Potter Springs (23 page)

Grief’s waters covered her, drowning her, pressed beneath layers of opaque darkness. She’d been under for longer than this
moment. Had spent weeks, even months, gazing up through distorted waves, unable to feel the sun’s pure light.

She’d been trapped for so long, she’d forgotten how to breathe.

She gasped, even now, emptying her lungs of stored-up tears. Letting it out, where it couldn’t suffocate her anymore.

She took in life-giving oxygen, her body shuddering with the effort. Marveling in the strength, of the power to simply breathe.
To live. She would live. She would move forward. If only she knew which way to go.

Dried tears brought a tightness to her face. She curled around a hotel pillow, wishing it would breathe and smell like Mark,
holding her, whispering that everything would be okay.

But Mark wasn’t here. She must find this path for herself. Not leaning on Mark, her Goldenboy, to illuminate the way for her.
Still, the ache-the sheer, raw loneliness-drew her eyes closed.

As sleep wrapped its comforting numbness around her, the promise called out to her heart.

Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

If only she knew how much longer her night would last, and if, come morning, Mark would still be waiting.

L
ittle old ladies lined up in the second row, their heads looked like Easter eggs, rounded pastel tufts. One leaned over and
whispered to her companion, louder than a stage yell, “Oh, that Pastor Randalls, isn’t he so good?”

Onstage, Mark threw an extra big smile their direction as he finished the last of his song. No matter they couldn’t get his
last name right, poor birds.

Some, like Ruby Weatherby, hardly knew where they were but clapped and sang along anyway. Making joyful, if unintelligible,
noises to the Lord.

Tonight’s Hoot ‘n’ Hallow was a record breaker. Families lined up in the pews for the Sunday-evening worship service. Volunteer
deacons had bused in the ladies and other shut-ins from various homes. The sanctuary reverberated with the praise of the saints,
young and old.

But behind his face, Mark felt as alive as a skeleton with skin on. A shadow man.
Sing us a song, you’re the shadow man.
Each day Amanda stayed gone, he faded away from himself. Without her to sharpen him, he blurred. It was a wonder others could
see him at all.

Amanda had been gone, counting the stay at her parents’, for over a month now. He hadn’t talked to her since before the festival.
His calls to her cell phone went unanswered. His only updates consisted of terse remarks from his mother-in-law, running interference.

Cahoots. They were in cahoots. With Katy’s financial support, Amanda could stay gone as long as she wanted. And apparently,
she wanted.

His wife-he knew now, after drilling Katy-was in Mexico. Lolling about on the beach “finding herself.” Probably getting hit
on by various and sundry Latin lovers with big pecs and great tans, while he was stuck singing songs and preaching by rote
like a windup puppet.

Behind the eggheads, in the third row next to her gran, Courtney twinkled at him. The church’s lights glinted off her hair.
He refused to make eye contact since just last night he’d fielded a strange visit from the Ladies’ Guild president.

“Mark?” Courtney had tapped on his screen door, peeking in. A strong wind filled the hazy November sky with dirt, hanging
thick even at dusk. The sun shot pink behind her.

“Yes?” He did not motion for her to enter. His last dealing with Courtney Williams had sent serious shock waves through his
marriage, and he wanted to thwart any further seismic pulses. He made sure any passerby would see her on the porch, him safely
ensconced inside. Fully dressed in the entryway.

“Hi. Oh, you look nice.” She managed to purr her chirpy voice, showing no signs of awkwardness from their last encounter.

On a Saturday evening, in sweats, and he hadn’t showered or shaved all day. No, he did not look nice.

“Thanks. What can I do for you?” He hoped to sound as businesslike as possible, in spite of the chili stain on his T-shirt.
Canned chili.

“I’m so sorry to bother you at home … and at such a time.”

At such a time? What was that supposed to mean?

“I’m calling on you, to let you know you’re in our prayers.” She tilted her blonde head sideways and fiddled with some papers
in her hands.

She’d slipped into the plural. Mark didn’t know if she was affecting the royal
we,
or if she somehow represented a larger, more frightening group.

“Uh-huh?” Mr. Chesters slinked by. Mark grabbed him for a distraction and was rewarded with a burning scratch down his right
arm. He let the cat go, and it raced across the street, nimble as a kitten.

“You might remember that I’m president of the Ladies’ Guild?” As if anyone within microphone distance of Lakeview Community
Church could forget. “I’m also, you probably didn’t know this part, but I’m the organizer for the prayer chain.”

Confirmation. Larger, more frightening group.

“We were just so happy with the news of Amanda’s father getting better. That she’d be back soon.” Courtney actually said this
with a straight face. With sincerity.

Had he imagined the whole lust fog? Of her subtle seduction of him on her couch? Or had she simply been herself, and he, deluded
by his misery?

“But now”-she coughed gently, pearly pink nails fanned out over glossy lips-“we’re wondering if there’s anything we could
do for you since Amanda…”

Mark stilled as his insides cranked on hyperdrive.

“You see”-Courtney tried again, blinking rapidly-“Dale called the Thompsons for another prayer update and he’s let us know
that Amanda has-”

Left,
Mark filled in.
Amanda left. Left me. Left the country. Gone.

Molasses took over his voice box. He couldn’t even clear his throat, let alone change the course of conversation.

“Anyway,” Courtney interrupted her own pause, “we’ve organized some meals.” She revealed a color-coded chart full of names
and phone numbers. “I’ve got several women who’ll bring by casseroles for you to pop in the freezer and heat up at your convenience.
I think we have enough volunteers to cook hot meals at least this week.”

A sinking sensation tugged Mark’s gut.
They know she’s gone, that she’s not coming back, and I’m a total loser who can’t even make a casserole.

Across the street, Mr. Chesters hung tenaciously in a neighbor’s tree. The dog next door barked, frenzied and high. Mr. Chesters
regained his footing and seemed to enjoy taunting the other animal. The dog’s yelps escalated to a fever pitch.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” Mark heard himself say. “But I’m not sure it’s necessary.”

“Oh, not at all,” she assured him. “Everything’s planned out. In fact, I’ve passed around a sign-up sheet for laundry and
ironing.” She produced another list. “And right now, we’re working out a schedule for housework, grocery shopping and lunches
for you to take to work if you’re interested.” She dug in her purse for a pen and flipped her paper stack to a blank sheet.
“Is there anything you’re allergic to or just plain don’t like?”

His mind reeled. What to do now? They don’t teach you in seminary how to handle the Ladies’ Guild Meals on Wheels. Or, for
that matter, what to do when your wife runs away to Mexico.

In spite of his projected outer calm, Mark’s body-primitive, instinctive-knew the course of action. A burning, like reflux
but deeper, dropped from his chest, twisted the walls of his stomach and bubbled through his lower digestive track. Scorching
cramps alerted his rational mind, in case it wasn’t “in the loop” that he now faced
Great Emotional Stress,
signaling the onset of explosive diarrhea.

Obviously, he needed to get rid of Courtney. Fast.

“No, there’s nothing. No allergies.”

Rushing through pleasant inanities without any idea what he’d agreed to, he concluded with a hearty, “Fine, that’s great.”
A little strangled sound escaped him. “Thanks a lot.”

The screen door shut with a comforting click as Courtney revved up her Camaro. Racing down the hallway, Mark had executed
a beautiful side-leap to the bathroom, a move his college football coach would have appreciated.

Tonight, at the evening service, he intended to steer clear of the Ladies’ Guild president at all costs. He sang his songs
and played his part and fulfilled the associate-pastor role to the best of his abilities. Even the eggheads loved him.

Afterward, Ervin announced the monthly board meeting, which Mark internally translated as
bored
meeting. Dale Ochs usually helmed the proceedings. Even now, the chairman lurked in the foyer, ready to whip the wayward
servants of Lakeview Community into shape.

As the church members filed out, emptying the sanctuary of their chatter, Mark packed the Martin guitar and music away. A
small scratch marred the sheen on the wood. He’d buff it out later. As he clicked the locks closed, Ervin put a hand on his
shoulder.

“Great singing tonight.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Heck, that kinda music makes me happier than a hog in sunshine.” Ervin rubbed his beard. “How’s Amanda doing?”

Ervin, much in the way of the mentally challenged or small children, had a habit of mentioning the unmentionable.

“Oh, fine. She’s doing just great.” As far as he knew anyway. No falsehood there. Mark stood, the guitar balanced at his side.

“Listen.” Ervin fiddled with his belt buckle, a large truck adorned the silver-and-gold rectangle. His Sunday night buckle.
This morning’s had a bronco on it. “You don’t need to come to the meeting tonight.”

“No arguments here. But why not?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ervin shoved his hands in his denim pockets and rocked back on his boot heels. “Just some old goats
bleating about a bunch of nothing.”

“Like what?”

“The usual. Building maintenance. Whether or not to print a weekly newsletter. Who’s the best high-school running back. Important
stuff.”

“So why shouldn’t I be there?”

Ervin stared at the back row of pews a few moments before speaking. “There’s been some grumbling,” he admitted. “About Amanda’s
being gone. Some of the members want to discuss it.”

“Members like Dale Ochs?” Mark couldn’t keep the anger from his voice.

“Mark, I hate to say this, but there’re questions that need answering.” Ervin looked at his boots. “Your future on staff,
for one. They’re saying, what with a missing wife-”

“She’s not missing. She’s on vacation.”
An extended vacation that may result in the end of our marriage.

“I know,” Ervin agreed. “But trust me. You don’t want to be at tonight’s meeting.” He slapped Mark’s back. “I’m going to bat
for you, son. You can count on that.”

“Thanks.” Mark decided to heed Ervin’s advice and skip the meeting, choosing to hide in his office and arrange bookshelves
instead. Thus postponing the trip home to an empty house, for an empty evening. Again.

A LONE LAMP
in the corner cast a mild glow on the worn desk and gray utility carpet. Mark sat on the floor and alphabetized his seminary
books. Just above his shoulder, the window shade knocked in the wind, the fall breeze cleansing the stuffy room. Every once
in a while, the wind shifted, hitting the garbage bin and sent the drift inside.

Still, he kept the window open, not knowing the worst evil-the odors from musty carpet or the rotting smell from prayer dinner
leftovers.

He arranged book titles in groups. Angling his picture frames just so, he picked up a photo of his wedding day in a square
silver frame, tarnished at the edges. He rubbed at the discoloration, tilting it away from the shadows to better illuminate
the faces.

Surrounded by family, he towered over most of them. Amanda, pale and sweet, stood beside him, the whiteness of the gown stark
against her freckles. Happiness and anxiety on both their brows. He more stoic, she holding a rainbow of squashed flowers.

He heard a rumble of steps outside, the church’s side door slammed. The board meeting must be adjourned. Cigarette smoke filtered
through his shade, along with the murmur of male voices.

“Now, I’m not so sure I’m ready to just up and
fire
him,” one man said at full volume, obviously unaware of the open window or Mark’s presence inside. “Took us long enough to
get an associate. I hate the thought of starting over.”

This was not a conversation Mark wanted to overhear. Yet part of him, like a rubbernecker at a car wreck, was drawn to the
impending carnage. He stayed motionless.

“No one said anything about firing him. I’m saying we need to be in prayer over it.” The sanctimonious voice of Dale Ochs
blew in with a fresh exhalation of smoke. Noxious. “Consider what the Lord thinks is best and whether or not this man deserves
the time and the freedom to work on his marriage.”

“Freedom without a paycheck?” the other man tossed back.