Potter Springs (28 page)

Trust you? I’m not sure I even
like
you.
“But what am I supposed to do? Wait in limbo? No, don’t answer that.” Amanda thought about Mark, and the waiting she’d forced
upon him.

“That’s why I’m here.” Marianne tilted her head to the side, tiny pearls shining at her lobes. “The entertainment committee
has arrived!” She reached across the table, careful of the cooling tea, and squeezed Amanda’s arm. Girlfriendish. “What shall
we do first?”

“I don’t exactly feel like-”

“Nonsense.” The comrade tone disappeared in an instant. Instructive Marianne back in full force. “I’ve traveled all this way
and I want to see Laguna Madre. Everything, the shops, the sights-”

“There’s really not much-”

“Well, let’s start with that ocean out there. You’ve got a nice color to you.”

Unbelievable. Instead of the usual zinger, an actual compliment from Queen Bee.

“Courting cancer, no doubt, but when in Rome…,” her mother-in-law remarked in a sing-song. Finished mangling the flowers,
she stood from the table and tugged a polka-dot bathing suit, complete with granny skirt, from the nearby bag. “Shall we?”

A
brass sculpture on the desk displayed a wiry man dangling high above a three-dimensional cube.
THINKING… OUTSIDE THE BOX
, read the inscribed stand. “Let me get this straight. You want the car back?” The swivel chair groaned under Steve Boyd’s
weight.

“Yes.” Thankful to be in the warm office, Mark rubbed the red from his fingertips.

They’d gone over this several times in the Hemp’s Used Motorway parking lot, frost glistening on the car hoods, before Mark
suggested to the manager they step inside.

Mark hoped for a cup of coffee, but judging from Steve’s irritated half-twists in the chair, he didn’t expect any to materialize.

“The same car you traded in over a month ago. For the beaut. Green Tourister. Full size, right?” Steve Boyd shook his head.
“Great price on that van. I remember.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you.”

“Nearly
gave
it to y’all.” The used-car manager spoke with resentment. “For the Lord’s work, you said.”

Mark steered him back to the topic. “About the Toyota-”

“God doing a little downsizing?” Steve snickered at his own joke. “Jesus in a hatchback!”

“Where is it?” Mark bit down on his irritation.

“Gone.”

“I realize that, but can you tell me-”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Got the signature from your wife in the mail. Not your car anymore. Not your business.”

Mark concentrated on a mustard stain on Steve’s tie. He exhaled slowly and smoothed the tension in his forehead. “You don’t
understand. It wasn’t really my car in the first place.”

Steve Boyd’s fleshy neck turned red. “Are you meanin’ to tell me you traded in a hot one, ’cause preacher or not I’ll-”

“No, no. It belonged to my wife. Her car.” Mark still remembered her panicked look when he gave her the van. The pain in her
voice when she’d asked,
But where is
my car?

He hadn’t realized at the time how his trading the Toyota hit her personally. By disregarding another of her treasures, he’d
wounded her deeper than the loss of metal and steel.

He couldn’t make up for the other loss. The real one. The baby. There was no replacing a life, however much he wished he could.

This, he could do. He’d make restitution. Even if it cost him his last dollar, and he had to deal with every redneck between
here and Chitapee.

“Oh yeah.
Mrs.
Reynolds,” Steve grunted. “Red hair, mad as a burnt rat. Tried to renege on the deal.”

“That’s her. Except the rat part. Anyway, it was
my
deal, not hers. I made a mistake, and I’m trying to fix it.” Mark wondered if a bribe would help. He had emptied their meager
savings this morning.

Then he’d driven the church truck to EZ Pawn, finding the dilapidated shop in an aging strip center. He hefted the guitar
case from behind the upholstered seat for the last time. Inside, dusty electronics and a tattooed clerk waited. He handed
the Martin over, its panels gleaming like gold, and signed it away.

He remembered the party at Pleasant Valley when they gave him the guitar. The blessings with the gift.
Wherever he takes you… the Lord will use it to his glory….

The bills in his hand seemed so light after the heft of the instrument, but he counted each dollar as a step toward Amanda.
Real glory. He hadn’t looked back as he left the shop and drove toward Hemp’s, praying for a miracle.

Steve uncrossed his sausage arms and pointed a finger across the desk. “I’m not taking the van back. You got that? A deal’s
a deal.”

“So I hear.”

“But if you’re dead set on the import”-Steve huffed in disgust-“I may be able to point you in the right direction.”

“Anything. Whatever you can do.”

“It’d have to be a cash transaction… and bring it with you.”

“Where’s the car?”

“Out at my cousin’s place. Bought it for his daughter. She’s got three tickets for speeding in that tin can, he’s threatening
to sell. You might get him to talk if you show up with the money in hand. Tell him I sent you.”

* * *

BENNY ARRIVED RIGHT
on time, tires squealing black marks in his driveway. This time, the passenger seat was empty.

“Thanks for the lift.” Mark climbed in. Small seeds rolled in a groove on the dash when he slammed the Pinto’s door.

“Sure, dude.” Benny’s hair appeared freshly combed, and his Quiet Riot T-shirt held no trace of Chee·tos.

“You look nice.”

Benny grinned and cranked up the stereo.

“You know where it is?”

“Yeah.” Benny left Mesquite Street shaking in his wake. The cool wind blasted through the open windows, picking up the music
and tossing it in Mark’s ears.

He felt about sixteen again, and liked it.

Twenty minutes later, by great fortune or divine intervention, they happened to drive up to the cousin’s place right in the
middle of a domestic disturbance.

The teenager, a skinny girl with buckteeth, shouted at her father in the dusty front yard just as they arrived. “You
cain’t
ground me from it, it’s
my
car and you
gave
it to me!”

“That’s Jessie.” Benny smoothed his eyebrows.

“You know her?”

“Dude, why do you think I gave you a ride?” Benny looked incredulous at Mark’s stupidity.

Mark felt almost thirty, and liked it.

“I’ll sell it, I swear I will!” the potbellied father shouted. “I cain’t afford no more gol-durned tickets!”

Happily, Steve Boyd’s cousin, the irate father,
did
want to sell. He took Mark’s offer without dickering, while Jessie and Benny circled each other like roosters in the yard.

Jessie swore vengeance and bad behavior when her father announced the transaction, but Mark thought the tirade might be more
for Benny’s benefit.

“Let’s go,” Mark said to the young janitor, who sat beside Jessie on an abandoned tractor tire, pulling at weeds in the dirt.

“Later,” Benny said to the girl.

“Later,” she echoed, jutting her hip.

The cousin promised to deliver the vehicle himself within the hour, straight to Mark’s driveway.

A funny clanking sound in the Toyota’s engine announced the prompt arrival later that afternoon. Signing the papers, Mark
guessed Jessie must have driven like she talked-loud, fast and irreverent. He took the car to AutoZone, cringing at every
ominous clunk. There, he had just enough money to purchase an extensive car manual, with the rest of the savings allocated
for trip funds.

It would be impossible to bring the car to a real mechanic, because of his self-imposed schedule and severely flattened wallet.

He’d just have to read the book and see if he could make sense of it himself. His gut sank as he pulled in the driveway, wondering
if his plans had enough holes to drive that minivan through.

If only Amanda were here. He flipped through the intricate drawings and instructions. After all her tutelage in Ben Thompson’s
garage, she’d have this thing running clean in no time.

Of course, if Amanda were here, he wouldn’t be trying to squeeze a lifetime’s worth of mechanical knowledge into one afternoon.

If Amanda were here, the fire under him would be less hot. The crazy idea of driving across Texas to go get her, to give her
the Toyota and his heart, would never have entered his mind.

He popped the hood, book in hand, and tried to make sense of Greek. Actually, he knew some Greek, thanks to seminary. This
looked much harder.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER
, Mark sat on the porch, his head in his hands. He’d just have to get a plane ticket. Rent a car near the border. Beg his
mother-in-law for money and show up empty-handed.

He’d wanted to wow Amanda. What he’d managed was worse than a whimper. He sat alone in his defeat.

Mrs. Zimmerman had already been over three times, once with soup and twice to walk Princess. Checking things out, nearly dying
from curiosity. She’d run out of excuses, he guessed.

Down the street, a diesel engine rumbled around the corner. Mark lifted his head, watching as a white dually truck, big as
a Greyhound bus, barreled down the road. It stopped in front of his house.

Men eased out, broad chested and deep bellied, boots thumping on the curb.

Joe Don Wexley, Jimmy Underwood and Ervin Plumley.

Ervin shuffled up the driveway, carrying two Thermoses. “Coffee,” he announced, handing one over. “Been a long day?”

“You have no idea.” Mark unscrewed the cap, the pungent aroma rising like incense. “What’s up?”

“Aw, a little bit of nothing.” Ervin leaned against the porch rail. “Heard you got the car.”

“Yep.”

“No, I mean I
heard
it. Drivin’ by the Dairy Queen earlier.” Ervin paused to swig and smacked his lips against the heat. “She running good?”
He asked, polite.

Good as a garbage can on wheels.
“Nope,” Mark said.

“That a fact?”

“That, Erv, is a fact.”

“Too bad.”

Joe Don and Jimmy rambled forward, identical in thick corduroy jackets, Wranglers, and with silver Thermoses. After shaking
hands, Mark repeated the same conversation with them, almost verbatim.

They murmured their condolences and sipped the steaming brew, quiet for a few minutes.

“Hey, Mark.” Ervin broke the silence.

“Hey, yourself.”

“I ever tell you how handy Joe Don is, what-all he did on your house?”

“Yessir. Never could thank you enough, Joe Don. Sure appreciate it.”

“Aw.” Joe Don scuffed a boot.

“And Jimmy here… you know he carries the mail.”

“Sure do. Does a good job.” Mark nodded at Jimmy, who tipped his John Deere cap in response.

“Yeah, but you know what he did before that?”

“No, sir.”

Ervin grinned from ear to ear as Jimmy rocked back on his heels. “Auto mechanic.”

“That so?” An internal click sounded for Mark. A sense of rightness. An alignment with the world. He smiled.

“Whaddya say we have a looksee?” Jimmy suggested, nonchalant.

Mark thought he could have kissed Jimmy on the spot. Wisely, he kept such thoughts to himself. “Sounds good.”

Joe Don went to the truck and removed tools from the metal chest.

Jimmy revved the Toyota, poking his head out the open window to listen. Engine heat made puffy clouds in the chill.

Ervin stood guard, hovering over the motor, tweaking gadgets here and there. He shouted something to Jimmy, who gunned the
gas again.

Angels in work boots.

Saving Mark without ceremony or grandeur, or even much conversation. It was their way.

At that moment, the sight in his driveway moved him more than any sermon he’d ever heard. No PowerPoint, no expensive orchestra,
no high rise cathedral.

Just the simple service of men, the smell of gas and oil, and the taste of hot, potent coffee. Real and tangible, it pressed
Mark’s throat and filled his eyes.

He blinked it away, brushing his hands on his jeans, and joined them in their task.

Once strangers, and then friends. Now, these men, they were his brothers.