Potter Springs (14 page)

T
he three of them sat around the dinner table. A dying mum bouquet served as the centerpiece. Mark had brought the orange and
yellow flowers home for Amanda last week. Their decay cast a slightly musty smell.

He’d throw the flowers away for her later. Buy her some new ones. As many as it took, for putting up with his mother.

“That was an
excellent
meal, Amanda. Wonderful. The potatoes could have used a little more mashing… perhaps a tad more butter… but other than that,
outstanding.” Marianne Reynolds dabbed the corners of her mouth. “Don’t you agree, Mark?”

Amanda twisted her fork in a small mountain of potatoes, eyes downcast at her half-eaten meal.

Mark slid his chair back and patted his stomach, full in Friday-evening flannel. “You did a good job, hon. On all of it.”
He tilted his empty plate as evidence and she quit the twirling, her shoulders easing a bit.

With a weak smile, Amanda stood and collected plates from the heavy wood table, a recent purchase from Barry’s Fine Furniture.

They’d ordered it from one of Barry’s specialty catalogs and the financing had gone through “like poop through a goose,” according
to Barry.

The salesman had informed the choir all about it and showed them the pictures. Now several other ladies had the same table
on order, each hoping to match the Reynolds with their big-city tastes in time for Christmas.

Barry declared business had never been so good, and put a rush delivery on Mark and Amanda’s table for free.

Mark was just thankful it arrived before his mother’s visit, so she’d have one less thing to criticize.

“Oh, we’ll get those dishes.” Marianne fluttered from the table and shooed Amanda like a fly. “I know you’ve been tired lately.”

“I’m fine.” Amanda’s soft voice slid through the clinking plates.

“We-e-11,” Marianne drawled, “I couldn’t help but notice all the naps you’ve been taking.”

“Today, I guess, but it’s not like …” Amanda set the stack on the counter and smoothed a wild curl behind her ear. She looked
to Mark.

He shook his head.
Don’t worry.

His mother missed the silent exchange. In the three days since her visit started, they’d done an excellent job of conducting
entire conversations with body language and eyebrow movement. The small house and reverberating hardwoods didn’t allow for
more verbal discussions.

“I’m doing this, and that’s final.” Marianne shifted the plates closer to the sink and opened a drawer for a dishrag. “You
go put your feet up, Amanda.” She cast a sweet gaze at her son. “Even though Mark’s worked hard at the church all day, I’m
sure he can muster up some energy to help.”

Mark shrugged. “Sure. We’ve got it, Mandy.”

“Besides,” Marianne added over her shoulder, “it’s not like there’s much to wash, with just those two side dishes.”

“You still hungry? There’s plenty more.” Mark stared out the kitchen window at the dark fall sky and wished his mother would
quit smiling as she stabbed his wife.

“You know I like to keep my figure.” Marianne tapped a slender hip.

Mark guessed she’d been the same size forever. Same size, same conservative dress, same hair.

“You can’t let things slide, no matter how comfortable you get. Oh!” A guilty hand flew to her mouth. “No offense, Amanda.”

Same cutting remarks.

Amanda hadn’t lost all the weight from the pregnancy, and her thickened waist had caused more than one weepy morning. Her
shoulders stiffened ramrod straight, and Mark thought for an instant her old fire might have returned. That she’d give his
mother what-for.

Instead, her eyes filled, a familiar sight. Mark left his post at the counter. He gathered her to him and stroked her side.

You look good to me,
his hand whispered.
Your body is mine and you are beautiful and my mother is a crazy witch.

She rubbed her forehead against his shoulder.
Thank you,
her warmth answered back.

Marianne started the hot-water tap. “Where’s your scrubby brush, Amanda? I find a good stiff brush is essential for dishwashing.
Do you have one?” Without waiting for a response, she dug under the cabinet. “My goodness, this
is
an older home. There’s some water damage under here, Mark. You might have some of the church workers take a look at it.”

He wondered if her entire body would fit into the cabinet if he gave her a quick shove.

“Here’s a sponge, I guess this will have to do.” She pivoted triumphantly, waving the yellow cleaner. “Go on now,” she ordered
Amanda. “We can take care of this.”

“You sure?” Amanda spoke low to Mark.

“You could use the break.” He rubbed the small of her back. “Go get some quiet. I’ll keep her busy.”

“Thanks.”

A few minutes later, he heard the water running in the bathroom. He hoped she’d take her time and soak the stress of his mother’s
visit away. Watching her wring her hands under the table during dinner made him want to start his mother’s Buick and send
her back to Lubbock.

“You know, if you used a little no-stick spray on your cookware, it’d clean easier.” Marianne’s elbow pumped back and forth
as she scrubbed.

“Just soak it. I can finish in the morning.” He’d get up early and do the housework before anyone stirred. He found peace
then, in the quiet. Thinking as his wife slept that today would be the day she would rise with a smile, one that would last.
He prayed for it each dawn as he tidied their home, as if the work of his hands might make the difference.

“Oh. Do you think Amanda will still be tired then? In the morning too?”

“She’s fine, Mom. It’s been a hard move.”

“Have you thought of
other
reasons she might be fatigued?”

“She’s not pregnant.” His words came out harsher than he intended. Defensive at his mother’s prying. “It’s too soon.”
It might be never.

“Humph. I never said she was and I wouldn’t dream of asking. That’s much too personal. You don’t owe me that kind of information.”

“It’s all right.”

“I didn’t mean-” she insisted.

“Forget it.” He counted to five. Then ten. “It’s okay. It’s been tough for Mandy to be away from her family, her friends.
But she’s adjusting.”

“Yes, I can see that. Why, I think she might have put away that stack of laundry I washed two days ago.”

“Cut it out, Mom.” He could only play nice for so long. And he found as the days passed, his patience with his mother grew
shorter.

“I’m sorry. I just had different ideas for you. For who your wife would be-”

“I know, and I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard plenty.”

“One of the girls from seminary,” Marianne continued.

Not listening. She never listened.

“Or even our home church. I know of at least two myself who still burn a candle for you.”

Burn a candle? Who says that?
“I think you overestimate my appeal, Mom. Regardless, I love my wife.”

“I love Amanda too. You know I do. She certainly had a … a certain
spark
when you were dating.
Darling
girl.” Marianne pulled a dripping pan from the steamy sink and wiped it with a towel. Handwashing.

Mr. Chesters crunched his premium-brand cat food in the kitchen’s corner, glaring warily at Mark.

Finished for the moment, the cat thrust his white paws forward, arched his back and yowled. Mark understood the command. He
opened the kitchen door and watched Mr. Chesters slink off into the night.

Cool air washed over him. He smelled a fire burning. On the porch next door, Mrs. Zimmerman called softly to Princess, and
her television poured noise and flickering glare into the empty night. Another cat meowed a greeting, or a warning, to Mr.
Chesters. Mark left the animal to fend for himself, and went back inside.

Marianne cocked her small head sideways, contemplating. “Does she support you, honey?” Her soft brown eyes searched his, her
expression pleading. “In your profession, I mean? This church, your opportunities here. You could go so far, be anything you
want to be.” She shook her short brown curls. “Imagine, you’ll have your own church before long. Think of it.”

Penny loafers clicked against the linoleum as she moved to put the pan away. No stacking in a pile for Marianne Reynolds.
You wash, you dry, you put away. Relentless in her busyness.

“But without a helpmate to stand beside you, it just can’t be done.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll never be greater than
an associate pastor without a more visible wife.”

“I’ll be as great as God allows, Mother. And whether or not my wife needs some transition time shouldn’t have much effect
on a life’s calling.” He stepped on his anger before it ran away from him.

“Besides”-he breathed the tension out-“she’ll find her legs here. Get friends. She just needs a niche, is all. She might be
in a slump right now, but with more time, everything’s going to be better.”

“Of course it will. Yes, you’re right. If you say so, then it must be the truth.”

She had the gall to tap him on the head as she passed him on her way to the pantry. “Still, I wonder. How much time will it
take? And do you have enough left to give her?”

S
uspicious, Amanda crossed her arms. “Tell me again.”

“The ladies specifically
asked
for you,” Mark repeated.

“By name. They want you to ride with them on the way to the retreat.” Mark sat on a kitchen chair, retying his shoelaces after
a Saturday-morning run through the neighborhood.

“They did not.” Amanda taped a black-silhouetted witch to the window.
My name.
She wondered what they called her. Mrs. Reynolds. She shuddered, thinking of Marianne.

Mark’s wife. The preacher’s ball and chain. She dug into the plastic Wal-Mart sack for the matching cat.

Or had they said Amanda? She remembered Shelinda, with her easy laugh in the kitchen with King Ranch casserole. Shelinda called
her Amanda.

She squelched the beginning of hope, flat as a June bug in September. Not liking its unfamiliar creep in the shadows of her
heart.

Hope left when Grace died.

Securing the cat with Scotch tape, Amanda slapped the cutout next to the broom.

“Did too.” Mark stepped over the grocery bags and picked up her newspaper tornado, rumpled and forgotten in front of the couch.
As he gathered, he folded the sheets into conformity before sitting down to read it himself.

Following him, Amanda mimicked his nonchalance. She didn’t care. She placed a chubby ghost candle on her paperback bookshelf
and plugged in an electric jack-o’-lantern on a side table. Examining its blinking grin, she asked over her shoulder, “Who?”

The newspaper rattled as Mark turned the page. “Let’s see. Pam Hart, Missy Underwood. They remembered you from the luncheon.”
He added, “Course, Peggy’ll be there. And, whatshername? Courtney Williams, the one who does everything.”

Fantastic. She’d be cornered for hours by the effervescent
LeFleur
saleswoman. “Did you bring it up, or did they?” She imagined him sidling up to a chattering pack on a Sunday morning and
tossing her name among them. An awkward, deflated volleyball.
Thunk.
They’d have nothing to do but pick it up. “You arranged all this, didn’t you? You. Not them.”

Leaning forward, Mark rested his elbows on his knees. “Forget about who did what. The important thing is the church is paying
for the trip. Well, maybe that’s not the most important thing,” he corrected himself. “But the point is, they’re footing the
bill since I’m …
we’re
on staff. It’d be rude for us to turn them down. A weekend in the mountains of Colorado. How could you say no?”

“
N-o.
It’s not that hard, Mark. It’s called taking a stand. You don’t have to do everything they ask you.” She knew she was being
petty. Digging her heels in. But she wanted to lash out, to make some sort of a point she couldn’t even define for herself.

“A stand about what? A women’s retreat?” Mark went back to the kitchen and fumbled in the pantry for his postrun protein drink.
He slammed the door, impatient. “It’s not a political statement. It’s called a vacation. And I thought you could use one.”
The spoon clicked against the glass like a clock on speed.
Ting ting ting ting ting.

“I don’t need a vacation.” She poured candy corn in a ceramic pumpkin bowl. Her thoughts tumbled forth, caught by ambivalent
porcelain.

Telling him without sound, wishing he could hear. Watching the sweets fall.

I need my husband at home and not sitting beside every grieving widow inside Carson County.

Sugar niblets cascaded in slow motion, clattering against the sides, spinning in a crazy dance.

I need my partner not to interrupt our dinners with church phone calls, calming down a deacon while the gravy gets cold.

Triangles of white, yellow, and orange candies piled together, blurring into a muted peach.

I need Sundays for us, a lover’s Sabbath, not waiting for hours while you schmooze with the tithers after church.