Stepping Down (8 page)

Thursday
morning nearly did Mark in. He sat for hours with the Humbert family, whose son
was nearing the end of a nineteen-year battle with cerebral palsy. As friends
and fellow church members filed in and out of the room, Mark listened to their
awkward, bitter-sweet attempts to comfort the family.

Mrs.
Joyce Hubert, understandably, was taking it hardest. She’d given up her life
when her son was born with special needs. Now, her own mother was trying to
prepare her for the boy’s imminent death.

      “Baby,
he’s tired,” the wise grandmother whispered into Joyce’s ear. “Let him go on.”

Mark
felt drained of all spiritual juice whatsoever. How on earth could he expect to
get alone with God and get direction to finish preparing for Sunday? Let alone
do a run-through. He wondered how hundreds of thousands of men of the cloth
before him had managed to make it all look so easy. How did they lead
congregations, take care of their families, and keep their sanity? No wonder
neither Jesus nor Apostle Paul recommended marriage for everyone.

Still,
Mark believed he needed to be grateful and not get caught up in grumbling and
complaining. After watching the young Hubert boy hooked up to all those
machines, Mark remembered how blessed he was to have a son who had always been
able to breathe, sit up, talk and walk in his own power.
Thank You, Lord.

Mark
swung by the high school and sat in the stands for half an hour watching
Amani’s track practice. He’d been there ten minutes before Amani even saw him,
and that was only because someone else pointed him out to Amani. Mark waved a
big country wave. Amani barely moved his hand in response, but the joy painted
all over his face gave Mark a rush that propelled him through the rest of the
day’s tedious obligations.

The
impromptu trip to the track put Mark off schedule by about an hour, which meant
he wouldn’t quite get an opportunity to round out the notes for Sunday’s sermon
that night. He hoped he wouldn’t have to supplement again with Sermondepot.com.

Then
again, what did it matter? The people didn’t want to hear about Jesus. They
didn’t want to hear what God had told him to say, obviously. They wanted to
hear about practical things—things they could check off a checklist so
God would, in turn, do His part because they had been faithful. A nice, neat
system.

Only
problem was, sitting there with the Humberts was a testament to the fact that
life doesn’t go by a formula. People needed to hear the truth, and the truth
was Jesus. But if people didn’t want to hear about Christ just yet, what was he
supposed to do—
make
them want to?
Force
the meat down their
throats? That didn’t make sense, especially when Jesus Himself doesn’t force
His way into people’s lives.

Nothing
made sense, especially not after the meeting Monday. Mark had prayed about this
to God, but He seemed to be in talk-to-the-Hand mode.

He
had even tried to talk to Sharla, but she gave the same pat answers she always
gave when it came to the church, “Do what you think is right.” Though she was
no longer in her funky mood, she still had no interest in seriously discussing
New Vision.

She
did, however, have an interest in discussing her job hunt. She was shooting for
something that paid in the high 50s or low 60s so they could live comfortably
in the dream house while Amani was in college. “We’re going to need lots of
furniture, you know?” she chirped.

The
thought of Sharla going back to work wasn’t quite happiness for Mark. If she
got into some high-powered position, he’d surely be relegated to even more fast
food and even less sex. He remembered what it was like before Amani came along,
how they had both been dedicated high-achievers at work. Neither of them knew
how to do anything half-way.

The
last thing Mark needed at this point in his life was to feel like a single man.
Alas, Sharla was her own woman. Expressing his dissention would only lead to
days, if not weeks of the silent treatment. Way too much drama. It was easier
to keep his mind off of home and stay focused on work.

Praying
with citizens of Oak Manor Nursing Home was one of Mark’s more pleasurable
obligations. Once a month, Mark made his rounds at the center along with New
Vision’s outreach team. Greeting people who hadn’t had visitors in weeks always
made his chest stick out like a mini-hero while somehow humbling him at the
same time.

“Oh,
bless you, young man,” the elderly women would say, planting kisses on his
cheek. The men always had war stories to share, most of them exaggerated with
pride, faulty memories, or both.

Sitting
in their circle by their large-screen television, Mark reveled in the sense of
being in an assembly with elders. Sometimes, they grilled him on his savings
and retirement plan. “You got enough money saved up so you won’t have to spend
your last days in a dump because of Medicare?”

“Yes
sir,” Mark could answer truthfully.

Other
times they got into heated debates about the government. There was usually a
little cursing and a crude joke or two, but they respected him enough to say
“excuse my French” and “you might want to cover your ears, preacher” before
they gave their worst lines.

Tonight
was no different. Thankfully, there was no news of anyone passing. And when it
was all said and done, Mark prayed for his quasi circle of elders one by one.

At
a quarter past seven, he left the nursing home, still trying to decide if he
wanted to go back to the church and pick up his parallel Bible or go home and
do the research via the digital versions.

There
was something about the paper version—actually touching and writing in
the physical books—that drew Mark back to the church to get the book. He
made a promise to himself that he would get in there and out of there, be back
in time to surprise Sharla with a pre-midnight arrival.

He
decided to send her a text:
On way home. What you got for me?

No
matter how she replied, Mark knew she’d have to be happy. He hoped Amani had
mentioned the show of support at track practice. Coupled with the fact that
he’d shown up to the counseling session—late, but still—he should
be well into the positive on brownie points. Anything to let Sharla know that
he was at least trying to be the man, the father she wanted him to be.

Quickly
now, Mark got in and out of his office. He was actually proud that he hadn’t
let himself get distracted by the million and one things still in his
never-shrinking “To do” pile.

He
approached his SUV from the driver’s side, opened the door, shut it as he
buckled in. He laid the coveted book on the floorboard of the passenger’s side
and, suddenly, the passenger’s door swung open.

“What
the—”

“I’m
sorry. I need to talk to you.”

It
was
her
again. The curvaceous woman who had tricked her way into his
office weeks ago and later, tried to make plans with him after visitors’
meet-and-greet. Though she wasn’t dressed in tight, provocative clothes, he
somehow managed to recognize her face. Even if he hadn’t, he certainly would
have remembered her perfume.

“Lady,
are you crazy? Get out of my car!”

“Just
give me a minute,” she pleaded. “I’m not trying to do anything crazy, okay? And
I’m sorry I tried to hit on you before. That was wrong. I just didn’t know any
other way to get to you.”

Mark
opened his car door, stepped out. “So are you going to get out
now
or
when the police get here?”

She
was still sitting there in the seat from where he’d only seen one woman’s face
staring back at him—Sharla’s. The audacity of this woman to hop in his
car! She must have been following him.

Mark
took a quick look around and noticed that the nearest car was at least fifteen
spaces away. This crazy lady must have been hiding on the other side of his
car. His father would not have been proud that he’d let this woman catch him
slipping.

“Don’t
call the police. I need to talk to you,” she begged desperately.

Mark
was amazed at her acting skills, but they wouldn’t be working today. “I told
you to make an appointment with my secretary. He can get you in touch with the
counseling team.”

“I
don’t need to talk to the counseling team. You have what I need.”

“What
I
have belongs to my wife,” he clarified.

“Not
exactly,” she argued.

“Yes,
it does.” Mark stopped himself.
Why am I arguing with this lady?
He
extracted his cell phone from his pocket and began to dial 9-1-1.

“Fine!”
She screamed, finally opening the passenger’s door. She looked at him from a
standing position outside of his car, talking over the two front seats. “You
have something that belongs to me.”

Mark
stopped shy of pressing the send button. With some distance between him and the
woman, he felt like he might be able to work this out without sending her to
jail tonight. “Look, you obviously need help. I don’t have anything that’s
yours, lady.”

“My
name is Bria, and you
do
have something that belongs to me. Will you
listen to me? Please? For a minute?”

Maybe
if he listened, he might get this woman out of his hair once and for all. So
long as they were separated by two humongous car seats and a console, he could
tolerate her for sixty seconds. “Go.”

She
took a deep breath, as though she’d just finished running a sprint. “Okay.
First of all, I am a member here. I joined for the wrong reasons, but anyway,
I’m glad I did. I met”—she choked—“I met Jesus this past Sunday.
Thank you for introducing us.”

Mark
froze. How long had it been since someone actually spoke such words to him?
Months? More than a year? “You’re welcome. My pleasure.”

“Secondly,
you do have something that, well,
used
to belong to me.” She flicked her
long hair back. “And it was wrongfully taken away.”

“What?”

“Amani.”

“Amani?”
Mark had just begun to connect the dots when the unmistakable whiz of a bullet
arrested his attention.

In
an instant, Bria looked behind herself, then flew back into Mark’s car.

A
set of headlights sped toward them in the parking lot.

“Get
in! He’s coming!”

Mark
jumped back in, too, cranked up the ignition. Threw the car in reverse.
Forward.

Bria
shrieked in terror, “Go!”

      Sharla
could have kicked herself. She should have known better than to get all excited
about Mark coming home early. Though Mark normally kept his word, there had
been a few times when something unexpected came up and he’d been detoured.

      The
fact that he’d sent a text saying he was on his way home only made matters
worse. He would have been better off saying nothing than to take forever to
make the ten-minute drive.

      Sharla
hid the red velvet cake on the side of the refrigerator. Mark would still see
it, but not immediately. The last thing she wanted him to do was walk his late
behind into the kitchen and see that cake waiting for him like “Hi! We’re glad
to have you
any
time you come home!”

      She
threw on her most despicable house robe and her favorite house shoes—the
ones with the bunnies missing their eyes—and snuggled up in the bed
watching a recorded episode of
Bridezilla
. She felt like a
Wife
zilla
right now, but that was only because Mark made her go there sometimes.

Overhead,
she heard Amani and his friend Jadan yell regarding whatever video game they
must have been playing.

      Mark
wouldn’t have been too excited to know Amani was playing video games with
friends so late on a school night. But if Mark wanted to run things his way, he
needed to be there.

     
How’s
that?

     
By the time Jadan’s mom blew her horn to
pick up her child, Sharla’s anger had been punctured by worry. She tried to
remember the names of their sick church members listed in the bulletin. Had one
of them taken a turn for the worse? Had someone approached him with an urgent
need the moment after she got the text from him?

      An
hour later, Sharla gave up trying to call Mark and started calling her
husband’s comrades. “Hi, Reverend Jackson, this is Sharla Carter. How are you?”

      “Lady
Carter, so good to talk to you.”

      “Same
here,” she lied. “Listen, Mark said he was on his way home a while ago. Do you
know if he got sidetracked with some kind of emergency business?”

“No,
not that I know of. I think they went to the nursing home tonight, but visiting
hours are over at seven, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I
see,” Sharla mumbled as she tried to think of a likely scenario that would make
the short trip home from the nursing home morph into an expanded wilderness
experience. “Did he have to stop anywhere else afterward?”

“You
might better call his new assistant, Jonathan. He keeps Pastor’s calendar. Let
me give you his number.”

“I
tried him already. But I’ll call him again. Thank you.”

“Sure
thing. Tell him to call me when you find him.”

“Yes,
Rev. Jackson. I will.”

Instead
of calling Jonathan, Sharla got dressed and hopped into her car. Her stomach
twisted in knots. Now, she felt like she could almost kick Mark for being so
inconsiderate.

“There
better be some kind of problem, buddy,” she said under her breath.

As
she neared the main intersection by the church, traffic slowed to a crawl.
“Man,” Sharla fussed impatiently. She struck the steering wheel twice with her
palm. There was nothing she hated more than sitting in traffic; it always felt
like moments of her life were slipping away into nothingness.

She
wondered what kind of construction, malfunctioning light or other ungodly
foolishness must be happening up ahead. Though the street was a busy one, the
speed limit was only 45 MPH. Even if there was an accident, Sharla presumed it
couldn’t have been serious enough to tie up traffic like this.

In
the next five minutes, she moved roughly ten feet. If Mark was on the other
side of this mess coming home from Oak Manor, this would certainly play a huge
part in his explanation of what had taken him so long. Didn’t explain why he
wasn’t answering his phone, but she knew from her days working at a
telecommunications company that anything could happen with technology.

Sharla
tipped her right blinker into action. Forget this. She was going back home. At
this rate, Mark might actually beat her back to the house, if he’d found an
alternate route already.

After
a few honks and a maneuver to forcefully secure a lane change, Sharla bluffed
her way into the right lane and into a shopping center’s parking lot, hoping to
find a back alley shortcut to a parallel street. If nothing else, she could
visit the shoe stores until the congestion cleared because no one in the
vicinity was going anywhere soon.

She
took a quick glance down the road. Squinting, she barely recognized the mass of
metal being hauled onto a tow truck as a car. It looked more like one of those
transformer characters, half-car, half-robot.

A
shiver ran through her as she realized the accident had been a bad one indeed.
Someone must have been going way over 45 to do that much damage to the
passenger’s side. “Bless whoever was in that car, Lord,” she prayed.

The
final few feet of the car were raised high enough for her to make out the back
end of an SUV. White. No fancy rims.

“Oh
my—” she gasped as the vehicle’s familiarity hit her. This was a
Cadillac. An old Cadillac.

Sharla
crept through the lot so she could get a better look. “God! No!” She banked a
hard left and parked. She grabbed her purse and keys, running much faster than
traffic would have allowed her to travel. With each hurried step, the vision of
Mark’s Escalade grew clearer and clearer. The peculiar tint, the Ichthys symbol
on the back window.

Her
only comfort was the fact that Mark wouldn’t have been sitting on the
passenger’s side.

Sharla
ran faster now, her heart’s pace racing as she squeezed between cars that were
stuck on a feeder street. She heard her linen pants rip on someone’s license
plate, but she was immune to the damage to her clothes and her knee.

With
eyes set on the mangled mass of metal only, she stumbled as she stepped down
from the curb into the street. Two other damaged cars littered the street, but
neither looked as bad as Mark’s.

“Ma’am,
I need you to step back.” An officer blocked the view of her husband’s car.

“That’s
my husband.  I mean, that’s his car.” She pointed over the officer’s
shoulder.

For
all intents and purposes, the man was invisible to Sharla. She couldn’t take
her gaze off Mark’s SUV. As the tow truck drove away, she could see that the
windshield had been nearly destroyed.

“Where’s
my husband?”

“Ma’am,
they took ‘em to the hospital.”

Sharla
managed to focus herself. “Which hospital?”

“Well,
the man they took to Southwest Memorial Hermann, I believe. The woman was care-flighted.”

“Woman?”

“Yes.
Female passenger.”

Mark
must have been transporting people from the outreach ministry. “W…was there
anyone else in the car?”

“No.
Just those two. Ma’am, we’re trying to clear the premises now, I’m going to
have to ask you to step back on the curb. I’m about to move this cone so we can
open up this lane.”

Sharla
fumbled through her purse and found her phone while speed-walking back to her
car. She scrolled through the call log. “Rev. Jackson, Mark’s been in a car
accident.”

“Where
is he? Is he okay?” Rev. Jackson fired.

“He’s
at Memorial Hermann Southwest, I think.”

“I’m
on my way.”

Sharla
pressed the red “END” button. Calling Rev. Jackson was as good as sending out
an Amber alert. Every leader at the church would know in a matter of minutes.

Sharla
amazed herself with her calmness. Somehow, hearing that someone other than Mark
had been taken away by helicopter gave her a sliver of comfort.

However,
the consolation was short-lived. She reached her car and jumped inside, her hands
shaking with a heart-wrenching thought: Maybe they hadn’t put Mark on a care
flight because he was too far gone. Was someone pronouncing her husband dead at
that very moment?

Horrifying
scenarios raced through her mind. Sharla struggled to gather her thoughts and
steady her voice long enough to call her son. Hopefully, she could get to him
before social media did. “Amani?”

“Yes.”

“Honey,
your dad’s been in a car accident. I’m headed to the hospital now.”

“Wait!
Come get me!” he croaked.

“I
can’t. There’s too much traffic.” Even with one opened lane, Sharla was still
crawling through the aftermath. In retrospect, she thought she should have
asked the officer for an escort. “Call Reverend Jackson and ask him if you can
ride with him to the hospital. The number is on the refrigerator.”

“Mom,
is he going to be okay?” Amani asked, concern lacing his words.

Sharla’s
voice wavered. “I wish I could answer you, but I don’t know. I
promise
,
I’ll call you as soon as I know something. Bye.”

She
dismissed Amani before she could throw him into even more turmoil.

Already,
she had omitted the slight detail about the female passenger when talking to
Rev. Jackson and Amani. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

Even
if there wasn’t…well, Sharla would have to get to the bottom of that later.