Free Beyond Deserving by Sandra Scofield Page A

calmly.
    â€œI thought he was in the shower.” Ursula remembers she locked the basement door.
    A car comes to a screeching stop at the curb. Michael sticks his head out Juliette’s window and yells, “Better get your butt indoors, Fish!”
    â€œOh no!” Ursula yells. Suddenly she realizes that it was Fish’s girlfriend in the shower, so Fish went outside rather than come upstairs to the bathroom. Before she locked the door.
    Ursula races down the stairs to intercept the process server at the door, but as he reaches the steps, so does Fish, stark naked. Ursula throws open the door and cries, “You’ve got the wrong address!”
    The process server, who knows a loser when he sees one, thrusts the summons into Fish’s hand. “Looks like she’s already got everything you had,” he says, slapping his thigh and laughing.
    Fish, bewildered, stands on the porch with his behind exposed for all the world to see. “Come ON,” Ursula tells him. He darts past her, dropping the summons on the floor as he flees. Ursula picks it up slowly, as though it weighs a lot.
    I’ll tell Katie they delivered it while I was on the phone, she thinks. I won’t say what happened.
    But she will. Telling stories is one way to talk without too much intrusion. It’s a way of creating and remembering their lives even as they live them. Sometimes, though, it is white noise.
    She turns and finds Michael behind her. He puts his arms around her and pulls her close. “Poor guy,” he murmurs. “Lucky us.”
    Ursula’s heart flutters. Ahh, she thinks, like a heroine in a bodice-ripper. She can hear time ticking by; they are standing by an antique grandfather clock that runs but doesn’t chime. “I’ve got to go,” she whispers reluctantly. She runs and grabs her sweater off the back of a chair at the dining table, her purse from the kitchen counter. She yells goodbye to Michael from the front door. “See you tonight!” she calls.
    In the car she begins to sing, only “La la la,” tunelessly. Even Carter would not be able to ruin a lyrical line from Michael.
    She drives off down the street, glad to get the day begun. Her work is filled with pathos, and sometimes tragedy, peopled with victims and villains, pitiful actors all, and still she goes at it, day after day, with enthusiasm. It is important not to stand too close. You can’t help if you are a burn-out. People are mostly predictable, and you second-guess them. Sometimes you are shocked, and you collect those times into a repertoire. You bear occasional anguish as a wave so far from sea. You work quickly, without haste. You make good decisions and document them well. You do a lot, really.
    You understand how precious your own ordinary, happy, pocked life is. Every day, you have some reason to be, some moment when you are, grateful.

15
    The yellow sticky-backed note on the wall by Katie’s phone says, “Geneva/napkins/W.” Katie hangs up and peels off the note, crumples it and drops it in the brown paper bag by the refrigerator. Cautiously, she leans across the airspace above the bag and sniffs lightly. She accumulates so little garbage, she sometimes forgets to put it outside, and tuna cans, discarded bologna, stale bread, and crumpled take-out boxes have a way of festering and then erupting into full blown stench. This bag is less than half-full, and holds only paper, yogurt containers, and coffee grounds. She has not eaten at home in days. She snacks on the leftovers brought home by her neighbor Maureen, who is a cook in a vegetarian deli. She nibbles crackers and dry cereal without milk. She goes out with her lover, Jeff, and eats what he has chosen, agreeing always that it is delicious. She learned to eat anything, without complaint, from living with Fish; Fish used odd food to test her spunkiness. She has eaten sardines, sushi, several kinds of game, black mushrooms,