A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  This was an anniversary and birthday restaurant.

  Then she saw it: one of her mosaics adorning the wall of the waiting room. She moved close and touched the tiles. She remembered making it. If memory served, it had been purchased from the gallery a year—

  “I’m sorry, but we’re not open until eleven.” Claire turned to find Bailey Manson sticking his head in from the main dining room.

  She stepped away from the mosaic, not wanting to risk a connection. “I’m…I’m not here to eat, I’m here to work.”

  Bailey’s body followed his head into the foyer. He gave Claire the once-over. “Black pants, white shirt…a bit confident, are we?”

  Claire shrugged. “I believe my confidence fits nicely with your desperation.”

  He blushed. “It just so happens I need a waitress. How did you know?”

  “I heard you talking to Annie at the diner.”

  He nodded. “Right. I did say something to her, didn’t I? When I first saw you, all dressed and ready to go, I thought you’d been sent by Santa Claus.”

  Would you believe God?

  Bailey glanced at his watch. “No matter. Time’s a’tocking.” He opened a closet and removed a bin of red cummerbunds and bow ties. “You’ll need these.” A waiter appeared in the doorway to the dining room. “Stanley, this is… I didn’t even ask your name.”

  “Claire Adams.”

  “Claire. My name is Bailey Manson, and this is Stanley. Stanley, Claire will have section B. Teach her the ropes.” He put a hand on her shoulder as she walked past. “You do know how to wait tables, don’t you?”

  She would soon enough.

  Bailey singled out the key to Bon Vivant as he held the door open, letting out the waiters. “Night, Stanley. William, Roberta.”

  Claire was the last one out. “A moment of your time, Ms. Adams?”

  She stood outside the front door while Bailey locked up. Her legs throbbed. Her feet were leaden. The cicadas chanted a droning night rhythm that matched the pulse of her headache. She had five minutes of sanity left before she would explode.

  “You did well.” Bailey walked toward his car, trading one key for another. “You’ve obviously waited tables before.”

  “No.” The one-word answer was all she could manage.

  Bailey stopped walking. “Then you are the fastest learner I’ve ever seen. How many evenings a week can you work?”

  “None.”

  “You don’t want to work—?”

  “No. Sorry.” I’d never survive. Claire looked at the moths diving at the streetlight in a suicidal frenzy. She considered joining them.

  “If you didn’t want to work for me, why did you come to the restaurant and apply?”

  “I didn’t apply I came to help.”

  “You showed up wearing the right uniform. Certainly a white shirt and black pants are not your usual summer attire.”

  “No.”

  “So you showed up in my restaurant’s waiting room, just as I needed someone to work—for a one-night stand?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s all I have to give.”

  Bailey expelled an exasperated sigh. “It’s too late for games, Ms. Adams. Let’s bypass the reason you showed up and saved my skin. The fact is, you did it. And now I want you to do it again, on a regular basis. Good help is as hard to find as a cool breeze in August.”

  Claire shook her head. She didn’t want to argue with him. She didn’t want to explain. She just wanted to get back to the library and die. She wasn’t sure why she’d been spurred to work for Bailey, because the feeling of anticipation had not lessened. If anything, it had gotten more insistent. But she was fairly certain being a permanent waitress at Bon Vivant was not her present fate. Or doom.

  Thank God.

  Bailey unlocked his car and got in. “You’re an exasperating woman, Claire, but I suppose I should thank you and count my blessings. At least I had your services one day. Will you grace me with your presence again?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Bailey rolled his eyes and started his car. “Keep me in mind if you ever feel like helping out.”

  Not in this lifetime.

  Claire was glad the library was empty because she couldn’t have tiptoed if she tried. Her head and torso wanted to be in the attic, but her legs and feet were content to stay at the bottom of the stairs. She pulled herself up each step, leaning on the creaky railing.

  She’d always prided herself in being a hard worker, but she was used to the work of the mind and hand more than a full-body workout. She hadn’t signed on for this.

  She looked across the attic where her marginal bed waited.

  Home sweet home? If she weren’t so tired it would be laughable.

  She collapsed on the mattress and fell into a sleep born of hard work.

  Claire opened her eyes. It was still dark. She glanced at her watch. It was a little after midnight. She was still wearing her waitressing clothes.

  It didn’t matter. Sleep. Sleep mattered.

  She turned onto her side, snuggled her cheek against the flat pillow, and closed her eyes.

  Wake up!

  She sat up in bed. Her eyes darted, trying to capture the cause of her unrest. The anticipation that had plagued her for days gnawed with fresh teeth.

  Claire crawled out of bed and moved to the window seat, looking across the town square. The moon cut a swath through the trees. The flowers she’d planted with Merry cast irregular shadows. It had been a long day. Yet somehow, it wasn’t over.

  The ache grabbed. Her heart began to pound. And she suddenly knew.

  Tonight. Tonight was the night.

  Someone was coming.

  Seven

  Trust in the LORD with all your heart and

  lean not on your own understanding;

  in all your ways acknowledge him,

  and he will make your paths straight.

  PROVERBS 3:5–6

  SIM LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW of the bus. They had just returned from a bathroom break and everyone was awake and talking, even though it was nearly midnight. She wished they would be quiet. Their conversations frayed her nerves. How could they talk about sports or weather or work as though those things were important? They belonged to the before world. They didn’t belong to now. Or even later.

  At least they weren’t talking to her. The wall Sim had erected between herself and the world was doing its job. On her side was grief. On their side was the rest. The rest meant nothing to her. Not anymore.

  If only fear would stop threatening the wall. She could see it peeking over the top, ready to pounce when she wasn’t looking. Who knew which meddler would get suspicious of a kid traveling alone and confide in a cop, who would then call her aunt and uncle? At every stop, Sim expected to feel a hand on her shoulder: “Where you going, girl?” or “Why are you traveling alone?”

  I’m traveling alone because I am alone. And I’m going…away.

  They’d want to know her parents’ names. She’d laugh and say, “That’s a good one,” and they’d get testy and pull her aside and find out where she came from and why she left. But they wouldn’t understand. They’d look at her chopped-off, red-streaked hair, her heavy eye makeup and nose ring, and think she was a druggie. She wasn’t but didn’t mind that people thought she was. It made them stay away. She didn’t want their pity or their sickening, helpful words.

  Cops were different. They were drawn to her eccentric looks. And if they noticed her… Trouble at three o’clock. Watch her. Then they’d arrest her and put her in a jail where she would always—and yet never—be alone. In jail, fear would be her bunkmate.

  There was too much at risk to look people in the eye. Best to fold into a seat and disappear.

  A bump in the road knocked Sim’s head against the window, jolting her awake. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The darkness didn’t help. The reading lights of a few sleepless passengers reflected off the glass. She stretched, then rubbed the crick in her neck
. She looked out the window. Shadowed farm fields flew by, an unending blur lit only by the moon and the headlights.

  The bus slowed and there was the grind of a downshift. Sim sat up straighter, hoping to spot a marker that would tell her where they were. A sign came into view, announcing a town.

  Steadfast.

  The word grabbed her. She spun around, as if the back of the sign would tell her more. She tensed as they slowed, passing a darkened restaurant, some houses, a farm implement dealership, a gas station.

  She grabbed her backpack from the overhead rack and hurried to the front of the bus.

  “Hey, girl, get back to your—”

  “I want off.”

  The driver pointed out the window. “This isn’t anybody’s stop. This is Stead—”

  “Steadfast.” Sim moved to the top of the exit steps. “This is where I’m supposed to get off.”

  “Can’t be. We’re just passing through. Let me see your ticket.”

  “I want off.”

  Drowsy eyes peered over the tops of seats.

  The driver pulled over. “What’s the rush, girl? This ain’t your stop. I know it.”

  “It is my stop. I have to get off.” Even as she heard herself saying the words, they made no sense. Why the urgency? Why this place?

  “You got somebody picking you up? It’s late. Nothing’s open.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She waved a hand toward the door.

  Shaking his head, the driver opened it. “You be careful.”

  Sim raced down the steps and away from the bus before someone could stop her. It pulled away, marking its exit with a fog of diesel exhaust. As its sound receded, she was struck by the silence of the town square. She was used to a big city where there was always something open. Yet here, every storefront was dark. No cars. No people. Crickets chirped. A streetlight hummed.

  Why did I get off here?

  The last five minutes played back like a dream she was watching from a distance. It made no sense.

  Sense or no sense, she was here. And here was as good a place as anywhere. Sim looked for a place to go, a place she wouldn’t be found.

  A courthouse crowned the square, looming large and ominous, its stone reflecting the moon.

  Can’t go there. Come morning, it’ll be full of people asking questions. I want somewhere quiet—

  The flapping of a flag drew her attention across the street. Below the flag, red, white, and blue flowers gave the old building a friendly touch. The flag went limp against its pole. A sign above the front door read STEADFAST LIBRARY.

  Steadfast. Sim crossed the street.

  Claire saw her. A girl getting off a bus in the square. Bodywise, she looked to be thirteen, maybe fourteen, but she dressed older. Tougher. After the bus pulled away, the girl hesitated. There was no one there to meet her.

  Except me.

  Claire took a step away from the window. She put a hand to her midsection, gauging the bite of the anticipation. It was gone. It had been replaced with certainty. This was it. This was what she’d been waiting for.

  But a girl? What was she supposed to do with a girl? She wasn’t good with kids, had never had much experience with them. If she were in her house, it might be doable, but she was living in the attic of a library. What could she do to help a strange girl while she was hiding out in an attic?

  A moment later, Claire heard the back door of the library hit against the stack of boxes. Why wouldn’t her heart stop pounding? It was loud enough the girl could probably hear it.

  Claire cracked open the attic door and saw the girl slip inside, scoping out the storeroom, picking up books, setting them down. Her face was fair and sculptured, perhaps marking an ancestor of Nordic descent. Her features possessed the inkling of beautiful, like a promise that could be kept or broken. But her hair was awful, chopped off at the chin in uneven chunks of fake red. And was that a nose ring?

  Yet even in the shadowed room, Claire could see by the way the girl’s eyes took in her new surroundings that she had smarts. And courage. There was no fear in her eyes, just curiosity.

  The girl tripped over air, making Claire smile. Adolescence was such an awkward time. Feet as big as pontoons with no cooperating muscles to steer them.

  Potential. That’s what she had. Maybe that’s what they both had. Potential to be used by God. To find their unique pur—

  The girl turned her head toward the attic door, and Claire’s stomach grabbed.

  It was time.

  Was that a door?

  Sim adjusted her backpack and paused at the bottom of a narrow staircase. At the top of the steps, a door stood ajar. She wanted to call out, ask if anyone was up there, but didn’t dare. She was the intruder.

  She climbed the stairs, testing her weight on each one. No sounds gave her away. Her fear of the darkness was tempered by her need to find a safe place to stay.

  She stood at the door and pressed her cheek against the jamb, trying to see through the crack. The moonlight fell over a window seat and a shelf with clothes. She pulled back. Someone lives here. She turned to retreat down the stairs when a woman’s voice came from within the room.

  “Come in.”

  Sim’s heart zipped through her body. She swallowed.

  “It’s okay. Come on in.”

  Sim held her breath and jabbed the door so it opened on its own. She let herself breathe when she saw the woman standing on the other side of the room. She looked harmless enough: slim, fortysomething, short hair. She looked like Mrs. Barrett, the principal of her middle school. She wore black pants and a white shirt. “Who are you?”

  “Claire Adams.”

  The woman lit a candle on a small table. Sim wished the flickering light would reach into the far corners of the attic, where the monsters lived. She shoved away such childish fears and looked around. Boxes and cobwebs. Pretty bleak. “You live here?”

  “For the moment. Come—”

  “You homeless or something?”

  “Not exactly. But for the moment this is my home.”

  She snorted. “Some home.”

  “And where’s your home?”

  Sim felt herself redden. She shouldn’t have made fun of the woman’s quarters. At least she had a place to stay. Such as it was. She straightened her back. “I’m traveling right now.”

  Claire raised an eyebrow.

  “I am traveling.”

  “Where to?”

  “Places.” Claire didn’t ask more, and Sim let herself breathe. “I can’t believe they actually charge you for this place.”

  “Actually, they don’t.”

  It took her a moment. “You’re hiding out?”

  The woman shoved her hands in her pockets and shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m biding my time.”

  “No one knows you live here?”

  “You know.”

  “Besides me?”

  “No one.”

  She pointed to the light. “Hasn’t someone noticed the light through the window? Seen you come and go?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t think I’d still be up here if I’d been seen.” The woman sat on the window seat, dangling her legs. “What’s your name?”

  Her mouth told the truth before her brain could think of a lie.

  Sim.

  “That’s an odd name.”

  “It’s short for Simone.” She shrugged as she yawned. Her body demanded sleep.

  “You’re tired. We can talk tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay, Sim.”

  Her body warred with her mind. The world didn’t work this way. Strangers didn’t offer strangers lodging for free. And strange ladies didn’t offer to share their rooms with kids—unless they had something weird on their minds. Sim knew about such things. She’d seen it on television. Her eyes strayed to the bed. “You’re not some pervert, are you? Or some escaped convict hiding out from the feds?” She immediately regretted the words. If Claire was some wacko, now she’d
get mad and do something really bad.

  “I’m harmless.”

  “But you want me to stay. That’s kinda…weird.”

  “The Bible says we’re supposed to share with people in need.”

  Sim took a step back. “Oh. You’re one of them.”

  “Them?”

  “Religious fanatics. Spouting Bible verses and yelling at people to ‘repent or be damned!’” She’d seen their kind on TV too.

  Claire shook her head. “Right message, wrong method.”

  “You’re not like that?”

  “No.”

  “But I bet you can quote Bible verses.”

  “Occasionally. How about you?”

  “Uh-uh. Not my style.” She pointed at Claire’s necklace. “You wear a cross. I bet it’s not a fashion statement either.”

  Claire touched it. “It was my grandmother’s.”

  “Peachy keen.” That was rude.

  Claire dropped her hand. “You can have the bed. I’ll put some blankets on the floor over—”

  “Uh-uh.” Sim took another step toward the door. “I’ll find a place downstairs. There’s no one else here, is there?”

  Just us.

  “Then I’ll stay. One night. I need a place to—”

  “Hide?”

  Sim escaped downstairs.

  And so it began.

  Claire peeked through the door separating storeroom from library and watched the girl sleep. Sim had moved three armless vinyl chairs together and was stretched across them, her head on her backpack, a sweatshirt covering her shoulders. There was no way it could be comfortable. She slept, her mouth open, snoring softly. Claire understood why she hadn’t wanted to sleep in the attic with her. Being streetwise was probably an attribute—and a necessity—amid the evil of the world. But it was sad. Where was the trust anymore? Why did suspicion have to reign?

  And what was Sim’s story? What had brought her to Steadfast on a bus in the middle of the night? She seemed so independent, stubborn, headstrong. And wary. If Claire told her how she’d anticipated her arrival, Sim would be out of there.