The Good Nearby Page 27

  Douglas snickered. “‘Others who need.’ If that phrase isn’t dripping with disdain . . .”

  She removed her hand from his arm. “If you want to get into an argument over semantics and definitions, then let’s save it for another time. I’m trying to tell you how I feel, and why I’ve done what I’ve done. I don’t need—”

  “Ha! You don’t need!”

  She sighed dramatically, but knew they’d reached a place where they could move on.

  At least that was her plan until Douglas said, “I don’t want a divorce.”

  Had she missed something? He’d said it as if he’d truly considered that option, as if they’d talked about it. Which they hadn’t.

  Had they?

  Her mind was a jumble as they turned the corner in front of one of the anchor department stores. In the past two days they’d had a row about his mistress, and now this argument about her keeping her illness a secret. Two secrets that certainly had the power to divide a marriage permanently. Yet she’d never thought of divorce.

  “We’ve both been in the wrong,” he said.

  “Yes.” That much she could say.

  He stopped again to face her, making a teenager behind them do a quick sidestep. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said. “I’m sorry I was unfaithful.”

  His face was so sincere, so full of angst. She believed him.

  “It was wrong. I’ll break it off.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  The words surprised Gennifer as much as they did Douglas. He was the first to snap out of it. “So you want a divorce?”

  What a mess. She started walking. “No, I don’t.”

  He hurried to catch up, taking her arm. “Then why did you say such a thing? I don’t have to break it off . . . don’t you love me?”

  Her heart started to pump. “You obviously don’t love me,” she said.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Which is why you have a mistress?”

  “I just told you it’s complicated. Dorothy came into my—”

  Gennifer laughed and lowered her voice as they neared a crowd. “Dorothy?”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I expected Tiffany or Gabrielle or even Muffy. Not Dorothy.”

  “Don’t laugh at her like that.”

  She raised her hands, feeling relief that the discussion had at least moved to the status of a more normal argument. She was a lawyer. She could handle argument. “Sorry to offend.”

  They parted to pass on opposite sides of a mother pushing a stroller. “This discussion is not happening,” he said.

  “I’m afraid it is.” She adjusted her purse on her shoulder, making it secure. She liked feeling in control again.

  “The point is, I never stopped loving you, Gen. I met Dorothy by accident. She works for one of the companies I service—”

  Gennifer huffed. “Service is a good word . . .”

  Douglas shook his head. “We only got involved after I felt you withdrawing—even more than your usual preoccupation and distance—”

  “Oooh. You’re making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

  An old man in front of them dropped his sacks. Douglas helped him pick them up. They continued walking. “The point is, now that I know what you’ve been going through with your dialysis . . . your coldness makes sense. You were pulling away because you couldn’t deal with more than that. Something had to give. Sarah and I were that something.”

  “Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Doctor Mancowitz.”

  “It makes sense,” he said.

  It did. But hearing him figure her out in such a logical manner . . . she was the logical one. Why hadn’t she been able to dissect her own actions—and their consequences?

  As they passed a bookstore, she had to one-up him. She couldn’t leave him with this victory. “So my pulling away gave you no choice but to have an affair—and give your bimbo a $5000 necklace?”

  “How do you know how much it cost?”

  “Visa called, questioning the large out-of-town purchase.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just doing their job.”

  “To answer your other question, no, your actions did not give me the right to have an affair.” He glanced her way. “I did try to talk to you about things. You do remember that, don’t you? I did ask you what was wrong.”

  “Yes, you did.” She licked her finger and made a mark in the air. “One point for Douglas.”

  Suddenly he pulled her into the alcove of a jewelry store, out of the walking traffic. He took her hands in his. “I’m sorry, Gen. I was wrong. It won’t happen again. I really would like things to get back to normal.”

  She pulled her hands away. Normal. What is that?

  “We had a good life for a while,” he said. “We were as happy as any fifties sitcom. I was Ward Cleaver and you were my June.” He pointed over her shoulder at a jewelry showcase. “I should have given the pearls to you. . . .”

  Gennifer turned her head. The entire case was full of pearls. Strings and strings of pearls. And suddenly, it rushed back like a television show turned on in the middle of a scene. A horrible scene being played out over pearls.

  She moved away from the display, her head shaking back and forth.

  “Gen? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want pearls. Never, ever pearls. I can’t . . .”

  He glanced at the display case, confused. “What do you have against pearls?”

  Her back reached the opposite side of the alcove, causing her movement to be deflected to the right. Away. Get away from the pearls . . . “I can’t. I can’t.”

  She raced into the main flow of shoppers, bumping against them, needing to get far, far away from the pearls that had made everything so horribly wrong.

  “Gen!”

  She knew Douglas was running after her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t be caught. She couldn’t be caught looking, seeing, witnessing . . .

  But he did catch her, his hands pulling her to a halt. “Gen? You have to tell me what’s wrong. Why did you run? What are you running from?”

  A fortysomething man stopped beside them, his eyes intent on her. “Are you okay, miss? Is he bothering you?”

  The man’s concern moved her and brought her back to the present. She blinked, seeing the hubbub and bright colors of the shopping mall. A safe, happy, family kind of place. “I’m fine,” she told the man. “This is my husband.”

  The man looked at Douglas. “My question stands. Are you okay? Is he bothering you?”

  “Hey, bud,” Douglas said. “I’m her husband. Everything’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t look fine,” the man said.

  Gennifer realized if she didn’t do something to defuse the moment the two might come to blows. She put a hand on the man’s arm. “Truly, I’m fine. I really appreciate your concern and bravery. Our daughter is in the hospital and I’m just a bit overwrought.”

  His face softened. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Douglas said, though he didn’t look as if he meant it at all. “But as the lady said, she’s fine.”

  The man gave Gennifer one last look, nodded, and walked away.

  Douglas led her to a nearby bench. “Enough walking, enough running. You have to tell me what got into you back there. Why did you flip out over some pearls?”

  And then, without planning for it, without thinking about it, the past presented itself front and center. “My mother was killed over a string of pearls.”

  Douglas did not react for a good ten seconds. Finally he said, “I thought she died of cancer when you were thirteen.”

  Gennifer straightened her shoulders. “I lied. About that and other things. Lots of other things.”

  “Gen . . . I’m not sure I want to hear any more.”

  “But you’re going to hear it. That stupid string of pearls dredged it up in me, so you’re going to hear it all. I’m tired of secrets. I’m just so, so tired.” She le
aned against the hard back of the bench and pressed her fingers on the space between her eyes. Did she really want to do this? What could it help?

  What could it hurt?

  Douglas took her hand. “Tell me.”

  The compassion in his voice urged her to begin. “My family was very much like the Cleavers on TV. My mother baked bread, starched my father’s shirts, and we went to church every Sunday, where I’d sit between the two of them, never once suspecting they were living a lie. Acting out a part.”

  “That involved pearls.”

  “Douglas. Please.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Continue.”

  “When I was thirteen everything came to a climax when my father discovered a string of pearls my mother had received as a gift. From her lover.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “The similarities are haunting, aren’t they?”

  He didn’t move.

  “Upon finding the pearls and confronting my mother, they had their first fight—at least the first I’d ever witnessed.” Suddenly, Gennifer wished they were home, doing this in the living room, where she could pull her knees to her chest and make herself as small as possible. “The things they said to each other were horrible, nasty, hurtful things.” She blinked the memory of the words away and looked at her husband. “Then my father got out a gun—” she paused for effect—“and he shot her. Killed her.”

  Stevie Wonder sang “For Once in My Life” in the speakers overhead.

  “You saw it happen?” Douglas asked.

  Gennifer raised her hands, gripping imaginary rungs. “I watched from the stairs.” She dropped her hands and looked at Douglas. “When he shot her, he saw me, and for just a moment, I thought he was going to shoot me too. Get rid of the witness.”

  “Surely, he wouldn’t have . . .”

  She nodded strongly. “He should have. I testified against him.”

  “He’s in jail?”

  “Was. He got fifteen years, voluntary manslaughter. I assume he’s out now.”

  “You don’t know?”

  She wrapped her arms close, feeling cold. “I don’t know and don’t care to know.”

  “You told me he was dead. Heart attack.”

  “It’s what I wished for him.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  She sprang from the bench and pointed down at him. “Don’t tell me to care about my father! Don’t tell me to have loving thoughts and care about him. I won’t do it. I won’t.”

  He gently pulled her down to the bench, his arm cradling her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I had no right . . .”

  She dug her face into his chest. “No, no right.”

  They held on to each other—for dear life.

  * * *

  Back at home, Gennifer felt slightly foolish curled up in Douglas’s lap, his arms surrounding her like protective wings. But she didn’t move. In fact, she lay very still so the moment would last.

  Her mind wasn’t as cooperative as her body in accepting the comfort, in letting someone else be the strong one. It sped from one thought to another, as if panicked by the outer display of weakness. It did not like feeling vulnerable. Yet every time one of these flustered thoughts pushed its way front and center, she forced it back. Not now. Not this moment. She’d been forced to be strong and invincible for too long. Her battlements were scarred and the moat was dry. Letting Douglas in on the truth had lowered the drawbridge protecting who she pretended to be, to let him see who she was.

  And joy of joys, shock of all shocks, he still wanted to hold her. In spite of everything.

  “I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

  She began to cry and pressed deeper into the crook of his neck. She didn’t deserve his love, yet she believed him.

  Perhaps for the first time, she believed him.

  * * *

  Gladys met Margery at the door. They didn’t speak until the sound of Angie’s car had faded. Then Gladys said, “Are you okay?”

  Margery didn’t respond with words but by falling into the nearest chair.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  Tea. Always tea. Until moving in with Gladys, Margery had never had tea. She shook her head and pulled a tasseled pillow to her chest. If only it were Grammy’s pillow. But that was long gone, left a lifetime ago in the house with the red door and bullet holes in the windows.

  Gladys perched on the edge of the couch, silent, but waiting.

  Although Margery had called from the hospital and told her Sarah had been hurt, she hadn’t gone into details. Now, Gladys deserved a full explanation.

  Margery pulled in the deepest breath she could manage. “It was Mick’s doing. He showed up at the shelter.”

  Gladys slapped her thigh. “I was afraid of that. The way you hedged all my questions. Did he hurt you?”

  “Not me. Just poor Sarah.”

  “That’s Gennifer Mancowitz’s daughter, right?”

  “She’s only seventeen.”

  “Tell me how it happened. Tell me everything.”

  Margery reluctantly told the story, ending with, “Mick didn’t mean to hurt her. If anything he wanted to hurt me. Sarah just got in the way.”

  Suddenly, Gladys sprang from her chair and dead-bolted the door and started to close the front curtains.

  “You don’t have to do that, Gladys. We heard they arrested him. He’s in jail.”

  Gladys returned to her seat but left the curtains closed. “Until some flashy-dashy lawyer gets him out on bail.” She gave Margery a pointed glare.

  “Don’t look at me,” Margery said. “I’m not bailing him out.”

  “Older and wiser. Good girl.”

  Margery thought of something. “But want to hear something ironic? Sarah’s mother was Mick’s lawyer. Gennifer’s the one who got him off the drug charge so he was out there, able to—”

  “Hurt her daughter. Wow. She must feel like dirt.”

  “At the very least.” Margery didn’t care much how Gennifer felt. She only hoped Mick’s next lawyer wouldn’t be so good at getting him off.

  “At least we don’t have to worry about Mick wanting you to steal drugs from me anymore.”

  “If he stays in jail. If they can keep him there.”

  Gladys didn’t say anything for a moment, then stood. “I need tea. And so do you. I’ll get us some.”

  As soon as Gladys left the room, Margery tried to relax. But she couldn’t. She suddenly felt very dirty.

  She went to the bathroom and turned on the hot water full blast. She stared at it, mesmerized by its sight and sound. When it began to steam she immersed her hands, then pushed the pump on the soap dispenser once, twice . . . over and over until she held a golden puddle in her palm. It was so pretty. . . .

  She turned the water to a reasonable level and carefully let some hot water mix with the gold puddle. Bubbles burst forth.

  She laughed.

  Laughed? It was such a foreign sound.

  But the feeling lingered.

  Gleefully Margery rubbed her hands together, creating a exuberant lather. Fingers met palms met wrists with joyful abandon as she washed the day away.

  She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and found herself smiling. She brought the frothy lather to her cheeks, not wanting them to miss out on the fun. Soon her forehead, chin, and nose joined the party. It was so smooth, so creamy, so silky, so . . . fresh and pure.

  As is my life. Now.

  The idea shocked her so much she froze, her hands caught in midswirl against her cheeks. Only the water made noise. Only her eyes moved, not seeing her reflection, but reacting to the details of her thoughts.

  So many bad things had happened during the past month. Her rather ordinary, totally unremarkable life had been disrupted in a dozen ways. Some bad, some good. But . . .

  The good was outweighing the bad right now. Margery wasn’t homeless anymore. She had a good place to stay, a good job, and good friends. Mick had been the cause of many o
f her problems, and now he’d dug himself a hole that would hopefully keep him in jail. It was the best thing for him.

  For her.

  “I need him gone.”

  The words were barely audible above the water. She needed to hear them clearly so she shut off the faucet, looked at herself in the mirror, and repeated the words a second time—with feeling. “I need him gone.”

  There was no hesitation in her voice, no weakness, no doubt. Not so long ago she’d been desperate to get back together with him in order to have a baby.

  Margery shook her head at the thought. “No baby.” These were hard words to say. She’d spent her entire life with this goal in mind. Ever since she was seven and Grammy had told her she’d be married and have a baby someday. But had she been so focused on that, that she’d let it override logic and common sense?

  Yes.

  “I need Mick gone and he is gone.” She leaned toward the reflection of her soap-swirled face and whispered, “He’s gone and I’m free. I’m free—and safe.”

  She held her breath a moment to let the idea sink in.

  So this is what peace feels like. It nearly made her giddy.

  She let out the breath, then took a new one—her first breath as a free woman. As a free person. Had she ever been free before this moment?

  “Margery? You okay?” It was Gladys’s voice.

  “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Margery allowed herself one last look at this silly, wonderful, absurd woman in the mirror. Then she turned on the water and washed the soapy mask away, taking with it all that was dead and dirty and stifling. As she patted her face dry she relished the tautness of her skin, proof that it was as clean as it could be.

  As was her heart. As was . . . her life.

  She went to the living room and found that Gladys had placed a steaming mug emblazoned with the Statue of Liberty near her chair. How appropriate.

  “Gracious sakes, girl. You’re practically glowing. What happened?”

  Margery let out a laugh, pleased that her new attitude showed. “I just realized that I’m not afraid anymore. I’m free.”

  “Because Mick’s in custody?”

  Though Margery nodded, she knew it was more than that. “I’ve been afraid for a very, very long time.”