“Mark and the Ladies’ Guild president, Ms. Williams. Do you know her?”
“A little.” As much as I want to. In the magazine, an article promised to reveal “Ten Secrets to Sizzling Romance.”
“They’ve become quite a team. A regular Frick and Frack.”
“How nice.” Amanda stifled a yawn and looked at the clock.
When would Mark call and get her off the line with this nutcase?
“In fact,” Dale added, almost as an afterthought, “they must have some follow-up work to do this evening.”
“Follow up?” The glossy pages rustled.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. They left together, after the carnival. Courtney’s hard to miss in that Camaro. Perhaps he needed a ride home. The church truck, from what I understand, is in the shop for repairs. That would leave him without transportation, now wouldn’t it? Thank goodness he and Courtney are such good friends.”
Left the carnival together. Red Camaro. Such good friends.
Blood rushed to Amanda’s head and the magazine fell shut. High on wooden shelves, her porcelain doll collection became jeering gargoyles in the shadows of the room.
“Yes. I guess so.” Hollowness filled her. She focused on one doll, its Shirley Temple curls forever perky, the rosebud lips pursed just so. Smirking.
“Anyway, just wanted to check in about your father. We’re praying for you. On behalf of the board, let me extend our best wishes for a continued speedy recovery.”
“Thank you for calling.” She could hardly breathe.
“And can we expect you back in Potter Springs anytime soon?”
His question slithered down her neck, reptilian and cold. “Yes,” she answered, the pressure crushing her throat. “Soon.” She hung up the phone and rubbed her ear.
Ugly scenarios whirled in her brain like a film reel.
Courtney, ever the saccharine saleswoman, going on about LeFleur’s incredible products. Just feel my skin!
Courtney tossing her hair. Courtney licking her gloppy lips. Courtney crossing her Barbie-doll legs.
Wow, Mark would say. That’s some lotion.
Amanda picked up the phone again. Dale Ochs must be wrong. Checking the clock on her desk, she figured it out. The carnival. Mark must be exhausted. He probably went straight home and fell asleep. That’s why he hadn’t called.
She dialed. No answer. The click of the machine. No one home. She imagined the brown phone by the bed, its cord twisted in knots, the ringing loud enough to wake the dead. The one he whispered I love you into each night, to her. Me too, she always said. But not tonight. Tonight, he wasn’t home.
She didn’t leave a message. Her heart twisted, and nausea surged. The thought of it, of Mark with Courtney, roiled inside her. She ran to the bathroom and vomited. Wiping her face, she stared in the mirror. Her eyes streamed, sorrow and fear pinched her brow.
Could Mark have done this?
No. After what his father had done to Marianne, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, because he knew better. Didn’t he?
A DREAM CATCHER hung behind Courtney Williams’s velour couch, the long feathers dangling above Mark’s head. Her oak bookshelf held a variety of titles. When Good Men Leave. He Said, He Lied. The Delightful Divorce.
Courtney thrust a glass in Mark’s hand, carbonation fizzing at the top. The bubbles brushed his nose. He drank, then sputtered.
“I hope you don’t mind. I put a little something in it.” She winked, standing in front of him in her Alice costume. “Thought you might want something stronger than a Dr Pepper, after working so hard. Is it too strong?”
“No, it’s fine.” Surreal, Mark thought. That he sat on Courtney’s sofa, her etched Coca-Cola glass in his hand. His Moses wig and beard lay in a scraggly pile on the floor, the Ten Commandments propped against the wall.
“Thanks for helping me with those decorations.” Courtney pointed to a pile stacked in the entryway. “I had no idea how many boxes I’d have to carry up here by myself. I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. Nothing to go home to.
“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m going to change.” She stepped past him, her Mary Jane shoes shining in the shag carpet. “Be back in a flash!”
Just a friendly little drink, she’d said. A reward for carrying five thousand pounds of festival paraphernalia up two flights of stairs to her apartment.
Mark stared at her coffee table, glass inserts under a floral arrangement. He reached out to touch the flowers. Fake. As Courtney rummaged in her bedroom, Mark took another drink, and this time it didn’t burn going down.
He remembered the apostle Paul’s biblical admonition to young Timothy. No longer drink only water, but use a little wine for your stomach’s sake, and your frequent infirmities. Mark tipped his glass skyward. A tribute to the wise theologian. Maybe next year’s carnival, he’d wear a Paul costume.
“I’m back.” Courtney settled beside him on the overstuffed couch, the only other seat in the small apartment. “Whoops!” The thick cushions propelled her weight toward him and she pushed against his thigh. Her nail polish twinkled against his burlap costume for the briefest of instances. “Excuse me.”
She wore loose pajama bottoms and a sleeveless top.
He tried hard not to guess if she had anything on beneath the shirt.
“Like another?” She lifted the glass.
He found himself nodding, and watched her pad to the kitchen. “Thanks.”
When she reached for the ice, the tank top inched up just enough for him to see the small of her back, tanned and slender.
“Good carnival.” She placed the refreshed drink on a wicker coaster.
“We did a good job.”
“Sorry Amanda couldn’t be here to see it. I bet you miss her.” Courtney brushed her hair back, revealing a bare shoulder, round and shining, like a caramel apple.
“I do,” Mark said. He should be calling his wife now. She never called him first.
“Amanda’s been gone for quite a while,” Courtney said. “You think she’ll be back soon?” Sipping her drink, she held her pinkie aloft.
“I hope so.”
“Must be tough.” Concern turned her ever-present smile downward. She placed her hand on his arm.
“Yeah.” He rattled the ice.
“So difficult. I know.”
“’S not so bad.”
“I know what that’s like. Even though it’s been over a year for me. Still, it’s hard when they leave.” She sighed, the top stretching against her curves.
“Amanda’s coming back.” He tore his gaze back to the table.
“Of course she is.” Leaving the couch, Courtney bent in front of the stereo. Phil Collins sang through mediocre speakers.
She returned to his side and they sat, listening to the music. Mark sank deeper into the cushions, tilting his head back, the velour soft on his neck. He thought of simple pleasures. Rock-lite. A cold drink. Sitting next to someone on a couch. An attractive someone.
Courtney brightened. “It’s good to have friends, though.”
“Friends.” He nodded. Gomer Pyle for a boss and the Wicked Witch for a secretary. Dale the Watchdog sniffing around his heels, ready to steal his job.
Got no wife. Got no friends.
Maybe she wants a friend like you, Amanda had said.
Maybe so, he agreed to himself, and polished off his cocktail.
“I’m so glad you came over,” Courtney said. “This is nice.”
“Nice,” he repeated, his voice soft.
“Just so you know”-her eyes sparkled at him, pearl teeth caught the swell of her lip-“I’m here for you.” Her breath smelled of sweet cherries and whiskey.
She went to take his glass. “You done with this?”
“Not yet.” He stopped her wrist, and held it. Maybe I want a friend like her.
A charge pulled him, drew him in. A slow motion frame inching forward. The light caught the gold on h
is ring finger, wrapped around her hand, shimmering like a faded dream.
“ARE YOU INSANE? Back off !” Amanda tapped her brakes like an SOS pattern. On Houston’s deadly I-45 interchange, she resorted to red-light communication with the eighteen-wheeler on her tail.
The behemoth bellowed its displeasure in a long, low moan. Amanda had long since turned the radio off to better calm her nerves in the traffic. She hated Phil Collins anyway.
She wondered if she had made a mistake. After packing in a fury, she wrote a note to her parents and left within an hour of Dale’s phone call. Downstairs, she slipped out to the driveway with her bag over her shoulder. The engine started with a faithful hum and she backed into the overcast night.
Now, on the freeway, the truck behind her finally whipped around and passed on the left. It cut into her lane, not six inches between their bumpers.
Driving blind behind the gigantic box-on-wheels, she concentrated on not hitting the orange barrels on either side of the van. Her skills were rusty from puttering around Potter’s lazy streets. Stop signs there outnumbered traffic lights a hundred to one, and the only freeway was on the outskirts of town, for coming or going.
Still, if she didn’t ding the van, maybe Steve Boyd would take it back after all.
Entertaining that hope, she forgot to double-check the scrambled interchange, as if she could see anything beyond the silver metal of the truck.
Much later, in the darkness, she spotted her mistake. HIGHWAY 59, read the sign. That’s right. But wait. Her worn-out eyes had played tricks on her, tired as they were. That cost her a few more miles.
South, the next marker confirmed. She wasn’t headed toward Potter at all. Through a slight of the road, aided by confusion and abetted by emotion, she was speeding in the wrong direction.
She found herself driving in the middle of the night on Houston’s busy southbound route.
The road to Mexico.
CHAPTER 23
the number
Stars spread high and bright over a blackened sky in down-town Potter Springs. The courthouse, a ghoulish presence with stone made green by the streetlamps, oversaw the proceedings of the square. Activities that were, at this late hour, nonexistent.
Mark paused at the northern corner, waiting absurdly for the walk sign. Next to him, a banged up Pinto crawled to a stop. The window rolled down, releasing the dead, sweet odor of marijuana and heavy metal riffs played at full volume.
Mark recognized the tune. “Welcome to the Jungle.”
“Sweet, fancy Moses!” High-pitched snickers came from inside. “That you, Pastor Mark?”
“Hi, Benny.” Standing alone, wearing Fall Festival attire in the starkness of the intersection, Mark saw no point in denying the charge.
“Whatcha doin’ downtown in the middle of the night?” Lake-view’s junior janitor asked. “Wearing … that?”
“Just taking a little walk.” Mark’s Moses wig and beard dangled from his grasp like a boneless rat, twisting in the wind.
“Wanna ride?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Come on, dude, it’s getting cold,” the shotgun passenger said to Benny. “Roll the window up.” The youth, in a black T-shirt adorned with gigantic lips, looked at Mark through red-rimmed eyes.
“Chill,” Benny said. “I can’t leave him here, he’s my boss.” He turned to Mark. “This is Hoover.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mark offered.
“Whatever,” said Hoover.
“Get in the back,” Benny told his friend.
“Unh-unh.”
“Get in the back! Dude, he’s got a skirt on, okay?”
Clearly resisting the demotion, Hoover emerged and arranged himself in the backseat.
Seeing that Benny wasn’t going anywhere unless Mark availed himself of this unwelcome hospitality, he slid into the car and let the smoke waft around him.
“What’s on you?” Benny asked, staring at Mark’s wet robes.
“Dr Pepper. I spilled it.”
“Try not to get the seats wet, okay?” Benny threw the car in gear and they roared toward Mesquite Street, drowning in the angry melody of Guns N’ Roses.
The roses, Mark thought. He’d knocked them over.
While the car drove to the rhythm of eighties metal bands, Mark pushed away questions as to how Benny knew his exact address. He didn’t want to know. Instead, he relived the latest debacle of his life.
Reaching for Courtney in his lonely fog, reflexes dulled by whiskey and misuse, he had tipped his empty drink. The ice cubes scattered slippery as bugs and he chased them with slow fingers. Fingers that accidentally unsettled the fake arrangement. Dumped it to the shag carpet, where it bounced and the stems came out like emaciated legs, the heavy rose heads upside down and dusty.
In the process, he managed to upend Courtney’s full soda, which splashed an ugly brown swoosh on her tank top. And then she shrieked about her couch, and don’t step on the flowers, and that’s Gran’s vase.
The sight, the sounds, cleared the haze away. The wrongness of the moment penetrated his being. This time, he embraced it. “I better go,” he told her, and slipped out the door. He remembered in the parking lot that he had no car, but he didn’t glance backward.
Night air sobered him quicker than the icy liquid on his lap, and the wind whipped the folds of his costume. He walked the streets, shuffling in sandals that rubbed his ankles like tangled ropes. The sin that so easily entangles, as Paul would say. He waited for a message, a thunderbolt to zap him from the recesses of the sky for even thinking about what he’d almost done.
Instead, he got a couple of stoned teenagers in a Pinto and an uncomfortable yet speedy ride home.
On Mesquite Street, Mark was deposited without ceremony on his driveway. “See you t’morrow,” Benny said. The strains of “Paradise City” shadowed along with the Pinto’s blue smoke as it screamed down the lane.
The house condemned Mark with emptiness, dark and quiet. He went directly to the machine. No messages. On caller ID he saw a call that came through at 10:45 from Ben Thompson. Amanda.
She actually called. I wasn’t here. She called, and I wasn’t here.
He checked the clock. 12:38. Too late to wake her. Maybe just plain too late.
He stumbled to the bedroom where he lay facedown on his pillow with his arms flung wide, still in the dampened costume, too tired to change.
THE NEXT DAY, the cold sun touched the plains with the barest warmth and brushed Lakeview’s sloped roof. Near the entrance, Dale Ochs ground his cigarette in the sand tower ashtray. Mark swept past him.
“Morning.” Dale fell into step alongside him. “You look beat. Long night?”
“Nope.” Mark strode on.
“I’m doing the receipts for the carnival today.” Dale struggled to keep up, burgundy tassels dancing on the tips of his pointed loafers. “Have you got them?”
“In my office.”
“Good. I’ll follow you there.”
They passed Benny in the hall, who ignored Dale completely and gave Mark a faint chin nod. “Hey, dude.”
“Hey.” A silent agreement between men. Men who had bonded in the darkest hour through one of life’s most unbreakable pacts. A midnight ride, no questions asked, no stories told. It would not be discussed again.
Maybe Mark had a friend after all.
“Good morning, Ms. Hodges,” he said to Letty.
“Is it?” Seated at her desk, she licked an envelope, her pale tongue long and skinny against the fold.
Mark shuddered inwardly. “I hope so.”
In his office, Mark handed Dale the packet with leftover tickets and exchange logs, along with a zippered pouch full of the evening’s take.
“Why didn’t you make a night deposit?” Dale ran a hand over Mark’s shelves, as if testing them for strength.
“Had other things to do. It was safe here.”
“Other things. Oh, that’s right.” Dale checked his fingers for dust, then ru
bbed them against each other. “Helping our lovely Ms. Williams. Does the Camaro ride as fast as it looks?”
Mark’s blood slowed as it pounded in his ears, full of bass and fear. “She had some boxes.”
“Of course. Nice of you, all those boxes. What a friend.”
I could use a friend like you.
“Did you need anything else?”
“This should do.” Dale lifted the small pile. “When I update our prayer lists, I’ll make sure to give you a copy.”
“Thanks.” Mark clicked on his computer, a not-so-subtle dismissal. It warmed up with various growls and clicks, the ancient beast coming to life.
“Oh, and congratulations on your father-in-law.” Dale paused in the doorway.
“Sorry?”
“His improving health. I spoke to Amanda last night.” Dale’s smile was the stuff of nightmares. “She says he’s doing much, much better.” His tiny shoes tapped down the hall again, and Mark detected a pattern of joy in the rhythm.
Dale talked to Amanda. Last night. And Amanda tried to call. Didn’t leave a message.
What had Dale told her? What had he seen?
Mark imagined the deacon pressed against Courtney’s balcony window, beak nose squashed against the glass. Long enough to know nothing happened? Or had he been there at all?
He checked his watch, Mandy should be up by now. He’d have to face her sometime. Explain what happened. No telling what venom Dale had spewed.
No need to panic. He’d clear everything up with a simple phone call.
He posted the In Conference sign and shut the paneled door. Saying a quick prayer, he set his gut and dialed.
“Thompson residence.” Katy’s cool alto answered the phone.
“Hello. This is Mark.” He never knew how to address her. Mother wasn’t right, Mrs. Thompson too formal. Katy, maybe. Dragonlady, his favorite, clearly unacceptable.
“Hello, Mark.” She sounded disappointed. “Mandy make it back all right? I was waiting to phone, hoping she would sleep in.”
Mandy… make it back? The words skipped around his head like errant pinballs. He couldn’t get them in the right order. Back. Mandy. Mandy isn’t back. “She’s not in Houston?”
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