The Good Nearby Page 18

  “They offered me a job at the shelter. As a cook.”

  Talia didn’t know what to say.

  Her mother put her lips to her grandson’s head, then handily changed the subject. “Guess who I spent time with today?”

  “Who?” Nesto asked.

  “Your babysitter. Margery Lamborn. Margery helped at the shelter too. I also took Sarah, the high school girl I’m mentoring.”

  Too much information too fast. Talia raised a finger. “Back up. You were offered a job?”

  His second cracker consumed, Tomás wriggled off his grandmother’s lap while Angie pulled out a bin of measuring spoons, cups, and bowls. Toys and little boy took possession of the floor by the pantry.

  “I’m not taking it,” Angie said.

  “Let me guess why.”

  “I did like getting the offer though.”

  “You don’t have to do what Dad says. You can have your own opinion, your own life.”

  Angie sighed, her eyes skirting the room. “We need to get those in the oven. Just five minutes to melt the cheese. Nesto, would you please tell Stanford it’s five minutes to dinner?”

  Evasion was an Olympic sport at the Schuster residence.

  13

  For God himself has taught you to love one another.

  1 THESSALONIANS 4:9

  Chico, Rags, and Boo-Boo huddled in a corner of the house playing gin, as they did every night when it was too cold to go out and beg for money.

  Not that the house they shared with me and three other girls—Pearl, Shriek, and Toledo—was warm. It was abandoned and had a condemned sign on the door that said nobody could live here safely. Toledo said safety was relative. Having a roof and being around people you knew was better than being out in the open where strangers were everywhere and nobody could be trusted.

  I wasn’t exactly sure I could trust my six housemates, but after living in the house five months since running away from home—after living through a month of simply surviving on the streets—I was willing to take some chances. There was only so long a person could be alone—truly, truly alone—before they started thinking crazy thoughts about life that often had a lot to do with not living at all. And even with all Grammy’s talk about dying being a natural thing . . . I didn’t like such a feeling.

  The fact that the house had an address on 96th Street made it okay. Ninety-sixth with a red door. How could I not stay here? I’d settled in just fine—though I will say Grammy’s Home Sweet Home pillow looked a bit fancy for the corner where I slept. Shriek had taken it for her own once, but I yelled at her and set her straight about that, and she’d never taken it since. Boundaries. That’s what I was learning to do. Set boundaries.

  After running away from Mama, I’d thought about calling Daddy. But since he’d been the one who’d pulled away from me the past few years, and since he had a new life and family, I was sure he (and his new wife) wouldn’t take kindly to me popping into their lives, messing things up. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should’ve called.

  Too late now. This mismatched bunch of people were my family now, and considering we watched out for each other, and nobody ever yelled at me or hit me or told me I was crazy, a freak, or a nobody, I was good with it. Good with them.

  Actually, to the gang I was somebody. Pearl couldn’t read very well and liked when I read to her. There were plenty of newspapers in the garbage, and we found a ripped up Perry Mason mystery that was missing the last fifty pages, but I made up an ending that was happy. The butler did it.

  And Chico was real grateful when I sewed a button on his jacket. It was too big for the hole, but he made it work. A person needed a coat that could button in the winter. Some how, some way. Cold had a way of sneaking into any gap it could find. As it was, Chico was just getting over a bad cough.

  Tonight, Toledo was the last one in, and as soon as she came in the door, everybody yelled, “Shut it!” because the air was so cold. We always did that, said that, even though everybody always shut the door as fast as they could. And honestly, having it open or shut didn’t matter that much because there was a window in the back room that had two bullet holes in it which let in plenty of air.

  Toledo held a brown sack. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served!”

  Rags looked up from the card playing. “What’d you get?”

  She set the sack on the floor and opened it. “I got a whole tray of chips from the Mexican place that they was throwing out, and two cans of chili that has dents in ’em, a box of cornflakes with a smashed corner, and three apples.” She took one out and polished it on her coat.

  Everyone gathered round. It was a feast. Boo-Boo must’ve liked it because after we finished eating, he wiped the top of his bottle on his shirt and held it up in a toast. “To us. We ain’t much, but we’re plenty.” Then he passed it around. I’d never tasted booze before—not that it wasn’t offered and available but because seeing Mama drink so much had made me against it. But when it came time for me to take a swig on this very cold night, I decided to go ahead. I didn’t want to hurt Boo-Boo’s feelings and I wanted to be a part of the toast. I was thirteen now. Old enough.

  It was nasty, awful stuff, but that wasn’t the point. My family was having a party and I owed them.

  Owed them everything.

  14

  The LORD will stay with you as long as you stay with him!

  Whenever you seek him, you will find him.

  But if you abandon him, he will abandon you.

  2 CHRONICLES 15:2

  Stanford muted the evening news. “Why can’t they have these charity meetings during the daytime?”

  Angie changed her wallet from her black to her camel-colored purse. “Because most people work. It’s an early meeting. I should be home before eight.”

  He grunted and turned CNN back on.

  Angie got in his sight line. “If you feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for Talia. She’s worked all day and now has to go back to work for this meeting.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You could help by going over there and spending the evening with Nesto and Tomás; save them the expense of a babysitter.”

  “I will not babysit an adult.”

  “A sick adult.”

  Stanford craned his neck to see the TV. “He and I have never gotten along; you know that.”

  “That’s not his fault.”

  “Can I help it if I find it hard to respect a man who’s uneducated?”

  She put on some leather gloves. The weather had turned particularly nippy in the evenings. “He has plenty of education. But he chose to use his hands rather than sit at a desk . . . a college degree is not the problem—nor your objection. Nesto came from a poor background. That’s what defines him in your eyes. But so did I. Or do you hold that against me too?”

  He glanced at her, then tried to look around her at the news. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  It wasn’t ridiculous. In Stanford’s view of the world one fact would remain forever: his wife and his son-in-law were born poor. It was a vivid entry in their résumés that could be overcome but never erased. His daughter had married the wrong man. The fact that Stanford had also married poor was differentiated in that Stanford had molded poor Angela into a slightly flawed but acceptable version of a well-to-do woman. So far, Nesto had not risen far enough above his lowly beginnings. That was held against him, and would be until suitable progress was made up life’s ladder of success.

  Angie got in her SUV and headed for the meeting at the hotel, really wishing Stanford would be the one to babysit at the Soza household this evening. Talia had mentioned that Margery was coming over again.

  Ever since Margery had told Angie about her husband’s shady dealings she’d suffered her own bout of discriminatory judgments. Angie had even considered saying something to Talia and Nesto, but to do so would make her a hypocrite. Angie had seen Margery in action at the shelter. She was a good person. She had a good heart. Angie trusted Margery. Should a wife be held
responsible for her husband’s failings and faults?

  Angie certainly hoped not.

  Yet having someone in Margery’s situation taking care of her grandbaby . . . that made it personal. What if Margery’s husband found out where she was and stopped by? What if he brought some of his low-life friends with him? What if . . .

  Angie shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. What-if questions were a staple of life. A person could get an ulcer over them.

  Tomás would be fine. Margery could be trusted. Angie had to believe that.

  * * *

  I’m not sure about this.

  Margery’s wariness was twofold: being around Tomás again after she’d come close to running away with him coupled with the oddity of having the father, Nesto, there too. She’d only met him one time in passing. To spend an evening with him and his son . . .

  Odd.

  Margery rang the doorbell at the Soza residence. It was answered immediately by Talia, her coat already on, her keys in hand.

  “Glad you’re here. I need to go.”

  “Am I late?”

  “No, I just thought of something I need to do before everyone gets to the meeting. You’re fine. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  With that awkward greeting, Margery went inside. Nesto sat in a recliner, reading Tomás a book.

  “Tomás hasn’t eaten yet. I hope you don’t mind,” Talia said.

  Nesto raised a hand. “Not to worry, I have eaten.”

  Margery smiled. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

  Talia was already out the door. “Nesto knows the ropes. Just be there to help when needed. Bye.”

  The slam of the door brought with it a swoosh of cool October air, as well as a distinctive silence, which was broken by Tomás pointing to his book and saying, “Moo!”

  “Moo cow,” Nesto said. He looked at Margery. “Sorry. My wife—” he waved his hands in the air like a tornado—“she rushes rather than walks, cries out rather than speaks.”

  It was a nice way to put it.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Margery sat on the couch. “I like your accent.”

  “Portuguese. But I hope to be American soon—before it’s too late.”

  Her teeth clicked together once.

  “Sorry. I’m too blunt.” He smiled. “I make Talia crazy.”

  She wasn’t sure she should ask, but since he was so open about the possibility of dying . . . “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I need a new heart.”

  “A new one?”

  He smiled. “Used. I hope to get a transplant.”

  “You’re getting someone else’s heart?”

  “I hope so. If it’s the right one.”

  “If someone dies.”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “That’s the way it works.”

  She nodded. “I said I’d be a donor on my driver’s license.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It seemed the right thing to do.” Margery remembered the moment they’d asked her the question at the licensing bureau. “Would you like to give the gift of life to someone by designating yourself an organ donor?” The clerk had been so nice, so sincere in how he’d stated it. “You’d be playing a part in a miracle.” So she’d signed up—but hadn’t thought about it since.

  Until now. Until meeting someone who was waiting . . .

  Nesto readjusted Tomás on his lap. “It’s hard to believe transplants are possible.”

  “It does sound weird.”

  “Miracles are weird. That’s why they’re miracles.” He stroked Tomás’s head, letting his fingers slide along his son’s bangs, nudging them into place. “I hope I see the new baby.”

  Talia was very pregnant. Her due date couldn’t be that far away, yet Nesto was afraid of not even seeing the baby?

  Tomás looked back at his father and Nesto kissed him. “I’d like to see this one grow up too. Heaven may be great, but I’d like to be here a good while longer.”

  He was so casual in his mention of heaven that Margery asked, “Do you ever wonder what’s after?”

  “I don’t wonder. I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. There is a heaven. It’s better than here. God’s there. Some of my family is there. Jesus is there.”

  Margery had also heard such things, but his certainty . . . “You know this.”

  “I know this.” Tomás wanted down and Nesto made way for prodding elbows and knees. The little boy found his blocks on the floor nearby. “Do you go to church, Margery?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ever?”

  “A few times. A lifetime ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Margery shrugged. “I did learn some of the big stuff when I was little: Jesus, Christmas, Easter, all that.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “One time when the pastor asked people up front, I went. I bowed down and said I was sorry and told Jesus I wanted to know him, that I believed in him.”

  “Then you know a lot. You believe a lot.”

  She shook her head. “I’m still not sure what it all means.”

  He pointed to his heart. “Were you sincere? Did you say it from here?”

  She thought about it a moment. “Yes. But I’m afraid I haven’t done much about it since. I try to be a good person. I try to do good.”

  “And you succeed. You’re helping us.”

  “And I love doing it. But certainly whatever little I do, or whatever little I’ve done, isn’t enough.”

  “Enough?”

  “Well, enough to . . . to make me worthy. To make God love me. To earn his approval.”

  “You don’t need to earn God’s love. He loves you. Period.” Nesto smiled. “You have a very big heart, Margery. A good heart. I’m sure God wishes more people had a heart as loving as yours. I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”

  She felt herself redden and shook her head. “I want to do more.”

  Tomás tossed a block, then fell back with a cry.

  “He’s hungry,” Nesto said.

  Margery popped off the sofa. She’d forgotten all about feeding him. She took the child into the kitchen, put him in his high chair, and gave him some graham crackers and applesauce.

  Nesto came in, walking slowly like an old man. Margery readied a chair for him and helped him sit. His breathing was heavy.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I just . . . need . . . to catch . . . my breath.”

  “You need a heart bad, don’t you?”

  “Bad.”

  Tomás pounded on the tray of his high chair. “Mo!”

  Nesto smiled. “He wants more and wants it now.” He reached toward the tray, but couldn’t quite touch it. “Just like papa, right o caro, meu pouco amor?”

  When Tomás grinned, some applesauce oozed onto his chin.

  Nesto sat back, running a hand across the kitchen table as if finding comfort in its smoothness. “What does Margery want now?”

  She stopped spooning more applesauce into Tomás’s dish, the spoon in midair. “That’s not a normal get-to-know-you question.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sick. So I ask. And hopefully you’ll answer.”

  I want a baby, a home, a husband who loves me. That was the short list.

  And yet, when Margery opened her mouth to answer, something completely unexpected came out. “I want to know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Why things are the way they are.” She added another question. “And what does it all mean?”

  Nesto spread his arms wide. “You ask the question of the ages. What’s the meaning of life?”

  It made Margery feel good to know her question was not out of line. “So? How do we find out?”

  Nesto narrowed his eyes. “Do you really want an answer?”

  His intensity scared her. “Uh . . . yeah. Yes.”

  “Ask.”

  I thought I just did. “Ask?”

  “Ask God to show you his
plan for your life.”

  A snicker escaped and Margery put her fingers against her lips. “His plan. For my life.” She put the refilled bowl of applesauce in front of Tomás. “I don’t think so.”

  “I know so. A verse . . .” He took a fresh breath. “‘The Lord will work out his plans for my life.’ Not our plan. His. He has a plan. For me. For you. A good plan.”

  An old memory tagged the edge of Margery’s thoughts. Her throat was tight. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Suddenly, Tomás hit his bowl with his hand, flipping it on end. Applesauce went everywhere. He started to cry.

  Margery went to the rescue. “There, there, it’s all right. It’s all right.” She took his bowl away and ran to the sink for a washcloth.

  Nesto wiped applesauce from his own shirt. He looked up when she returned to the boy’s mess. “It’ll be all right, Margery. It will.”

  The intensity of his eyes indicated he was speaking of much more than the mess at hand. “I know,” she said.

  Best of all, after talking with Nesto . . . she believed it.

  * * *

  Talia had never been so well prepared for a fund-raising meeting. Was she trying to earn brownie points to make up for her recent less-than-stellar work?

  Absolutely.

  The conference room was set with glasses, pitchers of water, notepads, pens, and a neatly typed agenda. She had to admit that her mother’s upcoming presence probably had a lot to do with her Type-A preparations. She’d never worked on a committee with her mother before, and she was eager for Angie Schuster to see she was good at her job, that she was a success. A harried, stressed-out success, but a success just the same. It didn’t hurt that her mother had a reputation for never quite getting anything right. This evening was Talia’s chance to prove she was not her mother.

  Wade came in the room, his eyes scanning. “You look ready.”

  “I am. I have a coffee cart coming with an assortment of cookies.”

  “Everyone cooperates better with a cookie in their hand.”

  “It’s a proven fact,” she said.