The Good Nearby

by Nancy Moser

  “Your lack of formal education has been addressed long ago—and rectified. I gave you the life education that made up for your pitiful past.”

  She gave him a standing ovation. “Bravo! The magnanimous man changes the wallflower to a rose—and makes her pay for the privilege.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “You should be grateful.”

  A brief moment of clarity made her acknowledge this. She softened her tone. “I am grateful. I’ve been grateful for thirty-one years. But how long before the debt is paid and you treat me as an equal, not a project?”

  He stood speechless. Then he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my wife.”

  It rang as a title, not a consecrated vow. A position filled, not a calling.

  “You don’t respect me, Stanford. You don’t want to be around me. You tolerate me.”

  “Of course I respect you and want you around.” He shook his head. “It’s getting late. What do you want out of all this?”

  What did she want? Having to put it into words—words Stanford would respond to—was difficult, and Angie realized she should have thought this through before she started.

  He picked up his glasses and magazine. “If you can’t express it, how can I guess—”

  “I want to be loved.”

  “You are loved.”

  She made a mental edit. “I want to feel loved.”

  He folded the glasses and put them in his shirt pocket, his head shaking. “I can’t make you feel anything, Angela. That’s under your control, not mine.”

  She took a step toward him, wanting to touch him but not daring to. “You’re the one in control, Stanford. If you expressed this love you say you have for me . . . if you were more demonstrative. If you hugged me, kissed me . . .”

  “I do all those things.”

  “In the bedroom. But how about in the kitchen when I’m cooking dinner? Or on the deck when I’m reading?”

  “You want to have sex in the kitchen and on the deck?”

  She sighed in exasperation. “I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about attention. Touch me, look at me, talk to me as if I’m the most important person in the world.”

  “Don’t ask me to be something I’m not.”

  “You asked me to be something I wasn’t.”

  “That was different.”

  “How?”

  “I asked you to be something better than what you were. I made you better.”

  “I want you to be something better than what you are. I want you—I want us—to pay attention to each other more.”

  His upper lip curled in a disturbing rendition of Elvis. “I don’t like when you play the whiney, needy type, Angela.”

  “Well . . . I am needy. In this I am.”

  He shook his head, disgusted. “I am not a touchy-feely man. You know that.”

  She touched his arm. “But you could be. Couldn’t you? For me?”

  He looked down at her, but his eyes were neutral, just as they always were. Only his work made his eyes light up.

  Angie did not.

  The revelation made her legs weak even while anger sparked in the pit of her stomach. “For me?” she repeated, giving him one more chance.

  He stepped back, shook his head, and turned toward the stairs. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. I have a big deal being finalized in an early meeting. I need to get to bed.”

  Angie took her own step back, creating even more distance between them. “And I need to go.”

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”

  She hadn’t meant to say the G word, but it seemed to be the logical progression from his rejection of her . . . to her rejecting him.

  Going. Leaving him.

  She hurried toward the kitchen, gathering her coat and purse along the way. Even as she opened the door her thoughts raced: What am I doing?

  But she couldn’t stop, and that fact alone, scared her. She’d never done this before. Never threatened to leave. Never walked out. Maybe if she had . . .

  Once in the garage, her spine tingled with the thought of his coming after her. Chasing her.

  Her tingles were wasted because Stanford Sebastian Schuster did not open the door and call after her. He did not plead with her to stay. Or even demand that she “get back in here!”

  As the garage door rattled open, as she started the car, the door between garage and house remained closed.

  He was letting her go.

  Right or wrong, there was no turning back now.

  * * *

  Talia was just getting into bed when she heard the doorbell. She glanced at Nesto, who was already asleep. Who could be visiting at this hour?

  She wrapped a robe over her nightgown and hurried downstairs, wishing she had a husband who could be the brave one to handle a mysterious caller late at night.

  She approached the door warily, edging up to its sheer-covered window.

  “Talia? It’s me. Mom.”

  She opened the door with a finger to her lips. “What are you doing here? I was getting into bed.”

  “I left your father.”

  The words could not have been more shocking than if her mother had said, “I’m going to take tap-dance lessons.” Actually, the latter would have been more feasible.

  “Can I come in?”

  Talia let her inside, then remembered her family sleeping upstairs. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make tea,” she whispered.

  Talia put a kettle of water on the stove and got out a box of assorted tea bags. She held them up to her mother, who waved away her choice. Talia chose a soothing chamomile. While waiting for the water to boil, she sat. “So what happened?”

  “He doesn’t love me.”

  “Of course he does.” As soon as she said it, Talia realized it was a trite response—and not entirely correct. She wasn’t sure if her father truly loved anyone. Other than himself. Other than his work.

  Her mother fingered the edge of the navy placemat. “I saw you and Wade today.”

  Talia dropped a tea bag.

  Angie leaned across the table. “Do you love him?”

  “Mother . . .”

  Angie sat back. “So it’s just a fling?”

  Talia ran a hand through her hair. “I can’t believe you saw. I hope no one else saw.”

  “You’d better hope that.” Angie tapped a coral-painted fingernail on the table. “You never answered my question. Is it just a fling?”

  Talia’s heart pushed against her expanded belly. She sat up straighter, trying to give it room. “You were right about there being a chemistry between us. I’d played innocent, pretending it was nothing, taking his comfort when I needed it.”

  “So you were tempted?”

  Talia hesitated, then said, “Wade gave me attention. He made me feel special.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly why I left your father.”

  “Someone else is giving you attention, making you feel—?”

  “In a way. A different way.” Her mother told Talia about their argument. Nothing was said that Talia didn’t already know. And agree with. Her father was a cold man. Always had been. In fact . . .

  “But this job offer from Josh at the shelter . . .”

  “You’re not interested in this Josh, are—?”

  “No, no,” Angie said. “Nothing like that. There’s no romance involved.”

  “You liked cooking there that much?”

  “It’s not about the cooking—not just about the cooking. It’s about the respect.” She put her hands to her chest. “I feel whole there. Complete. As if I’m doing what I am destined to do.”

  Talia remembered the fire she’d seen in her mother at the meeting for the fund-raiser. “You are good at this sort of thing, Mother.”

  “How do you know?”

  Good point. “At the meeting when you stood up to Gennifer when she got after you for mentoring her daughter . . .”

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”
/>   “It was wonderful. You were helping a girl in need and defended her. I was very proud of you.”

  “You were?”

  “Before that meeting I hadn’t realized how good you are at the volunteer stuff. You’re an expert. You know what you’re talking about. And you come alive when you’re talking about it.”

  Her mother’s eyes met Talia’s. Angie’s were teary. “You’re proud of me?”

  The need in her mother’s voice made Talia’s heart break. She’d never thought to compliment her mother before, to build her up—or even considered that her mother needed those things from her. “I am very proud of you,” Talia said. “Very proud.”

  With a nod her mother moved on. “The thing is, I don’t want cherry pie instead of pumpkin. I want peace.”

  Talia was lost. “A piece of pie?”

  Her mother ran a hand over her forehead. “This afternoon while making dinner I started to make your father a pumpkin pie.”

  “His favorite.”

  “I hate pumpkin pie.”

  “Then why do you always make it?”

  “Because he likes it.”

  “My mother, always the giver . . .”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Not today. Because instead of making the pumpkin pie I made my favorite pie.”

  Talia thought a moment. “I have no idea which pie is your favorite.”

  “Because I never make it. I can’t remember the last time I did. It’s cherry.”

  “Why did you do it today?”

  “Selfishness.”

  Talia laughed. “I hardly think making one cherry pie in all these years is selfish.”

  “But it was!” Angie sprang out of her chair and paced the room, the movement fueling her words. “It seems that all I can do is act in extremes. Either I’m bowing down to someone else’s wishes at the cost of my own, or I do what I want and feel horrible about it.” She stopped pacing. “I want peace. P-E-A-C-E. I want a balance between giving too much and not at all. I felt the possibility of that balance when I was cooking at the shelter.”

  “Then you should take the job.”

  “Should and could are two different things.” She returned to her chair, slumping into it as if her pacing had burned away her spark.

  The water on the stove rolled in the kettle. Talia got up and poured two cups, then returned to her seat.

  Angie dunked her tea bag . . . up and down, up and down. “I don’t know what I’m doing. One minute your father and I were watching the news and the next, I’m here.” She took a sip and looked at Talia over the rim of her mug. “But I think I want to stay here. At least tonight. Would that be all right?”

  Talia said, “Of course you can stay” but her mind swam with dumb logistics. She hadn’t been in the guest room in ages. Was it decent or could her mother write her name in the dust on the dresser? Whatever condition it was in, it would have to do.

  Her mother needed her.

  Join the needy club. There was always room for one more.

  17

  A prudent person foresees danger and takes precautions.

  The simpleton goes blindly on and suffers the consequences.

  PROVERBS 22:3

  He was number 96.

  That wasn’t the only reason I was attracted to him, but it was the first reason.

  Me being at a football game at all was a miracle. Since leaving the hospital and voluntarily moving back home to escape the foster-care system . . .

  Mama had been mad I’d run away, and me staying away a year had turned that mad to furious. Yet from the first moment I walked in the door I could tell she’d gotten used to me being gone.

  In my absence Ted had moved in. “Hey, Gigi, nice to see you.” His voice made my skin crawl and his eyes lingered . . . they made me want to wrap a blanket around myself. I had no clue what Mama saw in him. Yet it was clear by the way she hung on his arm that she did. I could only imagine the mixed feelings she must have felt when my doctor had called and told her to come get me.

  Since I found Ted smarmy, I found ways to be away from home as much as possible. I worked two jobs plus going to school. Add studying to the mix and I was only home to sleep. I didn’t have time for fun stuff.

  So going to a football game that night was something new. A whim. I didn’t even like football.

  But during fourth hour on Friday, when we were forced to go to a pep rally for the big game against the Knights, when the girl sitting next to me on the bleachers said, “You want to go to the game with me tonight?” I said yes. I wasn’t into the whole rah-rah school-spirit thing, but once I got there and sat in the middle of a crowd wearing blue and white, eating popcorn and hot dogs, chanting with the cheerleaders . . . it was kind of fun. America, apple pie, and all that.

  Number 96 was the kicker. After he made the first extra point, he took off his helmet as he ran to the sidelines. Even from the stands I could tell he wasn’t very big. The players on defense loomed over him, but he was cute in a sweaty-guy kind of way.

  I turned to the girl next to me—her name turned out to be Suzy, which was close enough to Susie to make me like her. “What’s the kicker’s name?”

  She knew right away, even without looking at him. “That’s Mick Lamborn. He’s in my math class. He flunked the last test.”

  I didn’t care. I wasn’t good at math either. I felt Suzy’s eyes. “What?”

  She grinned at me. “You like him?”

  “I don’t even know him.”

  “You wanna meet him?”

  “Sure.”

  Why not? What could it hurt?

  * * *

  Luckily, Suzy’s math class was right before lunch, so Monday at the scheduled time I hurried out of American history and ran to room 342. Suzy was waiting for me and motioned me over. She was standing with Mick, and he looked in my direction as I came closer. Suzy would never win a prize for being subtle.

  Mick’s face had sharp features. His nose was kind of pointy and his eyes were small. But his shoulders looked strong. I was in the market for some strong shoulders I could rely on. I was getting weary of handling life by myself. Mama was no help whatsoever and needed handling just like the chores and the bills. And Daddy had his own life with his new family in another state.

  Not that I was going to pounce on the poor guy, ask him to marry me and take me away or anything dumb like that, but wide strong shoulders were always a good thing. Especially if those shoulders wore the number 96.

  “Come on, Gigi,” Suzy said.

  I moved faster until I was standing right beside him.

  “You wanted to meet me?” he asked.

  I flashed Suzy a look, then smiled at him. What could I say but, “Yeah.”

  He spread his arms, holding a notebook with one outstretched hand. “Here I am.”

  Here you are. I couldn’t pinpoint why I was so attracted to him, but there was no denying the pull to my insides from just being close.

  Suzy took hold of my arm and said, “This is Gigi.”

  Mick wrinkled his nose. “Gigi?”

  He didn’t like my name. Not a good start. “Actually, it’s Margery.”

  The wrinkle left him and was replaced by a smile. “Margery. Marg. Better.”

  I vowed to never be Gigi again.

  “Want to go eat?” he asked.

  Anything. Anything.

  18

  Let us hold tightly without wavering to the hope we affirm,

  for God can be trusted to keep his promise.

  Let us think of ways to motivate one another

  to acts of love and good works.

  HEBREWS 10:23-24

  Angie opened her eyes and wondered where she was, yet within a breath she remembered. She was in Talia’s guest room. And it was 8:15.

  She heard voices below. The family was up. They’d let her sleep. She wondered what Nesto would think about his mother-in-law being in residence.

  She turned on a bedside light, then indulged herself a moment
longer by snuggling back into the covers, her hand beneath her cheek. The glow of the lamp revealed a layer of dust on the wood and on the top of the clock, but she pushed such judgmental thoughts aside. That was a Stanford observation. Talia had taken her in. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  And as of last night, she was the biggest beggar of them all. She’d practically begged Stanford to love her—the way she wanted to be loved. Memories of their argument were cloaked in embarrassment. She’d never talked to him like that before. She remembered his comment, said in disdain: “I don’t like when you play the whiney, needy type, Angela.”

  And her answer: “Well . . . I am needy. In this I am.”

  She closed her eyes. Was it so bad to need? to want something she didn’t have? Or was that a case of envy? coveting? “Thou shalt not covet.”

  She should be content. She had way more than most people. She didn’t have to worry about money, a roof over her head, or even buying the latest fashions each season. She and Stanford had traveled to exotic places most people only dreamed about. Their house had way more square footage than a couple with no children at home needed. So what if she didn’t get as many hugs and kisses as she wanted? She had no right to want anything. She was provided for. That should be enough.

  But it wasn’t. God help her, it wasn’t.

  Angie turned over and faced the wall.

  * * *

  “Mother, you’re up.”

  There was the slightest bit of impatience in Talia’s voice and Angie felt the need to make amends. “Sorry. I hope you didn’t wait breakfast on me.”

  Angie needn’t have worried. The breakfast table was set with cereal boxes. Cold cereal. Angie couldn’t remember the last time Stanford had allowed the Schuster residence to succumb to Post Toasties or Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Yet Angie loved cereal.

  “Sit,” Nesto said, patting the place she’d sat in the night before. “There’s coffee.”

  “Just what I need.” She got herself a cup and freshened Nesto’s and Talia’s before sitting.

  For the first time she noticed Talia was completely dressed. “Are you going somewhere? It’s Saturday.”

  “Actually . . .” Talia hesitated. “I have some errands and I was hoping you could help with Tomás.”