Potter Springs

by Britta Coleman

  Amanda thought of her mother as less a hen, and more a drill sergeant, ordering her troops in line. Apparently, the woman had gotten strategic and enlisted Mark’s mother behind Amanda’s back.

  “Katy has kindly provided the, ahem, means for me to come visit you. She’s been busy”-Marianne colored prettily-“with your father at the lake house.”

  “Yes, I know. Since Dad’s heart attack, they’ve been second-honeymooning.” Strangely, Amanda didn’t feel angry at her mother’s interference. After all, Katy Thompson carried control as comfortably as a Chanel tote. More than that, she loved her daughter. Somehow, sending Marianne to the rescue seemed a sweet gesture, however bizarre.

  Family. Maybe it looked different than her childhood dreams of happily-ever-after, but she’d been blessed with a family after all. Twisted and strange perhaps, but they were hers.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about second honeymoons.” Bitterness pinched Marianne’s features, then passed away.

  Amanda remembered. Mark had told her about Doyle, left and gone with the busty blonde. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. Not mine either, of course. Just bad luck, I suppose. Bad luck and poor choices.”

  Amanda wasn’t sure whether to agree or try to defend Marianne’s marital history. She decided on a vague “Hmm.”

  “I thought,” Marianne went on, “maybe I could help with that. The voice of experience and all.”

  Bracing herself, Amanda prepared for a tongue lashing of the in-law kind. She wondered if she had time to order a stiff drink from the bar before the onslaught.

  “From Doyle… the divorce… Mark has this-how should I phrase it-tremendous sense of duty” Marianne began.

  Ah. Mark as perfect son, Amanda as lousy-ruiner-of-Golden-boy’s-entire-life. A well-worn theme.

  “I suppose you’d call it duty. Honor, perhaps. Toward me, the church. You.” Marianne turned the teacup in her hand, sunlight reflected off the silver rim. “I think his honor didn’t know what to do when… when he didn’t cope with things quite as perfectly as he’d hoped.”

  The surprise, the second major one of the day, nearly knocked Amanda from her chair. “What do you mean?” That, for once, something is not all my fault?

  “With the baby.” The cup clicked against the saucer, the delicate china ringing high and clear.

  Amanda’s ears rang with it. The baby.

  “Having it too soon,” Marianne continued, “and then, not at all.” Her hands fluttered, drawing Amanda’s gaze. “He reacted poorly.”

  An understatement, but Amanda would take what she could get. After all, none of them had known what to do. Yet somehow, everyone had turned to Mark, including Amanda. They’d all expected perfection, not understanding he had a grief of his own to work through.

  No wonder he fell short. With the pedestal they placed him on, he’d had so far to fall.

  She nodded, staring at a tiny chip in Marianne’s pale pink manicure.

  “I did as well. Amanda, I’m sorry for not being there for you. And for Mark.” Her gaze, round brown eyes, rested on Amanda. Like a bird, still and unwavering.

  “Thank you,” she managed. And meant it.

  A slender bridge stretched between them.

  “Actually, Mark has been a mess.” At flight once again, Marianne lit on the silk flowers in the table arrangement, twisting the stems to her liking. “I’ve talked to him more now than ever before. He misses you, terribly.”

  Amanda’s heart leaped, bringing quick tears to her eyes. Mark was a mess. Over her. Not Courtney. And he missed her. Terribly. She liked that part the best.

  “I miss him too,” she admitted. “In fact, I’m heading back to Potter. Tomorrow.” She’d take her joy and face the morning. No matter what.

  Intent on the bouquet, Marianne shook her head. “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not the right time, dear.” Marianne frowned as she sought perfect placement for a peony.

  “I think it is. I’m ready. I know what I’ve done wrong and how we can work on things.” Well, maybe she hadn’t gotten the how’s all figured out, but at least she wanted to try.

  “Mark’s not.”

  “Not what?” Amanda bristled, tempted to yank the daisies from her mother-in-law’s hands and shake her.

  “Ready.”

  “But you said he missed me, and that means he still loves me so he has to be ready.” As she rose from the table, Amanda’s knees shook. So did her voice. “I’m going to call him-”

  “Oh, you don’t want to do that. I’ve spoken with him myself, frequently.” Marianne pursed her mouth. “Give him more time. As much as your little… home away from home has done you good, I think the solitude has helped Mark too. Leave him be, a few more days.”

  “What do you mean it’s helped him?” Amanda sank back down, hoping she wouldn’t start crying.

  “You know, spreading his wings.”

  “In what way?” Familiar jealousy hummed in her throat. In a flying-into-the-arms-of-another-woman way? But she’d sooner shrivel up and die than ask Marianne if Mark the perfect son was sleeping with the president of the Ladies’ Guild. She wouldn’t surrender that kind of ammunition. Especially not to her mother-in-law.

  “Nothing to worry about. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when it’s time. But for now, allow him his space. Trust me.”

  Trust you? I’m not sure I even like you. “But what am I supposed to do? Wait in limbo? No, don’t answer that.” Amanda thought about Mark, and the waiting she’d forced upon him.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Marianne tilted her head to the side, tiny pearls shining at her lobes. “The entertainment committee has arrived!” She reached across the table, careful of the cooling tea, and squeezed Amanda’s arm. Girlfriendish. “What shall we do first?”

  “I don’t exactly feel like-”

  “Nonsense.” The comrade tone disappeared in an instant. Instructive Marianne back in full force. “I’ve traveled all this way and I want to see Laguna Madre. Everything, the shops, the sights-”

  “There’s really not much-”

  “Well, let’s start with that ocean out there. You’ve got a nice color to you.”

  Unbelievable. Instead of the usual zinger, an actual compliment from Queen Bee.

  “Courting cancer, no doubt, but when in Rome…,” her mother-in-law remarked in a sing-song. Finished mangling the flowers, she stood from the table and tugged a polka-dot bathing suit, complete with granny skirt, from the nearby bag. “Shall we?”

  CHAPTER 31

  eating crow

  A brass sculpture on the desk displayed a wiry man dangling high above a three-dimensional cube. THINKING… OUTSIDE THE BOX, read the inscribed stand. “Let me get this straight. You want the car back?” The swivel chair groaned under Steve Boyd’s weight.

  “Yes.” Thankful to be in the warm office, Mark rubbed the red from his fingertips.

  They’d gone over this several times in the Hemp’s Used Motorway parking lot, frost glistening on the car hoods, before Mark suggested to the manager they step inside.

  Mark hoped for a cup of coffee, but judging from Steve’s irritated half-twists in the chair, he didn’t expect any to materialize.

  “The same car you traded in over a month ago. For the beaut. Green Tourister. Full size, right?” Steve Boyd shook his head. “Great price on that van. I remember.”

  “Yes, it was. Thank you.”

  “Nearly gave it to y’all.” The used-car manager spoke with resentment. “For the Lord’s work, you said.”

  Mark steered him back to the topic. “About the Toyota-”

  “God doing a little downsizing?” Steve snickered at his own joke. “Jesus in a hatchback!”

  “Where is it?” Mark bit down on his irritation.

  “Gone.”

  “I realize that, but can you tell me-”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Got th
e signature from your wife in the mail. Not your car anymore. Not your business.”

  Mark concentrated on a mustard stain on Steve’s tie. He exhaled slowly and smoothed the tension in his forehead. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t really my car in the first place.”

  Steve Boyd’s fleshy neck turned red. “Are you meanin’ to tell me you traded in a hot one, ’cause preacher or not I’ll-”

  “No, no. It belonged to my wife. Her car.” Mark still remembered her panicked look when he gave her the van. The pain in her voice when she’d asked, But where is my car?

  He hadn’t realized at the time how his trading the Toyota hit her personally. By disregarding another of her treasures, he’d wounded her deeper than the loss of metal and steel.

  He couldn’t make up for the other loss. The real one. The baby. There was no replacing a life, however much he wished he could.

  This, he could do. He’d make restitution. Even if it cost him his last dollar, and he had to deal with every redneck between here and Chitapee.

  “Oh yeah. Mrs. Reynolds,” Steve grunted. “Red hair, mad as a burnt rat. Tried to renege on the deal.”

  “That’s her. Except the rat part. Anyway, it was my deal, not hers. I made a mistake, and I’m trying to fix it.” Mark wondered if a bribe would help. He had emptied their meager savings this morning.

  Then he’d driven the church truck to EZ Pawn, finding the dilapidated shop in an aging strip center. He hefted the guitar case from behind the upholstered seat for the last time. Inside, dusty electronics and a tattooed clerk waited. He handed the Martin over, its panels gleaming like gold, and signed it away.

  He remembered the party at Pleasant Valley when they gave him the guitar. The blessings with the gift. Wherever he takes you… the Lord will use it to his glory….

  The bills in his hand seemed so light after the heft of the instrument, but he counted each dollar as a step toward Amanda. Real glory. He hadn’t looked back as he left the shop and drove toward Hemp’s, praying for a miracle.

  Steve uncrossed his sausage arms and pointed a finger across the desk. “I’m not taking the van back. You got that? A deal’s a deal.”

  “So I hear.”

  “But if you’re dead set on the import”-Steve huffed in disgust-“I may be able to point you in the right direction.”

  “Anything. Whatever you can do.”

  “It’d have to be a cash transaction… and bring it with you.”

  “Where’s the car?”

  “Out at my cousin’s place. Bought it for his daughter. She’s got three tickets for speeding in that tin can, he’s threatening to sell. You might get him to talk if you show up with the money in hand. Tell him I sent you.”

  * * *

  BENNY ARRIVED RIGHT on time, tires squealing black marks in his driveway. This time, the passenger seat was empty.

  “Thanks for the lift.” Mark climbed in. Small seeds rolled in a groove on the dash when he slammed the Pinto’s door.

  “Sure, dude.” Benny’s hair appeared freshly combed, and his Quiet Riot T-shirt held no trace of Chee·tos.

  “You look nice.”

  Benny grinned and cranked up the stereo.

  “You know where it is?”

  “Yeah.” Benny left Mesquite Street shaking in his wake. The cool wind blasted through the open windows, picking up the music and tossing it in Mark’s ears.

  He felt about sixteen again, and liked it.

  Twenty minutes later, by great fortune or divine intervention, they happened to drive up to the cousin’s place right in the middle of a domestic disturbance.

  The teenager, a skinny girl with buckteeth, shouted at her father in the dusty front yard just as they arrived. “You cain’t ground me from it, it’s my car and you gave it to me!”

  “That’s Jessie.” Benny smoothed his eyebrows.

  “You know her?”

  “Dude, why do you think I gave you a ride?” Benny looked incredulous at Mark’s stupidity.

  Mark felt almost thirty, and liked it.

  “I’ll sell it, I swear I will!” the potbellied father shouted. “I cain’t afford no more gol-durned tickets!”

  Happily, Steve Boyd’s cousin, the irate father, did want to sell. He took Mark’s offer without dickering, while Jessie and Benny circled each other like roosters in the yard.

  Jessie swore vengeance and bad behavior when her father announced the transaction, but Mark thought the tirade might be more for Benny’s benefit.

  “Let’s go,” Mark said to the young janitor, who sat beside Jessie on an abandoned tractor tire, pulling at weeds in the dirt.

  “Later,” Benny said to the girl.

  “Later,” she echoed, jutting her hip.

  The cousin promised to deliver the vehicle himself within the hour, straight to Mark’s driveway.

  A funny clanking sound in the Toyota’s engine announced the prompt arrival later that afternoon. Signing the papers, Mark guessed Jessie must have driven like she talked-loud, fast and irreverent. He took the car to AutoZone, cringing at every ominous clunk. There, he had just enough money to purchase an extensive car manual, with the rest of the savings allocated for trip funds.

  It would be impossible to bring the car to a real mechanic, because of his self-imposed schedule and severely flattened wallet.

  He’d just have to read the book and see if he could make sense of it himself. His gut sank as he pulled in the driveway, wondering if his plans had enough holes to drive that minivan through.

  If only Amanda were here. He flipped through the intricate drawings and instructions. After all her tutelage in Ben Thompson’s garage, she’d have this thing running clean in no time.

  Of course, if Amanda were here, he wouldn’t be trying to squeeze a lifetime’s worth of mechanical knowledge into one afternoon.

  If Amanda were here, the fire under him would be less hot. The crazy idea of driving across Texas to go get her, to give her the Toyota and his heart, would never have entered his mind.

  He popped the hood, book in hand, and tried to make sense of Greek. Actually, he knew some Greek, thanks to seminary. This looked much harder.

  * * *

  TWO HOURS LATER, Mark sat on the porch, his head in his hands. He’d just have to get a plane ticket. Rent a car near the border. Beg his mother-in-law for money and show up empty-handed.

  He’d wanted to wow Amanda. What he’d managed was worse than a whimper. He sat alone in his defeat.

  Mrs. Zimmerman had already been over three times, once with soup and twice to walk Princess. Checking things out, nearly dying from curiosity. She’d run out of excuses, he guessed.

  Down the street, a diesel engine rumbled around the corner. Mark lifted his head, watching as a white dually truck, big as a Greyhound bus, barreled down the road. It stopped in front of his house.

  Men eased out, broad chested and deep bellied, boots thumping on the curb.

  Joe Don Wexley, Jimmy Underwood and Ervin Plumley.

  Ervin shuffled up the driveway, carrying two Thermoses. “Coffee,” he announced, handing one over. “Been a long day?”

  “You have no idea.” Mark unscrewed the cap, the pungent aroma rising like incense. “What’s up?”

  “Aw, a little bit of nothing.” Ervin leaned against the porch rail. “Heard you got the car.”

  “Yep.”

  “No, I mean I heard it. Drivin’ by the Dairy Queen earlier.” Ervin paused to swig and smacked his lips against the heat. “She running good?” He asked, polite.

  Good as a garbage can on wheels. “Nope,” Mark said.

  “That a fact?”

  “That, Erv, is a fact.”

  “Too bad.”

  Joe Don and Jimmy rambled forward, identical in thick corduroy jackets, Wranglers, and with silver Thermoses. After shaking hands, Mark repeated the same conversation with them, almost verbatim.

  They murmured their condolences and sipped the steaming brew, quiet for a few minutes.

&
nbsp; “Hey, Mark.” Ervin broke the silence.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “I ever tell you how handy Joe Don is, what-all he did on your house?”

  “Yessir. Never could thank you enough, Joe Don. Sure appreciate it.”

  “Aw.” Joe Don scuffed a boot.

  “And Jimmy here… you know he carries the mail.”

  “Sure do. Does a good job.” Mark nodded at Jimmy, who tipped his John Deere cap in response.

  “Yeah, but you know what he did before that?”

  “No, sir.”

  Ervin grinned from ear to ear as Jimmy rocked back on his heels. “Auto mechanic.”

  “That so?” An internal click sounded for Mark. A sense of rightness. An alignment with the world. He smiled.

  “Whaddya say we have a looksee?” Jimmy suggested, nonchalant.

  Mark thought he could have kissed Jimmy on the spot. Wisely, he kept such thoughts to himself. “Sounds good.”

  Joe Don went to the truck and removed tools from the metal chest.

  Jimmy revved the Toyota, poking his head out the open window to listen. Engine heat made puffy clouds in the chill.

  Ervin stood guard, hovering over the motor, tweaking gadgets here and there. He shouted something to Jimmy, who gunned the gas again.

  Angels in work boots.

  Saving Mark without ceremony or grandeur, or even much conversation. It was their way.

  At that moment, the sight in his driveway moved him more than any sermon he’d ever heard. No PowerPoint, no expensive orchestra, no high rise cathedral.

  Just the simple service of men, the smell of gas and oil, and the taste of hot, potent coffee. Real and tangible, it pressed Mark’s throat and filled his eyes.

  He blinked it away, brushing his hands on his jeans, and joined them in their task.

  Once strangers, and then friends. Now, these men, they were his brothers.

  CHAPTER 32

  the craziest notion

  On the beach, mariachi music tapped Amanda’s nerves, threatening to explode her tension headache into a full-blown migraine. She flipped to her back and considered her mother-in-law beside her. “Another drink, Marianne?”