by Nancy Moser
King took her hand in both of his. “No, Red, no. I assure you God did not have your mother die to teach you a lesson or to win. He’s not a God who needs to win; he’s a God who loves, who saves us from ourselves.”
She nodded. “By proving I was an idiot? By proving he’s the boss?”
King’s smile was kind. “That you learned those things is great, but I assure you he did not take your mother’s life for that reason.”
“Then why did she go from medium-sick to dead-sick so quickly? Friday I got a call she was sick, Saturday you reminded me to pray, Sunday morning I told God very adamantly that he and I being chummy was a no-go, and today, Tuesday, Mama’s dead. You tell me what all that means. You give me another explanation. I dare you.”
King raised his left eyebrow. “Dare?”
Oops. Gladys pulled her hand free from his and stood. “See how arrogant I am? Always daring, always confronting, always challenging.”
“Always trying very hard to get things right.”
She pointed down at him. “Don’t give me attributes I don’t deserve. I’m finally admitting my faults. Don’t you dare water them down.”
He laughed.
Gladys tossed her hands in the air. “I’m hopeless. Completely hopeless.”
“Actually, I believe you’ve just proved yourself the opposite.”
“You’re doing it again. Trying to make me feel good about myself. You need to stop that. I’m on a roll here.”
“Sorry to distract you. Have at it.”
Suddenly given free rein to rant, disparage, and call herself down, Gladys was out of words. She fell into the armchair. “I’m done.”
“Actually, you’re just beginning. At a beginning.”
“My mother’s dead. It’s the end.”
“I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about you. About where you’re at right now. With God.”
Him again. She wrapped her arms around her torso. “I’ve told him I’m sorry.”
“An admirable start.”
“I told him I didn’t mean it.”
“He knows that.”
“So?”
King moved from the couch to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. “So . . . now you talk to him. No drawing lines in the sand, no confrontation, no arrogance. Just you and him. One-on-one. From where you are now, in the midst of your anger, your grief, your confusion, and your brokenness.”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to ask.”
“There are no magic words, Red. Just begin. He’ll fill in the silence.”
She could do that. She had to do that. She had nothing else she could do.
Gladys looked into the eyes of the man seated before her. “So it’s not my fault Mama is dead?”
“It’s not your fault.” King stood. “Now, I’ll make us some tea and leave you two alone.”
Just the way he said it, as if God were real and viable and here.
Gladys watched him go, watched the swinging door of the kitchen stop its movement, leaving her totally alone with him.
But where to begin?
She ended her slump and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She bowed her head, having no idea what to say.
“God? It’s me, Gladys.”
King was right. God filled in the silence.
* * *
“I’m going with you,” King said.
Gladys looked up from her fresh mug of Sleepy Time and shook her head. “The store. Someone needs to—”
“The store can survive a few days without us. I’ll call Bernice to come in tomorrow and help out Margery. The store can be open and just have the pharmacy closed.”
She’d never considered such a thing. And yet Bernice—the weekend and evening clerk—had been with them for years. She’d do just fine being in charge. “I could go alone,” Gladys said.
“But you won’t.” King had been working at the computer on the kitchen desk. He hit the Enter button with a flourish. “There. It’s done. Our plane leaves at eleven tomorrow morning. You’ll be with Aunt June by three. I’ve always wanted to meet your aunt.”
“I would have liked for you to meet my mother.”
He tapped his heart. “I feel I do know her. I love the stories you’ve told me about the travels of the Terrible Trio and your odd beginning together, three females making a life.”
Duo now. The Daring Duo? She sipped her tea. “We certainly were a unique band of females. Unmarried. Always harried.” She smiled. “That’s what Aunt June used to say.”
“Still says. You still have her, Red. Remember that.” He stood. “You need to get to bed, get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.” He held out his hand and she let him pull her to standing. “You need help?”
“No more than the considerable help you’ve given me already. Thank you.”
He kissed her cheek. “Anytime. I’m honored you called me.”
“Who else would I call?”
His eyes showed surprise, but also pleasure.
Tomorrow. Until tomorrow.
* * *
Knocking. Margery heard knocking in her dreams.
It didn’t fit and she tried to push it away. Get back to the story.
“Hey! Hey you!”
Those words definitely didn’t fit. She opened her eyes and saw a man at the window of her car, knocking on the glass with a knuckle. She sat up.
“You! Come out of there!”
No way.
He knocked harder. “Now! You want me to call the police?”
She noticed a name tag on his shirt with the motel logo on it. That made her feel a bit safer—but still in trouble. She unlocked the door and got out, pulling the blanket with her. She tried to untangle it from her legs and got off balance, bumping into him.
He pushed her into the car. “You want to sleep? You pay for a room.”
She pulled the blanket to her chest. “It was late and I—” Actually, she didn’t know what time it was.
“I don’t want to hear it.” He reached through the back door of the car, unlocked the driver’s door, and opened it. “Go. Get outta here.” He grabbed the blanket from her, tossed it in the backseat, and slammed the door.
She got in the driver’s seat but couldn’t find her purse.
“Come on! Get going.”
“The keys. I need the keys.” She spotted her purse behind the passenger seat.
“I’m counting to three. One . . .”
Fingers met keys. She fumbled for the right one.
“Two . . .”
She had it upside down, but flipped it around and into the ignition.
“Three!” He slammed his hand on the hood of the car at the same moment the motor roared to life.
She put the car in reverse and backed out, nearly hitting a car parked behind her. As the man ran toward her, she put it in drive and peeled out of the parking lot onto the street.
Margery had never peeled anywhere in her life, and with her huge car, the back end fishtailed and nearly ran into a car parked on the street.
Calm down!
A stoplight shone red up ahead. Good. A place to recoup and regroup. She jerked the car to a stop and in the nonmotion, discovered her heart throbbing in her throat. From sleep to exile in thirty seconds. She looked toward the mums, but they’d fallen from their perch and were strewn on the floor of the passenger side.
The light turned green but Margery didn’t want to move. She didn’t know where to go. Right? Left? Straight? Her nightly resting spots were gone. Two places tried. Two places denied. What now? Another parking lot?
A car honked and she had to move forward. But with each block a weariness entered the car and seeped inside her being until even holding the steering wheel was a struggle.
Her earlier acceptance of her situation fell away. Feeling free and provided for while she was sleeping in her car? Who was she kidding? Margery wanted a real bed. She wanted a kitchen and real food. She wa
nted a real shower. Gladys’s new alarm system was being installed in three days and Margery wouldn’t have the code, so any hope of continuing to use the store bathroom would be completely gone. She didn’t want to sneak around anymore. She wanted a life.
She wanted a home.
Home.
Could she go back to her home? Dare she even try? Would Mick let her in? Did she really want him to?
“What choice do I have?” she asked aloud.
The fact there was no one to answer was her answer.
She turned north.
True north?
North.
* * *
Margery had not been back to their trailer since she’d snuck in and gotten a few essentials last Friday. She’d parked a block away then and had slipped in by foot. But this time, at this time of night, with her intention to stay, she drove up the street that bisected the trailer park. She spotted Mick’s truck in the parking space near the front door and her stomach flipped. Would he make a scene? Would he yell? Would he throw her out again? Had he missed her at all?
Had she missed him?
Of course. She was his wife. He was her husband. Spouses were supposed to miss each other. It was a rule.
As she got closer, as she got ready to pull in beside Mick’s truck, she noticed there was another car parked in front of Mick’s vehicle. A red compact. She didn’t recognize it. And why would it be parked in front of Mick’s—
Movement in the lit living-room window caught her eye. The miniblinds were open and Margery saw Mick standing with a drink in his hands. He was smiling, looking down, talking to someone who must have been sitting on the couch.
The person belonging to the red car? Maybe someone from work?
Suddenly, Mick pulled the person from the couch to standing—into his arms. Into a passionate kiss. Hand in her hair, pulling her close. Then Mick put the drink down and they both disappeared from sight—until the top third of Mick’s torso reappeared. Margery watched as he pulled off his T-shirt and flung it across the room.
She didn’t wait to see more.
* * *
Margery was numb. There were no feelings. Too many feelings.
She couldn’t go on. The world was too heavy. The car . . . she let go of the wheel and felt a moment’s peace in the letting go—
She grabbed it back, nearly missing a light pole.
No. No. No. That wasn’t the answer. She wasn’t sure why, but no. Just no.
She’d driven into a residential area. Trees canopied the street. Front walks edged with fall flowers were lit by the friendly lights of front porches. Wind chimes tinkled and nylon flags appliquéd with pumpkins and leaves billowed gracefully. Only a few windows were lit from the inside, and a few blue television screens shone through sheer curtains, flashing, flickering, advertising “normal.” This was normal. This was the life she’d always wanted. She hadn’t wanted the life she’d ended up with. She hadn’t wanted a dead child, a bad marriage, a beater car, a broken-down trailer. She’d wanted this. All this.
Help me, God. Please help me.
Knowing what she didn’t have—and probably never would have—didn’t help her mood. She couldn’t go on. She pulled to the side of the street. No more. No more driving. What would come next she wasn’t sure, but whatever it was had to happen right here in the land of normal.
Margery turned off the car. The sudden silence made her suck in her breath as she entered the gap between what had been and what was.
She leaned back, finding the support of the car’s seat a comfort. She didn’t have to go any farther. She could stay right here. Here was good. Here was doable. Here was all she had. She closed her eyes but the nothingness scared her and she opened them again.
She noticed a car to her left, one house up. It was a red VW Bug with a black stripe on the side.
Gladys had a red VW Bug with a black stripe on the side.
She opened the car door and found herself walking toward the house. The outside light was on. The living-room light was on. Inviting her in?
She saw the address, black against the white clapboard: 9600.
And suddenly, at the sight of that number, her past rushed to meet her. How odd that now of all times, her very own special number had reintroduced itself into her consciousness. Yes, yes, ninety-six . . . this was the place. A good place. Within reach.
The good nearby.
* * *
The doorbell? Who would be ringing the doorbell at this hour?
Not that Gladys had been asleep. Despite King’s reminder that tomorrow—today—was going to be a long day, she hadn’t been able to even doze.
Mama was gone. God wasn’t.
And now someone was at the door?
She approached warily, wishing she had more substantial curtains between herself and the night visitor. She hugged the entertainment center to get directly in front of the door where she could look out the peephole.
Margery?
All fear vanished and she opened the door wide. “Margery. What are you doing out at this time of night?”
Margery’s shoulders drooped as if the frame of her torso had given way. Her voice was a ragged whisper. “I need help.”
Tears started and Gladys drew her inside to the couch, in much the same way King had comforted her only hours before. After Margery had settled down, had wiped her eyes, and blown her nose, it was time to ask the question: “What’s wrong?”
Margery’s story was short but read like a soap opera. Dealing with an abusive husband, being kicked out of her own home, living in her car, finding out Mick was fooling around.
“How long have you been living in your car?”
“Since the day I bailed Mick out. Since the day I tried to steal from you.”
Almost since the first day she’d come to work. A litany of not-so-kind thoughts about Margery’s rumpled appearance brought with it a curtain of guilt. How would Gladys look if she were living out of her car? She had another thought. “Bathing. Food. How—?”
“I showered in the bathroom at the store.”
“With what?”
Margery looked to her lap as if this next were her greatest shame. “I borrowed a hand sprayer from aisle 4.” She looked up, touching Gladys’s hand. “I’ll pay for it.” Again, she looked away. “I hadn’t thought I’d be away from home so long.”
Gladys’s mind sped ahead to the alarm that was being installed Friday. “The alarm . . . how were you planning to shower after the keypad was installed?”
She shrugged. “I hadn’t gotten that far.”
Gladys blinked. “But the keypad . . . I’m having it installed because I thought someone was in the store that one morning and . . . that was you?”
Margery nodded. “You nearly caught me. I didn’t hurt anything. I brought some towels that I’d snuck out of my house and cleaned up after myself. Other than using the sprayer . . . I tried to be careful. And I didn’t take anything. Nothing. I know I nearly stole from you before to get the bail money, but since then . . .” She raised her right hand. “I haven’t stolen from you, Gladys. I wouldn’t. I won’t. No matter what.”
Gladys lowered Margery’s arm to her lap. “I believe you.”
Margery let out a breath. “I’m glad I’m working for you. I like it there. And since I’m getting a paycheck now, since Mick’s not going to let . . . I’ll get myself an apartment. I will.” Her forehead crumpled, and she raised a hand in an attempt to block her emotions from Gladys’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be here but I have no place to go. My friends . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t have any real friends. None I want to be around. None that would take me in, and . . .”
Gladys put her arm around Margery’s shoulders. “You can stay here. I have an extra room sitting empty. And I’ll help you find a place of your own. We’ll work it out.”
The tears started again and Margery drew Gladys into a grateful hug. “Thank you. I won’t be a bother. I can help, doing chores, cooking, whatever you need
.”
Gladys took Margery’s hands in her own. “What I need is for you to promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t go back to Mick. Ever. He’s bad news.”
“I know.”
“So? Do you promise?”
Gladys was not thrilled at her hesitation.
“Yes,” Margery said. “I promise.”
“Then it’s settled. Come on. I’ll show you your room.”
Only after she’d gotten Margery settled into the guest room did Gladys remember one small detail: in less than twelve hours she was leaving to go to her mother’s funeral. Leaving a needy woman alone in her house. A needy woman who had a husband who was a criminal—among other things. Could she trust Margery?
Do I have a choice?
Gladys had definitely gone above and beyond the role of boss. What had she gotten herself in for by letting Margery Lamborn into her life?
* * *
The moonlight cut a path over the window seat, over a potted plant on the floor, and over the bed in Gladys’s guest room. It bisected Margery, rising over the left side of her body, making its way across her middle, and falling over the other side, leaving the upper half in the light, and the lower half in darkness. Two distinct halves of a whole.
Such was her life. Her old life with Mick was veiled in shadow, dipped in darkness. She’d been blind with him. So much of the past seemed muddled. Every thought, every emotion. How often had she thought one thing, only to have reality prove the opposite?
Mick and I loved each other.
Mick had kicked her out and was with another woman.
We had a home; we were making a life.
They’d had an address, nothing more.
We’ve been together forever.
They rarely saw each other.
We have a history.
A bad history.
Things will get better.
They’d been living in a rut.
Once we have a baby . . .
They would never have a baby.
With a start, Margery sat up in bed.
It was true. Without Mick in her life there would be no baby. She’d never known anyone else, had never been with anyone else. She’d surrendered all her dreams to this one man.
Dreams he had crushed and crumpled. Trampled on. Spit on.
