The Ultimatum

by Nancy Moser

  “Its the right thing to do, Cal.”

  “According to who?”

  He stood. “What are you up to, Annie? What are you going to buy? One thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  All at once she realized how he'd found out. Their bank accounts on-line. He'd seen the transfer, but from his questions it was clear that Dr. Roswold's check hadn't cleared.

  Still time to back out.

  She shook her head at the thought and tried to recover the certainty she'd felt while talking with Merry. “It's already spent, Cal. During lunch I went with Merry to—”

  He slapped the table, making her jump. “You and Merry went shopping and spent one thousand dollars?”

  “Of course not! If you'd let me finish. Merry asked me to go with her to hear a speaker, and this man, Dr. Roswold, showed all sorts of slides and pictures of a hospital in Africa where he works and the poor children who need—”

  “We have a child who needs. A child right here.”

  She gripped the back of a chair. “She doesn't need, Cal. She— we—have plenty.”

  He slid his chair back and stood. “Of course she has plenty. Plenty, because you and I work our tails off to provide for her. If those people in Africa need anything, let them work and—”

  “Cal…it's not that easy. You know that. You've seen pictures, heard stories.”

  “Fairy tales to make hard-working people like us give up our money. I'd bet that out of every dollar donated, ninety-nine cents goes into some charity presidents pocket. You want to toss a penny toward the needs of the world, go ahead. But its a waste of money.”

  “Dr. Roswold isn't like that. He lives in one room at the back of the hospital. The donations he collects are for supplies and medicines and—”

  “And his Swiss bank account.”

  He wasn't going to listen no matter what she said.

  Cal gripped the back of his chair, and they faced each other, the table between them. “What were you thinking, Annie? One thousand dollars? A couple bucks—give that to a drunk on the street, I don't care. But our savings? I need that money for…for things and to invest in Bailey's restaurant.”

  So that's it She bit her lower lip. “Maybe…” It was an odd thought. “Maybe this proves you shouldn't invest in his restaurant.”

  “All it proves is you're an impulsive, naive patsy, willing to give because some man makes you feel guilty, fills your head with false promises, and blatantly asks for it.”

  “Like Bailey did to you?”

  His chin jutted back. She moved to the sink. “I'm sorry, Cal, but it's true and you know it. Bailey's getting you to invest your money, time, and dreams by making you feel guilty about our life, filling your head with false promises.”

  She poured a glass of water and took a sip. She faced him. “At least my donation to Dr. Roswold's hospital will be used to help people. Really help people.”

  Cal's breathing was heavy, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair. “You had no right to take that money without my approval.”

  “Have you cared whether I approve of you using money to invest in Bailey's project?”

  “It's our project.”

  “And Dr. Roswold's hospital is God's project.”

  His smug look made her want to take it back. She'd been on the final lap, within yards of the finish line. Why had she blown a tire by bringing God into it?

  His head was nodding. He let go of the chair and strolled, taking control of the room. “Merry. I should have known she'd be involved in all this. Don't you see what she's doing, Annie? She draws you into her church by telling you what you want to hear. She asks you to choir. Then she just happens to take you to hear a speaker who makes you feel guilty, pulling at your heartstrings by showing you the pitiful faces of a few starving kids, just knowing that our bank account will be ripe for the picking.”

  “It's not like—”

  “She probably gets a cut.”

  “Cal!”

  “She's like those people planted at auctions who get the bids going higher and higher. She's a decoy. A shill. A con woman.”

  “She's a good friend.”

  He shook his head. “She is good, I'll give her that.” He started laughing. “Good of Annie. A sucker of the first degree! The good doctor and Merry are probably toasting you right now. It's not often they get someone to be a thousand dollars dumb.”

  He was wrong. He was so wrong.

  Cal tucked his chair under the table. “You call the bank first thing in the morning and stop payment on that check.”

  Her head started shaking even before the words formed. “I can't do that, Cal.”

  “You most certainly can. If you don't do it, I will.”

  Everything was falling apart. “It was a good thing to give that money. A God-thing.”

  “Give me a break. And what do you know about God anyway? You've been thinking about Him a few weeks, and you think you know anything about how He works?” Cal pointed at finger at her. “I know God. I've known Him for years, and let me tell you this— He is not to be trusted, prayed at, or worshipped. He takes the good ones and leaves behind the mean ones. Where's the logic in that? I won't let Him do it with us. Not with my money, not with my dream, and not with my wife.”

  Annie felt as deflated as an old balloon. “He's not like that. He—”

  Cal grabbed his jacket. “I'll take Avi trick-or-treating. You stay here. God'll keep you company.”

  The monk's robe was comfy, but the sleeves were a pain when it came to washing dishes. And it was hot over the other clothes. Plus, the work itself was hard tonight, the stream of dishes endless. All this made Jered wonder why he had to wear it at all. Except for a quick parade step into the dining room so Jinko could show off how fun-loving or generous (or whatever) he was with his staff, Jered had been confined to the kitchen. He finally couldn't take it anymore and started to take off the robe.

  Bad timing.

  Jinko happened to be entering the kitchen and nearly ran to his side, his white sheikh's robe sailing behind him. “What are you doing?”

  “I'm hot. And the sleeves get in the way.”

  Jinko practically hissed. “Keep it on!”

  Jered put it back on.

  Jinko got in his face, his Arab headdress framing his anger. “You going to follow directions tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “You'd better be sure. I can't afford any screwups. You do exactly what I say and only what I say, comprende?”

  Jered was beginning to hate that word. “Yeah.”

  Jinko lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “Yes. Yes. Fine.” He leaned toward Jinko. “Is that Ed guy here?”

  Jinko shoved a finger to his lips in a call for silence.

  Okay, okay.

  Jinko stormed away.

  Sheesh.

  Jinko was right about Roxie Robbins. She was hot, she knew it, and dressed to flaunt it. She came to Palamba's dressed like a genie, but her costume was far skimpier and tighter than that TV genie ever wore. And at midnight she took control of the place, just like Jinko said she would.

  “Hey, people! Are you ready?”

  The crowd responded with whoops and yells.

  “Then lets have ourselves a contest!”

  Jered would have liked to watch, because there were some amazing costumes, but within seconds of Roxie's introduction, he felt Jinko's hand on his arm.

  It's time.

  Jered didn't have time to be nervous. He and Jinko swept out the back way, yanking their costumes off as they walked. By the time they got in Jereds truck (with the new muffler), they were two men dressed in black.

  Jered knew it wasn't time for small talk. He remained silent while Jinko told him where to turn. The final neighborhood was nice but not fancy. The houses were old, the bushes edging them big enough to hide behind.

  “Pull up here, kill the lights and engine, and put on these gloves.”

  Jered pulled to the curb, wiped his pal
ms on his black jeans, and put on the gloves. Could Jinko hear his heart beating against his chest?

  Jinko flowed from one movement to the next like he was creating a long sentence without a period. He looked up the street and down, opened the door to the truck, got out, and walked across the lawn of the house on the corner, heading to the front door. All before Jered had time to fully register: This is it.

  Jered scrambled after him, jerking his head around to make sure no one was watching. How would they even know? It was 12:15. Most houses were dark except for a porch light protecting jack-o'-lanterns from Halloween pranksters. He felt like a commando on reconnaissance, keeping low, zigging and zagging.

  When he caught up with Jinko at the back door, he was greeted with a soft, “Calm down.”

  He'd try.

  Jinko turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. He went in. Jered followed. He shut the door with a soft click. They stood still a moment, getting their bearings. Jinko pulled a skinny black flashlight from his pocket, aimed it at the floor, and turned it on. He moved to the front of the house. In the living room were two stacks of lidded white boxes, the kind Jered's dad used for old files. They were labeled “Uncle Jims Stuff.” Jinko took the lid off the top one. He put it back on.

  “Help me,” he whispered.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Coins in individual plastic holders.”

  The first four boxes held books, photo albums, and a few pieces of clothing. In the fifth box…

  Jered spotted them, a whole pile of coins—probably fifty—each one set in a cardboard holder that was slipped into a transparent square sleeve just a little bigger than the coin. “I found them!”

  Jinko pulled a drawstring bag from the pocket of his jacket. “Hold this while I go through them.”

  “Why don't we just take all—?”

  “Discretion, kid. Ed would notice. Give me a minute to see which ones are worth something.”

  Jinko held his flashlights beam on the coins, tossing one coin in the bag and one aside. It seemed to be taking way too long. Jered kept checking the door, his ears straining to hear the sound of a car. He wanted out of there. None too soon, the coins were divided.

  Jinko tied the bag shut, and Jered helped put the boxes back. They went out the way they had come. As they crossed the yard, Jinko whispered, “Walk!”

  It was one of the hardest things Jered had ever done. They got in the truck and took off,

  Jered took a corner too fast.

  “Slow down!”

  Jered slammed on the brakes.

  “Park it! Let me drive!”

  Jered complied and changed places with Jinko. The doors closed and Jinko sped away. “Sorry,” Jered said.

  Jinko was intent on driving. “My mistake. I shouldVe known.” His fingers gripped the steering wheel. Then he checked his watch. “Good timing. Now listen up.”

  Jered was all ears.

  Jinko reached behind the seat and pulled out Jered's monk costume. “Get dressed. We're going back to work. We'll slip in the back as if we've only been out for a smoke. I'll go into the dining room first. You come in—or not. Wash some dishes if you want. Just act normal.”

  “I'll try.”

  “You'll do it!”

  Jered nodded. He'd do it.

  It was two in the morning, and they were finally done cleaning up. What was it with Halloween that made people extra messy?

  Although Jered's body was exhausted from the work, it wouldn't shut down as the adrenaline from the burglary—and the fear of getting caught—kept pumping.

  “You look sick,” Vasylko said as he put on his coat. “You okay?”

  “Long night.”

  “But good, eh?” The cook shook his hips. He made a ridiculous-looking Elvis, his belly far beyond even the King's late-life paunch.

  “Yeah, yeah, the King lives.”

  Vasylko hesitated, then smiled. He pulled out his cross necklace—which looked amazingly appropriate with his white Elvis costume. “The King lives!”

  Whatever.

  Vasy went to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders. “You not right tonight. You worried. No need.” He held up the cross again. “Jesus save you in all ways. He did me.” They both looked up as they heard Jinko's voice. When Jinko didn't come in from the dining room, Vasy continued, “I have trouble in Russia. Jesus save me. Brought me here. He save you, too.” He glanced toward the dining room. “I worry you and Jinko. Other boys…there was one. Same as you. He…gone.”

  This got Jered's attention. “Gone where?”

  Vasy shrugged. “One night…” He clicked his fingers. “Gone. Never see.”

  “Maybe he quit.”

  “No.” They heard Jinko's voice again. Vasy lowered his. “You careful. Don't want you gone.” He slipped his hand in his pocket. “You need money, go home? Real home? I give you—”

  “No, no,” Jered said. “I'm fine. I'll be fine.”

  Vasy fingered the cross on his chain. “Jinko not going place.”

  “Huh?”

  Vasy looked frustrated. “Going…place-es?”

  “Yeah. Going places.”

  “His way not right way.” He pulled the cross forward again. “This way, Jered. This way. This Man.”

  Jinko came in the kitchen and Jered was relieved. The conversation was far too heavy for his taste.

  Vasy whispered in Jered's ear. “I pray for you. May God keep you safe, in His hand.”

  Jinko was all smiles. “Come on, people. Good job tonight, but get outta here. Work's over.”

  Jered certainly hoped so. He'd had enough for one night.

  He'd had enough.

  Jered tossed the monk's costume behind the seat and got in his truck. He waited his turn to exit the parking lot and had just started the engine when Jinko yanked open his door.

  “Hey!”

  “Out.”

  “Wha—?” Jinko pulled him out of the truck and led him toward his car. Was this when it was going to happen, just like Vasylko said? Was this when he would just be “gone”? “Where are we going?” Jered asked.

  “We're going to finish the work.”

  “I thought we did.”

  They got in and Jinko started the car. “Stealing is only the first part. Now comes the selling. We're going to Kansas City.”

  “Its after two in the morning.”

  “Now. We need to be there first thing. We need to get rid of the coins before Ed Cooperton realizes they're gone. He and his wife will sleep late in the morning, and by the time they wake up, I plan on being on our way home, my pockets full of bills.” He glanced at Jered. “Your pockets too, kid.”

  He breathed a little easier. Everything would be fine. Vasylko was wrong. There was no need to go home. Jinko cared about him more than his own father did.

  Everything was fine.

  Eleven

  Buy the truth and do not sell it;

  get wisdom, discipline and understanding.

  PROVERBS 23:23

  IT WASN'T A QUESTION of waking up at 3:16 again. Annie didn't sleep. How could she with Cal mad, with so much between them, keeping them apart? She prayed a lot and hoped God was listening.

  As soon as the sun started coming up, she decided to go running. Maybe that would clear her mind. The sidewalks were dotted with a few smashed pumpkins from Halloween. Avi loved her pumpkin and made Annie take it inside every—

  She saw a figure coming toward her and was surprised to see it was Claire Adams.

  “Well, well,” Claire said, stopping. “Our paths cross.”

  Annie caught her breath. “I've never seen you out here before.”

  “I don't run much. Just when I'm desperate.”

  “For what?”

  “Inspiration. An opera house in Duluth wants me to design a mosaic for their atrium, and my mind's blank. What's your excuse?”

  How could she word it? “I'm looking for inspiration of another kind. Cal and I had an argument about a donation
I gave yesterday.” She looked into the trees, seeing sky through the silhouette of leafless branches. “I tried to give something special to God and got shot down by my own husband.”

  Claire leaned her head back and laughed, then stopped herself with a hand. “Sorry. I'm not making light of your situation, but you do remember that I have a PhD in giving it all up for God and getting shot down.”

  Of course. Annie had forgotten.

  “You remember last spring when God nudged me eight ways to Friday to give up my wealth and even my art in order to follow Him?”

  “You ended up hidden in the library attic here in Steadfast. I met you when you came in for biscuits and gravy.”

  “Still a favorite.”

  “You even stayed with Harold for a while.”

  “Yes, I did.” Claire stretched. “Care to walk and talk?” They headed down the street. “The point is, Annie, my sacrifice, my giving it up, is old news. What God was really up to was getting me to the point of saying a blanket yes to Him—before He even asked the next specific question. He wants all of us to give up anything that stands between us and total surrender to Him. In my case it was the need for fame.”

  “But now you're famous again,” Annie said. “He helped you give it up but then gave it back to you?”

  “He often does that.”

  Annie tried to apply it to her own situation. “So if God made me give up the thousand dollars, what happens now that Cal's stopped it?”

  “Maybe the check wasn't the issue. Your willingness to give—to sacrifice—is worth a lot to the Almighty. ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’”

  “I don't feel so cheerful.”

  “You were at the time.”

  “But Cal…I'm supposed to stop the check this morning.”

  They walked to the next driveway in silence. “Then you have to abide by his wishes. It's not worth messing up your marriage about, Annie. Don't get into a power play. In fact, this might be a chance for you to do what God wants all wives to do, to submit—”

  “I hate that word.”

  “Oh, the word's not the problem. It's gotten a bad rap, though as a divorced woman, I'm certainly no role model. But I've learned a lot since then, and if I had to do it over again…”