A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

Sim appeared from between the stacks and gave Claire a dirty look.

  “Actually, no. I was just passing by.” She turned toward the mosaic. “It’s quite a mess, isn’t it?”

  Merry patted her pocket, then pulled out some small tiles. “More fall off every day.”

  Claire’s insides did double flips. A mural that needed an artist. Surely this was not a coincidence. Maybe this was the reason she’d been brought to Steadfast. They needed her expertise.

  Her eyes grazed over the needy mural, her mind scrambling to create a total picture, a maze of mental colors swirling and rearranging themselves as each vied for its proper position in her newest creation. Who would have thought that a small town such as Steadfast could not have just one, but two Claire Adams creations?

  Her mind let go of the artistic process and inserted thoughts of a big unveiling. The mayor standing at her side in front of the sheathed mural, ready to unveil. Claire would pull the drape away. Oohs and aahs. Applause. The key to the city. Shaking hands. Attempts to be humble amid her own pride and sense of accomplishment.

  Pride. Accolades. Applause.

  Forbidden fruits.

  Claire was aware that Merry was telling her about the history of the mural, but she couldn’t listen. Not when she was fighting a war. She’d given up her art, and with it the pride and the applause. God had asked her to give up everything. And everything meant everything.

  This is a test.

  The realization slammed hard. A mural in need of an artist was not a ticket for her to go back to her art, but a test for her to pass by, to surrender her art. God was asking her, Were you sincere in giving it up for Me? Or will you renege the first chance you get, grabbing back that which is no longer yours?

  Merry was still talking. “…and here’s our resident artist.” She angled to include an old man who was coming back from the direction of the rest rooms. “Ivan, this is Claire Adams. Claire, this is Ivan, our artist.”

  Claire had to force herself to remember the niceties of shaking his hand. “You’re…you’re doing this?”

  “You bet.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  “Nah. I’m just a retired old coot Merry conned into doing the work for free.” He squinted at the mural. “I may not get it back exactly the way it was, but I’ll give it a good shot. Haven’t got anything else to do.”

  Anything else to do? The way Ivan approached the art was like a knife’s jab to Claire’s sensibilities. Art was important. Creating enriched people, brought joy and even insight into their lives. It was not something you did because you didn’t have anything better to do.

  Merry moved to the mural, to an area directly in front of a stool. “We appreciate your efforts, Ivan, though I’m still trying to figure out how this blue and red patch fit in.”

  Claire’s eyes also sought an explanation. Where the rest of the mural was done in subtle variations of colors blending together like the shading of a painting, Ivan had placed the brightest red tiles next to the brightest blue. Fine, if he was creating a modern abstract, but not at all in keeping with the landscape composition—

  Ivan returned to his stool and flipped a hand. “Don’t bother me, Merry. I’m creating.”

  Merry’s nervousness showed in her smile, but she stepped away, attempting to draw Claire with her. But Claire didn’t want to go. The mural needed her. It was screaming for her expertise. Ivan was ruining it. She felt like a surgeon being asked to watch a rookie resident attempt a complicated operation. To stand back and not intervene would be an act of neglect, malpractice—

  Or obedience.

  Claire grimaced. What had the old man at McDonald’s said? “The wonder of the O-word.” Ha. Some wonder. She fingered her necklace.

  Merry called to her from the counter. “Claire?”

  She was forced to turn her back on the mural and was surprised to find it was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She walked toward Merry, but the magnet of the mural attached itself to her, trying to wrench her back. If only Merry would extend a hand and pull her to safety.

  But Merry was straightening a pile of bookmarks, oblivious to her struggle. “How can I help you this morning? You in need of a good summer read?”

  Confronted with the question, Claire didn’t know how to answer. Why was she here? Because she was lonely, confused, in search of some reason—

  A loud thud drew their attention. Their eyes were drawn to Sim as she shoved a book into its space with extra force. The girl’s glare could have drawn blood.

  “She doesn’t seem too happy to see you.”

  Claire looked at Merry and shrugged. “I…I think my presence offends her independent nature.”

  “I’ve noticed she likes to be in control.”

  Claire was snapped into the moment. “Has she done something wrong?”

  “No, no. She’s caught on remarkably fast, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I have the feeling she thinks she can run this place better than I can.

  Claire shook her head. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who feels intimidated by that particular teenager. Though in my case it’s not ‘that particular’ anything. Teenagers intimidate me. Period. They’re different today. More worldly. Less innocent.”

  “They need us more than ever but want us less and less.”

  Claire pondered that. Did God feel the same way about people in general?

  Merry sat at her desk. “So. Once again the question: How can I help you this morning, Claire?”

  With one last look at Sim, Claire realized if she was going to figure out why she’d been led to Steadfast, she needed to be close to Sim and Merry and the others whom God had brought before her in the past few days. And it appeared that meant spending a lot of time in the library. An idea raised its hand. “I’m doing a research paper on…on Michelangelo.”

  “For what?”

  Good question. “For myself.”

  “For fun?”

  Claire shrugged. “I’m odd that way.”

  Merry shook her head. “Whatever floats your boat. I’ll show you what we have on him.”

  Claire spread books on Michelangelo across a table. She’d gone across the street and purchased a notebook, paper, and pens. Since she’d gotten herself into this thing, she might as well really learn something. She was feeling quite the scholar when Sim appeared at her side.

  “What are you doing here? Spying on me?”

  “I’m doing a research paper.”

  “What for?”

  “None of your business.”

  Sim’s eyebrow raised. “Getting testy, are we?”

  Claire’s eyes flitted to the mural that Ivan was desecrating. She was feeling testy.

  “Hey, I’m all for this ‘none of your business’ attitude. But just remember what goes for you, goes for me.” Sim turned on her heel and left.

  Great. Just great.

  At the end of the day, the three women left the library and Merry locked the front door. Claire hoped she’d remained less diligent about the door in back. Merry went down the steps toward her car, then stopped. “You two want a lift to the motel?”

  Claire covered quickly. “No thanks.”

  Merry shrugged. “See you tomorrow then.”

  Sim and Claire walked down the sidewalk, waiting for Merry to get in her car and drive away. They waved as she drove past.

  The illusion complete—and now unnecessary—Sim turned on Claire. “What’s this about a motel?”

  “Merry assumed that’s where I was staying. You too, I guess. I don’t have a better explanation, so I don’t correct her assumption.” She sighed. “I hate it.”

  “But you do it so well.”

  Claire did a double take. Certainly all this deception was not what God had in mind when He sent her to Steadfast. But what choice did she have? “Maybe we should move into the motel for real. Make it legitimate.”

  “You do what you want. I’m fine.”

 
Claire thought of Sim sleeping across the chairs. “You can sleep in the attic with me, you know.”

  “I like my space.”

  “Maybe we should tell Merry the truth about you not being my niece.”

  Sim stopped walking. “No!” She looked around, lowered her voice, and continued. “Okay, so I was upset at the time. But I think it’s a good idea they believe we’re related. A lone kid is odd. They’ll ask where my parents are, and I won’t be able to answer. You pretending to be my aunt makes me look legit.”

  Sim had a point. “And having a niece makes me look legit.”

  “You use me and I’ll use you.”

  “That’s a callous way to look at it.”

  Sim shrugged and started to walk—away from the library. “See you later.”

  “Don’t you want to eat dinner? I bought groceries.”

  “I’ll grab something.”

  So much for family ties.

  Claire looked out the attic window. She’d watched Sim leave the square, disappearing into the streets of Steadfast.

  If only God didn’t give people choices. If only Claire could force Sim to do the right thing from the right place in her heart. If only Claire knew exactly what she was supposed to do.

  Claire grabbed a book she’d checked out. She’d wanted free time to read? She had it.

  She opened the pages of Atlas Shrugged.

  Loser town. Nothing to do.

  Sim heard the boom of a radio coming from the right. She turned toward it.

  She hung back to watch three boys. They looked older. Sixteen, seventeen maybe. One had a belly that couldn’t be hidden by a baggy T-shirt. He looked the type who would play football on the defense because he liked to tackle people. The middle-sized boy was growing out his hair and had two earrings. The one who seemed to be the leader was spooky looking, with circles under his eyes, but not too far-out. Sim felt at home. They were better than nothing.

  I can take these country hicks any time.

  Sim noticed the beer and wanted one. She’d started drinking after she moved in with her aunt and uncle. A strange neighborhood meant finding new friends. What better way to belong than to be a drinking buddy? Instant friendship.

  She noticed the earring-guy looking her way. Her legs twitched, wanting to run.

  “Hey, girl.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You a watcher or a joiner?”

  Good question. She walked toward them.

  Jered eyed the girl, trying not to stare. Normally he wouldn’t have anything to do with someone who looked younger. But something had nudged him into calling out to her as though his mouth had a mind of its own. So now, even if he had second thoughts, it was too late. The girl was there.

  He handed her a beer. She took it, popped the tab, and took a swig like she knew what she was doing.

  “I’m Sim.”

  “Sam?”

  “Sim.”

  Moog burped. “Weird name.”

  Jered laughed. “You should talk?”

  Moog slapped him on the head. “Don’t bug me about my name, remember?”

  Jered glanced at the girl. He hated when Moog took control. He was always smacking one of them like in those Three Stooges movies, like he had to remind them he was the leader. Not that Jered wanted that position. He was content to let Moog do the planning and scheming. He’d follow. He was good at following.

  Moog pointed with his beer. “This is Darrell, that there is Jered, and I’m Moog.” The boys nodded at her, then took a sip of beer.

  “How old are you anyway?” Moog eyed Sim with an extra gleam in his eyes. Jered had seen that look before. He looked away.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Bull.”

  Sim lifted her chin, and Jered had to admire her spunk.

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  Darrell cocked his head and his eyes made a pass over her chest. “You ain’t got the equipment.”

  Sim blushed but stared Darrell down. “Obviously, neither do you.

  Jered crushed a can against his leg, ignoring the pain. “You new in town?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “To where?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Moog threw a wave at her. “You’re too young to be passing through anywhere.”

  Sim chugged the beer and tossed the empty in the back of the truck. “Got another one?”

  Moog laughed and put an arm around her shoulder, his hand draped down her front. “Hey, maybe you’re not too young.”

  Jered knew what came next. He thought about stopping it. She was just a kid. Let it be. So what if Moog has a little fun? As if he could stop him.

  Moog’s hand found what it was looking for.

  “Hey!” Sim shoved him away. “Get your hands off me!”

  Darrell laughed. “Don’t waste your time on her, Moog. She’s just a kid.”

  Sim shuffled her shoulders and opened another can. “I am not a kid and I don’t need you defending me.”

  Darrell backed up a step. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Moog stuffed his hands in his pockets and eyed her, though he kept his distance. “What did you cut your hair with? A dull ax?”

  “A sharp one. Care to see it?”

  “Sure. Anytime, any—”

  Jered jumped out of the truck between them. “Cool it, you two.”

  Moog flashed him a look. “Watch it, Jer. Don’t butt in unless you can handle the consequences.”

  Jered backed off. What had gotten into him? It was stupid to cross Moog. Everybody knew that. And it was obvious the girl could handle herself.

  She leaned against the side of the truck. “This place is boring. In Kansas City we—” She stopped.

  Moog grinned. “You’re from Kansas City.”

  She looked at him, then away. She’d said more than she meant to. “What do you do for fun around here?” Sim eyed them, brow arched. “Plow a field? Pluck a chicken?”

  Darrell grabbed a hunk of her hair. “I’ll plow you, you little—”

  Jered was relieved when Moog slapped Darrell’s hand away. “Back off.”

  “But you—”

  “Back off.”

  Darrell stared at Sim before flipping the girl’s chin. “Just trying to teach the girl some manners.”

  “By showing her some of yours?” Jered stared. Sim didn’t sound the least bit frightened. “Brilliant.”

  Darrell reddened. “Who are you to talk, Miss Etiquette?”

  Moog pulled Sim under his arm. “This is our new friend. Our new mascot. Our new—”

  “Partner in crime?” Darrell laughed.

  The girl looked down at that, and Jered thought she was uncomfortable. He was glad when Moog let her go. Yet she was one of them now. For some reason beyond his understanding, Jered wanted Sim on his team.

  It was after midnight when Sim entered the library. Although she’d wanted to leave within fifteen minutes of meeting up with the boys—that Moog gave her the creeps—she’d hung around. One evening couldn’t hurt. She had the feeling if she got too chummy with them—especially Moog—they’d want more than she had to give. Darrell was pretty worthless. An overweight bully. She could handle him. And that Jered…he was hard to figure. He seemed tough—had to be tough to hang around with the other two—but there was something softer there. Approachable? Almost pathetic, like a puppy that needed shelter.

  Either way, her aunt and uncle would never approve. Yet wasn’t that the point? Pushing their buttons was the reason she’d opted for the nose ring, dark-lined eyes, and red hair. Making waves was the only weapon she had.

  The boys offered to drop her somewhere, but she begged off, said she would walk, and slipped behind the library. She clicked the door shut as silently as she could. She looked up the attic stairs. All was dark.

  Claire’s going to be mad.

  What did it matter? She didn’t have to answer to her, not to anyone. It was great to be independent and in c
ontrol.

  Sim slipped into the library, moved her chairs together, and went to sleep.

  Nine

  Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever

  you face trials of many kinds,

  because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.

  Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature

  and complete, not lacking anything.

  JAMES 1:2–4

  “MOM!”

  Sim bolted upright and fell onto the floor with an oomph. There was light from a window, but the window was in the wrong place. It should have been on her left.

  My mom is dead. My dad is dead!

  Though sleeping brought forgetting, waking brought fresh remembering—like a twisting knife in the belly.

  Sim pulled her sweatshirt off the chair, wadded it into a pillow, and curled on the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pain to leave but knowing it wouldn’t. Not completely. Not ever. She felt like an amputee who suffered pain in what wasn’t even there, who tried to adjust to a missing leg, but with each movement, each task, was reminded of what was lost. Nothing would ever be the same. Life had changed without her permission.

  But never again. Never again.

  After a few minutes of trying, Sim knew she would not be able to get back to sleep. She checked the time: 6:45. Yesterday Claire had gotten her up at 6:30.

  What gives?

  She thought back to her midnight return after spending time with Moog and the boys. She hadn’t seen Claire. The attic was dark, and Sim assumed it was because Claire was sleeping.

  But what if she was gone?

  Sim sprang to her feet. She may not have wanted to accept Claire’s mothering, but that didn’t mean she wanted her to leave without telling—

  She heard a key in the front door.

  Merry!

  She ducked into the stacks, then remembered her backpack, her sweatshirt, and the three chairs pushed together to form a bed. There would be no way to explain them away. No way.

  The lights came on. Sim pulled back even farther. She peeked between the books and saw Merry drop her purse on her desk. She was humming. The humming turned into a song, “I love coffee, I love tea…”

  Coffee?