Authors: Michelle Stimpson
Mark
was careful to watch the rear and side view mirrors as the garage lowered
behind his 8-year-old Cadillac Escalade. Though his ride didn’t turn heads
anymore, he still made it a habit to survey his surroundings in case somebody
wanted to try him. Maybe he’d slack up a bit once they moved out of their
quaint 2500-square-foot home and into the mini-mansion behind security gates
Sharla had her heart set on. Until then, he would remain on high alert.
A
side effect of being raised in one of the roughest areas of Houston was a keen
awareness of his environment. “If you get caught slippin’, it’s your own
fault,” his father had taught him during one of their rare free-world visits.
Mark
had tried to teach his own son, Amani, how to look out for danger, but being
raised in a fairly safe, middle-class world had distanced Amani from the
lessons of living in survival mode. The boy had grown up in a world where kids
left their bicycles on porches outside at night and people actually turned in
lost wallets to the police.
Much
to Mark’s dismay, Amani hadn’t been in a fight in all his thirteen years. Mark
had been in at least ten brawls by the time he was Amani’s age. He’d won some
and lost some. Gave and took black eyes and busted lips with the best of ‘em.
No matter, he’d walked away each time knowing he could throw down when pushed
to the brink.
This
comfortable lifestyle Mark provided for his family had come at a cost.
Mark
took his key from the ignition, clutched his bag from the passenger’s seat and
made his way around Sharla’s bright red Benz toward the doorway of the laundry
room.
The
scent of fabric softener greeted him upon entrance. He wanted to be glad about
the pleasant odor, but he couldn’t. Sharla didn’t do the laundry. She’d hired
some older, foreign woman to do their cleaning and washing. The woman, whoever
she was, did an excellent job. But Mark had to wonder exactly what Sharla did
all day that warranted paying someone else to take care of the home he’d
provided for them.
Sharla
didn’t work. She hadn’t homeschooled Amani since he started junior high school.
She’d delegated most of her previously held duties as First Lady to other women
at the church, claiming that she needed to concentrate on home. Somehow,
“concentrating on home” got translated to finding someone else to clean the
house.
But
Mark knew better than to question Sharla. The house was her jurisdiction. So
long as she stayed within the family budget, he’d keep his mouth shut unless he
wanted to handle the laundry himself.
“I’m
home,” he announced, not really expecting a response. Just seemed like
something men on TV did.
He
hung his keys on one of the hooks magnetically attached to the stainless steel
refrigerator. He took off his tie and hung it on a bar chair, pried his
shoes off and left them under the kitchen table.
Sharla
would fuss. What else was new?
Mark
traipsed through the family room and up the staircase to his home office to
drop off the materials he’d comb through later. Down the hallway, he noticed
the blue glow of the big screen television coming from under the door to the
media room. He opened the door and found Amani stretched across the sectional
sofa.
“’Mani,
go to your bed,” Mark ordered softly, shaking his son’s shoulder.
Amani
gave a loud snort, scratched his head a few times, stretched, and then obeyed
his father’s directive. “Night, Dad.”
“Night,
man.”
As
Amani brushed past, Mark noticed that they were nearly the same height. Another
six months of this growth spurt and the youngest person would also be the
tallest person in the house.
Mark
grabbed the remote control and switched off the TV as his son trudged away to
his own bedroom.
Back
downstairs in his own space, Mark was surprised to find Sharla still up. She
was seated in their bathroom, fooling with her hair.
Well,
the hair that somebody put on her head. Granted, her style was always on point,
but Mark couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his wife’s
real
hair.
“Hey,
babe,” he said.
“Mmm,”
she moaned. To be fair, she did have several hairpins in her mouth. Apparently,
the current style required her to position her mane a certain way before lying
down on the satin pillowcases she dared not sleep without.
Mark
stood in the bathroom’s entry admiring his wife. He loved to see her like
this—no makeup, hair swept off her face, a T-shirt and loose shorts. Her
skin had always been a pool of caramel beckoning him to dive in when he studied
her for more than a few minutes. Though she had gained some weight over the years,
a part of him actually liked the fact that there was more of her to love.
Watching
her breasts jiggle as she struggled to shove the hairpins in place reminded
Mark that he was indeed a lucky man.
“What?”
Sharla piped up.
“I’m
just looking at you.”
“Why?”
“Because
you’re beautiful.”
She
smacked her full lips. “Not beautiful enough for you to come home before
midnight, though.”
Why
does she always have to ruin a good thing?
Mark stuffed both hands into his pockets. As a matter of
habit, he checked his phone’s screen to see if there were any new texts or
email messages.
Sharla
rolled her eyes and carried on with the business of securing her hair. “That’s
what I thought.”
He
decided to backtrack. “Sorry I’m so late getting home.”
“I’m
not surprised,” she quipped.
Mark
leaned his weary body against the doorframe, trying to decide whether or not he
had enough energy left to wiggle through his wife’s brick-hard attitude and
find out what was really bugging her tonight.
He
gave himself the benefit of the doubt; maybe her problem had nothing to do with
him. Anyone in her family could have put her in a bad mood. Amani might have
said something crazy, something he’d been doing a lot more lately.
For
the record, he’d give her a chance to vent. “What’s really going on, babe?”
She
shook her head. “If you don’t know by now, I can’t help you.”
He
racked the last bits of his brain. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m too tired
for guessing games tonight.”
“And
I’m too tired to repeat myself.”
She
wrapped a black mesh thing-a-ma-jig around the base of her head. Somehow, it
kept its place.
Mark
figured there must have been some kind of Velcro strip holding it in place.
Sharla was right up there with the best of them when it came to keeping herself
up. As he understood it, this was something the women in her First Wives’
Fellowship taught her she needed to do.
Mark
remembered now. “The church?”
“Bingo.
Mark, when are you going to start
delegating
more?”
“I
do,” he barely answered. “I delegate what I can. But some responsibilities at
New Vision can’t be pawned off on other people.”
“How
about the responsibility of being a husband to your wife and a father to your
son here
at eight hundred Evanshire Street?”
“What
do you want me to do, Sharla? Ignore my calling?”
She
pouted, “I know you have to do God’s will. But I also know that I did not sign
up to be a pastor’s wife. I married a businessman, not a preacher.”
With
that, Mark dismissed himself and made his way back upstairs to the office.
They’d had this conversation too many times in the past few months for him to
count, and it never ended with compromise. Eventually Sharla would take a look
around and see that she had it pretty good. Once she came back to herself,
she’d offer to make him a red velvet cake—a most welcomed apology. He
would have to wait out her current tidal wave of attitude issues.
In
the meanwhile, all Mark could do was pray that the Lord would mature his wife
in Christ to the point where she could appreciate what God was doing with New
Vision. He’d keep praying for her until then, because it wouldn’t be fair for
him to have to choose between his God and his wife.
Mark
set aside what had just happened with Sharla in order to finish reviewing his
canned sermon. But the tension resurfaced as soon as he turned off the light in
his office and headed back downstairs again.
Part
of him hoped Sharla was sleep already. At least she wouldn’t be awake to give
him the cold shoulder. He always found it much easier to drift off with the
comforting idea that Sharla didn’t realize he was in bed than to think she was
ignoring him.
Mark
showered and climbed into their King-sized sleigh bed for what might as well be
considered a nap. A captivating glow from the pool’s lighting system streamed
in through the window.
When
he and Sharla spent their first night in the house, they had both been so
spellbound by the blue radiance, they’d stayed up nearly half the night in the
hot tub section drinking virgin strawberry daiquiris and enjoying sensual
pleasures.
Memories
of how much they used to enjoy spending time with one another kept Mark from
sleep.
Really, how long has it been?
He
listened closely for Sharla’s breathing pattern. Shallow and fast. She was
still awake.
Slowly,
he slipped his left hand across her waist. Rubbed his foot against her leg.
Waited for some reciprocity.
Since
she didn’t show any sign of resistance, Mark nudged his chin against her neck.
Kissed her ear the way he knew she liked it.
“Mark,
if you want to make love, why don’t you just say it?” Sharla blared.
“Because
I’m trying to
show
it.” He nibbled on her ear.
Sharla
shot up straight in bed. “What I want you to
show
me is that you care
about me and our son. You didn’t even
ask
about the conference with
Amani’s counselor yesterday.”
Finally,
Mark had a clue about his wife’s extended attitude. “Did you tell me about it?”
“Yes.
I sent you a text, since I didn’t see you Thursday
at all
.”
Mark
vaguely remembered seeing Sharla’s text flash across his screen, but all it
said was, “call me.” He hadn’t seen the message until after the YoungLife
fundraiser at the community center. By then it was almost ten o’clock and he
was on his way home. Sharla was sleep when he got back, so he guessed it must
not have been important enough for her to wait up. Maybe she’d figured out whatever
was on her mind earlier.
“Amani’s
grades are ridiculous. Four C’s, a B, and only one A. And I had to sit there
and let her tell me all this
without
you,” she stabbed at him with
words.
How
the heck did we go from almost making love to discussing report cards?
“I didn’t even know, Sharla. I’m sorry.
But can we talk about this
later
?”
“Like
you’re going to actually be awake and ready to talk when you finish doin’ your
business? Yeah, right.” She gave a sarcastic laugh.
“How
is it
my
business? This is
our
business,” Mark corrected her.
“You
can’t just spend all day at the church, come home after midnight, spend another
hour in your study, and then expect me to roll over and play lovey-dovey with
you,” she snarled, her delicate face marred with anger.
With
his heart rate still slightly elevated, Mark tried again. “Look, I’ll talk to
‘Mani tomorrow. But right now, baby”—he ventured to kiss her shoulder
again—“it’s about me and you.”
Sharla
balled a handful of covers into her fist and yanked the mass over her head as
she resumed her face-down, off-limits stance in bed.
It
took every ounce of godliness in Mark to keep from entertaining the irony of
refusing advances from a stranger only to come home and face rejection from his
wife.
Sharla
was angry with herself for losing sleep again over Mark. She knew the routine,
knew her husband’s grueling schedule and his level of dedication to the church.
For all intents and purposes, New Vision was Mark’s mistress.
“Amani,
take a bite of turkey bacon at least,” she said to her son.
“Mom,
I already told you. I’m not hungry.” He frowned.
There
it was again—that look of defiance on her son’s face that sent something
through Sharla every time she saw it. Made her count backwards from ten. “Get
up off your behind and eat this doggone bacon right now,” she ordered him.
Amani
sighed heavily as he drug himself from his spot on the couch in front of the
television to the kitchen bar. He shoved an entire piece of bacon into his
mouth, chewed a few times, then swallowed it probably nearly whole. “Happy
now?”
“You
wait until I see your father.”
“Good
luck with that,” Amani smirked.
Sharla
flew to his side, pointed her finger in his face and threatened, “Forget your
daddy, you gon’ make me slap you.”
With
a blank stare, Amani asked, “You’re going to slap me because I’m not hungry?”
“No,
I’m gonna
slap
you for talkin’
smart
,” she clarified.
“You
want me to talk
stupid
?” he fired back.
Sharla
shoved Amani’s ear with her palm. He caught himself on one of the kitchen table
chairs and slid into the seat laughing, “Man, Mom, that was amazingly
hilarious.”
“Have
you lost your mind? Who do you think you’re talking to?” She towered over him,
breathing heavily. In an instant, Sharla had a vision: She was choking Amani with
every ounce of strength in her arms. She could visualize him clawing at her
hands, struggling to breathe while her French-tipped fingernails pressed deeper
into his flesh.
The
image was so vivid, so surreal that she had to take a step away from her son.
This
child is literally making me crazy.
Sharla
shook her head, forcing herself back to reality.
Though
Amani held onto his smile for its sarcastic effect, Sharla could tell her son
was confused by her actions.
“Let’s
go.”
She
rinsed the breakfast dishes and quickly threw them in the dishwasher. She drove
to Amani’s school on autopilot and then went straight to the church.
“Hi
Jonathan, I’m here to see Pastor. Is he in with anybody?” she panted from her
rush into the building.
“No,
he’s alone.”
“Thank
God,” Sharla sighed as she knocked on Mark’s door while simultaneously opening
it. She stormed into Mark’s study and plopped herself down in the guest chair.
Mark
closed the manila folder full of papers he’d obviously been studying. He tilted
his forehead slightly and asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I
think I could have killed Amani today.”
Mark’s
throaty laugh scraped up Sharla’s right side and down her left. He rested his
elbow on the desk, his chin in one hand. If she weren’t so flustered, she might
have appreciated her husband’s buttery brown skin and perfectly straight,
periodically whitened teeth.
“Sharla,
he’s a teenager.”
“I
know he’s a teenager, Mark, but this is not about him. This is about
me
.
I’m telling you that I nearly
lost
it today.”
Again,
the patronizing grin on her husband’s face stood between them.
“Are
you listening to me? Is
anybody in this family
listening to me?”
Once
she raised her voice an octave, Mark seemed to be getting a clue. “Baby, I hear
you. I’m just telling you that Amani is testing his independence, turning into
a young man—”
“Well,
he’s a
young
man who won’t make it to be an
old
man if he keeps
this up. I don’t understand what makes a teenage boy think he can talk to his
Momma any kind of way—”
“Now,
wait a minute. Being disrespectful is not part of the plan,” Mark finally
changed his tune.
“I’m
glad you agree. You need to have a man-to-man with him, Mark. I’m serious. I
sat there and actually thought through what it would feel like to choke our
son.”
By
then, Mark had already flipped open his iPad case, entered the passcode, and
swiped a few times. “I’m booked for the next couple of evenings. How about
Thursday? Does ’Mani have track practice or an ROTC meeting?”
Sharla
set both elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. “You’re not
listening to me. This is ridiculous. Saturday night you said you’d talk to him
on Sunday.”
“Yeah,
but you know the elders’ meeting went long after service. By the time I got
home, ‘Mani was already gone to...wherever you let him go most of the evening.”
“What
do you mean, wherever
I
let him go?” Sharla crossed her arms and leaned
her body into one corner of the chair.
Mark
shrugged. “If he’s acting up, he has no business going anywhere. Like Saturday
night. If his grades are as bad as you say they are, he shouldn’t have been
upstairs in the media room watching television. He needs consequences.”
Never
fails.
“So this is my
fault now, huh?”
Mark
raised an eyebrow. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
Sharla
slapped both hands on her thighs, a move she’d performed almost unconsciously since
her high school cheerleading days. “I can see where this is going. I’m out.”
She
grabbed the handles of her Louis Vuitton bag and stood. In her most
professional secretary’s voice, she mocked, “Just, um, put your only child on
your calendar whenever you get a chance, okay? In the meanwhile, I’ll keep
doing everything wrong, okay?”
Mark
stepped around the desk, approaching her. “Sharla—”
Sharla
held out both palms to stop him. “No, no. Don’t get up, Pastor Carter. Sit back
down and continue with whatever church or community business this is you’ve got
going here, benefitting I don’t know how many other little boys in Houston.”
She knew the act would soon be over because the tears were beating at the back
of her eyes. “Carry on. Keep on servin’ the Lawd, Pastor.”
Mark
followed Sharla all the way to the side exit asking her, calmly, to stop and
come back to his office. But she wouldn’t listen; couldn’t listen without
breaking down in front of him. She ignored his pleas, hopping into her car and
driving away even as he stood at the door watching her leave.
The
whole scene made her even angrier. He’d chase her only as far as he could go
without walking outside of the church. He wouldn’t leave his
true
home
for her.
As
she made a right onto the busy street, which was partially responsible for
making their six-year-old church such a success, Sharla wondered if she was
wrong for wanting her husband to put her and Amani before the church.
She’d
been right by Mark’s side when he founded New Vision in a vacated grocery
story. No woman had been a happier helpmate than Sharla when this whole thing
first started. She’d typed up church bulletins, helped clean up after services,
called the visitors and personally invited them to return to New Vision.
Tears
traveled down Sharla’s cheeks as she made the short trip back home. When she
thought of all the people who had given their lives to Christ at the church’s
altar, a sense of shame enveloped her. The church couldn’t be a bad thing.
I’m
being selfish
.
Maybe
she was the bad one. After all, she’d just sat there and imagined strangling
the life out of her own son. And then came another thought—one Sharla
rarely entertained, but nonetheless one that surfaced whenever she
second-guessed her parenting skills.
Maybe
this is why God didn’t bless me to give birth to a child.