by Nancy Moser
“Drugs. It’s not what I’m used to dealing, but there’s still a market. There’s a market for almost everything.” He pulled a list from his pocket and shoved it into her hands. “Here’s what I need. Here’s what you’re going to get for me.”
She didn’t even look at it. “You want me to steal?” She swallowed, then gave him back the note. “I can’t do that, Mick. I can’t.”
He grabbed her wrist and twisted, making her knees buckle. “You will. I’ve given you ten years of my life—wasted ten years with you. I’ve got a good thing going now that will get me out of the hellhole I’ve been living in. And if you don’t want to be with me, at least you’ll help me.”
“Let go!”
He leaned into her ear, his breath hot. “I will never let you go. And this is nothing compared to what will happen if you don’t do as I say.”
She heard the sound of a car pull into the driveway.
So did he. He bit her earlobe before his hand found her chin and squeezed. “Be a good girl, Gigi.” His smile made her sick. “And maybe I’ll leave you alone.”
Her eyes darted to the front walk. Gladys was coming. “Please,” she whispered.
“Then do it.” He let her go with a shove and took a step back, just as the front door opened.
Gladys saw Margery; then her eyes moved to Mick. “Oh. Hello.”
Margery had no idea if words would come out, but she made a try of it. “Gladys, this—” she cleared her throat, trying again—“this is my husband, Mick.”
Suddenly Margery saw the charm of the man she married emerge, and the transformation chilled her far more than his recent words or muscling.
His smile was broad. He wiped a hand on his jeans and held it toward Gladys. “Nice to meet you, Gladys. Margery has told me so much about you.”
Gladys’s eyes flitted from him to Margery and back. “She’s told me so much about you too.”
Mick flashed Margery a look, but the fake smile remained.
King entered the opened door with a suitcase, taking in the room with a single sweep of his eyes. “Hi.”
“You need some help?” Mick asked.
King stammered a moment, then said, “There’s a box in the backseat that needs to come in.”
Mick looked at the list in his hand, shoved it into his shirt pocket, and was out the door.
Gladys was immediately at Margery’s side. “You okay?”
She shook her head no, her eyes on the window, watching Mick. “Just get him to go.”
With a single nod, King moved onto the porch and met Mick halfway. He took the box. “Thanks for the help.”
“No problem.” Mick looked past him into the house.
Margery moved out of his sight line.
King held his ground, a barrier between sidewalk and door. “Thanks for helping, Mick. Have a nice evening.”
“But Margery and I were having a nice visit.”
“We’re tired from our trip. Perhaps another time.”
A pause, then Mick said, “Tell Margery I’ll be in touch.”
“Will do.” King held his ground until Mick walked away. Then he came inside and shut the door.
Margery rushed toward it, bolted it, and hid behind it.
“Goodness, Margery,” Gladys said as she took a step toward her. “You’re shaking.”
Margery’s legs gave out and she melted onto the floor.
Gladys was immediately at her side. “King, get some water.” To Margery she said, “Come on. Let’s get you over to the couch.”
Margery let herself be led. King appeared with the water, and Margery took a sip even though she felt no need for it. Gladys sat beside her and King sat in the chair close by.
“Did he hurt you?” Gladys asked.
She shook her head, though her wrist and chin burned from his rough touch.
“What did he want?” King asked. Before she could answer, he added, “I thought he was in jail.”
“He got out.” Margery stood and moved away from them. “He followed me from work. He found me here. I have to leave. I can’t have him . . . I can’t involve you.” She rushed to the guest room and opened a drawer, ready to pack. Then she realized she’d brought her clothes in by hand and didn’t have a suitcase. She’d have to carry them out. She grabbed an armload but King and Gladys blocked the door. “Please move,” she said. “I have to—”
King took some of the clothes away, making the rest of them fall.
Gladys put a hand on her shoulder. “Just stop. You’re not going anywhere.”
The pile of clothes divided them, as did so much more. Much, much more. Margery stepped back and sat on the end of the bed. If only she could disappear. “You don’t understand. I have to leave. I can’t work for you anymore.”
“Why not?” King asked.
She shook her head. To tell them what Mick wanted her to do would imply she was the kind of person who would do it. Steal.
Which she was. She’d stolen before. From them. Or would have, if Gladys hadn’t caught her first.
She told a different truth. “He wants me back.”
Gladys raised her chin defiantly. “He can’t have you.”
“He won’t give up. He’ll dog me. He knows where I’m staying. He knows where I work. It’s best I go away.”
“Go where?” King asked.
That was the clincher. “I don’t know. I’ve never been anywhere.” She looked at Gladys. “Not like you.”
Gladys sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “And you’re not going anywhere now, not like this. I will not have you driving to some strange town, living in your car again.”
“But he knows where—”
“We’ll make sure people are always around you,” King said. “We’ll protect you.”
“You can’t.”
Gladys’s voice softened. “Do you really think he’d hurt you?”
Margery thought back to the times Mick had gotten physical. He’d never hit her. Just grabbed her. Pushed her. That didn’t count, did it? “Not really.” But she wasn’t sure if that was a truthful answer. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. Just a few days ago she’d wanted to start a family with him.
“We could get a restraining order,” King said. “Then he’d have to stay away.”
“Those things don’t work,” Gladys said.
“It might work.”
Margery shook her head, knowing Gladys was right. Mick would do what Mick wanted to do. But suddenly, the other truth returned and Margery didn’t have the strength to beat it back a second time. “He wants me to steal drugs for him.”
“From the store?” King asked.
She nodded, feeling an absurd relief at getting it out. Maybe they could help. Maybe there was a way she could stay.
“Which drugs does he want?” Gladys asked, then flipped a hand at her own question. “You don’t need to answer that. I know.”
Margery was glad because she didn’t know. She’d never looked at Mick’s list and he’d never given it back to her.
King looked at Margery. “Did the alarm company come today?”
Yes! “Yes, they did. Bernice has the code.”
“That’ll keep him out,” King said.
“But that won’t keep him from wanting Margery to steal for him.”
The room went silent. They were back to the beginning.
Gladys squeezed her shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying in my house and you’re working at the store.”
“And,” King added, “you are not going to be alone.”
Gladys looked at him. “Tomorrow’s the weekend. She doesn’t work, but we do.”
Margery thought of something. “I told Angie I’d go to the shelter with her and volunteer.”
“Good,” Gladys said. “As long as you’re with trustworthy people. Afterwards, you call me when you’re on your way home and I’ll leave work and come here to be with you.”
“That’s a lot of troub
le,” Margery said.
Gladys winked at her. “You’re worth it.”
Margery knew that wasn’t true.
* * *
Gladys heard a sound. She lifted her head off the pillow and listened. Hearing nothing but the furnace, she let herself relax.
Kind of. Sort of.
Yet she knew it wasn’t merely this drama with Margery and Mick that kept her from sleep. There were the grieving thoughts of her mother . . .
And pleasant thoughts of King.
If only he hadn’t gone with her to the funeral. If only he hadn’t met Aunt June, June never would have said those things about him, and Gladys wouldn’t know he was interested in her.
Liar.
She knew. She’d known for a long time, if she were honest with herself. Not that King had ever done anything improper. He’d never made a pass at her, never said anything suggestive—other than kidding her about being the only woman for him.
Gladys sat up with a start. He had said such a thing many times, the last time when she’d pushed him about the blind date he didn’t have with Mandy Thomason. “What do I need with her? I have a beautiful, smart, funny woman right here.”
He was always saying such things, and up to now she’d brushed them off as merely a ploy to disarm her and get her to change the subject. But according to Aunt June . . .
King was serious. He really did think she was beautiful, smart, and funny.
She lay back down and pulled a pillow into a hug.
But she didn’t sleep.
* * *
Gennifer turned off the TV. She’d had it on for an hour but hadn’t seen any of it. Inane jabber. Noise.
Company. That was the truth of it. She’d had it on for company.
After coming home from work—to an empty house—she’d found a note from Sarah: I’m out.
The lack of details bothered her. For a while. Yet what did it really matter if Sarah was at a movie, at a friend’s house, or with Angie Schuster? Sarah had her own life and wasn’t interested in Gennifer, so Gennifer didn’t need to be interested in her.
But she’s my daughter.
She tossed the remote on the coffee table where it bounced and landed on the Oriental rug. She left it there.
After her dialysis this morning she hadn’t felt well. Drained. Achy. Sick. Throughout the day her physical state had affected her emotional state and she’d snapped at people, had zero tolerance for the normal insanities of the law, and had left work as early as possible.
To come home to an empty house.
To be honest, her first reaction had been one of relief. She didn’t feel up to dealing with Sarah’s petulance and disregard, and certainly wasn’t up to interacting with her two-timing husband. The three members of the Mancowitz family were spending the evening doing what they did best lately: going their separate ways.
They’d better get used to it. With her declining health she might not be around much longer.
Her sudden lack of optimism was annoying yet hard to shake. Sure, the doctor talked a good talk, being upbeat about a transplant. But even when that happened, if it happened, there would be a time of recovery when Gennifer would have to take it easy. So the fact her family got along fine without her was a good thing.
Especially if she died.
At that happy thought, she moved to the kitchen. Ice cream. Ice cream would be good right now. She got out the French vanilla, ignoring the pistachio nut that was Douglas’s favorite. Yuck. Green ice cream? With nuts?
She grabbed a spoon and sat at the kitchen table to eat out of the carton, relishing being a purist. Vanilla—good vanilla ice cream—was as gourmet as any bizarre flavor Douglas preferred.
She looked at the clock on the microwave. Ten thirty. She guessed he wasn’t coming home from his business trip tonight. It was kind of embarrassing not to know what day he was coming home. He’d probably told her, but the fact she’d not digested that vital piece of information was telling. Yet ever since the special time they’d shared last weekend when he’d impulsively asked her to go to Maine, and she’d hesitated, and he’d gotten mad . . . things had pretty much shut down.
Not that things ever ran smoothly anymore.
The sound of a car in the drive interrupted her thoughts. She went to the kitchen window and watched as Douglas pulled into the garage. Disappointment popped its evil head. What happened to the good lawyer, the good wife, the good mother? She wasn’t good at much of anything anymore.
A memory intruded: her mother meeting her father at the door every night, kissing him on the cheek, and asking, “How was your day?” And her father’s standard line, “Fine. Just fine.”
Perfection. Something she’d tried so hard to attain . . .
Gennifer returned to her chair before the back door opened. She did not get up.
Douglas did a double take upon seeing her. “I thought you’d be asleep.”
Just the way he said it . . . she rose. “You hoped I’d be asleep so you could sneak in and not have to deal with me?”
He put his suitcase down and closed the door. “Where did that come from?”
She pushed in her chair and stood behind it. “How’s your lover doing?”
He stopped with one arm of his coat off.
Gennifer gripped the back of the chair. “I know about her, Douglas. I know you gave her an expensive necklace. Pearls, no less.”
He looked at her the briefest of moments, then finished removing his coat. “You’ve been sneaking through my things?”
“I hardly think my sneaking compares with yours. How long has this been going on?”
Douglas picked up his suitcase and moved past her toward the stairs. “We’re not doing this.”
She grabbed his arm as he passed. “Can’t stand being caught, eh?”
He shook off her grip. “I haven’t been caught doing anything.”
“I may not have caught you in bed, but I found the necklace. Just like . . .” She blinked. Just like what?
He set the suitcase down near the staircase and faced her. “Actually, your jealousy might be considered a good thing.”
“How so?”
“It means you are capable of feeling. You actually have emotions. I was beginning to wonder.”
Gennifer ran to the front door and opened it. “Get out! Leave! It’s what you want.”
He picked up his suitcase a second time and headed up the stairs. “No thanks. I’m tired from my trip. It’s a big house. You can keep the master bedroom. I’ll move into the guest room.” He paused on the third step. “We rarely see each other anyway, so it shouldn’t affect much.” He looked up the stairs. “Is Sarah in her room?”
“She’s out.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask more.
Thankfully, he only nodded and went upstairs. “Night.”
Gennifer stood, immobile. That was it? The big confrontation about his having an affair was over? Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had even been admitted. There had to be more. There had been more . . . before.
Much more.
In her mind, Gennifer heard a shot. She cringed.
She shook the sound away and went up to bed. The door to the guest room was closed.
It could be worse. Much worse.
* * *
Angie and Stanford sat in the family room and watched the evening news. Angie was in a mood, knew it, and even embraced it as her due. Ever since catching her daughter and Wade in an embrace she’d been bothered—though not for the reason she’d expected.
She wasn’t appalled. Wasn’t disgusted. Wasn’t incensed.
She was jealous.
Angie was well aware their situations were very different. Talia was young and dealing with the pressures of an ailing husband who probably couldn’t meet her emotional and physical needs. Angie was middle-aged and dealing with a difficult husband who wouldn’t meet hers.
There was the difference. Stanford could be a good husband in all ways—if he wanted to. Nesto couldn’t.
&nb
sp; It was Stanford’s choice. And he chose no. No affection. No kind words. No real love.
No job for Angie . . .
She was sick of it. And once she’d entered that mind-set while making dinner—when, in a moment of extreme rebellion she’d made herself a cherry pie instead of his favorite pumpkin—everything Stanford did all evening added fuel to the fire. The way he complained about the salmon being tough; the way he was appalled she hadn’t made his favorite pie; the way he didn’t bring his dishes to the dishwasher; the way he spent the entire evening on the phone, wandering the house as he talked, invading every room where she tried to escape for some silence like a male cat marking its territory. It was as if he had a need to be present—or be a presence—in every moment of her free evening. He possessed a listen-to-me-talk-I’m-so-important attitude. Which in her mood she interpolated into an and-you-are-not-important subtext.
As the evening wore on Angie had begun to take note of any eye contact he made with her, any word said to her. By the time the late news came on, his slate was clean. Bare. No entries made. Stanford had managed to go through the entire evening from dinner to bedtime without once looking at her or speaking to her.
Until . . .
He took off his reading glasses, set them on top of the latest Forbes he’d been reading, stood, and looked her way.
May the heavens open . . .
“Coming?” he said.
She knew what that meant. It was Stanford’s version of foreplay.
Angie set her feet on the trunk that served as their coffee table with a decided thud-thud. She picked up a Good Housekeeping. “No thanks.”
“Excuse me?”
She turned the page. “No thank you.”
His right eyebrow rose. “What’s got into you?”
You sweet talker, you . . .
Angie flipped the pages loudly. “I must admit I find your timing odd.”
He glanced at the clock on the VCR. “It’s bedtime. What’s odd about that?”
“I find it odd that, after ignoring me the entire evening, you suddenly realize I exist—and want to, shall we say, interact?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be petulant.”
Her feet hit the floor. “Oooh. Big word. I’m not sure you should expect someone as uneducated as me to understand what it means.”
