brown turtleneck and brown plaid pants, the image of the quintessential suburban volunteer. The string of pearls solidified her as middle-American.

  Angie took a seat at the far side of the table, at the end. “Who’s coming?”

  Talia answered, “Troy represents the hospital; Donna, the state’s organ-donation network; then you and Candice from the volunteer corps, and . . .” She looked at her notes.

  Wade touched her arm. “And a lawyer, Gennifer Mancowitz.”

  “From . . . ?” Angie asked.

  “Chasen, Grieb, and Caldwell. But she’s here on her own. I mean, the firm is not officially sponsoring the event.”

  “Why not?” Angie asked.

  The question caught Talia off guard. “I don’t know. I—”

  Angie hung her purse on the back of her chair. “Corporate sponsors are always handy when it comes to underwriting the expenses of fund-raising events.”

  Talia bristled. She knew this and she would get to it when the meeting got started. After all, she wasn’t involved in this occasion solely as the hotel’s event coordinator. She had a personal stake in the charity, in earning money to educate people about organ donations. If more people would sign up to be donors, her husband would have a better chance of surviving.

  Her mother opened her red notebook that clashed with her peach blazer. “I’m familiar with everyone you mentioned, except Gennifer. What’s her story? I’m just curious.”

  Why all the questions? Talia had never known her mother to assert herself like this. “She probably has a heart for charity.”

  Angie shook her head. “I’m betting there’s more to it than that. She’s either known someone who’s needed an organ or someone who’s given one. Most people have a reason behind their philanthropy.”

  Like a husband who won’t let you work?

  The meeting hadn’t even started and Talia found herself weary. “I don’t know her story, Mother. Perhaps you can ask her.” Talia needed air and a chance to regroup. “I’ll go check on the refreshments.”

  Wade touched her arm. “I’ll do it. You stay here and chat with your mother.”

  “But—”

  At his exit the room suffered an awkward silence. Talia straightened the pen at the head of the table.

  “Is it difficult working with a boss who’s interested in you?” Angie asked.

  The pen flipped to the floor. “What are you talking about?”

  Angie leaned back in her chair. “The way he touched your arm, looked at you . . . he’s interested in you as a woman.”

  Talia picked up the pen. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s my boss.”

  “Which puts you in a position of submission.”

  “Mother!” If anyone was guilty of submission . . .

  Angie shrugged. “I’ve worked with a lot of men on a lot of committees. I’m not seeing things, Talia. Be careful.”

  Take care.

  Troy and Donna came in together and chatted with Angie as if they were old chums. Wade returned with a uniformed waiter pushing the refreshment cart. People got coffee and cookies. Candice arrived. Talia welcomed the busyness.

  After getting coffee, Wade announced, “We should probably get started.”

  Talia did the head count. “But we’re missing Gennifer. . . .”

  * * *

  Room 234. There it was.

  Gennifer burst into the meeting room, out of breath. Four women and two men were in the process of being seated around a table. “Is this the meeting for the organ-donation benefit?”

  A pregnant woman answered. “This is the place. Gennifer?”

  “That’s me. Sorry, I’m late. Court went a little long today.”

  “I’m Talia Soza. Come. Sit by me.”

  Talia introduced everyone around the table.

  “Court. How exciting. What kind of cases do you handle?” asked Candice, one of the volunteers.

  “Nothing glamorous today. An embezzlement, an assault, and a drug case. I pleaded out the last two.”

  “I don’t like the idea of that,” Troy said, with a cookie crumb on his chin. “Criminals should pay for their crimes, not have them bargained away.”

  Gennifer put her leather portfolio on the table. “Ideally that’s achieved through the plea bargain. A level of justice without taking up the courts’ time, or filling the overflowing prison system with the lesser offenders.”

  “My work would be a lot easier if some of the lesser offenders were taken off the streets.” Angie, a middle-aged woman with a pageboy haircut, looked around the table as if waiting for everyone to agree. In Gennifer’s eyes her main flaw was the string of pearls she wore around her neck. “I do some volunteering at the shelter downtown, so I deal with some of those offenders—and their victims.”

  Suddenly, Gennifer gasped. “Your name’s Angie.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Are you . . . ? My daughter went to the shelter last Sunday with a woman named Angie and—”

  “Sarah?”

  “That’s my daughter.”

  Angie beamed. “Sarah went with me. I’m her mentor.”

  Gennifer shook her head. “She doesn’t need a mentor.”

  The smile faded and the woman faltered a bit. “I’m sorry you feel . . . but obviously, Sarah feels differently. As does the school.”

  The woman’s words made Gennifer bristle. “You have no right to step in, to interfere—” To wear pearls.

  Angie’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t interfere. I only go where I’m wanted. And needed. Where I’m asked to go.”

  Wade, one of the hotel reps, extended his hands, trying to calm them. “Ladies, please.”

  With a start Gennifer realized they’d been having their exchange in front of an audience.

  Angie sat back in her chair. “Sorry.”

  They all looked at Gennifer. She had no choice but to say, “Excuse me.”

  Wade nodded to Talia, who held up a piece of paper. “If you’ll all get out the agenda, we can get started.”

  It was not a good beginning.

  * * *

  Talia went around the table collecting dirty coffee cups. She could feel herself smiling. Memories of seeing her mother standing up for herself against Gennifer’s attacks returned. Her mother-the-doormat had a bit of fire in her? Her mother truly was a volunteer queen? A champion of the needy?

  Very cool. And surprising.

  Wade came back in the conference room.

  “How do you think it went?” she asked.

  He took a coffee cup out of her hand. “It went fine, but enough of this.”

  “I need to clean—”

  “There’s been a change of plans.” He nudged her toward the door.

  “But—”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “Your workday has ended, as of now. I have arranged for you to go to the spa and get the facial of your choice and a pedicure and manicure.”

  “But—”

  He held up a finger. “No back talk. You’re going. It’s arranged.”

  Out of nowhere, tears threatened. “Wade, you don’t have to do—”

  “I want to do this. I want you to take a couple of hours and think only of yourself. You deserve it.”

  “But the babysitter. I have to get—”

  “You’ll be home way before you turn into a pumpkin.” He turned her around and shoved her gently into the hall. “Now go.”

  She went.

  * * *

  Ahhhhhhh.

  So this was how the other half lived.

  Talia let the rosemary water bubble around her feet and ankles. How could somethi
ng as simple as hot water feel so luxurious? She closed her eyes against the muted light and let the piped-in sounds of a string quartet wrap her in its soothing mantle.

  I bet people like Gennifer Mancowitz do this all the time.

  She didn’t know Gennifer beyond what she’d seen at the meeting, but the woman had an air about her that suggested that the finer things in life—perks like pedicures and facials—were prerequisites of day-to-day living. Talia didn’t hold it against her. She didn’t hold the rich in contempt, nor the poor. As long as a person worked hard and did their best, as long as they gave back a little of whatever they received . . .

  Like her mother.

  This evening Talia had seen her mother in a totally new light. Gone was the weak follower, the slave doing her husband’s bidding. Present was a woman who faced the inequities of the world and tried to change them. Talia had never thought much of her mother’s volunteer work, and had looked down on it as a mere trifle to fill her mother’s empty days. But after witnessing Angie Schuster’s confrontation with Gennifer, after seeing her mother reveal a fire in her belly toward charity work . . . Talia couldn’t help but look at her with new respect.

  With this new attitude, Talia’s perception of her mother’s activities moved from busywork to godly work. Angie gave back a huge percentage of what she received through her time, talent, and treasure. More than Talia did. More than anyone else Talia knew. The revelation both shamed and challenged her. She took a cleansing breath and made a decision. She’d be nicer to her mother. Treat her with the respect she deserved.

  Talia felt a gentle touch on her foot. She opened her eyes to her pedicurist. “Are you ready to choose a polish color?”

  Absolutely.

  * * *

  Margery smiled at the three red chrysanthemum blossoms that sat tucked around the rearview mirror. She hadn’t stolen them from Nesto’s yard. When she’d left that night she’d admired the Soza plantings lining the front walk and Nesto had said, “Pinch off a few. Take them home and enjoy them.”

  And so she had. Taken them home.

  Home sweet home. Funny how a few flowers made her happy. Funny how she could feel happy at all considering she was living in her car.

  But she could. And she did.

  Margery adjusted the pillow against the armrest of the back door of the car and pulled the blanket over her shoulder. She alternated ends of the motel parking lot every night, and tonight the overhead streetlight shone in from the left, from the feet end of her makeshift bed. She closed her eyes against its glare.

  Her thoughts turned to Nesto. She could never—ever, ever, ever—remember having a conversation with anyone like the one she’d had tonight with him. She’d only known a few people who ever mentioned God. Certainly not her parents and certainly not Mick.

  That wasn’t entirely true. Mick mentioned God and Jesus all the time—just not in a nice way.

  I’ve done the same thing. I need to stop that.

  It was an odd thought, and something she’d never imagined thinking. People cussed all the time. So what? They were just words.

  The Lord will work out his plans for my life.

  She was proud for remembering those words. She’d never memorized a Bible verse before. It probably stuck with her because it was something she wanted to hear.

  But was it true? Did God really have a plan? for her? She tried very hard to be a good person. Even when her life had been very, very bad she’d tried to be good. Do good. And while she was glad Nesto had told her she didn’t need to earn God’s love, she’d often felt God was proud of her. She saw his approval in little things, like the unexpected smile from an elderly woman at the grocery store when Margery helped her load her heavy bags. Or seeing an amazing sunset when she’d taken the garbage outside at the Chug & Chew. Or watching some birds dance around her neighbor’s bird feeder in the morning when she was having a cup of coffee. Or having the rare nice guy leave her a huge tip just when the rent was coming due. God had always provided for her—in strange ways, for sure—but provided just the same.

  Even now she had enough. She had a good job, was meeting good people. So what if she was sleeping in her car? It was an odd arrangement but it worked. And in a way, Margery felt more at peace now than she had in months. Could getting kicked out of the house have been a good thing? Another way of God providing for her? For she would never have gone on her own—never been brave enough to leave on her own. The way it happened was Mick’s doing.

  And as such, she was free.

  Not a bad feeling, all in all.

  * * *

  Gladys had just sat down with a cup of Sleepy Time tea and was adjusting her headphones to listen to a little Fauré when the phone rang. Between chair and phone her stomach tightened. Coming this late in the evening it wasn’t going to be a good call. She just knew it.

  “Gladys.”

  It was Aunt June’s standard greeting—or lack thereof.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s gone! Your mother’s gone!”

  Gone?

  “Dead, Gladys. She died an hour ago.”

  Gladys nearly laughed. This was absurd. “But she had medicine. I called the doctor personally. He was supposed to get her medicine.”

  “He did. But she got worse. Fast. This morning—”

  “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

  “I was busy dealing with her, with things, with trying to make her better. I . . . you weren’t here, Gladys. I was. I am. I had to deal with it. And I tried. I really, really tried.”

  June began to cry and Gladys felt horrible. She said the words her aunt needed to hear. “I’m sorry. I know you did all you could. You’ve always been there for her. For us. I’m sorry. But—” Gladys’s own tears came—“but Mama . . .”

  “I know. I know.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Gladys carried the phone back to her chair, sitting on the headphones but not caring. What did Fauré matter now? What did anything matter? Mama was gone.

  “I’m making arrangements,” June said. “I hope they’re okay.”

  Gladys sat rigid. “I’m coming. Now.”

  “Not now. It’s late. But do come, Gladys. I need you.”

  Gladys hit the phone’s disconnect button and let it drop to her lap. Mama gone. There was always Mama. Mama always was.

  Until God took her away.

  Gladys jumped out of the chair. “You did this, God! You took her away just to get at me, didn’t you?”

  Her own words from Sunday morning came back to haunt her: “I’ll get through this, God. You watch me. I’ll get through it.” The words had been said in response to her sight crisis, but remembering them now she saw them for what they were—a challenge for God to bring it on.

  You asked for it; you got it.

  One did not challenge the Almighty to a duel and win. Gladys sank back into the chair and pulled her knees to her chin. “What have I done?” She pressed her eyes against her knees, becoming as small as possible. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I take it back. Just bring Mama back. Don’t punish her because of me. Bring her back.”

  But as her prayer fell away, as the silence of her house wrapped around her like a shroud, Gladys knew there were no take-backs. Her mother’s illness had turned deadly because she had defied God.

  She lifted her head, needing air. She looked around the house she loved. For the first time it did not bring her solace or pleasure. It was a silent house. Dead. Still.

  And empty.

  Suddenly, she needed to fill it. She could not be alone with God. Not now. Not after what she’d done . . . what he’d done. She picked up the phone and punched in some numbers.

  “King here.”

  “Mama died and it’s all my fault.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  * * *

  Gladys was not a hugger. Never had been. But when she answered the door to King an
d he opened his arms to her . . .

  She’d forgotten the comfort that could be found in a soft shoulder.

  They stood in the open doorway with the autumn breeze rushing in around them, and for once Gladys didn’t care if the furnace kicked on, didn’t care if she was heating the outside. At that moment she couldn’t move and didn’t want to. She’d found her rock and clung to it like a drowning woman washed up from the sea.

  Finally, her rock spoke. “Come.”

  She let herself be led inside and let King close the door against the cold and let him take her to the couch where he eased her down to the cushions. He took his place beside her, where she again found his shoulder and arms. His heartbeat was oddly reassuring that life did exist. Life did go on.

  For her. For him.

  But not for Mama.

  New tears began and he stroked her hair. Gladys was grateful he allowed the moment to linger before he asked the question she knew was inevitable.

  Finally, it came. “What do you mean it’s all your fault?”

  In the time between her phone call summoning him here and his arrival, she’d thought about what to say, how much to tell him, how to couch the truth so he wouldn’t hate her or judge her or call her a fool.

  But in that time she also realized there was no side road and no safe place to hide. This was King, her business partner, her confidant, her friend. He deserved the truth. If he couldn’t handle it and she lost him, so be it. She had to tell someone. Or die.

  Gladys readied herself to answer his question by sitting up and moving away, putting a full cushion between them. “Remember when you found me at the store after hours, in the dark?”

  “Of course.”

  “Remember how you got after me for not letting God be a part of my life?”

  “I do.”

  She pulled a throw pillow to her chest. “The next morning I challenged God to a showdown. I told him to give me his best shot.”

  King let a chuckle escape. He immediately squelched it with a hand, but it was too late.

  She hit him with the pillow. “You’re laughing at me?”

  He set the pillow aside and moved closer. “I’m laughing at your gumption, your fire, your—”

  “Stupidity. I know it was stupid. But I didn’t think God would take Mama because of—”