The last secret_ a novel - Mary McGarry Morris [104]
“You think you're the only one, Nora? We're all hiding something. Every one of us. It's human nature. But if we're at all decent, we're trying to make the best of who we are. Some ways, that's the hardest struggle of all.”
“But I'm losing the battle.”
“No. You're just fighting the wrong fight. All you're seeing inside is sin, when it's your own goodness you should be looking for. Acknowledging. Celebrating.”
“You don't understand,” she sighs.
“Yes, I do. Because I've seen it. The way you were with Alice. That meant so much to her. You have no idea. The giving of yourself, you gave her confidence. That someone like you would … would take the time.” Someone like you. His fervid praise angers her.
“Want to know the truth?” Instead of lowering her gaze, she lifts her head, stares, watching, baiting him. She can't believe what's coming out of her mouth. She's not sure who she's trying to hurt more, herself or him. “I couldn't stand the smell of her. I can't even eat here, have you ever noticed that? I can't stand the meetings, I can barely sit through them. Everyone's talking, and all I'm hearing is phoniness, self-promotion, all their networking, one more rung up the ladder, and I'm thinking to myself, what the hell am I doing here? And then I think, because I'm just like them. I am. That's why.”
“No,” he says softly, then sits for a few moments in stillness. “Do you know how many times a day I ask myself that exact same question? And how inadequate I feel? Not just to the need, the task, but to my own expectations. But that's okay! Because that's living an examined life, Nora. An authentic life. Being alive in spirit. Being completely and honestly real. Questioning everything you do. But what can happen, though, is you end up turning that same harsh spotlight on everyone around you. And that's not right. It's not fair.” Whether real or feigned, his anguish drains her as he compares his own shameful failure of spirit. His disgust with the women's self-pitying paralysis, his irritation with their poorly behaved children, his own prideful impatience when he senses self-important board members wondering what character deficit hounded him into the priesthood instead of into their more valid world of commerce and success. And, of course, the food: he doesn't like it either.
“Not so much,” he adds, smiling.
She appreciates the attempt, but his confession, his well-intentioned descent to her level, only adds to the guilt. There's nothing he can do or say to help. Nothing she hasn't already considered. He's still talking. She wants to go but can't leave him thinking he hasn't helped. She thanks him and says she feels much better now.
“But what are you going to do?” he asks when she stands up.
“Keep at it,” said with a flash of Nora Trimble Hammond's brightest smile. “Keep slogging away.”
“I mean that fellow. Eddie Hawkins.”
“Oh, nothing. One of these days, I'm sure he'll be gone.”
“You said you're afraid of him. What if he is crazy?”
“Strange. That's a better word. Weird. I guess that's really what it is.”
“You're sure?” He frowns. “I got a lotta people I can call.” With his attempt at menace, he seems only more virtuous. Innocent.
His hand hurts as he rings the doorbell again. Third time here today. Yesterday, in her mailbox he left a pair of red leather gloves and a note: Stay warm. Stay close. Love, Eddie. He walks back out to the street and checks. Still there. He scoops up mud and smears the painted stick bird. Bitch. After all he's done. Groceries, errands, presents, and she can't even pick up the phone, come to the door, or bother bringing his gift inside.
“Robin!” He keeps banging the brass knocker. He leans over the railing and looks in the window. There's a light on, probably from the kitchen. His shoes sink into the squishy lawn as he walks around the back of the house, and now his feet are wet. Two days of rising temperatures have warmed the frozen ground to mush. He