A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  Sim was glad Claire didn’t say anything. She’d had enough words from people feeling sorry. She was surprised Claire didn’t look embarrassed. That’s how most people looked when she brought up that night. Like they’d rather get a tooth pulled than listen. Because if they listened, then they had to react. And nobody knew how to react to death. Death was a wicked relation everyone preferred to ignore and certainly didn’t want to invite into their lives.

  “I was given to my dad’s brother and wife. But they didn’t want me. Aunt Susan is obsessed with having a baby.”

  “But you’re a child, their—”

  “Their nothing.” She spun toward Claire. “Didn’t you hear me? They want a baby. Not a teenager. They don’t care about me. They only took me in because there wasn’t anyone else and they wanted my trust fund. As long as I live with them, they get to use my money to try all their fertility stuff. But when I turn eighteen, it’s all mine.” Sim tapped a hand on the top of the cooler. “And they’re having a grand time of it too. Buying themselves a new car and a big-screen TV. Pretending to be sad when all the time they were scheming to get rid of me so they could get all my money; maybe buy themselves a baby through the black market or something.”

  Sim…

  “It’s true.” She crossed her heart, then saw Claire’s look. I should have known you wouldn’t believe me. “Believe me or not, I don’t care. They didn’t care if I was around. My parents always said it was good my aunt and uncle didn’t have kids because they’re too set in their ways, though if you ask me, my parents had no right to talk. I was a mistake.”

  “Never.”

  “It’s true. My parents didn’t want me. My birth was an accident, just like their deaths were an accident. Two blips on a screen that only messed things up.” She flicked away a tear and sniffed. Stupid tears didn’t help anything.

  “I’m sorry, Sim. Really sorry.”

  Sim saw the compassion in Claire’s face, but she couldn’t give in to it. She’d die if she gave in. She stood, moving away. “I don’t need your pity. I’m doing what I want to be doing. It’s over. Done. It’s no big deal. I—”

  “You belong here. And so do I. God brought us together.”

  As nice as it sounded, it was way too weird. “God didn’t do anything. I did. I got myself here with my own planning, my own smarts. And I don’t need you, Him, or anyone, to tell me some plan. I’ll make my own plans, thank you very much.”

  “But—”

  She grabbed another donut and adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. “But nothing. You want help getting that cooler to the attic or not? I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  With Sim at work in the library, the silence in the attic fell like a heavy curtain. Sim had a job among the people of Steadfast. But what about Claire? Should she go out and do odd jobs? She sat on the window seat but felt no push to do such a thing.

  She sighed and pulled the Bible into her lap. Show me what to do, Lord. She let the Bible fall open to the middle and began reading in Psalms. There was such emotion there, such help no matter how a person was feeling.

  Then one verse stood out among the rest: “Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him.”

  Claire laughed softly. How appropriate for God to ask her to do the two things she was not good at doing: being still and waiting. She was a take-charge person. She made things happen. The fact she was sitting in an attic in Steadfast was proof of that. With amazing quickness and fervent activity she’d done all God had asked her to do. And now Sim was here. Certainly there were things to be done. Places and people to see.

  Claire looked at the verse again. Be still before the Lord.

  Yeah, right.

  Wait patiently for Him.

  Pooh. Not what she wanted to hear. She flipped to the back of the Bible, to the concordance. The verse she wanted to find was one that would tell her, “Charge ahead!” or “Go for it!”

  She found one “charge” reference in Jeremiah: “Charge, O horses! Drive furiously, O charioteers!”

  Forget that.

  As for “go for it“? She was not surprised to find the Bible devoid of the twentieth-century phrase. A lot of go here and go there, but nothing that fit what she wanted to find.

  Unfortunately, there were a lot of references to waiting: ‘“Therefore wait for me,’ declares the LORD,” and “Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.”

  Then she found one with a new twist: “Blessed are all who wait for him!”

  Blessed?

  Well, then.

  Maybe she’d give it a try.

  Eight

  Flee the evil desires of youth,

  and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace,

  along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.

  2 TIMOTHY 2:22

  MERRY PUSHED THE BOOK CART through the fiction stacks, heading toward the far corner. She heard Harold’s humming before she saw him. “Morning, Harold.”

  Harold Shinness glanced up, then immediately looked to the floor like a wallflower at a junior-high dance. “Good morrow, cousin.” He curled his sixty-year-old body on the vinyl chair, protecting his opened book.

  “What are you reading today?” He positioned the book so she could read its cover. “Mutiny on the Bounty. That’s a good one.”

  He raised his face, his voice deepening to the mellow tones of an actor. “Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up to such a sudden flood of mutiny.”

  Merry shook her head, amazed. Harold had been a brilliant teacher at the high school, but ever since his wife had died, he’d withdrawn into this odd man who only spoke Shakespearean quotes, as if he’d etched the pages in his mind to displace the grief.

  Hey, whatever worked.

  “Who said that?” Merry smiled. “Caesar?”

  “Antony.” He pulled a stick of black licorice from his pocket, pinched a lint-ball off the end, and held it out to her.

  Merry took it, understanding it was his way of saying thanks for the chair in the corner—Harold’s undesignated yet sacred chair that no one else disturbed.

  In spite of his odd habits, Merry liked Harold, just as she liked the two other regulars who had rooted themselves in the old library Even in her short tenure here, the regulars had evolved into a gathering of kindred spirits. Merry was now the trunk, and they were the branches, each individual and unique, yet bound together, sap and sinew. Merry recognized their literary tastes and took pleasure in showing them new books. In turn, they seemed to recognize the intensity of her pain and—knowing there was little mere mortals could do—provided her with the simple constancy of their presence.

  Merry stooped to retrieve a few pieces of colored tile. The fallen tiles from the dilapidated wall mural near the front door tended to migrate across the library floor like sorrowful parts of a broken family in search of a home. She’d been told that the mural was originally a pastoral of the Kansas countryside, but now it resembled a tattered crazy quilt with small areas of color broken by blotches of dismal gray cement.

  She brought the tiles to number two of the library’s regulars. The elderly man sat on a stool by the mural, placing tiles on the wall. Merry stood behind him a moment, trying to figure out what he was creating. She couldn’t imagine anything bright red being in a field of blue. But who was she to question art? When Ivan had volunteered to repair the mural she jumped at his offer. Of course, she assumed he knew what he was doing.

  “Morning, Ivan.”

  He glanced up, then went back to his work.

  “What’s that you’re working on? A red…?”

  He sat back and looked at the mural. “I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking it might be a nice place to put a barn.”

  Okay… “But why the blue? If you surround it with blue won’t it look like it’s floating in water—or the sky?”

  He swiveled to face her, a hand on his hip. “Who’s the artist here, Merry? Me? Or you?”

  “
You, definitely you. But I’d still like to see a drawing of what you have in mind.”

  He tapped his head. “Don’t need it on paper. I’ve lived in this town all of my seventy-four years. I remember what the mural looked like—one of the few people in town who does.” His chin lowered and he looked at her through gray lashes. “And since I am doing the work for free…”

  “Lay off?”

  “Wise choice.”

  She changed the subject. “Where’s Blanche this morning?”

  Ivan nodded toward the other end of the library. “She’s at those computers again. I think she’s having an affair with some Casanova in Idaho.” He readied another red tile for the field of blue. “She certainly won’t look at me anymore.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. Want me to eavesdrop for you?”

  “Not for me. Not my business who she daddles with.”

  “Then I’ll do it for me. We don’t want her getting caught up in something she shouldn’t, do we?”

  “Whatever.”

  Merry knew what damage living in the land of What If could cause. Not being content with what you had could be an evil thing and should be nipped in the bud, burned at the stake, decapitated in the guillotine. After all, hadn’t an absurd What If caused the death of her husband and son? If only she’d been content with being a wife and mother, she would never have gotten on that plane heading to Phoenix to have fun with her old roommate. And if she hadn’t made her discontent known, Lou would never have felt compelled to come after her, dragging Justin onto the plane as a surprise.

  The plane that crashed.

  The crash that killed them.

  All because of her.

  Merry closed her eyes and pulled in a slow breath, a habit when memories and guilt hovered too close. Enough. I’m starting over.

  She exhaled the memories and moved to the computers. She stood behind Blanche but couldn’t read what was on the screen other than to know that some sort of on-line conversation was in progress. Blanche’s fingers typed as fast as she normally talked. Merry cleared her throat.

  In one movement, Blanche stopped typing and wrapped her arms around the monitor, blocking the screen. When she saw it was Merry, she let go.

  “Don’t scare me like that! I thought you were Ivan. That old artichoke thinks he can run my life.”

  “That old artichoke is concerned about you, Blanche. We’ve all heard horror stories of people getting involved on the Internet.”

  Blanche juggled her shoulders. “Last time I checked, I was fifty-three years over the age of consent. I’ve lived through two husbands, four wars, six ornery children, and a passel of grandkids who’ve never heard the word no. If I can handle that, I can handle a Romeo from Toledo.”

  “You’re talking to a man from Toledo?”

  She raised her fist. “Toledo today, tomorrow the world!” She leaned toward Merry. “He thinks I’m thirty-five.”

  “You’re tiptoeing through dangerous territory, Blanche.”

  She waved the concern away. “Tiptoeing, my big toe. I’m stomping through.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not like I’m ever going to meet one of these Don Juans.”

  “Did it occur to you that they may be in their seventies too?”

  Blanche put a hand to her mouth. “They’d lie to me? They wouldn’t dare—”

  “You dared.”

  She made a face and turned back to the computer, moving the mouse to sign off. “Go tell that old rutabaga he’s victorious. I’ll be over to properly annoy him in a moment.”

  As Merry turned away, she caught a glimpse of Ivan’s eyes before he turned back to the mural. She wondered why the two friends didn’t get married and be done with it. Blanche had confided that they’d been tormenting each other for nine years—faithfully and exclusively—until Blanche had discovered the Internet.

  She noticed Harold leaving, hiding Mutiny on the Bounty beneath his jacket. “Bye, Harold. See you later.”

  He nodded and hurried out. She returned to the front desk and jotted down Mutiny on the Bounty. He’d bring it back tomorrow. Harold wasn’t good at checking in and out, but he was great at reading and bringing back. Sim had only been on the job an hour when she saw it. The weirdo—that Harold guy—stole a book. And none too smoothly either.

  Not that she cared much about stealing in general. She’d done a bit of shoplifting herself. But taking a book. Books were sacred. Special.

  Sim glanced at Merry to see if she’d noticed. But Merry was oblivious, working at her desk. It was ridiculous. If the librarian didn’t protect the books, then who—?

  Sim left her book cart, burst through the front door, and bounded down the steps. “Hey, you! Harold!”

  The old man stopped at the curb across the street, one foot up and one foot down. He held the book beneath his jacket, its edge peeking out. His face was a mixture of curiosity and fear. A car drove between them, and Sim touched its back bumper as she crossed the street toward him.

  She walked past him, to the sidewalk, hoping he would follow her. It made her nervous the way he straddled the street and safety. Relief eased through her when his lower foot joined its mate on the sidewalk.

  He looked at her.

  Now what? “I…I saw—”

  Merry burst through the library doors. “Sim!”

  She rushed down the steps toward them, and Sim saw fear on her face. Does she think I’ll hurt the guy?

  Merry reached them and put a hand on Harold’s shoulder. “You all right, Harold?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but Sim interrupted him. “He stole a book.” She pulled it from his jacket. “See?”

  Merry took the book and handed it back to Harold. “I know what books he has. We have an understanding, don’t we, Harold?”

  “I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.”

  Sim stared at him. What does that mean? Harold pulled a piece of licorice and offered it to her. “Uh…no thanks. I already ate.”

  Harold cocked his head. “Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face; frank nature, rather curious than in haste, hath well composed thee.”

  Merry put a hand on both their shoulders. “Well, then. All’s Well That Ends Well, right?”

  Harold bowed. Then he nodded at Sim and scuffed off across the square.

  Merry looked after him. “He’s such a sweet man. A gentle man.”

  An odd man. But apparently one who hadn’t stolen any book. “I’m sorry, Merry. I didn’t know.”

  “How could you?” They headed back to the library. “I should have warned you. You were only trying to protect the library.”

  “Protect the books.”

  “You really appreciate literature, don’t you?”

  “It’s better than real life.”

  Merry paused on the front steps. “My, my. You’re way too bitter for your years.”

  “Is there an age limit?”

  Merry apparently changed her mind about going up the steps. She pulled Sim to the side. “Care to tell me about it? Why are you here with your aunt? Where are you parents? Why Steadfast?”

  Sim shoved her hands in her pockets and looked over the square. “I don’t want to get into it.”

  Merry looked at her a moment, then touched her arm. “I see pain in your eyes, Sim. I know that look. I’ve been there. I am there. Whenever you want to talk, I’ll listen, okay?”

  Sim nodded and went inside. Why did everyone think she needed help? She could handle things.

  She could.

  Really.

  Be still and wait.

  Pooh.

  Claire folded a newspaper into accordion pleats and held them at the end. She fanned herself, but it didn’t do much good. There was no air conditioning in the attic. And no bathroom. And more critical than both of these, there was nothing to do.

  But be still and wait.

  Claire looked out over the square. She’d just witnessed a scene with Sim, Merry, and an old ma
n. A book had exchanged hands. A small drama in which she had no part. And that had her grinding her teeth.

  She’d come all this way, sacrificed so much, to sit in a hot, dusty attic? Alone? It didn’t make sense. When Sim had appeared in the middle of the night, she’d been sure the girl was the reason she’d been led to Steadfast. But Sim wasn’t cooperating and didn’t want Claire’s help. She didn’t even particularly want Claire’s company. And now Sim had a job and was making friends, while Claire had nothing.

  She looked around the attic—her own little apartment. She’d been so proud of finding it, like it was meant to be. She’d found a place to stay. She’d befriended Merry. But now Sim had taken over Merry. Nothing seemed to fit. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

  She continued to fan herself, thinking back over all the steps that had led her here. Had she interpreted something wrong? Taken off in a direction that was a dead end? Perhaps her fascination with the Steadfast painting was a fluke. Perhaps she’d read too much into it. Perhaps she should still be living in her town house, working at the studio, sitting at her drawing board, creating her next great piece of art.

  She pulled back as a bird flitted close to the window, its wings brushing the glass. It flew away, soaring toward the trees in the square. Free.

  This was ridiculous. If a bird could be free, so could she. It was time to leave her prison.

  She found her shoes.

  Claire walked into the library. It was odd, coming in from the front with the lights on. As soon as she entered her eyes were drawn to the right. A ceramic tile mosaic adorned the wall. It was a six-by-twelve-foot mural—or had been, at one time. Most of the quarter-inch tiles were missing, leaving gaping holes in a pastoral scene. A stool sat empty in front of it, ready for some artisan to fill it. To fix it. To complete the work.

  She ran a hand over the existing tiles, snaking past the bare patches. Her mind immediately began to fill in the blanks. Oh, Lord. I am supposed to be here, aren’t I?

  “Hey, Claire,” Merry said from the front desk. “Come to check up on Sim so soon?”