Three Nights In Mannford

by Cynthia Conner Goyang

  Tyler got into his old pickup, slammed the door, and peeled out. He had to get away. Clear his head. His thoughts were on fire as he drove. I don’t know what she wants from me. I go to work every evening and bust my tail for her, trying to be a man and take care of her and Mom too! And for what? She won’t even give me any kids. “I’m not ready; I’m not prepared,” We’ve been married five years. When will she be ready?

  He smacked his palm against the steering wheel. Always out there in her so-called art studio and hasn’t sold one dang painting yet! His anger seemed to grow as he drove into an intersection without noticing the light had turned to red. His foot slammed on his brakes, and they squealed in protest.

  “Great,” he said as he looked through his rearview mirror. He’d run a red light and just barely missed getting T-boned by a taxicab driver.

  “What is wrong with you, Idiot?” The taxi driver shouted at a now-shaken Tyler.

  His anger quickly gone, Tyler put up his hands. “Sorry, dude,” he mouthed, then backed up carefully. “Get it together, man. That was close,” he chided himself. He drove on aimlessly until he was able to get his emotions in check. Exhaling deeply, he slowed his pickup and turned around, making his way back to the house without a clue how to resolve even one of his problems. He was relieved to see no sign of Laura’s yellow and white Mini Cooper in the driveway. Though he had returned to the house, he wanted to avoid any more useless interactions with her. He could not handle her tears — especially not now. Tyler hurriedly grabbed his fishing gear and prepared to head out, hoping the solitude of fishing at his favorite spot would calm his thoughts.

  As he drove, he glanced out the window of his pickup at George Washington High where he had enjoyed his position as star quarterback, helping the team to two state championships. He had also been a two-hundred-meter standout in track.

  He smiled at the memories. “Man, that’s one fast white boy! He’s definitely going to play on Sunday.” He had enjoyed hearing those and many other positive comments from people in the stands and from his buddies in the locker room. Still got it, Tyler thought and chuckled.

  George Washington High was also where he and Laura had met. He remembered her boldly crossing the football field — a petite little thing, perfectly formed. Those thighs, that butt, her breasts. Whew! he’d thought. She had sauntered up in her tight white jeans and yellow tank top, her long raven-black hair tied up in a ponytail. She was interrupting his two-a-day practice to take his photo for the yearbook.

  “Little girl,” said Coach Sanders, “what the Jiminy Cricket do you think you’re doing?”

  Laura walked sweetly and boldly up to the coach. Flashing her dazzling white smile, her sparkling blue eyes glimmering in the sun, she spoke just a few words. Her perfume scented the air, giving a brief reprieve to all the sweaty, smelly guys. Each stood in amazement that this girl — not one-hundred pounds soaking wet — could so effortlessly handle the hulking and tough Coach Sanders.

  “Okay, little girly,” Sanders had said. “Be quick about it.” He might have been giving her permission, but his tone was still as brusque as ever. She had interrupted a two-a-day practice, nabbed her photo, and won Tyler’s heart (and those of the whole team) to boot. Tyler smiled sadly at the recollection as he drove past his alma mater. He wryly recalled the caption underneath his yearbook football photos. His senior class had dubbed him: “Most likely to play on Sunday.” He let his thoughts rummage through his last triumphant year of high school and the start of his and Laura’s romance and then all the way through his early college career at Butler University.

  In the beginning, everything had been rosy. A budding college football career and a 3.50 GPA had won him his college’s scholar-athlete award of the year. He and Laura, still a senior in high school, had preserved their romance. The long-distance relationship, however, was so trying on them both that instead of accepting an art internship in Paris, Laura had joined Tyler at the university after she graduated.

  Life flowed smoothly until one night in his sophomore year. He and the football team had just returned from an away game. The guys were all high-fiving and congratulating each other on their win when the dorm’s resident assistant, Jeffrey Colley, waved him over.

  “Way to go, guys. See you all in the a.m.,” Tyler called behind his teammates and sauntered over to Resident Assistant Colley.

  “Tyler, your dad has been trying to contact you,” Jeffrey told him. “Didn’t you get any of his messages on your cell?”

  Tyler’s heart dropped. “I left my phone behind in my dorm room. What’s going on, Colley?” He tried to hide the wild beating of his heart.

  “I’m sorry, Tyler. Like I said, your dad has been trying to contact you,” he said, placing his hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “It’s urgent. An emergency involving your mother. Call your dad.”

  Tyler’s knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and his heart beat nearly out of his chest. He’d just texted his mom the day before and remembered her texting back to tell him to have a great game. She hadn’t mentioned anything about not feeling well or anything else wrong, but his mom never did. She was always one to plow through difficult circumstances without a word of complaint. Tyler thanked Jeffrey and walked hurriedly down the hallway toward his dorm room.

  His mind raced wildly. With trembling hands he grabbed up his phone.

  “Dad, I’m sorry for not getting back to you,” Tyler began, trying to control the worry in his voice. “I left my phone behind in my dorm room. We just got back from Judson. What’s going on?”

  “Son, it’s your mom,” Tyler’s dad said. “She’s in the Critical Care Unit at Mannford Memorial. Apparently, she lost control of her car and ran into a tree. She’s pretty bad off.”

  “But Mom’s a cautious driver,” Tyler said. “What could have happened? Why’d she lose control of her car?”

  “They don’t know yet. They’re running all sorts of tests to try and figure that out. She’s broken her femur and her collarbone. She is still unconscious —” Dad’s voice broke. “The doctors are having trouble waking her.”

  “I’m coming home, Dad,” Tyler recalled telling his father that awful night.

  The following days had been a blur. Tyler flew home to join his dad by his mother’s bedside. She was covered in cuts and bruises, swollen from head to toe. Tyler gazed with glazed-over eyes at the neurologist’s yellow and blue tennis shoes, which belied the devastating diagnosis that seemed to flow in slow motion from his lips: “Multiple sclerosis.”

  Tyler and his father had stood shoulder to shoulder in shocked silence.

  A week later, just after leaving his mother’s hospital bedside, Tyler again gazed in shock as his dad collapsed in the parking lot from a massive heart attack. When he reached him, his dad had stared right at him and whispered, “I’m proud of you, Tyler,” and gave a thumbs up. He died that night at Mannford Memorial Hospital, the same hospital where his wife lay gravely ill.

  Soon after that, Tyler left the university with Laura in tow. He returned to Mannford to bury his dad and care for his mom.

  “We can’t take care of her here at home anymore, honey,” Tyler said to Laura as his mom’s condition deteriorated. Together he and Laura made the difficult decision to place his mother in an assisted-care facility. A short time later, with the sadness of their circumstances hanging over their heads, Tyler and Laura took off for the courthouse where they married without any fanfare.

  Just as they were exiting, Police Chief Robinson was entering. He slowed his trek to tip his hat to Laura and then looked directly at Tyler.

  “You seem like a strong, resolute young man,” he said in his decidedly southern drawl. “Don’t know your profession, but if you still need one, we’re looking to train new recruits through Mannford’s police academy.” Chief Robinson handed Tyler his card, tipped his hat again, and continued into the courthouse.

 
Since the reality of life had come crashing down on his NFL dreams, Tyler did decide to pursue a career in law enforcement. In the police force he found the camaraderie and support he desperately needed. Officers like Chris Haney and Commander Holfield had taken him under their wings and shown him the ropes. It wasn’t long before he felt settled into Mannford Police Department’s middle shift.

  As these memories slowly receded, the familiar cold fingers of grief gripped him, along with its piercing what-ifs, whys, and maybes. Why hadn’t he and Dad taken seriously the array of symptoms the neurologist recited? In retrospect, Tyler was flooded with punishing guilt when he realized his mom’s weird symptoms and illnesses that had come and gone for several years were actually attacks of MS. He and Dad hadn’t mouthed the actual word, but during Mom’s maladies hypochondriac had hovered in the back of both of their minds.

  The times I doubted you, Mom. Why the severity, the suddenness of it all? Why?

  Tyler shook his head in regret as he drove past Mom and Dad’s old residence, the house where he’d grown up. Squaring his jaw, he continued down the highway. This time around, he wasn’t sure that fishing would give him the calm he desperately needed.

  Chapter

  8

  Al rolled out of bed quietly to keep from waking Misty. His head still ached with the migraine from the evening before. Padding down the hall to the living room, he grabbed his Bible and let himself out onto the balcony of their seventh-floor apartment. Though hidden behind clouds the morning sun still turned them pink with its radiance. The August morning’s light, humid, after-the-rain breeze blew through the leaves of the oak trees that reached up to the apartment’s balcony. Al breathed in the fresh morning air and opened his Bible. Flipping through the beginning section, he landed on 2 Chronicles 7:14, the verses that had risen in his spirit early that morning and every morning for the last two weeks. Again he read the Word aloud, as he had the day before:

  “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land” 2 Chronicles 7:14 (KJV).

  Al closed his eyes and clasped his hands together in amazement. God’s Word seemed to burn within him.

  “Lord, I worship You.” Al looked up to survey the skies. “Your morning is radiant and beautiful. Show me Your way today, my Lord. Work in me to will and to do Your good pleasure. Here am I, Lord Jesus. Here am I.” Al purposefully calmed his rushing thoughts to wait for the voice, the comfort, the presence, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.

  As Al sat quietly, Misty padded onto the patio. Her delicate bare feet and white terry robe gave her a sweet, innocent look. She was carrying a tray filled with their breakfast.

  He smiled up at her as she approached. Al whispered a prayer of thanksgiving as he looked into Misty’s hazel eyes. Her soft brown curls blew gently with the morning breeze. “Thank you, Lord. My Misty girl is beautiful, inside and out.”

  From the first moment he had laid eyes on her at the Community of Giving event in Seattle, he had known that he wanted to make her his wife. Beautiful, graceful, and clearly loved — she had entered the room flanked by her black mother and white father. He remembered her small, feminine frame clothed in a wispy summer dress. Her thick curls, honeyed skin, and lovely hazel eyes stood out. After the service, he worked his way into sitting next to her at the banquet. They became fast friends. Their friendship turned into something more profound. Marriage followed two years later.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Al stood and helped Misty set the breakfast plates on their patio table. He looked at the spinach and mushroom omelets, buttered toast topped with strawberry jam, fresh-cut cantaloupe, and two steaming cups of coffee. “Oh my goodness! You made us omelets? Smells marvelous.”

  “Good morning, honey,” Misty answered with her soft, lilting, high-pitched voice, which Al never tired of hearing. “What a gorgeous morning! Coffee’s hazelnut today, okay?”

  “Oh that’s the special aroma I was wondering about. Thanks. By the way, sweetheart, you look amazing this morning!”

  Misty threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Al, all I did was cook eggs, and I have bed head.”

  Al smiled, leaned his head close to Misty’s, and gently shared a sweet kiss with her. “You are beautiful to me, no matter, whenever.”

  “Aww, Al!” she laughed but then paused to study her husband’s face. Her eyes turned concerned. “Are you okay? You look tired this morning.”

  “A migraine hit at the church last night.”

  “Oh, honey, are you okay?” Misty said, cupping his face with her hands. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have come and picked you up.”

  “It’s okay,” Al said and smiled. “I lay on one of the pews until the worst of it passed.”

  “Aww,” Misty said as she leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips.

  “Don’t worry. I’m feeling better this morning.” Al took Misty’s hands in his own. “Let’s pray, honey.”

  “Let’s.”

  The two relished their early mornings together, sharing a lovely breakfast and a quiet time of being together and worshiping God.

  “Lord, I praise you for this beautiful morning! I’m thankful that I get to spend part of it with my Misty girl. I ask you to bless this sweet soul for preparing this meal to nourish our bodies to your glory. In Jesus’s name, we pray.”

  As they began to eat, Al shared what was on his heart. “You know, honey, I want you to know that I appreciate you so much.”

  As Misty began to respond, Al put his finger to her lips. “Hear me out. What I mean is: I thank you for your patience. Here we are, living in an apartment with a whole lot less since we’ve arrived here in Mannford. You have shown nothing but love, not only to me but to everyone in our congregation. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

  Misty’s eyes teared up as she placed her finger on Al’s lips, then smiled gently. She took her husband’s face into her hands. “Honey, I love you so much. And I love the Lord even more. I know He’s brought us here for an extraordinary purpose. We may not have all the comforts we enjoyed in Seattle, but we’re here together. Even more important, we’re in the midst of His plans and purpose, ready to do what He has called us to do, for such a time as this. Don’t ever think that I feel deprived. Okay Al?” She smiled and gently kissed him again.

  “You are a better person than I am, sweet Misty girl. I must admit that this move, this change, has been challenging for me. Even so, these past few weeks the Lord has been speaking to me so distinctly and also teaching me more about praying. I mean praying — not only for us, but for the whole body of Christ here in Mannford.”

  “How awesome that you should say that,” Misty replied, “because it seems like the Lord has been saying the same to me about a special period of prayer at Mannford Christian Fellowship.”

  “Not just MCF. I think the Lord also wants us to reach out to every Bible-believing pastor in Mannford to join together with us in prayer for our city and our country. I feel such a heavy burden to do this, Misty. I don’t know how to do it, but God does.”

  “I agree. The Lord will direct us. It’s so timely. With all this violence taking over and corruption in our government, we need to be His hands, feet, and voice now more than ever.”

  “So true.”

  Bathed in the lovely, filtered morning light, Misty and Al enjoyed their meal and excitedly shared ideas about prayer and seeking God’s face for the city of Mannford. “I know the Lord will show us how to go about this,” Al said. “I have a heavy heart for Mannford — especially in light of this shooting. Right here in our city! I mourn for the family of that man and the police officer involved — for just everyone suffering in this tragedy.”

  “I know. I feel the same,” Misty said. The two sat in silence for
a moment, gazing out upon Mannford from their balcony.

  “I’ve got an idea.” Al put his fork down and pushed his chair away from the table. “How ‘bout we get on our cell phones and call as many pastors in town as we can?”

  “Let’s do it!” Misty answered, pushing her chair out as well.

  Al leaned over and kissed Misty’s cheek. “I’ll get us refills, and you grab our phones, okay?”

  “I’m on board,” Misty responded.

  The two went to work, contacting nearly every Bible-believing church in Mannford.

  “I Am pleased with their mustard seed,” the Lord’s voice thundered. “Go to them. Strengthen, assist, and encourage them.”

  God’s angels flew with speed to the man, Al, and his wife, Misty.

  Chapter

  9

  Marquise carried baby Nisha as he and Keiana walked without speaking out to her SUV. He glanced at Keiana. Love for her swelled in his heart.

  He had noticed that morning the unmistakable love in her eyes when he told her that he and Lawrence had gone to the protest. Marquise also noticed her abject fear and the anger that followed.

  Whew! C’mon talk to me, Ke. Opening the back door of Keiana’s vehicle, Marquise belted their baby girl into her car seat and put the diaper bag in next to her. After several kisses on Nisha’s cheeks, he shut the door. “Love you, Nish. Love you, baby girl.” He stepped back hesitantly, stood on the curb, waved, blew more kisses, and then slowly turned to go back in.

  “I’ll see you,” Keiana called, so softly that Marquise wasn’t sure whether he’d heard her voice or only imagined it.

  Marquise turned around. Relief flooded his body when he saw her welcoming face. He leaned down to Keiana’s car window and kissed her gently. “I love you, girl.”

  “I love you more, boy!” Keiana answered. “I better get going. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Her love-filled eyes spoke volumes.