Potter Springs (12 page)

“Sure,” she managed. The hope in his voice nearly crushed her. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great. So, I’ll see you in a little bit?”

“See you then. We’ve got more mushroom soup from Mrs. Zimmerman.”

“Lord, help us.” Mark sighed. He hated mushroom soup.

Amanda clicked the phone off as Tammy wrapped stubby arms around Bob’s neck and planted a fevered kiss on his face. She’d
won the van.

Amanda checked the wall clock. Eleven-thirty. She had just enough time to hop in the shower and clean up her breakfast mess.
With a little lipstick and a fresh outfit, she’d be ready. She rose from the couch, ran her hands over the buckled fabric,
and padded down the hall toward the shower.

Her husband was on his way home. Cave or not, she’d put on a happy face for him. Because raggedy dolls always wore smiles,
and she wasn’t about to disappoint him.

A
t Shady Springs Nursing Home for the Aged and Infirm, Mark followed the clipping boots of Dale Ochs down the flecked tile
hallway. They traveled deep into the nursing home’s labyrinth, past the decorated waiting room into the abyss that actually
held the patients. The stench-urine and feces blended with warmed-over cafeteria vegetables-nearly knocked Mark over.

“Mrs. Weatherby,” Dale called, stepping into a small room that held two beds and a recliner. Heavy curtains closed over a
single waist-high window. The television, a seventies model with bent rabbit ears, blared at top volume. Dale snapped it off.

In a corner, a white-haired woman sat like a withered bird in her cage, a steel wheelchair with thin rubber tires. She was
slumped over, but straightened at the click of the television’s manual dial and ensuing quiet.

“Hello.” Her vowels drew out like gasps and she formed a smile around toothless gums. She wore a pale dressing gown, buttoned
to the neck. Terry cloth slippers peeked from under the hem. Her toes poked out, revealing sparkly polish. A different color
for each thickened nail.

Another woman lay on the bed, her mouth open wide, eyes rolled to the back of her skull. She rasped like a leaky balloon,
clutching the daisy-print bedspread around deflated breasts. Her hands clawed the pilled polyester.

“She’s not one of ours.” Dale pointed to the sleeper and made no effort to whisper. “We’re here to serve you the body and
blood of our Lord Jesus Christ!” he hollered at Mrs. Weatherby.

“Ayesm”
Spittle ran out the corner of Mrs. Weatherby’s mouth.

“It’s time to prepare your heart to receive this great blessing, and I will pray for you,” Dale announced.

Mrs. Weatherby nodded. Dale arched a look at Mark as if to communicate,
Listen closely to how it’s done. You might learn something.

Mark cocked an eyebrow.
Go ahead, big boy.
He stayed by the door.

“Our Heavenly Father Great Almighty Jehovah God,” Dale bellowed in one breath. “We are gathered here today in this thine most
holy day, the day of the Sabbath, to join in communion of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ. We lift up to thee
at this time the heart and soul of this grave sinner, Mrs. Ruby Weatherby, and ask that thou wouldst forgive her for her trespasses,
which are many, and cleanse the blackness from her evil heart.”

Mrs. Weatherby tilted forward in the wheelchair and, for a terrifying second, Mark thought she might fall out. A low snore
escaped her.

Evidently, Dale was used to such wily actions as he thumped a hand on Mrs. Weatherby’s fluffy head, rousing her from her doze.

Startled, she made another unintelligible sound and looked at Mark. He put his palms together and closed his eyes to remind
her,
We’re praying, Mrs. Weatherby.
He winked and a wide grin spread over her features as she followed suit. She giggled like a naughty girl in Sunday school,
her wrinkled lids squashed shut.

Dale pursed his lips, then barreled on with the praying. “Thy word doth say that if we confess with our mouth that Jesus is
Lord and believeth in our hearts that thou hath raiseth”-he stumbled a little on all the
th’s
—“him from the dead, we shall be saved!” He took a deep breath, worn out from his own drama.

Dale thumped Mrs. Weatherby’s fragile crown again. She made no sound. “Mrs. Weatherby receives this bounty of thine true sacrifice,
the Holy Lamb of God, slain for her sins, and she doth pray she might be made worthy of such blessings.” Dale opened his eyes
and surveyed Mrs. Weatherby, clearly doubting such worthiness might occur anytime soon.

He dispensed the crackers and pop-top cup of juice with clinical formality. She might have been taking her afternoon vitamins.

The purple liquid dribbled down her chin as Dale ignored her, checking the chart for the next shut-in requiring communion.

Mark knelt in front of the wheelchair and drew a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the juice from Mrs. Weatherby’s
face, her skin like tissue drawn thin. He took care not to pull the creases and smiled into her cataract eyes. “Jesus loves
you, Mrs. Weatherby.”

She nodded and began humming. Mark recognized the tune. A child’s singsong favorite.
Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

“That’s right, Mrs. Weatherby.” Mark patted her hand, gentle for the swollen veins there. “We’ll see you next week.”

But by then she was already asleep.

MARK WAITED IN
the lobby while Dale met with the nursing home’s office manager. A bowl of potpourri sat on the table, contributing to the
more pleasant smell in the waiting room.

After serving communion to six more residents, Mark wanted nothing more than a steaming shower. Whether to cleanse the nursing-home
stench from his skin, or the experience of ministering with Dale, he wasn’t sure.

He’d give the man five more minutes. Leave him and his “you wait out here” control issues and walk home if he had to. He wished
he’d driven the church pickup rather than depend on Dale for a ride.

If only he had his jogging shoes, he’d be back on Mesquite Street in ten minutes flat.

“You must be Mark Reynolds.” A Southern voice poured over his right shoulder.

But he’d smelled her before he heard her-a musky perfume that reminded him of magnolias. Strong enough to overpower Shady
Springs’
eau de toilet.

He turned and saw an attractive woman carrying a large basket, briskly headed his way. She balanced just fine in three-inch
heels as she clicked up to his vinyl chair.

Mark hoped the stink from the nursing home didn’t cling to him like a demon aroma. “Yes, and you are?”

“Courtney Williams, president of Lakeview Community Ladies’ Guild.” Setting down her basket, she tossed her long blonde hair
and offered a manicured hand. “They told me all about you. My!” she exclaimed as he stood. “You
are
big! Football, right?”

“No, heredity. But I did play some.” Mark smiled and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.” He briefly wondered if the rest of
the guild looked like this. Christie Brinkley in the
Uptown Girl
phase. Big hair, lots of makeup, stunning in a shiny kind of way.

“Serving communion with Dale?” She made it sound like fighting for world peace, a truly heroic deed.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s
so
nice of y’all. You don’t see many people up here. Not even on Sundays.” She crossed her arms over a fitted top, knitted from
several sacrificial bunnies.

“Are you visiting someone?” Mark thought Courtney looked more ready for a photo shoot than an afternoon at the nursing home.

“Ruby Weatherby. Did you meet her?”

At Mark’s nod, she said, “She’s my Gran. We have a date every Sunday. Girlie day.” Courtney pointed to an array of polishes
in the basket.

The twinkly toes, Mark remembered. “I bet she enjoys that.”

“She does.” Courtney smiled. “It’s the simple things she likes now. We have a little lunch, a makeover, sing some songs. Sometimes
she participates, sometimes I feel like I’m flying solo. After meeting her”-Courtney shrugged-“you can imagine. Still,” she
said brightly, “she’s my Gran.”

“I’m sure she appreciates you.”

An old man squeaked by in a wheelchair, his back curved in a permanent comma. His bare legs stuck out like hairy Q-Tips, cotton
socks puddled at his ankles. He stopped his wheels about a foot away from Courtney and cricked his neck up at her. “You wanna
see my possum?” he invited, clawing at his bathrobe.

Without batting an eye, Courtney replied sweetly, “No, thank you, Mr. Pierson. Be good now and go on to your room.” She twirled
his wheelchair, pointed it down a corridor and gave a solid push.

Over his shoulder, Mr. Pierson glared at Mark. Clearly judging him a rival for Courtney’s affections. The old man wheeled
away, muttering.

“Listen.” Courtney brushed Mark’s arm for a bare instant.

The magnolia scent tickled his nose again. A good kind of tickle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to the housewarming party when you moved in. I’m a teacher at the elementary, and we had a
prep day.”

Mark noticed for the first time Courtney’s apple earrings. “Don’t worry about it. Although I’m sure my wife, Amanda, would
be happy to meet you.” He thought of Amanda at home, probably still in his pajamas, covered in blankets on the couch. Wool
socks instead of heels, soap instead of heady perfume. No dynamo outfit, no glossy smile. He pushed the comparison away.

“I know you’re just getting settled, but she really should come to the Ladies’ Guild kickoff luncheon. I can introduce her
around,” Courtney offered. “I know just about everybody.”

“Thanks, I’ll tell her.” Mark felt a surge of gratitude for Courtney’s diplomacy. Not once had the woman asked,
Where in the world has your wife been?

“Good.” She nodded, as if sealing the deal. Courtney bent to pick up the basket.

Mark tried hard not to linger on the deep V in the front of her sweater.

“And Mark”-she straightened-“may I call you Mark?”

“Sure.” He blinked.

“Well, Mark, if you need anything at all, just anything, you let me know.” She turned to leave, her pencil skirt snug over
her backside. “Oh,” she called. “And Amanda too.”

He watched her go, her heels tapping cheerfully.

“I see you’ve met our fair Courtney.” Dale stood at Mark’s elbow.

He hadn’t heard the man approach, even in his stacked cow-boy boots. Dale had slithered in without sound, like a prairie snake
just before the rattle.

Mark couldn’t help but wonder when he’d get bitten.

“You ready?” Mark was beginning to dislike the president of the board with an intensity he could taste.

Dale made no sign of moving. “She’s divorced, you know. No kids. Does just about everything at the church.”

Down the hall, Courtney stopped at Mrs. Weatherby’s door and fluttered a hand at the two men staring at her.

“Yep.” Dale jingled his keys. “You two’ll be working together quite a bit. Should be cozy—what with her being so easy on the
eyes.”

“Really?” Mark said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

T
he ladies
need
you.” Mark swung the doors on an armoire at Barry’s Fine Furniture. “What do you think of this one?”

“Cheap. See how it’s split already, in the corner?” Amanda thought they might never find what they needed, in all of Potter
Springs. Barry’s boasted plenty of powder blue velveteen and oak veneer, but they had yet to light on the perfect dining set.
Let alone bedroom pieces. “And no, they don’t need me.”

“Are you finding everything all right?” Barry himself trailed behind them, in gray polyester slacks and a Looney Tunes tie.
Apparently ecstatic to have real-live customers on a Tuesday afternoon. “That’s a fine chifforobe right there. You can stick
clothes in it, or a television. See the holes in the back, for the plug?” He made a punching thumbs-up gesture. “Versatile!”

“Thanks, we’re just looking.” Amanda led the way to the dining sets, away from the owner’s eavesdropping.