A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  The bigger kid laughed. “But he is kinda spooky.”

  Jered glared at him. “If there’s a ghost, we’re going to find it.”

  The toughest kid raised an eyebrow. “You hiding something, lady?”

  She shooed them away from the storeroom, having to physically push them toward the main part of the room. When they blended into the crowd, she allowed herself to breathe.

  The arguments continued as if she’d never left. “It’s not fair of you to make us go, Merry. This is public property.”

  “It’s public quiet property. People come here to study and read, not to be harassed by ghostbusters.”

  “We should have a sit-in.” Oscar dropped to the carpet. “Come on! Sit!” Others followed, many claiming the floor. Merry couldn’t believe her eyes. These were grown people. Normally sane people. Steadfast was not known for its rebels.

  She began to protest but suddenly noticed Jered and his friends were gone. She looked toward the storeroom. The door was finishing the last of its swing. No. They wouldn’t. They didn’t.

  “Got any coffee, Merry? That’s what this library needs. A coffee bar.”

  “And frozen yogurt. I love frozen yogurt.”

  “Fruit smoothies, that’s the ticket.”

  As the crowd got sidetracked discussing food she raced to the storeroom. As she pulled the door open, it was pushed toward her. Jered burst into the main room, throwing her off balance. “Hey, people! Someone’s living in the attic!”

  The crowd changed their point of attention. It took a moment for Jered’s words to register. “What attic?”

  Jered held open the door. “In here. There’s an attic. It’s got a bed in it. And clothes. Someone’s been living up there. It belongs to the library ghost!”

  The crowd swarmed toward the storeroom. Merry extended her arms, but they pushed her out of the way. She heard feet stomping on the attic stairs. Loud voices echoed.

  Blanche pulled Ivan by the arm. “Come on you old turnip, let’s go see.”

  “No, Blanche.” Merry wanted to weep. “Stay here. Please.”

  “But we want to see where the library ghost lives. Maybe he’s still up there.”

  Merry shook her head, her eyes seeking out Claire and Sim. She found them huddled together by the mural, their faces frozen in shock.

  With each loud footfall overhead, with each shout of discovery, Claire’s body tightened. The gig was up. Her hiding place was found.

  Sim looked up at her. “They’re going through your stuff.”

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Two women burst through the storeroom doors with a stream of people close behind. One was holding Claire’s denim dress against her body, discussing how it looked. The other woman held her Bible.

  Enough.

  Claire strode across the room and grabbed the dress and Bible. “If you’ll excuse me, those are mine!”

  “No, they’re not. I got them up—”

  One. Two. Three. Finally, they got the connection.

  Just do it. Get it over with. Claire wrapped the dress around her Bible and hugged it. “There’s no ghost in the attic. There’s just me. I’m living—”

  Blanche spun around. “Where’s the ghost?”

  Sim took a step forward. “Here. I’m the library ghost.”

  Ivan slapped his hands together. “I knew she was a strange kid.”

  As the crowd gathered for the next portion of the library ghost show, Claire tucked Sim close. “She is not strange. She’s a good kid who has done some nice things for people. You’re the ones who’ve gone overboard, making it into something it isn’t.”

  “The kid’s been living in the attic?”

  ”I live in the attic.”

  Sim spoke up. “I live down here.”

  The two women who’d taken Claire’s things looked at each other. “They can’t live in the library.”

  Blanche took the floor. “Claire’s her aunt.”

  “No, she’s not,” Sim said. “We’re not related.”

  A moment of silence.

  Oscar pointed a finger at Claire. “I betcha she’s some sexual pervert. She’s kidnapped a young girl and has kept her prisoner in the attic. It’s just like in the movies.”

  Claire pulled Sim closer. “I am not a pervert. And I did not kidnap Sim.”

  “Then why is she here? With you?”

  Claire didn’t know what to say. Sim made up her mind for her.

  “I’m a runaway.”

  There was a gasp from the crowd, as if she had said she was a serial murderer. They were getting out of control. Merry stepped forward. “Listen, people. Sim is an orphan. She was living with some relatives who weren’t treating her well. She came to Steadfast looking for a safe haven.”

  “And found it with her?”

  “Claire is a good woman. In fact, she is so good that she gave up all her possession, her home, her money, and her job—gave up everything, became poor—in order to come here. Those few things in the attic are all she has in the world.”

  Merry’s words were true but they sounded completely lame. How had Claire ever expected people to understand when it sounded crazy even to her?

  “So she’s a loony pervert.” Oscar turned to Claire. “What were you doing in the attic in the first place?”

  Claire fingered her cross necklace. “I had no home. Like Merry said, I gave everything away. I was led to Steadfast to—”

  “Led here?”

  “Who led you here?”

  Claire hesitated and looked to Merry, then to Sim. There was no way out. Did God want her to chicken out or speak the truth? “Actually, God led me here. I gave it all up for Him.”

  The laughter started out nervously, then gained strength. “Next time, ask Him to lead you to Hawaii.”

  “Or at least Eldora. I bet they have a fancy library with all the modern conveniences. I bet there’s wall-to-wall carpet in their attic.”

  An older woman grinned. “Haven’t you been listening? She doesn’t want any conveniences. She gave up everything to be poor.”

  “She wants to be poor?”

  “That’s what Merry said.”

  “No way. Nobody wants to be poor.”

  “I do.” Claire lifted her chin in an attempt at dignity. But from their laughter she knew it was too late. People had made up their minds. She’d been deemed a wacko extremist. There would be no understanding now. Yet, maybe if they knew… “I’m Claire Adams.”

  They stared at her. Finally one man said, “This is supposed to mean something?”

  Claire’s ego deflated and blew away. Forget it. Forget the whole thing.

  “Has anybody called the sheriff yet? She’s a squatter, and the kid’s a runaway.”

  Merry shook her head. “There’s no need for that. I knew they were staying in here. I agreed to the arrangement.”

  “Then you’re as crazy as they are.”

  “It was just temporary until they—”

  “But they’re not even related to each other. They need to go back where they came from before she draws the girl into some weirdo cult where she wants to be worshiped or something.”

  Sim made fists. “Claire’s been good to me.”

  “Oh, I bet she’s been good, sissy. Real good.”

  Sim pulled away from Claire’s protective arm. Her face was red. “You’re mean. And unfair. We came here to start over. We haven’t done anything wrong.” She took a step toward the door. “But you want me gone? I’m gone.”

  She ran out the door.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Claire ran after her.

  Merry wanted to run after them both, but the crowd wouldn’t let her. It gathered close, demanding answers she did not have.

  Where was Sim going? Would Claire find her?

  Would they ever be back?

  “Sim!”

  Thankfully, Sim stopped on the far side of
the town square. Claire ran to catch up, out of breath. “Don’t run. Please don’t run.”

  “Why not? It’s falling apart.”

  Claire shook her head. “Maybe it’s falling into place.”

  Sim stomped a foot. “Stop it, will you? Stop all that unique-purpose God-talk. Nothing is working out how either one of us planned.”

  No words of wisdom came to mind. “You’re right.”

  Sim raised an eyebrow. “You’re admitting it?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Assume God knows what He’s doing—even if we don’t have a clue.”

  “There you go again.”

  Claire decided to take a different tack. “You need to stop being afraid, Sim.”

  “I’m not—”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Sim looked at her, mouth gaping. “The worst has already happened. They found us. They found out about us. And they don’t understand any of it.”

  “No one’s hurt you.”

  “But they will. They’ll hurt me by sending me back to my aunt and uncle, where I’ll be in the way while they have their own passel of babies. I won’t go where I’m not wanted. Talk about having no purpose.”

  “Maybe your relatives have realized how wrong they’ve been. Maybe your running away snapped them out of their selfishness.”

  “If they’ve noticed I’m gone.”

  “Aw, come on, Sim…”

  She showed Claire her back. “Can’t everybody leave me alone? I’m not hurting anybody.”

  “No, you’re not. But being alone is no way to live. It’s not enough. As I’ve been telling you, God has a—”

  “Plan. I know. And you’d think that would make me feel better about things, but it doesn’t. So far I’m not too keen on God’s plans.” She began walking but ended up circling back, her fists framing her head. “I haven’t felt this messed up since I was at the hospital the night Mom and Dad were killed. I hate when things change without my permission.”

  Now that Claire could relate to. “Everyone does.”

  Sim’s fists lowered and she wrapped her arms around herself. Then she shook her head. “I need to be alone. I need time to think.” She looked down the street. “I gotta go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Anywhere.” She ran down the sidewalk, calling over her shoulder, “Hooking up with you was a mistake, Claire.”

  The words slapped Claire into immobility. Such awful words, such rude words.

  But were they true?

  People came out of the library and Claire tensed. She didn’t want to face them, endure their insults, or endure their ignorance of who she was. But where should she go?

  “Psst!”

  Harold stood in the alley. He motioned her to come with him.

  What choice did she have?

  Sim turned onto a side street, wishing once again that Steadfast were a big city with tons of people. It was hard to blend in when the streets were empty except for a few kids riding bikes or a grandma tending a garden.

  She ran through a neighborhood, needing a place to hide out. Finally, the residential street ended and Sim spotted a dilapidated barn on a corner lot. It appeared to be unused, probably abandoned after Steadfast got too close.

  She looked around and waited until a car passed. She hurried toward the barn and opened the door, cringing when its hinges whined. When the door closed she gave herself a moment to let her eyes adjust. The barn was full of leftover hay and garbage—beer cans, chip bags. If Jered and his friends didn’t use this place, other kids did. There was a ladder leading to a loft. She climbed it and claimed a spot by a small window.

  Home sweet home. Such as it was.

  Fifteen

  “Because he loves me,” says the LORD, “I will rescue him;

  I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.”

  PSALM 91:14

  HAROLD’S HOME WAS A SURPRISE. Claire expected it to be as rumpled as his personal appearance. And it was—from the outside. The rosebushes were overgrown, and the grass—where it was growing—needed cutting. One of the shutters was off-kilter, and the screen door was missing a section.

  Yet inside… Harold’s home turned into a cozy showplace.

  The furniture was antique and the aroma that assailed Claire was one of lemon oil and wood. The knickknacks on the mantle and buffet were sparkling and the doilies beneath them were crisp and white. She’d had pretty things once.

  When Claire picked up—and set back down—a figurine of an eighteenth-century woman in full court dress, Harold rushed to the table and adjusted its position a half inch to the right.

  “Were these your wife’s things?”

  Harold nodded, stroking the edge of a crystal decanter as if it were the curve of his wife’s neck.

  “She’d be very pleased to see how nicely you’ve kept everything.”

  He beamed, and Claire knew her assessment of his tidiness was on target. His wife had cared for the inside of the house and probably hadn’t touched the exterior. And so he had taken up the chores that were important to her—that reminded him of her.

  There was a photo of a woman on an end table, a fresh rose placed in front of it. “Is this your wife?”

  Harold’s face changed from its usual look of perplexity to one flushed with love, wistful with longing. “Harriet.”

  “She’s lovely.”

  “She was my life.”

  Claire was shocked—not by his emotion, but by the fact that his words were not from Shakespeare. Yet she didn’t want to bring it to his attention lest he revert to the difficult verse.

  He smiled and shrugged. “At home I can be me. In the world I honor her with the Shakespeare she loved.”

  “Does anyone else know this?”

  He stroked the picture frame. “It’s our secret.” He looked at Claire. “And yours now. Will you keep it?”

  “Of course. If you’ll keep my location a secret. I need some time.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  She fell into a wing chair by the fireplace. The ashes had been cleaned out for the hot weather, but the brass andirons still stood guard. “I’m beat.”

  “There’s a room above the garage. It’s not much, but you could stay there if you’d like.”

  “I’d like. Thank you.” She remembered that her clothes were divided between the attic and Merry’s. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped.

  “Would you also like some iced tea?”

  Claire smiled. “That would be wonderful.” What would Ivan and Blanche think if they saw Harold being the host?

  He returned with two glasses and a plate of cookies.

  “You bake too?”

  He smiled. “Nabisco bakes. I buy.”

  Claire took one. “We have a lot in common, Harold.”

  He sat across from her and slipped his hands under his thighs. “Indeed. We’ve both lost what’s important in our lives.”

  He’d taken the trivial and turned it profound. “I haven’t lost anything. I gave it up willingly.”

  “Did you?”

  What kind of question is that? “Of course. No one forced me to do it.”

  “You forced yourself.”

  Claire stopped with the cookie halfway to her mouth. “Sure it was hard, but I was willing to do it. I wanted to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because God wanted me to. It was a way I could obey Him.”

  Harold tucked his feet into his chair, like he did in the library. “You thought it would be impressive, didn’t you?”

  She took a bite of cookie and chewed. “I’m not out to impress anyone.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  She swallowed. “Harold! Maybe you should go back to Shakespeare. You’re not being very nice.”

  He smiled. “I’m being honest—and trying to get you to be the same.”

  “So I’ve been dishonest?”

  “You’re Claire A
dams, the famous artist.”

  “How—?”

  “I saw the article in Newsweek.”

  Somehow, having one person know the complete truth felt wonderful. “So you understand I had a lot to give up.”

  He shrugged. “Why did you do it?”

  “I told you. For God.”

  “Then what does it matter what people say?” He tossed a hand toward the west, toward the library.

  “It doesn’t. Not really. But they think I’m crazy.”

  “So?”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Suddenly, Claire got the connection. “Doesn’t it bother you that people think you’re odd?”

  “I am odd.” He held up a finger to make a point. “But I’m not crazy.”

  “They don’t understand that.”

  “I don’t need them to understand. I have no desire to be the world’s version of normal. Acting as I do makes them leave me alone. And who’s happier? Them or me?” He put his feet on the floor. “When Harriet died, I wanted to die too. But I knew God wouldn’t want that. I had to go on living. I had to find a way to go on living without her. You married?”

  “Divorced.”

  He shrugged. “So you’ve lost too. And Sim…I understand why she ran away. Grief makes you want to hide. Who knows if her aunt and uncle are good or bad? Right now it doesn’t matter. She’s trying to find her way through the grief. Just as I found my way.”

  “And your way involves quoting Shakespeare?”

  “What do I have to say to the world that he hasn’t already said?”

  “But you’re talking normal to me. Now.”

  “Only because you’re here. In my house. In my world. You and I each have our own world. We’re both outcasts. The difference between us is I’m happy in my world, whereas you’re fighting yours. You want people to know how your world came about. You want them to pat you on the back and say you made a good decision. You want their praise and applause, like an actor on a stage.”

  “No, I—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  He softened his voice. “If you truly gave up everything for God and God alone, you wouldn’t care if people knew of your sacrifice or who you were before. You wouldn’t care if they approved or even understood. As long as He understood and approved. I think you need to face the fact that you liked the idea of what He asked you to do, and you’ve used it.”