The Good Nearby Page 5

  For he called you to share in his Kingdom and glory.

  1 THESSALONIANS 2:12

  I put the brand-new box of crayons at the top of my desk and positioned the piece of paper just so. The teacher had told us to draw a picture of something we’d done during the summer.

  There was something so special about a brand-new piece of paper with nothing on either side. The paper Mama let me draw on usually had typing on one side, making all my drawings look smudgy with lines peeking through like crossouts. We had to be real careful with money now. That’s just the way it was, and I’d better get used to it.

  I looked across the aisle and saw that Mary Margaret was drawing a picture of a swimming pool.

  I’d never been swimming.

  Sitting in front of Mary Margaret, Timmy was drawing a picture of horses. I’d never seen a horse—except on TV.

  On my other side, Eddie was drawing a house.

  We had a different house now. We’d had to move. I didn’t have my own room anymore. I shared it with Daddy’s office. He’d quit his gofer job a few months ago when he got a nail in his foot and it got infected and he couldn’t walk. Now, he was trying to sell stuff on the phone. He slammed it down a lot.

  I took out the red crayon. I wasn’t sure what I would draw with it, but since it was my favorite color . . . what could I draw about my summer?

  The move. But that wasn’t anything special. In the last year we’d moved a lot. When I heard “Rent’s due. Come on, Gigi, time to move,” I got out my two brown boxes and filled one with clothes and one with everything else I wanted to keep. I always made room for Grammy’s satin pillow.

  Last Christmas Grammy had also given me a dollhouse she’d found at a garage sale, but Mama made me give it away because it didn’t fit into my everything-else box. “One pickup load is all we can take. You know that.”

  I knew that. And so I’d given the dollhouse (with a pink plastic washing machine and a blue plastic toilet) to a girl named Laurie who lived two blocks down. Laurie had lived in that one house all eight years of her life. I couldn’t imagine.

  I felt real bad giving away the present Grammy had given me. I never told her about it. Nothing—but nothing—would make me hurt Grammy’s feel—

  Grammy! That was the special thing I did last summer!

  I looked at the pretty red crayon. As much as I liked it, it wasn’t right for the picture I was going to draw, so I pulled the brown crayon out of the box and started.

  Mrs. Taylor walked up and down the rows of desks, stopping to say, “That’s very pretty, Diane,” or “Did you go to the mountains, Mike? How fun.” I hurried to get my picture started so Mrs. Taylor would say something nice about my drawing.

  I drew a long rectangle, then realized I could use the red crayon to draw Grammy’s dress. I colored fast, wishing there were a flesh-colored crayon so I could fill in Grammy’s face. All I could do was outline it in black, coloring what should have been her gray hair black too, because there was no gray crayon in the box. I wondered what color Grammy’s hair really was before she’d got old. I couldn’t remember seeing any pictures, and without them, I couldn’t imagine Grammy young. She was Grammy.

  Mrs. Taylor stopped right between me and Mary Margaret and asked her, “Do you like to swim?”

  I positioned my paper so Mrs. Taylor would get a good look.

  The teacher turned my way. But instead of a question or a “You’re a good artist, Gigi,” Mrs. Taylor took the drawing. Was she going to show the whole class? My heart beat really fast. Maybe Mrs. Taylor would put it on the front bulletin board. Mrs. Garcia, my first-grade teacher, had done that with nice art projects—but only did it to mine once.

  “Gigi? Please come with me.”

  Having me go up to the front of the class while she made a big to-do about the picture was too much. I didn’t like being up front. Besides, I wasn’t finished.

  Mary Margaret poked Timmy in the shoulder and they whispered as I walked by. Mrs. Taylor didn’t stop near the bulletin board. With her hand on my back, she led me into the hall.

  Only bad kids got sent to the hall. Everybody knew that.

  We walked halfway between our second-grade room and the third-grade room. Finally, Mrs. Taylor stopped and held the drawing in front of her stomach. “What’s this, Gigi?”

  “It’s a picture.”

  “Don’t be impertinent. What’s in the picture?”

  “My grammy.”

  Mrs. Taylor sighed. “What’s your grammy lying in?”

  “A box.”

  Mrs. Taylor rolled her eyes. “A casket. It’s a coffin, right?”

  Yes, that was the word Daddy had used. “Daddy wanted it to have satin lining, but Mama said it was a waste of money.” I sighed. “I know Grammy would’ve liked satin. She had a pillow that was shiny like satin. She gave it to me. I still have it. I’ll always have it.” I put a hand to my cheek. I wanted satin in my casket someday. But red, not white.

  Mrs. Taylor bit the inside of her cheek like she was thinking real hard. I didn’t interrupt. I’d learned the hard way not to do that. Mama’s ring had left a mark on my cheek once. I glanced at Mrs. Taylor’s hands. She had two rings.

  Mrs. Taylor squatted down to my level. “I’m sorry your grammy died, Gigi.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. Grammy told me everybody is born to die, but it’s okay if you know where you’re going. And she told me the last time I saw her that she was bound for glory, so I know that’s where she is.” I didn’t know exactly where “glory” was, but I didn’t tell Mrs. Taylor that.

  And Mrs. Taylor didn’t ask, which must have meant that she knew where it was anyway. “It’s a very nice picture, Gigi, but you were supposed to draw something special you did last summer. Something good special.”

  I didn’t understand. Dying wasn’t a bad thing. Especially since Grammy had died when she was ninety-six years old. That made it all right. That made it perfect.

  Then Mrs. Taylor did something that nearly made me scream out loud: she folded the drawing in half. Folded the perfectly good piece of paper—with no typing on the back and no wrinkles in it—in half. Creased it between her fingers.

  I wanted to cry and held out my hand to save the picture, but my teacher held it just out of reach. “Why don’t you go back and draw something else about your summer.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something special. Good special. I’ll give you a brand-new piece of paper.”

  I agreed—in order to get a fresh piece of paper.

  I drew a horse like the one in Timmy’s picture—even though I’d never seen one in person. I put a red bow in its hair.

  4

  We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials,

  for we know that they help us develop endurance.

  And endurance develops strength of character,

  and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation.

  ROMANS 5:3-4

  “This is Douglas. I can’t answer your call right now; please leave a—”

  Gennifer’s thumb pushed the Off button on her cell phone. What good were cell phones if her husband had his off more than on? Yes, he was in meetings; yes, he was often out of range in some obscure podunk town that needed the paper products he sold (as well as more cell towers), but the point was, when Gennifer needed him she needed him. Period.

  Gennifer’s boss, Charles Chasen, hadn’t mentioned her late arrivals again, but she knew something had to change. Every day that went by without further comment from her superior made her nervous. Maybe he wouldn’t ask next time. Maybe he’d just fire her.

  After trying Douglas for the fifth time she stared at the phone. What was she doing? Douglas couldn’t help her come up with a new excuse for her late-arrival times at work because he didn’t know about her dialysis either. She had to figure this one out on her own.

  But what else was new? Truth be told, that was her preference.

  The intercom on her desk startl
ed her. “Someone from Visa on line one, Ms. Mancowitz.”

  “Thanks, Mary.” Gennifer picked up the line. “This is Gennifer Mancowitz.”

  “This is a courtesy call from your Mid-State Visa. We’ve seen some unusual activity on your card and we wanted to verify it’s legitimate.”

  Warning bells rang. Someone was using her card? She got out her purse, then her wallet, seeing if the card was there. It was. “Yes, go ahead.”

  “There’s a purchase yesterday from a store in Sioux City, Iowa.”

  She relaxed. Douglas was traveling in Iowa. “What brought it to your attention?”

  “The amount. It’s for $4,823.59.”

  That didn’t sound like the amount of her husband’s usual business expense. “What store?”

  “Girabaldi Jewelers.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I think you need to call my husband about that.” She gave the Visa rep his cell-phone number, told the woman not to mention that they’d contacted Gennifer first, and hung up.

  Douglas had spent nearly five thousand dollars at a jewelry store? A worst-case scenario popped into her thoughts, annoying her by its very presence. She shook her head against the sordid thought and replaced it with the knowledge that she herself had a birthday this week. . . .

  That’s it. That had to be it.

  She deemed her lack of excitement circumstantial and inadmissible.

  * * *

  Talia entered Neighbor’s Drugstore, list in hand. She hated the days when her lunch hour had to be spent on errands, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She made a beeline for the pharmacy counter.

  Gladys looked up from her work, squinting. “Hey there, Talia. How are things going?”

  “Horrible.” She handed Gladys the prescription slip.

  “Is Nesto—?”

  “He’s fine. Or rather, he’s the same. But I’m swamped at work with three conventions coming in next week and way too much to do, and—”

  “Then I’ll hit my fast-forward button. Just let me call this in to your insurance company for verification.”

  Talia didn’t like how Gladys had cut her off, but at least there was hope she’d get out of here quickly. She readied her shopping list.

  Gladys smiled as she punched in the phone number. “Have you met Margery, the new girl?”

  Talia turned around and saw a twentysomething woman with droopy blonde hair stocking the shelves in the Cold Remedy aisle. She smiled at Talia. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Talia didn’t have time for this. She turned to start her shopping, but then—

  “Oh, Talia,” Gladys said, her ear to the phone. “Hold up a minute.” She spoke into the phone, “Hold please.” She covered the receiver with a hand. “The insurance company has a question.”

  Great. Just great. The insurance company was always ragging about something. Talia looked at the list in her hand. Maybe she could stop back after work, before she picked up Tomás.

  “Do you have a list?” It was Margery.

  “Yes, but I’m running out of time so I’ll have to come back and—”

  Margery held out her hand. “Let me help.” When Talia hesitated, Margery said, “I’m a thrifty shopper.”

  “Better let her do it,” Gladys said, laughing. “She’s a doer, that one.”

  Talia had never had anyone shop for her before, but she handed the list over.

  After a quick glance at the list, Margery asked, “Do you like any special brands?”

  “Get me the bargains.”

  “Can do.” And she was off.

  By the time Talia and Gladys had taken care of the insurance company Margery had collected all the items on the list and had them sitting in neat rows at the register.

  “If you don’t like something, I’ll run back and get another brand,” Margery said.

  “Everything’s perfect. Thanks a lot.”

  Margery began ringing things up. “How old is your baby?” Margery nodded toward the baby shampoo.

  “Tomás just turned two.”

  “How fun. And you’re expecting number two?”

  “In December.”

  “That’s lovely.” She sighed deeply as she sacked the purchases. “I want a baby more than anything.”

  “It’ll happen.”

  Her head shook no. “But Mick and I keep trying.” She took Talia’s money. “Hey, if you ever want a night out with your hubby, I’d be happy to babysit Tomás. There’s no such thing as a terrible two in my book.”

  “You haven’t met Tomás.”

  “I mean it,” Margery said. “Ask Gladys. I’m good with the kids who come into the store.”

  Gladys called out from the back, “You’re good with everybody, Margery. Take her up on it, Talia. You and Nesto could use a break.”

  Maybe that’s exactly what they needed. . . . “How about Friday night?”

  Margery clapped. “Tomás and I have a date!”

  And so would Nesto and Talia.

  * * *

  Even though Margery was new at the job, Gladys was confident about leaving the front register in her care. With King in the back, it would be just fine.

  It had to be. Gladys’s eye-doctor appointment was not something she could miss, nor that she dare postpone. It was hard getting in to see Dr. Moss and this appointment had been set for over a month. Yet until the incident the other day when Gladys had nearly sent out the wrong prescription, she’d thought it was just routine. She couldn’t ignore it any longer. Her sight was getting worse, and she wanted Dr. Moss to tell her what to do about it—and fix it like a good doctor.

  The bad part about these appointments was the waiting. There was the normal wait just to get in to see the doctor (who consistently ran at least forty-five minutes behind) but then there was the added wait caused by the drops the nurse had put in her eyes to dilate them. If the nurse did a good job and if Gladys didn’t blink the drops away, she’d be presented to the doctor in thirty minutes. If not . . . she closed her eyes, willing the drops into action.

  A little boy of about four played noisily across the waiting room, banging a toy car into the metal arms of a chair. Repeatedly. His mother read a magazine next to him, oblivious, the foot of her crossed leg bouncing to the beat of the gum she was chomping. And when the woman turned the pages of the magazine, she didn’t just turn them, she slapped them over.

  Car-bang, foot-jostle, gum-click, page-slap. Over and over it went, forming an inane rhythm that tortured Gladys’s nerves.

  Didn’t the woman realize how her actions spilled into the public domain? Didn’t she realize that not everyone found loud children cute? that the constant motion of her foot signaled a lack of deep thought and a nervousness Gladys found especially annoying? that chewing gum with her mouth open was the epitome of rudeness? and that it was possible to turn the page of a magazine without it sounding like the snapping of a crackling fire?

  Apparently not, because the woman continued her one-woman show unabated and unfazed by even the most scathing of Gladys’s repertoire of sour looks. Gladys was thankful the doctor wasn’t going to take her blood pressure because she knew it was on the rise. She had to get out of there or blood would be spilt.

  Gladys stepped up to the reception desk. “My eyes feel plenty dilated. Is there any way I could wait in an examination room?”

  The receptionist looked past her to the little boy who was now using two vehicles in his crash tests. “I’ll see what I can do.” She disappeared through a door leading to the back.

  Gladys didn’t like that the receptionist had witnessed this less-than-stellar aspect of her personality. She shouldn’t let people bug her so much. It was just a sound. Just a dumb mannerism. Why couldn’t she tune them out?

  Because I’m an observer. I’m astute. I’m a detail person. Only the less intelligent are oblivious to what’s happening around them and their effect on others.

  As Gladys was waiting for the re
ceptionist to return she glanced toward the little fiend and his feckless mother. In midpage-slap the mother looked up. She didn’t smile and Gladys didn’t either, but there was a look in her eye that told Gladys the woman was well aware of the effect her actions were having on the older woman.

  And didn’t care.

  Which, of course, made the whole thing worse. For even worse than rudeness or living in a state of oblivion was apathy.

  The receptionist returned. “We can take you now, Ms. Quigley.”

  She was saved. Once in the examination room she soaked in the silence. Yet the subdued light and solitude left her mind open to worry. What would Dr. Moss say about her diminished eyesight? Was there a cure? Or was she going to be faced with an ever-worsening condition, leading—

  “No!” She shut out the traitorous thought. She crossed her legs, and even though she couldn’t read it, picked up a magazine.

  She slapped the pages one on another.

  As she bobbed her ankle.

  If only she had some gum.

  * * *

  Gladys’s throat was dry, but she needed to get the question asked. “What are my options?”

  Dr. Moss sighed, and for once she was glad she wasn’t able to see his features clearly in the subdued light, to see his bereaved, pitying face. . . . The sigh said enough.

  “As I’ve told you before, your best option is a corneal transplant.”

  “We’ve been through this. I don’t need it. I’m handling things.”

  When he didn’t reply she answered his unspoken objection. “I am.”

  “By handling things I assume you’re implying you’re doing something to improve your condition? You’re stopping the degeneration of your eyesight by sheer will?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

  “You’ve proven yourself to be a strong woman, Gladys, capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound but—”

  “Only on Tuesdays.”

  “What?”

  “I only leap tall buildings on Tuesdays.”

  He sighed again, obviously not in the mood for her jokes. “But in spite of your amazing abilities, you are not strong enough to stop the inevitable.”