Potter Springs

by Britta Coleman

  Ben Thompson thundered again from the hallway. “It’s time, baby doll.”

  “Okay, Daddy. Come on in.”

  He rambled through, a bear stuffed in penguin clothes. His watermelon belly strained against the expensive cloth.

  “All right. I’m ready.” Amanda grabbed the bouquet she’d tossed on the baroque couch. A few stems of the mixed floral were bent out of shape.

  She Mona Lisa’d her mouth and hung onto her father’s arm, thankful for its familiar strength. The same arm that fished her out of the lake when she fell water-skiing. The one that kept her upright when she learned to ride a bike. He held her steady as they left the bridal room and waited in the wings.

  Amanda lifted her bouquet to her nose. Fresh roses and stargazer lilies filled her senses.

  At the end of the aisle stood her groom, substantial and real. More than his height or size, Mark’s very essence sparked with bound energy, his shine unswallowed by the sanctuary’s shadowy interior.

  The aisle yawned between them, and her heart ached. Unbelieving that in just a few moments he would be entirely hers. That he wanted her, loved her, this wondrous holy man with the most tender soul she’d ever known.

  He slid a hand through his hair and leaned over to whisper something to Fred. Amanda looked around, waiting for the cue.

  Her minister lurked in the choir loft, having assured Presbyterian members of his presence at the ceremony to “guard the sacraments.”

  As if the Baptists would make off with the communion silver.

  The organ started up a bombastic tune and, with a jump, Amanda realized it was her turn to walk.

  Her daddy held her hand on his arm, patting it absently. “Let’s do this,” he murmured.

  With a conjoined and muted rumble, the guests stood. Amanda and her father passed big lavender hats and blue-gray perms. An aunt in the second row shushed Amanda’s cousin, a wiggly nine-year-old stuffed in pink ruffles. Dark suits highlighted peacock wives beside them.

  Everyone stared, smiling.

  At the altar, Mark took her hand from her father and gently squeezed her fingers. “You look,” he whispered through her veil, “beautiful.”

  Before she could reply in kind, a West Texas drawl cut the thick air like a John Deere backhoe.

  “Dearly beloved,” bellowed Fred, “we are gathered here today…” No need for a microphone for Pastor Wilburne. His squinty eyes darted over the attendees, perhaps summing them up as future converts.

  Fred waxed eloquent, loud and long through the traditional ceremony. Lots of preaching, prayers and hymns. Finally it was over. “You may now kiss your bride.”

  Mark leaned over and placed a kiss on her lips, cool as velvet lemonade.

  “I present to you”—Pastor Wilburne paused for drama—“Mr. and Mrs. Mark Reynolds!” With a gentle nudge, he urged them to face the applauding congregation.

  “As many of you know”—the preacher held up both hands, palms out—“Mark and Amanda have answered God’s call in their lives.” His voice swelled with pride. “Mark, after serving here in Houston as an associate pastor, now looks ahead to a new place in the Lord’s army, wherever that may be.”

  The crowd clapped appropriately.

  “Please add them to your prayer lists.” He sniffed. “These fine young people.” His voice breaking, he nearly shouted. “Devoted to following the Lord in ministry!”

  Amanda flinched at the inflection and darted a look to Mark. His face was unreadable, but his eyes twinkled at her. They had a secret, together, and the knowledge tethered them with indivisible truth. They marched down the aisle, anointed by the cheers of the saints.

  Outside the double doors, they stood alone.

  “We did it.” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “We’re married.”

  Judging from Mark’s expression, he didn’t know either. Yet he pulled her close, squishing the bouquet even further. “You’re mine,” he murmured as the flowers fell forgotten to the floor.

  “No, you’re mine.” She pressed herself full against him, hugging him tight. Behind them hung a life-size painting, Jesus calming the storm. The Savior’s arms appeared muscular and strong, even as the disciples crouched terrified in the boat. She shut her eyes to the swirls of red and blue, losing herself in the freedom of loving her husband.

  “Harrumph” A tiny rat-faced man interrupted them with authority in spite of his size. Burton Lewis, the photographer, hired by Katy Thompson because he “does everybody who’s anybody’s wedding, darling.”

  “Picture time!” he sang, with all the enthusiasm of a Hollywood performer. “All right, you two. Over here.” Outside in the garden area, he arranged them in front of a large stone fountain, where a naked baby with a fruit basket sprayed water into a shallow pool.

  Grin, click, relax. Adjust. Grin, click, relax.

  Burton arranged the wilted bouquet. Moisture, caught in a shiny mustache, clung to his upper lip. He struck the pose he wanted her to mimic. “Like this” His arms gracefully arched to an invisible groom.

  A wave of body odor broke from Burton’s brown suit and washed over her like a poisonous gas. She pinched her face away.

  “Are you all right?” Mark whispered in her ear, rubbing her back.

  “I’m okay.” She bit out, clenching her teeth together.

  The little photographer took his time, tsking over the broken flowers. “How about you hold it up here?” He placed her hand on Mark’s shoulder. In doing so, he lifted his own arm, emitting an odor reminiscent of the monkey cages at the zoo.

  Amanda reared her head back to the point of rudeness, blinked her eyes and pressed down hard with her toes. Hoping the pain from the killer slingbacks would stop the nausea.

  “Do we need to go inside for a minute?” Mark tugged her waist. “Come on. Take a break?”

  “Hmm-mmm.” She shook her head, grinning like an ape for monkey man.

  “No, no, not like that.” The photographer grasped both sides of her face, the camera dangling around his neck on a wide band. “This way.” He tilted her chin and smiled at her posability. “Wonderful.”

  Whunderfuul. His breath hit her dead on.

  He must have had lox with his bagel.

  The thought defeated her. She broke position. She shoved Burton away with all her might and hurtled toward the stone fountain. Gripping its side, in body-shuddering heaves, she threw up.

  Click.

  While still bent at the waist, she dug between her breasts for the handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her mouth. A delicate lady. A blushing bride. A perfect pastor’s wife.

  Bracing herself on the fountain’s edge, she raised her head and pivoted on one excruciating heel. The first person she saw was Mark’s mother. Her brand-new mother-in-law.

  The Queen of the Baptists.

  Dressed in yellow chiffon, with a rosebud corsage, she stared at Amanda. The woman’s bird mouth formed a perfect O. Then she looked at her son.

  Amanda followed the gaze. She saw what Marianne saw—Mark’s reddening neck, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

  Shooting forward with Olympian speed, Marianne made it to Mark’s side in nanoseconds. “Did you know about this?” Her voice floated over the onslaught of bridesmaids rushing to Amanda’s aid.

  Mark’s reply was lost in the clattering of heels on ancient paths.

  Just as someone thrust a glass of ice water in her shaking hand, Amanda heard the follow-up question. A low-voiced inquiry carried by an unlikely Houston breeze.

  “Is it yours?”

  CHAPTER 6

  split

  Mark refreshed his mother’s coffee. It poured out like melted sludge, powdery grains stuck to the side of the Styrofoam cup. Marianne gripped it without drinking. “I just can’t believe it.”

  In the church’s parlor, he waited with his mother and new mother-in-law while the bridesmaids tended to Amanda in the bridal room.

  Ben Thompson, after declaring a need for fresh air, had follow
ed his old Aggie alumni buddies in a cloud of commiseration to the church back lot. Mark thought he saw the flash of a silver flask from behind a suit jacket, and wished he’d gone with them.

  Better that than entertaining the ladies.

  “How could you do this to me?” Legs akimbo in a mauve Queen Anne chair, Marianne looked more frazzled than Mark had ever seen her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Embarrass me like this. In case you missed it, your bride vomited in the fountain. Morning sickness.” She whispered these words in the same tone one might say herpes. “What must our friends be thinking? And Pastor Fred?”

  “Not much, I suppose.” Katy crossed her arms and stared out the window.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Marianne shot back.

  “Only that he doesn’t strike me as overly insightful.” Not bothering to turn her head, Katy remained riveted, gazing at the gardens full of gossiping guests. “A boisterous fellow, but not too bright.”

  “I’ll have you know, Fred Wilburne is one of the finest men to walk this earth. Why, when Mark was a boy, he-”

  “Mom.” Mark sank into the plaid couch across from her. “Fred’s character really isn’t at issue here.”

  “That’s right.” Marianne’s bright eyes locked on Mark. “Yours is. Care to explain?”

  “Not particularly.” He loosened his tie and yanked it too hard, snapping the fine silk in the quiet room.

  “But how could you let this happen?” His mother shrilled on. “Your career, all that you’ve wanted?”

  “I still want those things.” He didn’t know if he meant it, or if by force of habit, he still played her game.

  “Well, what did James Montclair have to say about this?” James held a second-place spot in Marianne’s list of all-time favorite people, second only to Jesus.

  Mark wasn’t sure he’d even made the list. “He said that he wished us well.”

  “And?”

  “And that I need to look for work elsewhere.”

  “Oh my God.” Marianne’s taking the Lord’s name in vain testified to the fullness of her devastation.

  Katy finally picked up on the conversation. She turned from the window. Her eyes, a steelier variation of Amanda’s blue, nailed Mark where he sat. “You mean to say you’re without gainful employment?”

  “For now. I have a severance package.”

  “Severance?” Marianne’s lace handkerchief muffled her sobs.

  “You’ve married my daughter”-Katy pointed her manicured finger at him-“and you don’t have a job7”

  “I’m working now. They’re giving me two months to finish up. Until they find a replacement for me.” Until Amanda begins to show. “But I’ve got some feelers out.”

  “Feelers? What kind of feelers?” Marianne raised her head, eyes puffy. “Where?”

  “Some places here in Houston. Ad agencies. I’m thinking of getting out of the ministry.”

  At this, Katy joined them in the seating area. “That’s an excellent decision, Mark.” Dragonlady, as he’d taken to calling his mother-in-law in private, actually smiled at him. She patted his knee, her bejeweled fingers like sparkly claws.

  He watched the glitter, the spark of old money and ironclad rules, and felt the room get smaller.

  “I’ve got some great contacts,” Katy said. “I can put in a word, get you started on a meaningful career.”

  “Ad agency?” Marianne looked horrified, as if Mark announced plans to pursue a career as a male stripper. “But what about your calling, Mark?”

  “To tell you the truth, Mom,” he admitted, “I’m not hearing it so loudly right now.”

  Yet, he remembered when he was called, as if it were yesterday. At Calvary Baptist Church, in Lubbock, Texas. Mark sat in the deep red church pew, fourth row on the right, with his mother.

  Wind whipped through the trees outside the stained-glass windows. Shadows of the slender limbs bowed and strained toward the church’s white one-story cross.

  He was twelve, skinny and fatherless. Doyle Reynolds had chosen to leave his marriage of seventeen years for Mona Torkman, a junior sales associate at Southwest Pharmaceuticals. She was married to Mr. Torkman, Mark’s seventh-grade science teacher.

  Doyle had loaded up his charcoal gray El Camino, shabby suitcases and cardboard file boxes stacked high under the camper, and left town with Mona. He never came back.

  Mark became the man of the family before he became a teenager. He skipped adolescence and moved right on to adulthood, stepping into the role of sole emotional supporter for his devastated mother. At night, he’d lie in bed with his stomach clenched and endure the waves of her tears wafting through the duplex’s tissue-thin walls.

  Until the saints at Calvary Baptist came along.

  They invited Mark and Marianne to church picnics, his mother to ladies’ groups, Mark to weeklong campouts. He watched his mother’s shoulders lift after months of crying into her pillow. And the burden from his own shoulders grew lighter as potlucks filled their empty evenings.

  He first heard about his need for Jesus at camp, around the crackling campfire with other sweaty twelve-year-olds. Like the rest of the kids, he held a broken tree branch and listened spellbound to his new hero: Kenny Keisling, camp counselor.

  “Boys, it’s a decision only you can make. The Word says, ‘For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ That means you’ve missed the mark, fellas. You ain’t perfect, ain’t never gonna be. You can try all you want, but if you want forgiveness, if you want to be good, you need the Lord.” Kenny waved his well-worn Bible in the air.

  If you want to be good. Mark thought of Mr. Torkman, a gangly man who wore corduroys and button-downs with wrinkled collars. How his former favorite teacher wouldn’t look at him in class, how the other kids snickered like rats all around. Then the relief when Mr. Torkman took an extended leave of absence, and eventually moved away, leaving whispers in the hallways like ghosts of shame.

  “It says right here”—Kenny poked an ivory page—“that the ‘wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus, our Lord.’”

  To Mark, the camp leader looked like a gladiator, some kind of warrior.

  “So, what’s it going to be, guys? Will you take the gift?” Several boys were already nodding. Kenny waved a knotty branch in the air.

  One by one, Mark watched his peers throw their sticks in the fire. A sign encouraged by the camp counselors to show they’d given their hearts to Jesus. The ceremony ended with a rousing rendition of “I Surrender All,” each of the four verses sung a cappella, and with much emotion.

  Mark kept his stick, the rough places hurting his palm where he gripped it so tightly. He mumbled through the song and stared at his tennis shoes, clumped with mud from a week in the outdoors.

  But later, just before the start of eighth grade, on a day when the wind threatened to split the trees in two, Mark heard it. The call. Not from the red face and passionate voice of a younger Pastor Fred Wilburne, but somewhere deep inside. He walked forward on heavy feet, down the plush scarlet liner, and knelt at the altar. He read the chiseled words on the light oak table—THIS DO IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME—just before he closed his eyes.

  He didn’t listen to the prayers over his head or the choir singing praises. All he heard was the quiet of his own pleading voice, “Please, God, I don’t want to be like my dad. Make me good, Lord. Please make me good.”

  He stood to face the congregation. They clapped and smiled at him. His mother’s tearstained face shining with pride. Mark’s heart swelled. He’d done a good thing. He was good.

  He wanted to be saved from that, free from the “like father like son” curse. The one that left people wounded in its wake. He tried to walk the straight and narrow, fighting his desires. But still he fell. Fell hard, his sophomore year, with a buxom cheerleader named Macy. Found out what he’d been warned against all those years in Sunday school, and that he liked it.

  He
felt sure his church friends would read it on him, a scarlet A scripted on his forehead. But they didn’t, and Mark discovered an inner division to his soul. That a righteous man could sometimes dance the crooked path, teasing fate, dabbling in temptation. Let not your right hand know what your left hand is doing.

  So he led a split life. Right versus left. Right against wrong. He read Paul’s lament a million times. I do that which I do not will to do. The flesh and the spirit at war. He lost more times than he wished to count.

  Then the saints at Calvary Baptist hallelujah’d his decision to go to seminary on Graduation Sunday and helped raise tuition through bake sales and craft bazaars. They sacrificed, pledged and sent prayer cards. “We’re behind you!” they cheered. “Praying for you daily,” they promised. Their faith in him shamed him for his failures and thrilled him all at once.

  Some of these same folks from Calvary Baptist drank punch around the fountain today when his beautiful bride announced to all, by accident, that she was with child.

  His child.

  Right hand met left, his divided worlds collided. Leaving broken pieces of his pride, for everyone to see. The truth he’d suspected all along.

  He wasn’t good at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  god’s green earth

  Dust particles danced in afternoon sun, filtered through the windows of the apartment. They rotated and spun to an unheard song, then gathered, clinging to the photo in Amanda’s hand.

  She blew them away, soft as a southern breeze. Slick fax paper captured the blurry image of the fetus, black-and-white swirls promising new life. She traced her fingertip over the curves. Followed the tiny length of legs and arms. Lingered over the head and heart.

  A medical font pronounced the mother as Amanda Thompson, along with the date and baby’s measurements at ten weeks. Just before the wedding.

  Two months had passed, and Amanda’s stomach could no longer be hidden under superstrength girdles. She’d never felt right about them anyway, for fear of squishing the baby.

  Since Mark’s tenure ended last week, she didn’t have to worry anymore. No more false sunny appearances on Sunday mornings, doodling on her bulletin and counting the minutes until the charade was over.