by Nancy Moser
“Be God.”
“Huh?”
“You’re not God, Anthony.”
He smiled. “I’m not?”
Her eyes changed from the warmth of fervor to the fire of anger in the span of a moment. She got up to leave. “Bye, Doctor.”
No more ‘Anthony’? “Lissa, I was just kidding.”
She paused at the door. “Were you?”
She left him alone with his deity.
George woke up craving a chocolate doughnut—or better yet, multiple chocolate donuts—so he drove to a quick-stop store and picked some up, along with an extra-large coffee. While paying at the counter he spotted the Probe. A headline caught his attention: “Crash Survivor Attempts Suicide.” He ripped the paper out of its stand.
“You want the paper too, mister?”
He nodded and shoved another dollar toward the clerk. There were two photos: one of Merry with ice in her hair as she was brought onto the shore after the rescue, and another of himself threatening last night’s reporter with a crutch. The caption read: An angry George Davanos attacks reporter after being found at the house of fellow survivor, Merry Cavanaugh.
The cretins.
“Hey, mister? Is that picture you?”
George folded the paper in half, grabbed his food, and left.
It’s not that the facts were wrong, it was how they were presented. Yes, George and Merry were widower and widow. Yes, she had tried to commit suicide. And yes, they had spent time together, but for the Probe to imply they were dating, or even worse, that George was able to find Merry in time because he was staying at her house.
He flicked a donut crumb off the paper. He took little comfort in the fact they were not the only survivors of Flight 1382 who were receiving questionable headlines. “Crash Survivor Sued for Malpractice.” “Survivor Fired Due to Misconduct.” “Survivor Walks Out on Job.”
Not a happy camper in the bunch. He wished he could talk to the others, compare notes, maybe even help—
He slammed his palm on the kitchen table. That was it! They needed to help each other. But they couldn’t do that strung out across town. They had to meet. Get together.
George nodded as the idea took form. “We’ll have a reunion. A get-together. We’ve never talked. Shouldn’t we talk?”
Of course they should. He and Merry had benefited by meeting. He grabbed a phone book, a pad, and pen. Taking the names of the survivors from the articles, he began to gather the numbers.
He was interrupted as an even better idea was added. The pièce de résistance of surprises. The frosting on the cake. The true union to the reunion.
He laughed out loud and called the long distance operator.
Merry looked over the smorgasbord of food in her kitchen. Breakfast could be chocolate cake, Jell-O salad, or lasagna. She peeked under the lids of some Pyrex dishes and spotted a cake that only had one piece missing. Chocolate frosting. Justin’s favorite.
A surge of sorrow came front and center, displayed like a flashing sign. Dead. Dead. Dead.
They’re dead.
She turned her back on the guilty cake and fled to the edge of the living room—which was still as neat and tidy and silent as it was two days before when she’d tried to kill—
Die Merry. Die just like them. You deserve to—
With a sudden burst of panic, Merry lunged for the stereo and turned it on full blast to drown out the voice. A country song assaulted her—one of Lou’s favorites and one she had moaned and groaned about at his incessant playing.
How appropriate. Music to crack to, break to, die to. But if she was going down, all of this was going down with her.
She rushed to the coffee table and swiped a hand across the top of it. Magazines and a candleholder fell to the carpet. She grabbed the toss pillows from the couch and heaved them against the windows, clattering the blinds, making them a mishmash of closed and open slats.
As the music blared, her chest heaved, and she scanned the room for more potential victims of her anger. Justin’s toy chest sat in the corner, mocking her. She fell upon it, flung open its lid, and hurled the toys behind her, not caring where they landed. The sound of a breaking lamp made her laugh hysterically.
No more neatness. No more order. No more everything in its place. No more control or nods or attempts to smile, or deluding myself that everything will be all right.
The built-in wall shelf was next. With the flick of a finger, she tilted the spines of the books, making them teeter and fall to their deaths. A bluebird figurine was heaved over her shoulder. Merry didn’t look to see where it landed but was cheered by the sounds of breakage.
The stereo yelled at her, flaunting Lou’s song, so she yanked it from its mooring and heaved it toward the television, grunting at the effort. Its electrical cords made it come up short, and it swung back against the shelf two ticks of the clock, until its own weight pulled it out of the wall and into a deathly silence on the floor.
Merry stood, assessing her progress. Yes. Yes. This is what I deserve.
But there was more to do.
Her eyes fell upon the entry closet, and she thought of the items inside. She ran to it, tripping over debris on the way. “You think you’re safe in there, don’t you? But you can’t hide from me.”
She flung open the door. The closet was stuffed with evidence of her family. Lou’s jackets laughed at her; Justin’s red snow boots jeered. Gloves waved good-bye to her past life. Bye-bye, Merry. Don’t be fooled. Things will never be the same. She grabbed a pair of Lou’s gloves, the extra-heavy ones he wore to shovel the driveway. She put them on and clapped them together, hoping to quiet their condemning words, the muted whawp, whawp ringing in her—
The doorbell rang.
Merry sucked in a breath and froze. She drew her gloved hands to her chest. Her heartbeat made them pulse. She looked out the peephole and saw Polly Frederick, her immediate neighbor to the north. Maybe if I’m quiet she’ll go home.
Suddenly, she saw Polly’s face pressed against the narrow entry window. Their eyes met. Then Polly’s eyes moved to the sight of Lou’s oversized gloves on Merry’s hands. Her gaze migrated to a stray hanger leaning up against a fallen boot on the floor at Merry’s feet. “Merry?” she called through the window. “You okay?”
Merry pressed against the window, Lou’s gloves like two huge spiders. “Go home, Polly.”
Polly’s eyes widened. “Let me in. I saw the papers … I want to help.”
Papers? What is she talking about? Merry took a step back and clasped her gloved hands together, wishing Lou’s strong hands were inside. They would know what to do. Somehow they would make Polly go away. They would make it all go away.
“I know where the extra key is hidden, Mer.”
Merry froze. She was beaten. One way or the other, her neighbor was coming in. She shuffled her shoulders and found them incredibly tight. She took a breath and cracked open the door.
Polly tried to look past her. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Merry. How are you?”
How do you think I am? “As well as can be expected.” She noticed she was still wearing Lou’s gloves and for the first time realized how odd they must look. She tried to hide them behind her back but, by doing so, let go of the doorknob.
Polly was quick. She swung the door open and surveyed the damage. “What in the—?”
“I was cleaning.” It sounded more like a question than a statement.
Polly came inside. “Don’t give me that.” As she closed the door behind herself, she spotted the further destruction in the living room and looked at Merry. “What’s going on?”
Merry suddenly saw the mess through fresh eyes. Did I do all this? What was I thinking? Polly must think I’m crazy.
Am I crazy?
Polly moved into the mess. She tried to right the broken lamp, but its base was beyond repair. She looked at Merry and repeated the question that had still not been answered. “Merry? What’s going on?”
Merry clapped
her hands together once, found the muffled sound disturbing, and removed Lou’s gloves. She placed them neatly on the back of the couch. “You want to know what’s going on? I’m losing my mind.” As soon as the words were loose, Merry felt the floodgates open as truth and reality collided. Tears flowed. Her muscles gave out, and her legs crumbled beneath her. Polly was at her side as her knees hit the floor.
Merry sat on the entry floor. Polly wrapped her arms around her. She did not say, “Shh” or the horrid “Everything will be all right.” She pulled her close and rocked her, as if Merry were a child. It felt so good.
Finally, Merry sat back and wiped her eyes with her sleeve until Polly dug a tissue from her pocket. “Always prepared,” she said. Her smile was wistful.
Merry blew her nose and took a shaky breath. She was relieved to find her mind clear—or at least clearer. “I was wrong, Polly. I had everything and didn’t even know it.” She opened her arms wide, taking in the room. “I thought I wanted a neat and tidy life. But I don’t. And now it’s too late.”
Merry felt Polly’s touch on the back of her shoulders. “What are you going to do now?”
Merry shook her head. She found answers coming to her lips, and yet she wasn’t sure if they were based on truth or were merely the right words. “Breathe. Sleep. Eat. And try to sort it through.”
“Pray?”
Merry looked at her neighbor. She’d forgotten that Polly was a deeply believing woman. And at that moment, Merry knew what she should say, what she was expected to say. She should tell Polly that she would pray. But she couldn’t. Her head shook back and forth like an empty swing. If only the swing would stop moving.
“Do you want to pray with me, Merry?”
That’s the last thing I want. Merry scrambled to her feet. “Don’t you dare bring God into this! God’s the one who did this to me. God’s punishing me, and you expect me to pray?”
Polly stood and held out a hand meant to comfort. “Merry, don’t say such—”
Merry sidled out of her reach and opened the front door. “You can leave now, Polly. I’m fine. I’m really fine.”
“But you’re not fine. You need—”
Merry yanked her neighbor toward the door and shoved her through it, nearly making her fall. “I need to be left alone. After all, that’s how God wants me, isn’t it?”
Polly’s face was a mask of shock. “But Merry—”
She shut the door in her face, eating up the subsequent surge of power.
The phone rang. She strode into the kitchen like Napoleon confronting his opposition. “Yes?” she snapped.
“Merry?”
It was George’s voice. Another do-gooder trying to help her when she didn’t want any help. She wasn’t in the mood. “What do you want, George?”
“What’s wrong? You sound angry.”
“I am angry.”
“I’ll come over.”
“No, you will not come over. You are not my keeper, George.” But he was your keeper. He saved your life. She forced her voice to soften. “I’m … I’m just going through a bad spell. I’ll be fine.” Maybe.
“It’s no trouble coming over.”
“I’m fine.” She stressed the word a bit too much. “Why did you call?”
“I’ve decided to arrange a reunion of all the survivors for dinner tomorrow night. My house.”
No way.
“Merry? I think it will be good for us. Put some closure on things.”
Closure. A funeral word. She scanned the destruction of her home. She’d tried her own form of closure.
“I’ll come get you if you want.”
Merry sighed. She knew if she didn’t go of her own accord, George would come and drag her there. He was a part of her life now. He’d given her back her life. Whether that would turn out to be a good or bad thing, she had yet to determine. But she did owe him. At least this much.
“I’ll come.” She saw the chocolate cake on the counter. She was surprised that the sight of it did not make her cry. “I’ll even bring some dessert. And I have lasagna in the freezer.”
“Super. See you at six.”
Merry hung up and shook her head. One minute she was crazed and the next calm. Each felt normal in its time. That was scary.
She cut herself a piece of cake and tried not to think about it.
Tina was on her way out the door, heading to her first day on the job, when the phone rang. It was Carla from her Bible-study group.
“Just calling to check on you, Tina. We saw the paper this morning and … is it true? Did you walk out on your teaching job?”
Tina had seen it on the local news channel. “Absolutely.”
“How come?”
Tina checked her watch. “How about I come back to Bible study next week and tell you all the details?”
“Are you up to it?”
“You bet.”
A moment’s hesitation. “You sound different.”
“Well, I have been through a crash, quit my job, gotten engaged—”
“Hey! It’s about time, but—”
“But what?”
“But it’s more than that. You sound genuinely … at peace. I didn’t expect that. Not after the news article. I called because I thought you’d be depressed. I thought you might need us.”
“I do need you. But I have found a sense of peace beyond anything I’ve ever felt.”
“Because of David?”
“Because of God.”
“Wow. You sound so sure.”
“I am sure. I’ll see you next week.”
Tina hung up, remembering all the times she’d only marginally participated in their early-morning Bible study. Things would be different now. She was not going to be a passive participant in anything anymore.
She grabbed her purse, and the phone rang again. She considered letting the machine take it but wondered if it might be David with a prework love-you call. “Hello?”
“Tina McKutcheon?”
“If this is some reporter, I’m not—”
“No, no … this is George Davanos. I’m another one of the survivors from the crash.”
She’d seen a report about him on the news that morning. He was having an affair with the young mother. “How are you doing, George? Some publicity we’re getting, huh? I thought things were settling down.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I think it’s time we got together. Had a survivors’ reunion. Out of the water this time. Are you game?”
She hadn’t been, but she was now. It sounded like a wonderful way to tie things up. “I’m in. When?”
“Tomorrow night for dinner, at six. My house.” He gave the address “And, Tina, I’ve got a surprise for everyone.”
“What kind of surprise?”
“Uh-uh, no cheating. See you tomorrow.”
Tina couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to concentrate like she did when her new boss, Shelley, showed her around the bookstore. What should have been overwhelming and confusing was clear and felt familiar—as if the information had only been tucked away somewhere, waiting for this moment.
“You’re grinning at that book like it’s a newborn baby,” Shelley said. “Tickle it under the title and maybe it’ll coo.”
Tina realized she was cradling a book and stroking its cover. “Sorry.” She set it back on the shelf and adjusted her crutches.
“No problem. It’s a common reaction by bookstore junkies.”
Tina smiled. “My secret is out.”
“It isn’t a secret. Why do you think you were hired?” Shelley glanced around the store, ever watchful for customers needing help. Her eyes stopped wandering, then turned to Tina. “Why don’t you see if that man, the one sitting on the couch over there, needs any help. He looks lost.”
Tina snuck a look. The man sat with both feet flat on the floor, his arms crossed. “Forget lost. He looks hungry—and not for learning or a pizza. He looks like he eats helpful clerks for dinner. Maybe he’s in the w
rong store?” Tina couldn’t imagine a shopper looking more antagonistic.
Shelley gave her a nudge. “Most likely he’s a shopper’s husband, brought on errands against his will. Most are pretty tame, though he doesn’t look quite—”
“Housebroken?”
Shelley laughed. “Battle forward, Tina. I’ve got your flank.”
“How nice of you, sending the wounded into battle.” Tina took a deep breath and checked her nerves, feeling foolish for being anxious about asking the simple words, “May I help you?” She approached the couch, put on her most helpful smile, and stopped in the customer’s field of vision.
He looked up, glaring. “What? Can’t I sit here?”
It took Tina a moment to recover. “That depends. Did you put money in the parking meter?”
“What?”
Okay, so humor won’t work. “Are you waiting for your wife?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Only on Tuesdays.” She handed him a magazine. “Care to read something while you wait?”
He took a look at the cover, then tossed the magazine on the coffee table where it slid to the floor. “No thanks. I don’t get into that God garbage.”
Tina felt as if she’d been slapped. She awkwardly picked up the magazine—which was quite a feat with her crutches in the way. The man did not offer help but watched her every move like a child’s gauging his parents’ reaction to a bad word and waiting for his punishment. Don’t play his game; play yours.
She looked up and smiled. “Do you like to read?”
“Not this junk.”
“Do you like fiction or nonfiction?”
He grinned slyly. “What do you think?”
I think you need all the self-help books you can get. She noted his cowboy boots and his heavy-duty down bomber’s jacket. “I take you as a Western fan.”
His eyes glimmered with pleasure—a momentary lapse before they reverted to their defensive glare. “I’ve read a few in my time.”
“We’ve got some good ones. Care to see them?”
He snickered. “You’ve got Westerns? Christian Westerns?” He laughed. “Don’t tell me … Jesus is a cowboy.”
“Not exactly.” Tina took a step toward the fiction aisles. She was shocked when he got up to follow her. As they walked to the right shelf, Tina wished she knew more specifics about the Western novels, then remembered she knew Someone who did. Please, Lord. Lead him to the right book.
