Bless Her Heart

by Sally Kilpatrick

  “Oh, what’s this?”

  In my haste to get my purse, I’d left the bottom drawer partially open, and Chad had spotted Amanda’s errant book.

  “I, uh, Amanda left it. Her mother-in-law told her she was going to hell for reading it.”

  He chuckled. “That depends. Did she use the book to kill someone?”

  “That’s what I asked her!”

  “You should’ve sent her to me if she had questions of faith.” My elation at having done something right immediately deflated.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t want to be a part of woman questions.”

  “Ah, but this—” he said, brandishing the book “—is a question of faith.”

  Again, so much easier to agree than to question or argue. “Next woman who comes in, I’ll send her straight to you.” Because I didn’t want to have to talk to her about that book anyway.

  “You know,” Chad said. “Some women have said this book helped their marriage.”

  He had that gleam in his eye. I went through my mental calendar. My period was officially overdue. I didn’t have to sleep with my husband. I wasn’t really feeling it at that moment, but all of the books and articles I read about conceiving warned me not to discourage such behavior for fear that husbands would stop finding the fun in sex. “Did they now?”

  He gave me his best salesman’s grin, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had read the book. “Yes, ma’am. When we get home, why don’t you put on something uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m thinking the red.”

  Ugh. The red was quite literally uncomfortable. Downright scratchy, even.

  “Maybe the black pumps, too.”

  Those caused blisters.

  “Definitely the blond wig.”

  Itchy and hot and decidedly un-sexy.

  The things I did for love.

  chapter 3

  Twenty-one minutes later—ten to get home, seven to get into the outfit requested, and four for Chad to exercise his husbandly rights—I lay on my back with my feet in the air. I took this position on the four-poster bed out of habit: holding your feet in the air was supposed to help conception. The good news was that the red lingerie had torn and one heel of the cheap black hooker shoes had broken off. Both of those could go in the trash now. The bad news was that the blond wig still had life and that Chad was calling me from the kitchen as if he didn’t know how to operate the Crock-Pot.

  “Just a minute.” I shimmied out of the lingerie and tossed both it and the pumps in the trash before wrapping myself in a terry cloth robe to pad down the hall.

  Our marriage hadn’t always been this way. I couldn’t help but remember the week after our honeymoon. Chad had skipped supper entirely one night. He’d brought home poseys for his Posey, and we made love until midnight before retreating to the kitchen for a snack and giggling over the cold lasagna I’d made earlier. Those days he was voracious, but sweet. That was before he started studying the letters of Paul and became more concerned with what I wore and where I went. That was before I’d taken a bajillion pregnancy tests that turned up negative and well before he decided being intimate with me was such a chore.

  What would he do if I yelled down the hall that he could get his own roast?

  That smidge of rebellion brought a smile to my face. Paul never said that man couldn’t get his own pot roast.

  “Posey? I’m starving!”

  I opened my mouth to tell him to do something about it, but I didn’t feel like a fight. Besides, if tomorrow’s pregnancy test came back negative, then it would take me a full two weeks to butter him back up. Arguing wasn’t worth it. Ten times easier to pad down the hall and fix his plate, and that is what I did.

  Chad sat at his spot at the kitchen table, perusing the Ellery Gazette and waiting for me to serve him as June once served Ward. There was a time when I desired this tableau. Now I dreamed about a husband who knew the intricacies of a Crock-Pot, those being that you turned the knob counterclockwise from Low to Off and then removed the lid and used the handy ladle to the side.

  “No salad?” he asked.

  And when would I have been fixing the salad considering he was in such a hurry to get me into lingerie? “No salad. If you’d really like one, the ingredients are in the fridge, though.”

  First, he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. Then he sighed the forlorn sigh of a man who’d been wronged but would nobly plod on. “No, that’s okay. Too late now.”

  I piled his plate with roast, potatoes, and carrots. I spooned out green beans from the smaller Crock-Pot I also had going. Before I could fix a plate of my own, he said, “Have a seat so I can say grace.”

  I sat, annoyed he couldn’t at least wait for me to get my plate.

  “Father God, we thank you for another day of your blessings. Please help us to remember obedience to Your word. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and our bodies to thy service. Amen.”

  Not getting a perfectly capable man a salad was not being disobedient. I thought about telling my husband that, but, again, not worth it. He often included “obedience” in any prayer after I didn’t do something he wanted. I fixed a plate of roast, carrots, and potatoes, and sat down to enjoy the meal.

  “Could you get me some tea?” he asked, just as I held my fork poised over the plate.

  This was his second test. If I didn’t get his tea, then we would have a fight. The past few years he’d been researching this thing called Christian Domestic Discipline. It took wifely submission too far for my tastes, saying husbands could send their wives to the corner or wash their mouths out with soap or even spank them. I had no desire for a lecture on the subject, so I went to get his tea.

  Reaching into the fridge, I saw we only had enough sweet tea for one. Oh, well. I didn’t need the calories anyway.

  By the time I sat down to eat, he was almost finished, lapping up his food as if afraid someone might take it away from him.

  “What’s the rush?” I asked.

  “New Bible study starts tonight,” he said as he lay his napkin beside his plate. He didn’t make a move to put his plate into the sink, but, then again, I knew he wouldn’t.

  “Oh. Is this one for the men?”

  He chuckled. “You could say that.”

  Good. If he left then I could do the dishes at my own pace and then soak in a bubble bath with a completely frivolous book while he was gone. Only he wasn’t leaving. Instead, he stared at me with a look I knew only too well.

  He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, and I put my napkin down gently beside my plate because I knew what he was going to say next.

  “How about one for the road?”

  * * *

  Twelve minutes later—eight for a panting Chad to finally exercise his husbandly rights, four to clear the table then decide not to do the dishes—I soaked in the tub with that book. Heaven help me but curiosity had gotten the better part of me, and I wanted to see what the fuss was all about. So far I’d only come across a naïve college girl who reminded me a lot of myself at that age. I, too, hadn’t had a computer. I, too, was still a virgin in my early twenties. Unlike the protagonist of this story, though, I’d heard plenty of snickers if I admitted to either of those things, so I didn’t.

  Honestly, the book wasn’t holding my attention so I tossed it out into the bedroom and sank deeply in the tub, smiling at the thought I might finally be pregnant.

  Tomorrow marked three days.

  I had never been three days late before—well, not since marrying anyway. Three days early? All the time, but never three days late which mean this had to finally be the moment I was pregnant. Underneath the warm water, I lightly pressed both hands over my stomach. Somewhere in there was life, and I would be a mother. I would finally get to do all of the things my mother didn’t do. I’d already married a good, stable man to be the father of my children, hadn’t I? He made enough money that I would be able to stay at home and concentrate on being a wife and mother. I would
finally have an excuse to hang out with my best friend, Liza, again. Her new baby, a three-month-old, would be the right age for playdates in a few years. I’d be the mother who came up with all of those themed birthday party ideas. I’d be the mother who set distinct boundaries with a firm, but gentle, hand. Unlike my mother, I would pack lunches with encouraging notes and make every preschool and elementary school party.

  Wait. The elementary school.

  What if I got called back for an interview?

  No matter. It was a supply position, so I could try out teaching to see if I really liked it and then wait until the kiddo was old enough for kindergarten before staring a full-time job.

  Unless we had more than one child.

  Well, in that case I would wait until the youngest was ready for kindergarten and then I would take a look at the job market. I could always take classes to stay current with my certification. Chad couldn’t make me work the reception desk forever, now could he?

  He could, and I’d probably let him. Unless . . .

  Would he send our child to the corner for tiny infractions? I already knew how he felt about sparing the rod, since he wanted me to buy into his ridiculous ideas of discipline. For the first time ever, probably because this was the first time pregnancy seemed imminent, I worried about what kind of father Chad would be. Before we got married he seemed eager to have children, but that eagerness quickly faded. At this point I was afraid of what he’d say when I told him. But if the child were part his, he would have to love it, wouldn’t he?

  At least I’d finally be able to stay home as we’d originally agreed, and that would free me of the reception desk if nothing else. I might have to get into more fights with him for our child, but it would be such a small price to pay.

  The water had gone cold, and I didn’t feel like reading more even if I could reach the book I’d flung, so I stepped out of the tub and got dressed for bed. I told myself I’d leave the dirty dishes for him in the morning since, technically, it was supposed to be his job to wash them, but in the end I couldn’t stand it. I threw back the covers and padded down the hall to scrape clean the dishes then finally fell asleep to the whirring sounds of the dishwasher.

  chapter 4

  The whirr of the dishwasher had turned into the sounds of a heavy engine and the obnoxious beeps of a large truck backing up. Was it trash day? My not-quite-awake brain scrambled for an answer. No, trash pickup wasn’t for another two days. What was that horrendous beeping then? I rolled over to ask Chad, but he wasn’t there. His pillow didn’t even have an indentation. It did, however, have a note:

  Had to go to Nashville for a conference—be back in a week.

  What the heck did that mean?

  I jumped out of bed and crammed my feet into the bunny slippers Liza had given me last Christmas while I pulled a plaid flannel robe around me. Running down the hall, I stubbed my toe on the curio cabinet that had once belonged to Chad’s grandmother. I hissed rather than cursed—a lady of my stature shouldn’t say such words—and hobbled to the front door where I fumbled with the lock and dead bolt, flinging open the door just in time to see a tow truck hauling off our elderly Toyota.

  I slammed the door behind me and limped down the driveway, almost tripping because bunny slippers weren’t good running shoes. “Hey! Come back here! There has to be some kind of mistake.”

  As the tow truck rounded the corner I got a glimpse of a name so long that it had to be Winkenhoffer. The fact that they were one of only two towing companies in town didn’t hurt my deductions. I ran my hands through my hair. Where was my husband? How did he get to Nashville without our lone car? Who left for a conference in the middle of the night?

  And why hadn’t he spent the night? Only one other night in our marriage had he not come home, but that was before he saw the light and dropped his career in real estate to become founder and pastor of Love Ministries. He’d been playing poker with the boys and had too much to drink that night, deciding to crash on someone’s couch rather than drive drunk or awaken me at two in the morning to come get him. He hadn’t conveyed any of this to me, though, so I’d called the police on him.

  That was the only time he’d ever slapped me.

  I could almost taste the memory of blood from where his slap had made my teeth cut my inner cheek. I’d have to call him first. I wouldn’t call the police on him again, that was for sure. I trudged up the driveway, almost stumbling as I lost my balance stepping on a large rock with the paper-thin soles of the bunny slippers. A little bit of coffee, and I’d be able to sort all of this out.

  I should probably have decaf, though—just in case.

  When I tried the front door, it didn’t budge.

  Locked.

  In my fumbling, I’d managed to lock myself out. Of course, I had. Around the house I went, testing windows and doors, but all were locked securely. I checked the fake rock I’d put in the shrubbery, but the hidden panel was empty. Of course, it was. Chad often forgot his key, but he was never the one to put it back. I was.

  He’d forgotten his key a few days before. In my mind’s eye, I could see the silver key sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, and I cursed myself for not putting it back in its place. At the time I’d thought it would serve Chad right not to find the key where it ought to be and thus remind him to put it back himself, but here I was getting bitten in the butt by my own pettiness.

  With nothing left to do but find someone at home so I could borrow their phone to call Liza, I started walking. Obviously the Winkenhoffers were awake. Maybe I should walk around the corner to their offices and see if I could get my car back as well as make a phone call to Liza for the spare key. None of the houses around me showed signs of life and the sky had begun to pinken, so I walked on. Maybe everyone would be too asleep to notice how my teal plaid robe clashed with my red polka-dotted pajamas. Maybe no one would be awake to see the hot pink bunny slippers—their ears flopping with each step. Maybe—nope, there was Mr. James out picking up his newspaper and scratching his head at why Chad Love’s wife was wandering about town in her sleepwear.

  I sighed deeply. I had a long lecture in my future about how I needed to be above reproach since Love Ministries was new and small and thus I needed to mind my appearance in public. If he thought for one minute that I wasn’t going to call him out for leaving in the middle of the night, he was sadly mistaken.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I entered the Winkenhoffer Towing Offices with aching feet and a bit of a pant. Did the shortness of breath associated with pregnancy come on so soon? No, more than likely, I was out of shape and/or walking in house slippers simply took more out of a person than walking in proper shoes. Mrs. Winkenhoffer, matriarch of the establishment, stood behind the desk, her steel gray hair piled high on her head. She wore cat-eye glasses with a beaded string attached to either side so she could wear them around her neck when she didn’t need them. As I explained my situation, she peered over the rims of her glasses. Her right eye glared through me, but her left showed the filmy possibility of a cataract.

  “So, let me get this straight,” she said finally. “Your car got repossessed and you locked yourself out of your house and had to walk almost a mile to get here?”

  Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

  “Why, bless your heart, honey.”

  I had gritted my teeth so hard something popped in my jaw. At least now the moment had passed, the pity party over. “Yes, ma’am. If you could just tell me what I need to do to get my car back, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Winkenhoffer pushed her glasses back up her nose and turned to the computer. She typed and typed, her mouth pursed in concentration. Finally she spoke. “Says here that First Farmer’s put in the call to get your car. You’ll have to take it up with them.”

  “This has to be some kind of mistake. I know Chad has missed a water bill or a phone bill from time to time, but I’ve never known him to miss a car payment.”

&n
bsp; “Happens to more people than you’d think.” Mrs. Winkenhoffer patted my hand a little too hard. “Now you go on up to the First Farmer’s later today. I bet they’ll let you have the car back if you can pay enough to get current.”

  Taking deep jagged breaths, I willed my tears to stay put. Soon I’d be a mother, and I would have to learn to handle situations like this without losing my cool. I could do this. I would do this. First, I’d call Chad. If he didn’t answer, I’d call Liza. “Do you mind if I borrow your phone?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Winkenhoffer said as she handed me a grimy cordless one.

  I dialed Chad’s number twice, misdialing the first time since I didn’t have the number memorized. My old antique flip phone didn’t do much, but it could easily store the few numbers I used regularly. My call went to voicemail, so I left a message, keeping my tone light and breezy even as I told him the car had been repossessed and that I had been locked out of the house and could he please come get me.

  Next I called Liza’s number. It rang and rang and then cut off. This puzzled me, so I kept dialing until, on the fourth ring, she picked up the phone. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you keep calling, but cut it out. I just got the baby to sleep.”

  “Liza, it’s me.”

  The long pause didn’t bode well.

  “Posey?”

  “Yes.”

  Rustling on the other end told me she was sitting up in bed. “What the hell are you doing at Winkenhoffer’s?”

  “Um, my car got repossessed, and I accidentally locked myself out of the house.” Again, I almost cried—something expectant mothers were famous for—but I wasn’t about to shed a tear. No, I would have to set an example for my children about staying calm in the midst of unpleasant circumstances, and I might as well start now.

  “Where’s Chad?”

  “At a conference in Nashville.”

  Another long pause, and then Liza muttered under her breath for a few minutes accompanied my more rustling and the creak of box springs. “I’ll be there in ten.”