The Good Nearby Read online

  Maybe that’s what Mama meant. They got you in there and you ended up feeling good and wanting to give everything you had.

  I wish I had more to give.

  I liked the music part best. I’d never heard real people singing real music so close. The music in the church . . . it rushed right past where Susie and me were sitting, did a U-turn, and came back on the other side, wrapping me up in the notes and the words. After a few lines I recognized the song as one Grammy had sung: “Abide with Me.” I missed Grammy. And her singing. Everything was perfect when I saw that the song was number 96.

  Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

  The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.

  When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

  Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

  I didn’t feel quite so helpless anymore. Not here, not in this place. It was almost as if Grammy were sitting nearby, holding my hand, smiling and singing along to the music, making the world good and right. The good nearby.

  I gasped. Grammy had been my good nearby! Why hadn’t I ever thought of that before?

  And suddenly, it wasn’t like Grammy was just sitting next to me; I saw her in the pretty glass windows that showed a cross and a plate and a cup, and in the red flowers on a stand, and in the gray curls of a lady’s hairdo, two rows up.

  But it wasn’t Grammy’s hand that touched mine and asked, “You okay?” It was Susie’s. But there, just for a second, I saw Grammy’s eyes in the hazel eyes of my friend.

  The money plates were taken up the center aisle to the front by the money people and everybody stood and sang, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow. . . .” Susie knew all the words. Everybody did, all looking straight forward, singing loud. I wished I knew the words because I certainly felt like praising God for blessings. I had a lot of ’em. So much good. Nearby.

  We sat back down, but Susie leaned toward me and whispered, “It’s almost time.”

  “For what?”

  “Shh.” Susie pointed up front.

  The man in the black robe stood in the center of the up-front place and spread his arms. “Children? Come join me.”

  Before I knew what was happening, Susie took my hand and pulled me toward the Robe Guy. At first I tried to pull her back, but when I saw bunches of other kids going too, I let myself be led.

  We all sat on a step, right next to the Robe Guy. He smiled at Susie, “Morning, Miss Susie.”

  “Morning, Pastor Bob.”

  He looked right at me and Susie said, “This is my friend, Gigi. She’s visiting.”

  Pastor Bob held out his hand and shook mine. “Nice to meet you, Gigi. Welcome.”

  I felt my cheeks get hot, but it was a nice hot. I’d never had a grown-up shake my hand before. Then Pastor Bob got out a funny-looking frog. He was scrawny and stuffed, and he had a cowboy hat on, which made me smile. He sat on Pastor Bob’s knee.

  “Frog says hey. Say hey to Frog.”

  I was surprised when all the kids said, “Hey, Frog” right back. I was too late saying it, and wished I would’ve caught on quicker. I would listen real careful from then on and be ready.

  Pastor Bob told a story about a Good Some Martian, but he didn’t pronounce it quite right. And then Frog decided he wanted to be the kind of frog who would stop on the road to help someone, no matter how icky and gross they looked. It was the kind of person Grammy had wanted me to be—just so the guy on the road wasn’t covered with throw-up or anything. I’d cleaned up way too much of that on Mama when she got drunk. Slimy, stinky stuff. Even a Good Some Martian would be in the right to pass that kind of icky by.

  Too soon, Pastor Bob was telling everyone to say, “Bye, Frog,” and this time I was ready to say it with the other kids. Me and Susie went back to sit with her parents, and I listened to everything Pastor Bob said after that, but was kind of disappointed Frog didn’t come out again. But Grammy was there. I felt her round me all through church.

  Afterwards, I remembered what Mama had told me, and when Susie’s dad asked if I wanted to go to lunch with them, I said I would. But I didn’t do what Mama said about ordering a lot and bringing it home. When Susie ordered pancakes and when her mama said, “You want some of those too?” I didn’t have the nerve to order something different. And before I knew it, I’d eaten every bite. I liked the strawberry syrup the best and Susie’s daddy got us two glasses of chocolate milk—each.

  I was a little scared about what Mama would say when I came home without any doggie food—and Mama did scream at me and call me a selfish no-good—but eating every drop of that strawberry syrup . . . I’d do it again—if Susie asked me again.

  I’d have to make sure she did. I’d have to be real good. Strawberry-syrup-and-chocolate-milk good. And next time when Pastor Bob said, “Say, ‘Hey, Frog’” I’d say it real loud.

  6

  Don’t be impressed with your own wisdom.

  Instead, fear the LORD and turn away from evil.

  Then you will have healing for your body and strength for your bones.

  PROVERBS 3:7-8

  A ringing woke her. It took a few seconds for Margery to realize what it was, realize Mick wasn’t in bed next to her, realize the time—4:33 a.m.—and reach for the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Mick, where are you? I tried to wait up and—”

  “It’s a mistake, all right?”

  She sat upright. The Us magazine she’d been reading before she fell asleep slid to the floor. “What’s a mistake?”

  “I’m in jail.”

  Not again. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I need you to bail me out.”

  She checked the time again: 4:34. “Now?”

  “You want me to stay in this stinkin’ place?”

  “No, of course not. But how much are we talking about?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Her heart nearly dropped right there on the bed. The last time he’d been arrested for drunk and disorderly had cost much less. “That’s a lot. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do . . . just some drug charge. It won’t sti—”

  “Drugs?”

  “I’m not getting into it. Get me outta here.”

  “But ten thousand . . . we don’t have that much.”

  “A bond, Margery. You know how this works. You need to get a bond. You only need 10 percent.”

  One thousand dollars. “We don’t have that much either.”

  “So you want me to stay here? You’d probably like that.”

  “No, no, of course not. I’ll think of something.”

  “You do that. First thing in the morning. I’ll be waiting.”

  Margery hung up and looked around the bedroom, mentally adding up their cash. She hadn’t received her first paycheck from Gladys yet. They didn’t have any savings and their checking account was rock bottom.

  She got out of bed and pulled out the top drawer of the dresser. All the way out. There in the back she found her stash, an envelope of money she’d held back from Mick. Last time she’d counted there was $185. But as her fingers pressed on either side of its bulk, she knew he’d found this secret place and had helped himself.

  She went back to the bed and opened the envelope under the glow of the bedside lamp. There were seven five-dollar bills: $35. Margery stared at the money and turned the envelope over, hoping she’d missed some hundred-dollar bill hiding among the fives.

  She hadn’t.

  * * *

  Margery stared at the key in her hand. Just two days earlier, Gladys had made a big deal about presenting her with the key to the store so she could open up or come in early to stock or do a display. Margery wasn’t used to people trusting her so much.

  She wasn’t used to blowing that trust.

  She hated what she had to do.

  She hated that she had no choice.

  Margery unlocked the door and slipped inside. She considered keeping the lig
hts off, but if anyone spotted her slinking around in the dark they’d think she was a thief.

  Which she was.

  Yet the lights were intimidating. How could she take money from the register when the lights would showcase her crime? She shut them off before their buzzing reached full glow.

  No wonder criminals chose the dark. Was it to hide their crimes from themselves as much as from others?

  Margery hugged the edge of the shadows and moved to the register. But as she pulled the drawer open, she saw there wasn’t a thousand dollars inside. More like a hundred. And if she took that, Gladys would see. She’d know.

  Then she remembered the little strongbox in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet back in the office. She’d seen Gladys put money in there.

  Margery hurried to the office. There were no windows so she risked turning on the light. The file drawer was locked, but she remembered Gladys taking the key from under a potted philodendron on the desk.

  Margery unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the bottom drawer. The gray metal box tempted her. Please, God, let there be way more than I need inside so Gladys won’t notice.

  It crossed her mind that praying for God to help her get away with a crime was probably not kosher, but she hoped he would overlook it this one time. It was for a good cause. Wasn’t a wife supposed to bail out her husband?

  Most wives never had to think of such a thing.

  Enough of that. She opened the box and picked up the neat stack of twenties. Her fingers walked through the bills, counting . . . one, two, three, four, five. One hundred. One, two, three, four, five. Two hundred. One, two, three—

  “Margery?”

  Her heart dropped, as did the money.

  Gladys stepped into the room. She picked up the pack of twenties. “What are you doing?”

  Margery wanted to die. This couldn’t be happening. Her legs gave way and she crumpled to the floor. “I’m so sorry, so sorry. Please don’t call the police. Please.” Two Lamborns in jail at the same time . . .

  Gladys looked toward the phone, then back at Margery. “I trusted you. I gave you a key.”

  “I know. I know . . .” Margery scooted backward until her spine met the wall. She pulled her knees to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I would have paid you back.”

  Gladys pressed a hand to her brow, shaking her head. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I know, I know . . .” It was all Margery could say.

  Suddenly, Gladys spread her hands and froze in place. “Why were you taking the money? Why?”

  “Mick needed it.”

  “Your husband?”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  Margery brushed her lips against her knees. She couldn’t stop her head from shaking no. “I’d rather not say.”

  Gladys put her hands on her hips and squawked like a game-show buzzer. “Sorry. Does not compute. You gave up your right to ‘rather not’ anything when you made the decision to steal from me. Out with it. All of it. Now.”

  Margery forced herself to uncurl and stand up, but kept the wall close at hand for support. “Mick’s in jail. I need money for bail.”

  “What’s he in for?”

  Margery decided to offer Mick’s answer to that very same question. “He didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Oh, well. There was no use lying. “Drugs.”

  “Using or dealing?”

  She wasn’t sure. “Uh . . . I don’t—”

  Gladys’s eyebrows rose. “Has he been in trouble before?”

  “Twice. But never for drugs. Being drunk, brawling, that sort of—”

  “Does he take drugs?”

  Margery shook her head vehemently, even though she wasn’t for-sure sure. “I don’t think so. And if he did deal, I’m sure he just did it for the cash.”

  “Which of course makes it just fine and dandy, right?” Gladys pulled out the desk chair and sat. “This changes things, Margery. I guessed you had trouble with your husband, but I didn’t think he was scum.”

  “He’s not!”

  “So he’s a pillar of the community?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Do you take drugs, Margery?”

  “Never!”

  “You just steal.”

  Margery slid the store’s key onto the desk. “I’m really sorry, Gladys. You’ve been nothing but kind to me and—”

  “Does Mick have a real job?”

  Margery nodded. “He’s a car mechanic. A good one too.”

  “A car mechanic who deals drugs on the side.”

  What could she say? She’d seen many sides of Mick’s character since they’d married ten years ago. She’d witnessed Mick beat up more than his share of people who crossed him. He’d driven drunk a few times too. He had one DUI—that she knew of. And now drugs? “He can be a really good guy.” Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful.

  “Hmm.” Gladys ran a hand over her face. She looked weary. “You’re not the only one who has problems, you know.”

  She couldn’t imagine Gladys having a problem. She was so with it, so on top of things. She was about to ask what Gladys meant, when the older woman sighed deeply, tossed the bills back into the money box, and closed its lid. “Never mind that. Why didn’t you just ask me for the money? I would have loaned it to you.”

  “You would have?”

  “Well . . . probably.”

  “I didn’t want you to think badly of Mick.”

  “Unfortunately, he is what he is.”

  “He can do better . . . be better. He’s been better. He just gets off track.”

  Gladys’s eyebrows came together. “Let me get this straight. This is the man you want to father your child?”

  “He’d be a good . . . a baby might change him.”

  Gladys raised a hand. “Hold it right there. You do not play Russian roulette with children by purposely putting them in the middle of a bad situation. You do not use them to make yourself feel better, feel loved, or to mend a broken relationship. They need you to be strong from the get-go. You’re the adult with the power to make their life better—or worse, if you mess it up. If Mick’s having trouble in his life, now is not the time for you to force him into being a father.”

  Margery began to cry. “I can’t force him into anything. It isn’t happening—pregnancy, I mean. We try and try and nothing happens.”

  “Which might be a good thing.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Gladys stood and put calming hands on Margery’s arms. “There, there. You and this quest for a baby . . . I didn’t mean to stir the pot. I can see having a child is very important to you.”

  Margery nodded and wiped her cheeks. “And I can’t have a child if Mick is in jail.”

  “A few days might not hurt him, you know.”

  She shook her head. “He’ll just get mad—madder. I have to get him out. He called me early this morning and told me to do it. I have to do it.”

  Gladys made a face. “You don’t have to do anything. I don’t like how he calls and you jump.”

  “He’s my husband.”

  “Hmm.” Gladys let go and pulled the money box close. “How much do you need?”

  “Ten percent. One thousand.”

  Gladys counted out the money and pressed it into Margery’s hand. “I will get this back. Mick’s not going to skip out, is he?”

  She shook her head, hoping she was telling the truth. “So I still have a job?”

  Gladys kept her hand on the money. “I should fire you.”

  Margery’s throat was dry. “I’m an honest person. Really I am.”

  “A desperate person.”

  “That too.” She put a hand on top of Gladys’s. “You’ll get the money back. I promise.”

  “I have my eyes on you, Margery.”

  Point taken.

  * * *

  Gladys had threatened to keep her eyes on Margery.

  Ha! What a joke
.

  She’d decided to come in early that morning to get some extra work done because she couldn’t sleep. But now, with all that had happened and with Margery off to set her loser husband free, Gladys wasn’t up to doing anything more than sit at her desk and stare into space.

  Bad things came in threes. Isn’t that the way it worked?

  If so, Gladys wasn’t sure she could take number three. The doctor’s bad news and the disturbing thought of a transplant was number one, an employee stealing was two . . . what was next? A fire? Car crash? A flood, blizzard, twister, or other act of God?

  Actually, she didn’t want to give God credit he didn’t deserve. She had the life she had because she’d worked hard, and she’d overcome whatever obstacles came her way. She was an independent woman who was responsible for herself. God was there when—and if—she needed him, but until then, she could handle things well enough on her own (thank you very much).

  She didn’t understand women like Margery who were so pliable and easily used by others. Especially by men. Margery’s extreme loyalty to her husband was not commendable. It was dumb. Talk about blind.

  Of course, Gladys realized she had not had the most normal experiences men-wise so her opinions were probably skewed.

  She looked at the poster on the wall that showed architect Gaudi’s bizarre Temple de la Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. Men. Spanish men . . .

  Caballero Medina. After working her fanny off getting her pharmacy degree—with no help from anyone but herself—Gladys and a few friends had taken a trip to San Francisco in a VW van and experienced the Summer of Love, 1967. Sergeant Pepper, Peter Max, and all things psychedelic and groovy. There she’d met Caballero and fallen in love—or at least in lust—with his dark looks and alluring accent. They’d gotten married. Kind of. Sort of. They were stoned at the time and Gladys never saw any paperwork.

  Yet the drugs she consumed with Caballero took her places she didn’t like to visit, and after six weeks she decided to beg off and try reality for a while. Then, when she caught him sleeping with another flower child, she decided to cut her losses. She headed back to her mother’s and—like her—vowed off men forever. Vowed off love. She got her head together and realized utilizing her own smarts was the way to change the world. Peace, flower power, love, indeed.