In the Neighborhood of Normal

by Cindy Maddox

  “I hope so, hon,” Mish whispered. “I truly do.”

  ***

  Mish woke up at her usual hour, even though she’d gotten to sleep late. When she’d laid down last night, she kept her hearing aids in just in case Juliann wanted to talk, and she was glad she had. She wondered how the girl would feel this morning after sharing her secrets. Mish decided to just act like nothing had happened.

  But first she needed breakfast, and she knew Juliann wouldn’t be up for a while. So she got dressed in the dark and snuck downstairs to eat. The girl had been true to her word—the hotel she had picked had a waffle maker and everything. Mish had so much fun making waffles that she made them for everybody else who wanted one. But she’d been back in her room for an hour and Juliann was still asleep. She wasn’t sure if she should wake the girl. Juliann must be exhausted, but she needed a good breakfast, too. Besides, Mish had some things in mind she wanted to do in Washington before their appointment.

  Maybe if she made a little noise. She pushed the desk chair against the desk with a little more force than was necessary, then looked back at the bed to see if the noise had any effect. Nothing. She walked to the bathroom and turned on the light and fan. Still nothing. She cleared her throat. No movement. She plopped back down on her bed and harrumphed.

  Then a muffled moan came from somewhere under the pile of pillows.

  “You awake?” Mish asked eagerly.

  “No,” came the response.

  Mish giggled. “Well, if you keep sleeping, you’re going to miss breakfast. And you won’t want to miss breakfast because it’s really good. They have a waffle maker and eggs and sausage patties and bacon—it’s floppy, but it’ll do—plus yogurt and fruit and four kinds of cereal and three kinds of juice and there’s a really nice young man who cleans up—his name is Miguel, and he’s in college—and the lady in charge is Maria and she told me all about her kids—two girls and a boy—and they’re all doing well except the oldest girl who is getting awful thin and might have that skinny sickness—you know, the one where they think they’re fat and they stop eating. What’s that called?” Juliann was sitting on the edge of the bed, just staring at her. “You all right, hon?”

  Juliann wiped both hands down her face as she yawned. “How long you been up?” she mumbled.

  “Since the wee hours. That’s why I’m so chatty. But I can tell you’re not a morning person. That’s fine. I understand. You don’t have to talk. I can talk for both of us.” She looked again at the girl’s face. “Or I can shut up and let you wake up before I talk your head off. Sorry about that.” Mish picked up a restaurant guide that was lying on the nightstand and pretended to read. Juliann stood up slowly, shuffled over to her backpack, and then drug it by one strap into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Mish eyed the back of the door warily. She sure hoped Juliann wasn’t mad at her. She hadn’t looked mad, just kind of overwhelmed. Mish knew that she could be overwhelming sometimes. Floyd used to get so mad at her for rattling her trap, as he called it.

  A few minutes later the door opened and Juliann came out, fully clothed and looking slightly more alert. She held up a finger and said, “Coffee.”

  “Got it!” Mish hopped off the bed and silently led the way to the breakfast buffet. She watched as Juliann poured herself a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and then sat down. After half the cup was gone, she whispered, “Can I get you breakfast now?” The girl smiled slightly and nodded, which sent Mish hurrying back to the buffet tables. She filled a cup with waffle batter to exactly the right line, then poured it carefully into the waffle maker. She closed the lid and flipped it, just like the sign said. While it cooked, she gathered another plate of goodies—bacon and sausage, but no eggs because the smell always made her queasy when she was pregnant, and a small cup of yogurt—peach, not strawberry-banana, because bananas bring out strong feelings in folks.

  The waffle maker beeped, but Mish knew that if she took it out now, the waffle would be just a little soggy. Another twenty seconds and it would be perfect. So she picked up the big plastic fork to remove it, but waited until it was time.

  “Your waffle’s done,” a man said. He was wearing a suit and holding a plastic cup of waffle batter that was way too full.

  She smiled politely. “No, it’s not.”

  “That’s what the beeping means.” He looked at her impatiently. “It means your waffle is done.”

  “No, it’s not,” she insisted as the beeping continued.

  “Oh God, just move out of the way!” He grabbed her arm and started to push her to the side, but Mish was ready for him. She took the big plastic fork she was holding and poked him hard in the hand.

  He jerked his hand away and rubbed it. “What the hell?”

  “My waffle will be ready when I say it’s ready, which is in another five-four-three-two-one.” She opened the waffle maker to a beautiful, perfect, golden-brown waffle.

  He crossed his arms and glared at her as she removed it and put it on a plate. Then she returned his glare. “Son, let me give you two pieces of advice. Number one: never stand between a woman and her waffle.” She took a deep breath. “And number two: never ever lay a finger on a woman without her permission.”

  If her words hadn’t pushed him over the edge, the applause that broke out around them surely finished the job. Mish didn’t know who started it, but Juliann, Maria, and two other women in the breakfast area were giving her a standing ovation. The man threw his cup of batter onto the floor and stormed out, yelling about the “crazy old bitch” as he went.

  Juliann threw her arms around Mish. “That was so awesome!” she declared as she pulled away. “I can’t believe you stood up to him like that!”

  “I can’t either!” Mish said with a shaky laugh. And suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she could stand at all. She heard a buzzing in her ears and it seemed like the whole room had tilted. She tried to grab Juliann’s hand but the girl had already turned away and she grabbed at thin air, setting her off balance. She lurched forward and took a few stumbling steps, trying to find her feet. “Help!” she said, but before Juliann could offer any assistance, Mish felt a strong arm reach around her waist. Miguel, the busboy, was at her side. She let herself lean into his strength.

  Before Mish knew it, she was sitting in a chair, being offered a glass of juice, and trying to catch her breath.

  A woman in a hotel uniform rushed in. “Are you okay? Should we call 9-1-1?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. I just got a little light-headed is all.” She took a sip of juice and wiped her clammy forehead.

  “Are you sure you don’t want an ambulance to come take a look at you?” the hotel lady asked.

  “Lord, no,” Mish replied. “I just got overexcited from telling off that rude young man, and it made me lose my balance for a second.” She looked at the circle of people who had gathered around her. “Y’all need to quit looking at me like a heifer just gave birth to a pig. I’m fine, I tell you!”

  They all chuckled and the other customers wandered back to their seats. “I’m terribly sorry about this incident,” the manager said.

  “I hope that’s a sympathy sorry and not an apology sorry because it sure weren’t your fault,” Mish said to the manager.

  “Nevertheless, we would like to comp your hotel stay.”

  Mish wasn’t sure what that meant, but she didn’t want to admit it in front of Juliann so she chose to ignore it. “Well, I’m afraid I owe you an apology because if I get down on the floor to clean up that mess, I won’t be able to get back up.”

  The manager looked horrified. “Oh, no ma’am, we would never ask you to clean up your own mess, let alone somebody else’s. We’ll take care of that. I just want to take care of your bill because I want your experience at our hotel to be a positive memory.”

  Oh, so that’s what comp means. “That’s not necessary,” she
argued. “We have enjoyed our stay and I don’t want to cheat your company out of a night’s fare.”

  But the manager would not be swayed. After a few more assurances, she finally left them alone. Mish looked at Juliann, who still looked worried. “I really am fine. But I gotta ask you one question.” She grinned. “Are you proud of me?”

  Juliann laughed. “So proud! Seriously. You were quite impressive.”

  “I’m pretty impressed with me, too!” said Mish. “I’ve never done anything like that before. But the way he grabbed me, on the arm—well, it just set me off. I thought, what would I do if he grabbed my granddaughter that way—or Juliann! I wouldn’t stand for it, that’s for sure. And I suddenly realized that if I would stand up to a bully for somebody else, maybe I could stand up to one for myself. You know what I mean?”

  Juliann smiled at her weakly and nodded.

  Mish looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “I just wish I could’ve done it with Floyd.”

  10.

  On Monday morning Stephen and Jeff were raking leaves in the front yard as they caught up on the Sunday news.

  “Anything new on Mish and this mystery mission of hers?”

  Jeff paused and adjusted his glove before he answered. “You mean the whole ‘follow the love’ business? I don’t think so. Our last conversation was not particularly productive so I haven’t wanted to ask. But I’m not hearing anything about her seeing Jesus again so I’m hoping that issue has resolved itself.”

  Stephen raked his pile of leaves onto the blue tarp. “And how’s the great potluck controversy coming along?”

  “I think it’s quieted down, but honestly, who knows with Sammi.”

  Stephen nodded. “She is definitely a pot-stirrer.”

  “Yeah, and it’s always couched in this pseudo-liberal justice language that sets my teeth on edge. It’s so manipulative. One of these days I’m going to have to talk to her about it, but that will be one ugly conversation.”

  “Speaking of ugly conversations, are you ready to talk about your dad?”

  “What’s to talk about? My dad is apparently a lying, cheating hypocrite who can’t keep his pants zipped.”

  Stephen furrowed his brow. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  Jeff stopped raking the leaves. “Was any of that untrue?”

  “I’m not arguing with your facts, just your perspective.” Before Jeff could respond, he put up both hands. “I’m not defending him. I’m just saying that we both know it can happen.”

  “What can happen? Adultery? Betrayal? Clergy misconduct?”

  “Falling in love. We both know people can’t always control who they fall in love with. Do I need to remind you that you were with someone else when we met?”

  Jeff attacked the pile of leaves with renewed fervor. “Seeing. Dating. Not married for forty-two years.”

  “You had been dating for a few months, as I recall.”

  Jeff looked at his partner in exasperation. This really was not the time to argue about his past relationships, especially one that was, in his counselor’s words, not his most shining moment. “That’s irrelevant. My parents have always had a solid relationship. They led marriage enrichment workshops. When I was growing up, he was even careful about having lunch with a woman alone, just to avoid the ‘appearance of evil.’ This is just unfathomable.”

  Stephen just shrugged. “You should talk to him.”

  “No.”

  “See what he has to say for himself.”

  “No.”

  “Have you even answered his texts?”

  “No.”

  “If you won’t talk to him, at least talk to me about how you’re feeling.”

  Jeff frowned. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “No, you’re just ranting about your dad. You’re not talking about your feelings at all.”

  A car drove by and gave a little honk. Jeff waved without looking. “My feelings? Fine. I’m angry.”

  Stephen put his hand on his hip. “Really? I’m so surprised!” He gave a smile to soften his sarcasm. “What else?”

  “Pissed.”

  “And?”

  “Furious.”

  “I’m serious, Jeff. What else are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I’m also enraged, livid, and incensed.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Obviously I don’t need to buy you a thesaurus for Christmas. Are you feeling anything that’s not a synonym for mad?”

  “No.” Jeff attacked the leaves with the rake. “Anger is all I’ve got.” When Stephen didn’t respond, Jeff looked up.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Stephen said, staring at him.

  Jeff shrugged and kept raking. “Sorry to disappoint you with my lack of emotional depth,” he said.

  “Oh, please!” Stephen muttered as he began raking leaves onto the tarp again.

  “What?” Jeff demanded. “I don’t have a right to be angry that my father has been screwing around?”

  “Of course you do,” Stephen countered, “but that can’t be all you’re feeling. Your dad was your mentor, your guide, your—your—shining example of everything a pastor is supposed to be. His fall from grace has to stir up more than just anger.”

  Jeff felt his irritation rising. He knew he shouldn’t respond, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Gee, thanks for naming the situation so clearly. I feel so much better.”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel better,” Stephen said. His hard swipes with the rake were sending as many leaves under the tarp as on top of it.

  “Good, because if so, you’re failing miserably.”

  “Damn it, Jeff, I just want you to talk about it, tell me what you’re feeling.” He sent another pile of leaves flying.

  Jeff gritted his teeth. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  “It’s been three days,” Stephen pressed. “You need to talk about it.”

  “Damn it, Stephen, you are like a dog with a bone. Would you just give me a break?” He looked at the leaves Stephen was sending everywhere. “And will you please stop raking leaves under the tarp!”

  Stephen stopped and glared at him. “Why? You seem to like sweeping things under the rug.”

  “Oh, please,” Jeff said as he rolled his eyes. “Save the dramatics for the stage.”

  Jeff knew instantly he’d gone too far. Stephen dropped the rake and stormed into the house.

  “Stephen, wait—” Jeff called after him. The slam of the door was the only response.

  Jeff fumed for a few minutes as he fished the leaves out from under the tarp, then hauled the whole load around back and dumped them in the woods behind the house. He stopped to rest, and as he breathed in the scent of damp earth and old leaves, he was taken back to other woods, and the many hikes he had shared with his father growing up. They had spent countless hours hiking together, exploring nearby trails. Sometimes they walked in comfortable silence, and other times they talked about deep things, important things. It was on a hike that he first came out to his dad. His dad had not been terribly surprised, but he had been surprisingly supportive. He told Jeff he loved him. Jeff had cried. He talked to Jeff about the importance of sexual ethics, regardless of sexual orientation—that the best sex was not with strangers but within the context of a relationship. In college, Jeff had not always followed his father’s advice; but as an adult, he had treasured it. It told him he could have what he really wanted—not just sex, but love. A partner, hopefully for life. Where did that man go? What happened to that man who lectured him on ethics? Could Jeff’s mother be right? Could this really be about love?

  Back at the house, as he sat on the front porch, his anger toward his partner waned, and he admitted to himself that he was being unfair. Stephen was only pushing because he cared. Jeff knew there was something more there than anger.
Anger was most often a cover emotion, with the true emotion hiding underneath. But he was too afraid of what was hiding to go exploring.

  The door behind him opened, and Stephen took a seat beside him. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Jeff finally broke it. “I’m sorry I’m so stubborn.”

  “And I’m sorry I’m so pushy.” Stephen took his hand. “But remember, that’s how I finally convinced you to marry me—because I was charmingly persistent. Or persistently charming. I’m never sure which.”

  “More like gum on the bottom of my shoe,” Jeff teased. This old joke between them never seemed to get stale. In fact, even though they repeated it almost word for word, it always brought them back—back to the playfulness, back to the clarity of who they were together.

  “Well, either way you’re stuck with me. I am your annoyingly tenacious husband. But I’ll try to be more patient.”

  Jeff leaned sideways and bumped his shoulder against Stephen’s. “Okay, and I’ll try to…” His voice trailed off as he reached in his pocket for his buzzing cell phone. “It’s the office.”

  “It’s your day off,” Stephen reminded him. “A day you desperately need, I might add.”

  “And Rachel doesn’t call unless it’s important.” He punched the button on the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Pastor Jeff, I’m sorry to bother you, but Opal says it’s urgent that she speak with you. She’s right here.”

  Jeff let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, put her on,”

  “Hi, Pastor Jeff, this is Opal.”

  “Yes, Opal, I know. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, it’s about Mish,” she began. “She didn’t come to the Women’s Society meeting this morning.”

  “Okaaaay.” Jeff wasn’t sure why his day off was being interrupted by an attendance report.

  “She has never missed a Women’s Society meeting—well, except the week Floyd died, and even then she called to say she wasn’t coming. We called her house and there was no answer.”