by Nancy Moser
Merry got the pot behind the counter and headed to the rest room for water.
It was Sim’s only chance.
She made a dash for the chairs, pulling them apart, only clanking them once. She grabbed her pack and loose sweatshirt and hurled herself toward the storeroom, calming the door’s swing behind her. Then she bolted for the stairs and burst into the attic, pasting her body against the closed door.
Too close.
Claire turned around from brushing her hair. “What’s—?”
“Shh! Merry is here!” It was hard to breathe even in a whisper.
Claire turned back to the broken mirror, the silk in her red pajama top making a swish sound. “Nice to see you, Sim.”
There was anger in her whisper.
Sim moved closer. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Merry is here. I nearly got caught.”
“Is that a concern of mine?”
Sim took a fresh breath. “What’s got into you?”
Claire put her brush down. “Not a thing. I’m just surprised you shared that information with me. From what I saw last evening, it was everyone for herself. No accountability. Two separate beings, going their own ways.”
Sim leaned closer, keeping her voice down. “You’re mad.”
Claire’s eyes grabbed hers. “Disappointed.”
Sim hated that look. “You’re not my mom. I don’t have to check in with you. I can stay out until two in the morning if I want to.”
“Two of your statements are correct. One is not.” Claire took a step toward her and Sim resisted the urge to back up. “I am not your mother—thank God. And you can stay out until sunrise if you want to. But the statement that is not true is that you don’t have to check in with me. Everyone has to check in with someone, Sim. You and I have been placed together. We have a different view of what that placement means and the extent of our ties, but in the end, those details don’t matter. It’s common courtesy to let anyone who would worry about us know what’s going on, know we’re okay.”
She worried about me? Sim shoved the thought away. There was a principle here, a principle to be fought for. She could not give in to this woman’s control. “So now you know. I’m fine. I’ll always be fine.”
So you say.
“I don’t need this.” She grabbed her stuff and left the attic, continuing through the back door. Though she wanted to stomp and slam, she let her anger flow inward.
Where it could do the most damage.
Claire sat on the edge of the bed, the brush in her limp hand. Why had she been so brusque?
She made me worry. She should have let me know where she was.
In principle, Claire was right. In an ideal setting, Sim would have been a good little girl, home by nine, safely tucked in a bed they’d make in the corner of the attic. They would get up in the morning, have some PB&J sandwiches for breakfast, and discuss Atlas Shrugged.
Claire glanced at the book, sitting on the chair. She was on chapter 4. Sim was right. It was thought provoking, even if Claire didn’t agree with everything it said. She’d wanted to tell Sim she was reading it, hoped it would be a bond between them, an act of goodwill on her part.
But now she wouldn’t get the chance. Her pride had been hurt and she’d behaved badly. Maybe it was a good thing God had never blessed her with children. Some mother she’d make.
With a groan, she let herself topple to her side, where she pulled herself into a curl full of regret.
Sim took a bottle of grape juice from the grocery shelf and added it to her basket. If Claire hadn’t been so mad, Sim wouldn’t be forced to spend her own money on breakfast. Claire had a cooler full of food, and yet so far, Sim hadn’t been around to share anything beyond a few donuts.
Speaking of… She headed for the pastries and chose a package of miniature chocolate donuts. The sight of them brought back the memory of yesterday in the park. Claire had brought her donuts, not knowing they were her favorite. Claire had shared with her, cared about her.
And what have you done for her? Left her to eat dinner alone? Stayed out late? Run out at the first disagreement?
She tossed the donuts in the basket, shaking her head. She would not let this stranger make her feel guilty. She didn’t owe her—didn’t owe anyone. She was a free agent.
As she headed to the checkout lane she passed the candy aisle. A bag of black licorice beckoned.
She’d made two enemies since coming to Steadfast: Claire and Harold. True, Harold was a weird old guy, but Sim knew what it was like to be accused of something she didn’t do.
She snatched the bag of licorice and went to pay.
When it was time to go in to work she said her hellos to Merry, then took a right and headed to the chair in the corner where Harold spent his days. She placed the bag of licorice on the seat and adjusted it so it was straight and centered on the vinyl. She took a step back to check the effect.
Perfect.
She wasn’t such a bad person. She wasn’t.
Claire knew it was going to be awkward seeing Sim at the library, but she steeled herself to do it with grace. She would get Sim alone and apologize. Make things right.
But when she got there, Sim was already working with Merry, getting some explanation about logging in new books. They exchanged a glance, but that was all that was possible.
Claire went to work on her study of Michelangelo. The apology would have to wait.
Claire seemed to be drawn to Ivan and the mural like an injured athlete drawn to watching a game she couldn’t play in.
Ivan looked up from placing a bunch of brown tiles in the wrong place. “May I help you, Claire?”
“Just checking your progress.”
He sat back. “Slow but sure. An artist’s job is never done.”
It took all her willpower to remain silent. This was not her mural—or her business.
“Anything else? I can’t create with people watching, you know.”
“No, nothing else. I’ll leave you be.”
As she walked through the reading area on the way to her table, she did a double take at the magazine on one of the chairs. It was the May issue of Newsweek, the issue that contained a short article about her commission for the lobby of a Chicago museum. The article had a nice picture of her. She’d framed a copy for her office. If anyone saw it now…
So what if they did? It would feel great to have somebody acknowledge her for who she was. She wasn’t some nobody, she was an artist—a real, bona fide artist who could turn the library mural from dilapidated to divine. Did she really have to keep her status a secret?
She glanced around to make sure no one was looking. She heard the sounds of kids in the children’s section and Merry’s voice at the front counter. But no one was close. She opened to page ninety-six and placed the opened magazine on the chair.
Way too obvious.
She took another magazine and haphazardly placed it overlapping the page facing her article.
Better.
Then she returned to her table, her heart racing. She imagined what would happen when someone found it.
“Claire! Is this you? This is you! Why, you’re famous!”
Everyone would come running, and they’d fight over the article, oohing and aahing that their Claire was the Claire in the magazine.
Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.
Her lungs deflated as the verse from Proverbs interrupted her fantasy. Why, of the verses she knew by heart, did she happen to think of this one?
You know why.
That was it. She couldn’t do it. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. The accolades of the world were her past. Her future was here.
Such as it was.
Merry’s voice grew louder, heading her way. Claire sprang from her seat and bolted toward the seating area. She scooped the magazine from the chair just as Merry turned the corner, a library patron in tow.
Merry eyed Claire, as if she’d just caught the tail end of her movement and found it c
onfusing.
“I was just straightening up,” Claire said.
“Glad to hear it.”
Once Merry moved on, Claire picked up the other magazine and dropped it into the shelf housing the magazines. She put the Newsweek in back.
She hoped God was proud of her sacrifice.
Sim tapped a pencil on the desk and stared at the door. Where was Harold? He’d been in first thing yesterday.
Merry came up beside her. “You waiting for someone?”
Sim went back to checking in books. “I was just looking for
Harold. Isn’t he usually here?”
Merry checked her watch. “Actually, yes. Why the concern?”
Sim thought fast. “He’s just…interesting, that’s all. I’ve never met anyone who quotes Shakespeare all the time. Has he always been like that?”
“Ever since his wife passed away. He used to teach Shakespeare at the high school, but when she died…” Merry looked to the ceiling. “It was eight or nine years ago. I heard he was devastated. It broke him. His wife loved Shakespeare as much as he did—they used to act out scenes in the square on the Fourth of July.” Sim shrugged. “She died, and he began to speak Shakespeare exclusively—as a tribute to her, I guess.”
“He never says anything normal?”
“People say no. And not that I’ve heard. I’ve gotten used to it, and actually, his words usually fit into the conversation so well, that I often forget they’re not his.”
Sim didn’t want to say it but figured now was her chance. “He seems a bit odd.”
“A broken heart will do that.” She stared into the middle of the room for a moment, then blinked and shook her head. “Harold doesn’t care what the world thinks. He lives in his own world.”
“That’s sad.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I envy him. He’s found a way to be content. That’s not a bad achievement.”
Sim could tell Merry was talking about herself “You discontent about something?”
Merry pulled the spine of a book between her fingers. Forward, then backward. “I lost my husband and son last year in a plane crash. At the moment, being content is not an option.”
Sim took in a breath, ready to commiserate, but stopped herself. She wasn’t sure she could share her grief. She was Claire Adams’s niece. She was supposedly happy. Telling Merry about her parents would complicate things.
Merry pointed to the door. “There he is.”
Harold came in, flicked a quick salute in Merry’s direction, then scurried toward his corner. Sim didn’t see him as a weirdo anymore. Harold had been a teacher. He’d been a husband. He grieved. They had something in common.
Sim slid behind the book cart. “I’ll put these away.” She pushed it toward the stacks, turning into the far side of the row nearest Harold’s chair. She pretended to rearrange some books. Peering through the stacks she caught a glimpse of the licorice—and Harold standing in front of it.
The man was staring at it. Didn’t he like it?
Then a crooked smile lit his face and he reached for the bag. He held it in his hands like a treasure, stroking the cellophane, making it crackle. He pulled the bag to his chest, lifted his chin, and closed his eyes.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but apparently the words of Shakespeare were unavailable.
Claire read the same paragraph about Michelangelo’s feud with Pope Julian II for the fifth time. Although she found the details of the artist’s life fascinating, her mind kept wandering, going back to her own art, asking questions—but not necessarily getting any answers. Her thoughts focused on the studio and gallery. Had there been any sales since she’d been gone? Had Darla and the others found new jobs?
It’s not your business anymore.
Claire arched her back, its ache making her think of other things she’d left behind. If only she could dive into a nice, soothing whirlpool bath, with Vivaldi playing in her ear and a cup of mint-pekoe tea steeping in a Wedgwood cup nearby.
She glanced toward the storeroom door. No whirlpools for her. Just a miniscule shower in a forgotten bathroom. No classical CDs, no radio, no TV, and no mint-pekoe, in a china cup or otherwise.
Stop thinking about what you gave up. Think about what you have.
She expelled a puff of air, rubbing her face. Her skin screamed for special attention. How about the pricey, three-step moisturizing program she’d had in the top dresser drawer back home?
There are no fancy moisturizers, there is no dresser. There is no home.
Tears threatened. This wasn’t working out. She’d expected sacrifice to be more fulfilling. Certainly God wouldn’t have her give up her entire life for this…this…life of endless days, meaningless study, and dry skin?
“Claire?”
She looked up to see Sim standing before her. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Their morning argument stood between them. Come on, Claire. You’re the adult here.
“I’m—”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said.
“—sorry.
They laughed as their words overlapped. Sim pulled something from behind her back: two mini chocolate donuts on a paper towel. “I saved some from breakfast.”
Claire’s throat tightened. She must be pretty far gone to cry over donuts. “Thank you.”
Sim beamed. “I’d better get back to work.”
Claire was left staring at the donuts. Sim was a lot more complicated than she thought. There were no easy answers about her either.
Claire ate the donuts. Did they taste extra good because they’d been a gift? That was silly.
She took up her book and got back to work. Forgive the complaints, Lord. Help me leave the past behind. Help me believe in Your plan—whatever it is.
What was that saying Pastor Joe used to spout? “If you have faith, have faith.”
Easier said than done.
Merry looked up from her computer to see Harold standing in front of the counter, grinning.
“What’s up, Harold? You look as though you’ve discovered the cure for the common cold.”
He pulled a bag of licorice from behind his back. He held it toward her, allowing her to take her own piece. She slid one out, for once assured it would not be brittle or covered in lint.
“A new bag?” She took a bite. “To what do we owe this treat?”
“Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man.” He pointed back to his corner of the library.
Merry tried to interpolate. A man. A stranger. “Someone gave you the candy back in your corner?”
“The prince of darkness is a gentleman.”
This one was tougher. “Did you see the person who gave it to you?”
Harold shook his head. “Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.” He tucked the licorice and his newest book beneath his jacket and left.
Sim came up to the counter. “What was all that about?”
“I’m not sure.” Merry chewed her licorice along with her thoughts. “Apparently someone gave Harold a bag a licorice.”
“Did he say who?”
“No, not directly. But that would be impossible unless the man’s name was Hamlet or Benvolio. Shakespeare didn’t use many Toms, Dicks, or Harrys. According to Harold, it was either the Prince of Darkness or a gentleman—who was British.” She shook her head, giving up. “Whoever it was, I thank him. I like seeing Harold happy.” She gave a little laugh and waggled her hands next to her head. “But then again, maybe it’s the library ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“It’s a tall tale Blanche told me about.”
“Tell me.”
Merry finished chewing. “Apparently the librarian used to live here during the depression, when money was tight. Up in the attic.”
Sim cleared her throat. “Oh, really?”
“She died up there. Blanche said it was really sad. She was an old woman who died alone in a dusty old attic.”
“So now her ghost haunts the library?”
Merry laughed. “That’s what they say. It adds a little spice to the place, don’t you think?”
Sim beamed, as if the story fed some need. “I think it’s cool. Very cool.
The three women stood at the door at closing time. Sim tugged Claire’s shirtsleeve. “I’ll be back—I’ll be home—in a little bit.”
“I’ll wait to eat—”
“No, don’t do that.” She filled her lungs. “I need to be outside. I’ll grab something for dinner.” Almost as an afterthought she said, “Is that all right?”
Before Claire could fully nod, Sim waved good-bye and ran across the street. She always seems to have a place to go to, and yet I stay here. Stuck. After their reconciliation, she had assumed they’d spend time together.
Merry locked the door to the library and they headed down the stone steps. “She’s a good girl.”
“Yes, she is.” But what am I supposed to do with her?
“Since Sim’s taken care of for dinner… I’m really hungry. Want to join me for some fine dining at Bon Vivant?” Merry walked to her car. “Don’t say no. Get in. I’ll drop you off at the motel to get cleaned up.”
Claire’s heart raced. The thought of a nice dinner was enticing. But the logistics of her secret nagged. “Actually, I’ve got to get some paper supplies. Why don’t I meet you at the restaurant?”
“I’ll see if I can get us in about six-thirty”
Claire walked across the street toward the dime store until Merry’s car was out of sight. Then she snuck into the library to change. She was sweating—and not from the July heat.
It was only a matter of time before they were found out, and then where would they go? Deception was exhausting.
Sim knew she was strutting but didn’t care. Let the whole world know how good I feel! She probably looked like John Travolta in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever, strutting down the sidewalk carrying a can of paint like he owned the world.
All because of a bag of licorice and two donuts.
She wanted to celebrate. She’d seen a pizza place a couple of blocks off the square. The thought of a large pepperoni with extra cheese beckoned. Maybe she should bring it back to the library to share. After eating out of a cooler it would taste like a delicacy.
