A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  Baseball, pizza, single… “That sounds heavenly.”

  He chuckled. “I thought you’d say that. And I think you’ll find Claire a fascinating woman. She’s a mosaic artist on the verge of famous. She’s had shows in London, Venice, Cincinnati…”

  “Cincinnati?”

  “I guess art appreciation knows no bounds. Noon tomorrow, okay? Claire’s looking forward to the opportunity to meet with you one-on-one.”

  The verse offered a reprise: Make the most of every opportunity. Michelle’s insides pulled, and she caught her breath. She knew what that feeling meant. This was not going to be an ordinary pizza lunch. “I look forward to it.”

  She loved when God got her guessing.

  By the time Claire got off the phone with Pastor Joe, she was on the verge of late. In order to get to her meeting at the gallery on time, she took a shortcut and got lost. Now, though she’d figured out where she was, she had no choice but to grab some fast food. Fast.

  She stopped at a traffic light and scoped out the neighborhood. Garbage hugged the curb, there were bars on the windows of a beauty shop, and an abandoned car was permanently installed on a side street with a cat lounging on its hood. It was not the best part of town, but it would have to do.

  Claire spotted a McDonald’s one block ahead and turned into the parking lot, heading toward the drive-through. It was blocked with orange traffic cones and a sign: Please excuse the inconvenience. Come inside to order.

  Come inside? Who had time to go inside?

  Her stomach rumbled its vote. She’d have to make time.

  Claire parked her silver Lexus close to the front door, where she could keep tabs on it. She went inside and was relieved to see that the line was short. She ordered a#1, supersized, with a Coke. She handed the teenager a fifty. The boy studied it as if it were foreign currency.

  “Got anything smaller? We’re not supposed to take bigger than a twenty.”

  Claire opened her billfold and fanned through the bills. She’d just cashed the check she’d received for the sale of her latest commission—a mosaic coffee table—and had specifically asked for hundreds, not wanting her billfold to be too thick. “Sorry, that’s the smallest I have.”

  She suddenly noticed she had an audience. Seven sets of eyes bounced from her billfold to her face, then back again. Her cheeks grew hot. Her heart skipped a beat. She folded the billfold shut.

  A manager walked near the boy. “Go ahead, Marlon. Give the lady her change.”

  Marlon handed Claire her change and her order.

  Claire hurried to her car, got in, and locked the doors. She put the sack on the seat so she could tuck the change away. But when she opened her billfold, she lingered, seeing with fresh eyes what the people in the restaurant had seen.

  The stack of twenty-five hundreds stared back at her. The crispness of the bills contrasted with the wrinkled, much-used bills she’d gotten for change. Two thousand five hundred dollars. Claire’s average weekly amount. Cash for spending money.

  Most people would have accepted that amount as a decent month’s wages.

  She’d just paid for a fast-food lunch with a fifty-dollar bill. “Sorry, that’s the smallest I have.” She hadn’t meant to sound uppity, but the very fact that she thought nothing of paying with fifties and hundreds was as symptomatic as it was ridiculous. Was she so immune to wealth that she could flaunt it with abandon? Did she care nothing about the reactions of those around her, who by seeing her riches might feel their own lack more deeply? To say nothing of the temptation.

  She looked at the inside of her car. It still had the new car smell and the “In Transit” sticker on the back window. CD player, cell phone, cassette. Air-conditioning, antilock brakes, cruise control, dual air bags. A laptop computer sat on the floor of the passenger side, safely tucked away in a leather case.

  Even her clothes…no funky Bohemian attire for this artist. For some reason people expected her to wear Indian-print skirts, sandals, and have long hair that had more poof than style. Claire would never tolerate being a stereotype. When she was in her studio—dirty with tile dust, metal shavings, and grout—she opted for comfort rather than style. But in public she leaned toward Armani, or her suit of the day, which happened to sport a Donna Karan label. To obtain the impeccable look of success, she only bought the best. Her shoes and matching purse had been purchased from a pricey catalog, and a Rolex adorned her wrist. It was one of two she owned: one gold, one silver. To match her accessories of the day.

  Her stomach clenched. She fumbled with the keys. When the engine revved to life, an old man near the entrance of the restaurant looked up, then away, as he shuffled to a trash can, pushed open the swinging lid, and grabbed a crushed sack.

  What’s he doing?

  Claire sat transfixed. The man opened the sack and peered inside. His hand disappeared and came out with two French fries, which he stuffed into his mouth. Another dig brought out the last few bites of a hamburger. He shoved it in his mouth, licking his fingers.

  Claire smelled her own lunch, sitting unopened on the seat beside her. Supersized. The sheer quantity of the meal repulsed her.

  Before the thought moved from synapse to synapse, Claire grabbed the sack and the drink, opened the car door, and walked to the man. “Sir?”

  He looked up. There was a crumb poised on his whiskers.

  She held the food in his direction. “I’ve already eaten. Would you like this meal? It’s a Big Mac. Large fries?” She tried a smile.

  The man looked at the sack, practically drooling. Then he squinted at Claire and smiled back. “That depends. What’s the drink?”

  “Coke.”

  The man nodded. “Nifty. You got a deal.”

  Claire returned the nod and headed back to her car, feeling virtuous. She noticed her billfold on the seat. An idea overwhelmed her.

  No, you’re thinking crazy…a meal is one thing, but—

  She turned back to the man. He was walking away. “Sir?”

  He turned.

  Claire looked down at her shoes. How could she do this without hurting his pride? “You…do you have a wife?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Oh, dear. “You have kids?”

  “Two or three.”

  Whew. Claire reached into the car and grabbed the billfold. She withdrew the bills, not even looking at them, afraid she would chicken out. “Here. Buy them a Christmas present.”

  The man stared at the wad of hundreds. He squinted at the summer sun. “But it’s June.”

  “Birthday then. Buy them something special.” She backed toward the car.

  The man stared at the money, then at her. “Why you doing this?”

  Claire bumped into the car door. She reached backward for the handle, then shrugged and managed a shaky laugh. “I have no idea.”

  The man scratched his head. “Whatever the reason…God bless you, ma’am.”

  Claire’s heart beat through her blouse. She felt something swell inside her, like a dam ready to burst. She got in the car and put it in reverse, nearly backing into a passing vehicle. As she pulled around the building, she noticed two cars using the drive-through.

  There were no orange cones in sight.

  Claire found a day-old donut on the studio table that served as layout space, lunch table, and chair if she felt the need to gaze at her work from a new angle. She poured a cup of coffee and sat on the table to eat. Her heels skimmed the concrete floor.

  From across the warehouse-sized space, her head metalworker, Darla, turned off her blowtorch, flipped up her mask, and came toward her. “Those are from yesterday, you know.”

  She shrugged.

  Darla tilted her head. “You look…odd. Didn’t it go well at the gallery?”

  “I never got to the gallery.”

  “Why not?”

  Claire thought about telling Darla about giving all her money to the old man, but stopped. Not only would her friend think she was insane, she had the feeling if she
shared her good deed with anyone, it would be spoiled. But oh, how she would like to brag. She took another bite of donut. “Long story for another day, another time. How are things going here?”

  Darla studied her a moment longer before pointing to where she’d been working. “The base for the Oswald dining room table should be ready this afternoon, and Sandy is putting away the shipment of smalti that came in this morning. Everything should be ready to go. All you need to do is finish up the mosaic.”

  Claire snickered. “Inspiration on demand, huh?”

  “You always manage to come through.”

  She swung her legs back and forth. “I don’t feel very creative right now.”

  Darla changed her weight to the other foot. “What’s wrong? You seem restless.”

  What’s wrong? What’s right? What’s real? What’s unreal?

  When Claire didn’t answer, Darla continued. “They’re expecting it the end of this week. Do you want Lana to call and tell them it will be late?”

  Claire took a deep breath, then removed her jacket and headed to where her work clothes were kept. “No. I’ll get to it. Right now.”

  Darla followed her. “Claire…what aren’t you telling me?”

  She forced a smile as she hung up her jacket. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. Honestly. It’s nothing for anyone to worry about. It’s a good thing. I think.”

  “A good thing. Even more reason to share.”

  Claire pinched her lower lip. “But not now. Not yet.” She took a cleansing breath. “Now go on. There’s work to do.”

  And thinking.

  Two

  “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find;

  knock and the door will be opened to you.”

  MATTHEW 7:7

  SATURDAY NOON, THE DOORBELL RANG. Claire answered it to find a fiftyish woman holding a pizza box while the pizza-delivery car drove away. It took Claire a moment to sort through the scene. “Michelle?”

  The woman raised the box and inhaled. “I smell pepperoni.”

  “Good nose.” Claire took the pizza and stood aside so her guest could enter. Claire dug into her jeans pocket for the money she’d put there for the pizza man. “Here, you beat me to it.”

  Michelle waved the money away. “I’ll supply the pizza if you supply an unlimited supply of iced tea.”

  Claire smiled. She liked Michelle. “One cold one coming up.”

  They moved into the kitchen area. Claire got out plates and napkins. The smell of pepperoni and cheese filled the air. She noted Michelle was a good six inches shorter than she was and fifty pounds heavier. But what Michelle lacked in height, she made up for in pluck. Claire liked how she made herself right at home, opening the cupboards, getting out two glasses, and filling them with ice.

  “Nice place.”

  “Thanks.” Since Claire gave Ron the house, she’d moved into this three-bedroom townhouse. Although it was a step down in size, it was comparable in quality and luxury. Not that she needed marble countertops or crown moldings, but she was used to them. “The game doesn’t start for half an hour.”

  Michelle pulled out a stool at the breakfast bar. “Then let’s sit here.”

  “Sure.” As Claire sat and they started eating, she suddenly realized she needed to come up with conversation. She’d been counting on the game negating any need for her to be wise and witty.

  Michelle beat her to it. “Pastor Joe says you’re rich and famous.”

  Claire choked. Michelle patted her on the back.

  “You okay?”

  Claire took a sip of tea and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “You just surprised me, that’s all. And Pastor Joe told me to be good?”

  Michelle shrugged. The glint in her eye hinted there was more to come. “I work in a facts-based business. I prefer to slog through bushes rather than beat around them.”

  “What bush are we talking about?”

  “Money.”

  Claire’s stomach sank. Pastor Joe was going to pay for making her spend the afternoon with a fund-raiser. If he’d wanted a donation, he should have asked. She might as well get it over with, give the lady a check, and hope the baseball game would start early.

  She stood to get her checkbook. “I can give you something for your shelter.”

  Michelle shook her head. She nipped a string of cheese with her fingers, then licked them noisily. “I don’t want your money.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said I wanted to talk about money, I didn’t ask for any.”

  Claire returned to the stool. “You don’t want my money?”

  “Not your guilt money.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Michelle shook her head while patting a napkin to her mouth as she finished chewing. “Maybe I’d better start over.”

  Claire took a sip of tea and set her glass down hard. “Maybe you’d better.”

  “I run a shelter for indigents in Denver.”

  “I know that.”

  “I live in a room on the second floor. I eat with the homeless. I have few possessions I call my own.” She swiveled in her seat and extended an arm, taking in the hearth room, the breakfast area, and the kitchen. “You have so much.”

  This sounded like a trap. “But you don’t want my money.”

  She held up a finger. “Your guilt money.”

  The appeal of Michelle Jofsky’s make-herself-at-home nature dimmed. “If this is how you fund-raise, you’d better think of a new approach.”

  Michelle faced her, stool to stool. “That’s just it. I don’t think I’m here to get money from you.”

  “You don’t think…?”

  She took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m being way too blunt. I get that way when I’m excited.”

  “And what are you excited about?”

  “Opportunities.”

  “Such as?”

  Michelle turned back to her pizza. “Are you open to Him, to things?

  Him. God. “What kinds of things?”

  Michelle looked at Claire straight on. “Feelings. Hunches.”

  “Women’s intuition? That sort of thing?”

  “Beyond that.” She wiped her palms on her thighs. “Oh dear, there’s no subtle way to breach this thought I have, this notion, this nudge.”

  “Then just say it. I can take it. I promise.”

  Michelle studied her a moment. “I think you’re the reason I came to Kansas City.”

  Claire finished chewing. She didn’t like the sound of this. The Twilight Zone had been cancelled years ago. She did not need to experience one of the lost episodes. She got up from her stool. “Want some more tea?”

  “No thanks.”

  Claire didn’t either, but she poured some anyway. She also took another slice of pizza, though the thought of eating more was unsettling.

  “You want to know why I think you’re the reason I came here?”

  “I’m not sure. But tell me anyway.” Claire mentally braced herself.

  “The answer is: I don’t know.”

  Claire’s shoulders drooped. “Should I be relieved or disappointed?”

  “I wish I could be more specific. Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn’t. Specific, I mean.”

  “It?”

  “My hunches. Feelings.”

  “This happens often?”

  “Often enough.”

  “But you said you were a facts-based person. Hunches are not based on facts.”

  “Sure they are. It’s a fact that I got a feeling about you. I can choose to ignore it or accept it. Go with it. This time I went with it. I came here this afternoon, didn’t I?”

  “To tell me…?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Claire shook her head and glanced at the TV. Come on game. Start! “Are your hunches always so vague?”

  “Not vague, just nonspecific.”

  “I don’t see the distinction.”

  “The urgings I have, the nudgings, are very real an
d more than mental. They’re so strong they almost give me a physical push. I know I’m supposed to do something; I just don’t know the details.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Michelle ran a finger across the condensation on her glass. Then she nodded. “Ten years ago, before I started to work at the shelter, I was walking in an industrial part of town when I had an urge to turn right and go down a specific street. I had no reason to turn, and to tell you the truth, I was running late and really needed to keep going. Since then I’ve learned it’s best to follow through with these promptings. It’s become an obligation.”

  “Says who?”

  Michelle smiled. “We’ll get to that. Anyway, I turned right. I hadn’t been down that street before, but I knew it led to the railroad tracks. Yet there was a kind of purpose in my walking, as if there was something I was supposed to see. So I kept my eye out for a reason I was being brought there, searching for the last piece to the puzzle. When I got to the tracks I saw a bunch of lean-tos, the kind the homeless make out of boxes and boards. More than anything, I wanted to turn around and get out of there. That kind of poverty and desperation made me uncomfortable, you know?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But then I saw an old man lying right next to the tracks, so close that his back was against a rail. Passed out. As soon as I saw him I felt a rumbling in my feet. The lights of a train came closer. It blared its whistle. It was like a scene in a movie. At first all I could do was shake my head no. This was not happening. Then I snapped out of it, ran to the man, and rolled him away from the tracks. Just in time. I saved him. My following the nudge saved him.”

  “Very admirable. So you’re here to save me, even if I’m not passed out in the path of an oncoming train?”

  “But maybe you are.”

  Claire stood and paced near the counters. “Look around. I’m perfectly safe. No trains in sight.”

  “But you may be on the wrong track.”

  Claire had had enough. “Excuse me, Ms. Jofsky. You don’t know me well enough to know what track I’m on, much less if it’s wrong, and I resent—”

  Michelle pushed her plate away and rested her arms on the counter. She looked down at her clasped hands.

  Michelle’s calm was infuriating. “Don’t just sit there. Defend yourself!” Michelle shook her head. The noncombative action took the steam out of Claire’s engine. “You’ve got to admit it’s mighty strange, your coming into my home, telling me you don’t want my guilt money, telling me you were sent here, telling me I’m on the wrong track and in the path of an oncoming train.”