Potter Springs (19 page)

“Can I see him?”

Her mother checked her slender Rolex, the hot sparkle of diamonds out of place in the astringent room. “Not yet. We’ve got
a while before they’ll let us back in.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. One minute, he was working on the car, and the next I heard a loud crash. He knocked his tool chest
over when he fell. It was early, just past breakfast. I wasn’t dressed yet.”

This was not a revelation. Amanda’s mother, barring any critical social engagements, sometimes stayed in her cashmere robe
and slippers until well past the noon hour.

Amanda nodded and moved a magazine so she could sit closer.

“And he just lay there, on the garage floor.” Katy wrapped thin arms around herself, as if the cement from the garage had
chilled her too. “Wrenches and metal things all over the place. Splayed out like he’d been run over, looking at me. For help.
He couldn’t talk.” She ran her hands through golden blonde hair. Grease smudges spoiled her French manicure. “The
look
on his face. My God, if I live the rest of my life, I never want to see that look again.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Amanda repeated her question. She’d first asked it hours before, frantic on the phone after Mark
told her the news.

Katy, between uncharacteristic tears, had told her she didn’t know, but to get to Houston as soon as possible. That she might
not get to see her father alive again if she didn’t hurry.

So she had, knowing as she turned the minivan’s key that she’d made a deal with the devil. Steve Boyd, through circumstances
outside his control, had sold her the metallic green beast.

Crying as she crossed the county line, Amanda was unsure if her tears fell for her marriage, her father or the loss of her
car. Maybe all three.

“The paramedics said it was a heart attack,” Katy explained. “A failure. Blood pressure, poor diet, obesity. Your father hit
all the high points.”

“Who knows? Maybe this’ll be the wake-up call he needs.”

“Sure it will.” Katy rubbed the back of her neck, stretching from side to side. She squeezed Amanda’s hand. “Thanks for coming.
Was the ride all right? Did your car make it?”

Eleven hours at breakneck speed, eating prepackaged gas-station food and arriving in Houston’s crawling masses after dark.
“Piece of cake,” she lied.

“I bet.” Katy pulled a cigarette pack from her purse and dug for her lighter.

“I got a new car,” Amanda added. “A minivan actually.”

“Really? How interesting.”

If Katy had been in top form, she might have run further with this information.

“Have you eaten anything?” Eyeing the unlit cigarette in her mother’s hand, Amanda hoped to ward off another confrontation
with the staff of Houston Memorial Hospital.

“Some crackers. Coffee.”

“Let’s go get something,” Amanda said. “I saw a cafeteria downstairs. Is it all right to leave?”

“The next visitation’s not for a while. I get to go in every hour, for about ten minutes.” Katy stuffed the cigarette pack
back in the tapestry handbag, pulling it to her shoulder. Miraculously, the accessory almost tied her mismatched ensemble
together.

Amazing,
thought Amanda.
Only my mother.

“It’s crazy.” Katy led the way down the bright hallway. “You live your whole life with a person, and when they think it’s
the end, they’ll only give you minutes on the hour.”

The silver doors slid shut and Katy pressed the button for the first floor. “Minutes on the hour.” She applied bloodred lipstick
in the elevator’s mirrored sheen. Gazing at her reflection, she murmured, “And that’s not enough.”

H
eckuva job, Mark. Heckuva job.” Ervin Plumley, in a curly wig and painted face, held an oozing chili dog in one hand and nearly
tore Mark’s arm off with the other.

The church’s gym smelled of dirty socks and cotton candy. Children darted like fireflies, their rolling laughter echoed through
the crowded area. Fall Festival, at full capacity.

“Thanks, Ervin!” Shouting over the din, Mark returned the handshake in the West Texas palm-crushing tradition. “I didn’t do
it by myself. You, the deacons-everybody-deserve the credit. Your work on the setup, especially.”

Mark had enlisted an army of helpers, charming the Ladies’ Guild and sweet-talking the board. As a result, his vision had
evolved into the biggest carnival Lakeview Community Church had ever hosted.

“Shoot.” Lakeview’s head pastor wiped spilled chili off his arm. “Wasn’t no step for a stepper.” Ervin took another bite,
then darted a look around. “Oh, Lord. There’s Peggy. I’m fixin’ to be in trouble.” He crammed the tail end of the dog in,
poking the bun with blunt fingers. “Not good for the cholesterol,” he confessed through chipmunk cheeks.

“Ervin, I see you!” Penny marched up in a Mother Hubbard costume. “Just how do you expect to sleep tonight with all that chili?
Not to mention candy!”

Ervin flashed a guilty look, his speech stunted by processed foods.

Peggy put her hands on her hips. “Don’t think I haven’t watched you put away more sweets than the Easter Bunny. It’s gluttony,
Ervin. Sheer gluttony. Save some for the children.” She kissed him on the cheek and slapped his belly, largely hidden inside
the clown jumpsuit.

“Hello, Moses,” she greeted Mark. “Where’d you get that outfit?”

He lifted the robe’s hem from the floor. “From the children’s supply closet. I think it might be left over from a pageant.”
Mark scratched his face under the gray beard. Holding up two arched cardboard tablets, he added, “I made the commandments
myself.”

“Well, it’s a fine party,” Peggy praised. “You’ve done a wonderful job, our best yet. Although, you might check the booths.
I think someone’s made off with the rings for the bottle toss.” After patting Mark’s shoulder, she strode away.

Leaving Ervin to digest his junk food, Mark found the missing rings and mixed among the masses. Children ran wild in costumes,
carrying bags full of candy and prizes. They bounced in the inflatable castle, discarding tennis shoes and cowboy boots outside
the plastic door. They ate corn dogs and cupcakes, and raced delirious on a communal sugar high.

Mark crossed his arms over his long brown tunic and nodded, satisfied.

Happy children equaled happy church members.

Pick-a-Duck, judging by the waiting kids snaked around the corner, reigned as the favorite booth. The zigzag line almost blocked
the balloon dart display. For safety’s sake, Mark corralled the partygoers into a more uniform order.

“Every duck’s a winner,” called Courtney Williams over the throng.

Shaking his head, Mark wondered why she had requested to host the Pick-a-Duck. That woman ran a mile a minute. She’d done
huge amounts of work for the carnival. Getting Sunday schools to sign up in shifts, soliciting donors for the raffle and persuading
women into baking for the Cakewalk.

At the booth, plastic ducks bobbed in a toddler pool, their flat bottoms marked with a winning number, 1, 2 or 3. Children
plucked dripping fowl from the makeshift pond, showing the hostess to get their reward. A great game.

The only problem was the wait. Squirming in line, a tired Cinderella wiped her nose on a glittery sleeve. “Is it my turn yet?”

“Just a minute, hon. You hang in there.” In what looked like a custom fit Alice-in-Wonderland costume, Courtney appeared unruffled
in spite of her booming business.

“My, don’t you look pretty!” Courtney told the princess, brushing back a smooth lock of her own real-life Alice hair. She
smiled, lip gloss gleaming.

Dazzled, the tot seemed prepared to wait an eternity for her chance at a duck.

“Looks like you’ve got a handle on this,” Mark complimented.

“I hope so.” Courtney laughed and waited on her next customer. “Two tickets, please.”

“I can’t thank you enough for all your help on this thing.” He meant it. With her advice and organization, the carnival proved
to be a whopping success.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” She reached behind her for a rubber snake and plunked it in the winner’s bag. “Here you go, a black
one.”

The satisfied pirate showed gap-toothed approval.

“Are you set here?” Mark asked. “Have enough candy?”

“Let’s see.” She bent down to dig under the table, revealing a perfectly tied black bow on her narrow waist, long ribbons
flowing over puffy Alice skirts. “I’m good on candy bars and snakes. Glow balls and erasers are running low, but I can make
do.”

“No problem. I’ll get them for you.”

“Thank you so much.” She turned back to the game. “Number one. That’s a glow ball. How’s pink, you little cutie?” The toddler
pulled a shriveled thumb out of her mouth to grab the toy.

“I’ll put a rush on it.” Mark grinned at Courtney’s patience and headed for the supply closet. Luckily, he’d ordered plenty,
not wanting a lack on his first watch as carnival planner. He passed busy ticket-sales counters. The lockboxes filled with
dollar bills, and the ladies rolled out tickets by the dozens.

He couldn’t wait to compare this year’s grosses with last year’s, and hoped to beat it by 50 percent.

A loud “Hey, Mark!” interrupted his mission to the storage room.

Jimmy Underwood, the owner of the gravelly twang, leaned against the brick wall with a cardboard bowl of jalapeño nachos.
Beside him sat his dark-haired wife, holding a baby.

Mark ran through his memory, pulling up a mental file. Mail carrier. Deacon. Husband to Missy, Amanda’s friend from the retreat.
Keeping church members organized in his mind was a special gift, and uséful. “Hey there, Jimmy. How’s the route treating you?”

“Can’t complain. Or I could.” He snickered. “But since we’re in church, I better not.”

“Hello, Missy. Taylor’s getting bigger by the minute.” Mark squeezed a chubby little thigh. The baby gurgled at him, and Mark
caught a scent of powder that teased the back of his throat like springtime allergies.

Thumping the infant’s padded rear in a well-rehearsed rhythm, Missy agreed. “He eats like a horse.”

“Where’s
your
better half?” A gob of cheese glommed on to Jimmy’s mustache.

In complete view, Missy kicked her husband with the toe of her boot.

Mark pushed a nearby chair under a table, clearing the walkway. “She’s in Houston. You might remember her dad had a heart
attack?”

“Oh, that’s right. How’s he doin’ anyways? He gonna make it?” Jimmy licked his fingers.

“The doctors think so. He’s at home now, but it’ll take a while for him to get back on his feet.” Using some discarded napkins,
Mark wiped the spotless table.

“Been there awhile now, hain’t she?”

For this astute remark, Jimmy received another swift blow to the shin.

“What the … ouch! Missy, what’s gotten into you?” Rubbing his leg, Jimmy shook his head at Mark. “Must be the hormones.”

Missy turned as pink as a glow ball.

“Recovery’s complicated.” Mark ignored the squabble. “They don’t want to rush things. Mandy’s a big help to her mother.” Noticing
he’d unconsciously crushed the napkins in his fist, he tossed the wad, à la Michael Jordan, into a nearby can.

He missed.

“Anyway, Jimmy, you know church life.” He retrieved the fallen napkins from the floor. “It’ll keep you plenty busy.”

“I heard that.” The mail carrier grunted and swabbed up more cheese with a chip.

Balancing the baby on one hip, Missy stood and caught Mark’s sleeve. “You call us if you need anything. And tell Amanda. Tell
her that I…” She bit her lip. “That
we’re
thinking of her.”

“Will do,” he said. “But as for me, really, I’m fine.”

In the supply closet, the comforting smell of animal crackers and construction paper greeted him. He leaned his forehead against
the door, shutting himself inside for a few treasured seconds. Composing his Pastor Mark mask before it fell off and revealed
the crumbling man underneath.

Each day, he woke, and in the intangible moments before full awareness, he knew peace. A calmness, a feeling of safety. Then
he’d remember.
Amanda is gone. My house is empty. My life is empty, and none of this means anything without her.
The sense of security ripped away, leaving him to grieve through his day behind the falseness of his smile. Precious Pastor
Mark, always peaceful, always together. Perfect.

The only one who knew his imperfections was over three hundred miles away. And judging from last night’s phone call, she had
no plans to return anytime soon.

“When are you coming home?” A broken record, he played it nightly. In the dark of their bedroom on Mesquite Street, where
his own vulnerability wouldn’t disgust him.

“I’m not sure. I can’t describe it, what it’s like to see Daddy this way.” Amanda paused. “He needs me here, I think.”

I need you too,
Mark wanted to plead. But he’d been on enough guilt trips, paid for by his mother, to try to manipulate Mandy to suit himself.
He remained quiet, listening to the click of the floor furnace on the cool night. Keeping himself from begging.
When, Mandy, when?