Potter Springs

by Britta Coleman

  “Why, yes, that sounds lovely.” Marianne turned in her gigantic straw hat, face barely visible beneath the orange rim. She smiled. “Thank you, dear. A larger slice of lime this time, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.” Dusting sand off her legs, Amanda wrapped a towel around her waist and grabbed the tumblers.

  At least she’d gotten Marianne to switch to iced tea.

  She made her way to the tiki hut for the refills. The bartender sliced the limes to perfection, and her flip-flops sprayed sand as she returned the length of the beach, holding the chilly glasses.

  Pressure burgeoned within her, ready to burst. She’d broken free of her cave and into the light. It was time to chase down her love, whether he wanted her or not. Whether Marianne approved or not.

  Time to deliver the “I’m going home and you have to leave too” talk.

  But when Amanda reached their sunning spot, Marianne set her book aside and chirped, “Let’s go for another dip!”

  She removed her hat and skipped to the water, polka dots flapping in the breeze. “This salt water is downright invigorating,” Marianne called as she bobbed in the surf. “Afterward, we can play another game of gin. I’m so glad I thought to pack the cards!”

  Amanda entered the water and let the warm wall splash against her, thinking if she had to play another round, she might start screaming. “Sounds super!” she exclaimed with false enthusiasm, and sank under the waves. The tide rocked her body for a blissful moment.

  Underwater, heedless of the salt, she opened her eyes. Sand swirled in the clear motion. A little crab scuffled around her toes, then dug a hole, hiding itself completely. Her lungs cried out for air as her eyes started stinging. She had to breathe again.

  Returning to the beach, Amanda dried the sticky water off her legs and settled into her lounger and watched as Marianne made similar preparations.

  The woman adjusted her towel to ironing-board smoothness. She whisked away every granule of sand, then rubbed in a thick layer of sunscreen with vigorous, circular movements. She rolled the towel edge to prop her ankles, wriggled her hips and shrugged her shoulders. Finally she picked up her paperback, tilted her hat for maximum sun blockage, then sighed.

  “Marianne.” Amanda made a conscious effort to put firmness in her voice. “I understand if you want a vacation, but it’s time for me to go back to Potter Springs. Back to Mark.”

  Not bothering to look up from her novel, Marianne said, “No, dear. It’s not time. I told you… Mark’s not ready yet.”

  “But why? Whatever it is, we can work it out-” Amanda forced images of Courtney’s long limbs, tangled in bedsheets, out of her mind.

  “Hush, dear.” Marianne turned the warped page with a faint crackle, running her fingertip along the rough edges. “Not now. Trust me.”

  It was the second instance the woman had made such a demand. And Amanda didn’t feel any closer to believing that she should trust someone who elevated the in-law relationship into a passive-aggressive art form.

  Trust. Surrendering pride and making her way. Thorns and vines, tangling the path.

  She’d clip away what she could, regardless of the hurt. She must step forward, out of deception, and into faith. “Marianne, I have to tell you something. About why I need to go home.”

  Marianne set the book aside and gave her full attention, the round hat a ridiculous orange halo. “Yes?”

  “When we lost the baby. It wasn’t just that. We haven’t told anyone. But the doctor said…” She felt her face contort, uncontrollable. “We can’t have any. Something’s wrong with me.” She voiced the shame out loud, unable to name why she surrendered the secret now. It seemed important, a foothold for understanding. She handed her enemy the greatest weapon she had, hoping for mercy. Expecting none.

  “I can’t have a baby.” Looking up, she found Marianne’s perky features swathed in compassion.

  “Oh, Mandy.” She breathed it out, three syllables of sadness.

  Marianne had never used her daughter-in-law’s nickname. Before now. “Surely there are doctors?” She leaned forward and the book fell to the sand. “A specialist?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But that’s why things were so hard. Between me and Mark.” She wiped a tear away. “But I’m getting better.”

  “Of course you are, dear. It’s amazing you’ve held up this well. If there’s anything I can do… ,” Marianne offered, her voice hollow and helpless.

  “Thank you. But I’m not sure there’s anything to do. It may be too late. For everything.”

  She would not share her fears about Courtney. To share suspicions without fact seemed wrong. A breach of promise somehow. Mark deserved more than her groundless fears, and Dale’s tattle-tales. He deserved her honesty.

  “I pulled away, I think.” Amanda stared at the rainbow pattern in the towel, the stripes warbling through her tears.

  “Of course you pulled away. That would be natural.” Marianne patted her arm in a movement both comforting and protective. “You were hurting, you poor thing. Anybody would understand that.”

  In one swift move, her mother-in-law had switched from adversary to advocate.

  Emboldened, Amanda shifted her gaze from the terry cloth. Letting Marianne read the naked pain on her face. “That’s why I need to go back. To make it right.”

  “I love my Mark, and you do too,” Marianne said. “But he’s not always… adept… when it comes to handling emotions. He tends to block things off and pretend for the best.”

  “I know.” Amanda couldn’t believe the woman admitted Mark had a fault. It made it easier to keep going. To open her heart a bit more. “I haven’t made it easy on him.”

  “It’s a tremendous loss.” Marianne blinked wetness from her eyes. “And one I can’t pretend to understand. But I’m so sorry. For you and Mark. And me. My grandbabies….” A flutter of a cry escaped her.

  “I know. I’m so sorry too. I wish I could-”

  “No, don’t you apologize. Not for this. Not ever.” She adjusted her hat. “You know Mark loves you-and I love you-just the way you are.”

  “No. I didn’t know.” Amanda pushed her toes in the sand.

  “Well, I do.” Marianne sat back in her chair, contemplating. “Perhaps the answer is to focus on what you already have. On what you have to give.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “You have Mark’s love. You have a family.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that something?” Marianne raised her brows. Hopeful. “Maybe not enough, but isn’t it something wonderful?”

  This, coming from a woman who’d lost her love. And never quite recovered.

  “It is. That’s why I want to go home. I need-”

  “Honey”-Marianne placed a gentle hand on Amanda’s knee-“I hope you take this the right way. But maybe for now, in just this instance, it’s not so much what you want. Or what you lack. What our Mark needs from you right now is time. For you to be the one to give.”

  The temptation to deny was overwhelming. But Amanda saw the truth in Marianne’s words. She would lay down her pride, again. “Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. Besides, it won’t be long now. Trust me… it’s closer than it seems.”

  Hours later, after their fourth game of tournament two, Marianne paused midshuffle. “You know, Amanda…” She tucked a stray curl behind her daughter-in-law’s ear. A soft breeze rippled the folds of their striped umbrella. “Mandy. It’s been so nice being here with you. I’ve enjoyed the… companionship.”

  Squinting in the sunset, Amanda didn’t know how to respond. She hadn’t considered what life in Lubbock might be like for her mother-in-law. That Marianne’s almost rabid devotion to Mark, to the self-imposed rigors of church circles, could be indicative of loneliness.

  On impulse, Amanda grasped Marianne’s hand. “I’ve had fun too.” It was almost the truth.

  I can do this, she thought. She had something to offer. No
t to take away, but to give. Perhaps there was blessing through the pain. Like Missy in the van. Listening and caring. Her loss, her Grace, a gift to others.

  She watched Marianne resume her shuffle. The cards rattled, flipped apart, splayed out and fell together again.

  Fanning her cards, Amanda placed the queen next to the king. I can be patient for you, Mark, since you were patient for me. I’ll wait until you’re ready, even if it kills me.

  Intensity wrinkled Marianne’s brow as she studied her hand. She stopped arranging for a moment. “Mandy, I’ve had the craziest notion. We’ve had quite a day.” She paused, biting her lip. “What do you say we get an… adult beverage?”

  Amanda looked up in surprise. “Like a margarita or something?”

  “Ooh, yes. That sounds like just the ticket.” The spirit of naughtiness flushed Marianne’s cheeks.

  “Fine with me. In fact”-Amanda stood and gently popped Marianne with the tip of her towel, eliciting a giddy squeal-“I’m buying.”

  CHAPTER 33

  racket

  Mark stood in the kitchen, updating his things-to-pack list and barked at his mother-in-law on the telephone. “Listen, Katy.” Desperation pushed him past what to call Dragonlady at this point. “You can tell me where she is or I take an eight-by-ten glossy of her to every hotel in Mexico.”

  “Really?”

  Katy’s sarcasm drew the word out, as if he were a third grader planning a trip to the moon.

  “Yes, really. With or without your help, I’m doing this. I’m going after Mandy and, frankly, anything you have to say against it is a waste of time.”

  “Excellent.” She stamped her approval with a quick exhalation. Apparently, Ben’s brush with death hadn’t curbed her nicotine habit.

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased. She’s staying at the Palacio del Grande in a little town called Laguna Madre.”

  Mark’s hand shook as he wrote the address and phone number on his little yellow pad. An address. A real live location for his wife.

  “You should be able to find it rather easily,” Katy said. “I’m glad to see you’re taking some initiative. There may be hope for you yet.”

  It was the nicest thing she’d said to him since he’d married her daughter.

  “Oh,” Katy added. “Say hello to your mother for me.” She hung up, without good-byes or further comment.

  Odd. Mark hadn’t thought Katy and his mother were on the “say hello” level of friendship. He chalked it up to progress and crossed Call Katy off his list. Next up, packing.

  He selected jeans, T-shirts, running shoes and shorts for the warmer weather. He added another bag with a few surprise essentials. Some things Amanda had left behind.

  Saving the most dreaded duty for last, Mark swept up an unsuspecting Mr. Chesters and stuffed him in the traveling box. Mr. Chesters’ claws, sharp as his reflexes, drew instant red lines on Mark’s forearm. Trapped in the cage, the cat moaned, demonic and low. Not a pleasant sound. Mark washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the welts already rising in allergic reaction.

  In the driveway, he loaded his luggage in the back of the Toyota, saying a prayer as he clicked the latch closed. Please make it to Mandy. Get me to Mexico. He opened the back door for Mr. Chesters’ cage when he heard a caravan making its way down Mesquite Street.

  The send-off committee, no doubt rustled up by Joe Don, Ervin and Jimmy. They pulled to a stop, a bunched-up caterpillar of trucks and cars.

  Mrs. Zimmerman, at her weekly seniors’ meeting, would be absolutely sick she missed all the action.

  The women-Peggy, Missy and Courtney-emerged with a basket of boxes and little floral things, tied with a large bow.

  Courtney retied the ribbon to a plumper formation. “For Amanda,” she said. “Just some beauty supplies and such. It’s the best we could do on last-minute notice.”

  Peggy hefted a container into Mark’s hands. “This is for my honeygirl.”

  Inside were homemade treats, a candle and a stuffed bear.

  “Tell her we love her,” Peggy said. “Tell her to come on home.”

  “There’s trail mix in here, in case you get hungry.” Missy Underwood handed him a grocery bag. “And things for the road. Wipies, a phone card, bottled water. You let me and Jimmy know-”

  Jimmy put his arm around his wife, affirming her sentiment with the gesture.

  “I will.” Mark placed the supplies and gifts in the backseat, careful not to squish the bow.

  Dale Ochs hopped down from his gigantic truck and landed on stacked ostrich boots. He shook hands with Joe Don and Ervin. Sauntering up to the Toyota, he kicked the tires with a pointed toe. “She roadworthy?”

  “I think so.” Mark crossed his arms.

  “She’s dropping some transmission fluid,” Jimmy reminded Mark. “Should make it okay, but keep an eye on your levels. Make sure you cap ’em off.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good.” Dale nodded, as if satisfied. Like he’d done the work himself, or at least commissioned the others. “Listen.” Tugging Mark’s elbow, the deacon led him closer to the house. “Ervin and I had a little talk. I’ve got something for you, on behalf of the board.”

  “Yes?” Mark hated Dale tugging him anywhere.

  Dale handed over an envelope, then stuck his thumbs in his jeans pockets.

  For an instant, Mark feared the worst, opening it in front of others. A crazy thought that Ervin had changed his mind. Humiliation to go. You’re fired. Have fun in Mexico. God bless and Godspeed.

  Instead, it was a neat stack of cash. God bless, indeed.

  “Traveling money.” Dale bowed his chest out, his strong nose shining in the afternoon sun. “It’s from the special-needs fund. And we figured if ever there was a special need, well, you might just qualify.”

  The board chairman grinned, and for the first time, Mark saw his humanity.

  “Thanks.” Mark shook Dale’s hand. On instinct, he added, “Hey, Dale, let me ask you something. You know how swamped Ervin is. While I’m gone, we’ll need your help to hold down the fort. What do you say?”

  “Absolutely.” Dale nodded vigorously before Mark finished talking. “You have my full support.”

  The man seemed to grow two inches, stacked boots or not. “Great. When I get back, we can talk about putting you over some of my responsibilities, if you’d like.”

  A glint in Dale’s eye told Mark he’d struck gold.

  “Things like next year’s carnival. Organizing committees. Building our finances.” Busywork, Mark thought to himself. My headaches, Dale’s specialty.

  The man was nearly aquiver with excitement. Dale the Watch-dog, sniffing out injustice and ineptitude, on behalf of Mark Reynolds. “You can count on me.”

  Joe Don rambled up, his legs bowed out like a wishbone. “Seen the Weather Channel anytime today?”

  “Nope,” Mark said. “Don’t have cable.”

  “Looks like a storm’s rolling in down south. One of those tropical depressions, set to hit the Mexican coast in a coupla days. Might be nothing, but it could get ugly.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Mark promised.

  “That cat don’t look too happy,” Ervin noted. He scratched behind Mr. Chesters’s ears, flattened through the square grid of the cage. The animal quit moaning for the briefest of seconds.

  “It never does,” Mark agreed, sliding behind the wheel.

  “Got everything you need?”

  “Yep.” Mark met Ervin’s gaze. “Thanks for the money.”

  “What money?” Ervin grinned and slapped the Toyota’s hood. “You best get going. Daylights a-burnin’!”

  Mark honked the horn, an absurd chirpy sound, and left them waving in his yard.

  HE DID NOT, it turned out, have everything he needed. When he pulled into the motel parking lot, he realized by Mr. Chesters’s increasing screams that he’d left the cat food next to the dryer in the garage. The special diet food for heinously cranky cat
s on their last feline lives.

  The motel sign blinked a neon vacancy, and Mark stepped into the lobby.

  A gum-smacking girl worked the counter, her eyes blackened under layers of eyeliner. She didn’t look up from her magazine.

  “The sign says you have a vacancy?”

  No answer.

  “Could I get a room, please?”

  “How many?” She stood, boredom battling irritation for control of her facial muscles.

  “Just one room.”

  She looked at him as if he were the stupidest person walking the planet. “How many people?” Her tongue piercing, a miniature dumbbell, dulled her speech.

  “Oh. One. Plus a cat.”

  She sat down again, propping a combat boot on a footstool. “No animals.”

  “He’s in a carrier. I won’t let him out.”

  “No animals,” she repeated, snapping her gum.

  “What if I leave him in the car?”

  She arched a penciled brow at him, still reading.

  “Thanks for all your help.” The bell jingled overhead. He heard Mr. Chesters before he opened the car door, and then the yowls and the piercing stench of urine hit him all at once. The cat had sprayed the inside of his cage. Again.

  “Fifty more miles, buddy,” he informed Mr. Chesters after checking the map. “And you better pray they have a motel, a Wal-Mart and a hose.”

  An hour later, Mark crouched in the gas station parking lot, hosing out the plastic carrier. One thin strip of neon illuminated Gary’s Gas station and a CLOSED sign hung on the glass door. Silence reigned in the residential area around the station. Little houses, with rickety porches like loosened teeth, slept in the midnight hour.

  When Mark finished, he released the cat from the backseat, where he’d curled into a baseball shape on top of Mark’s bag. “Let’s go, buddy.” He scooted the furry mass out the door.

  “Mraaawl!” Mr. Chesters took a deep bite from the fleshy part of Mark’s left hand and pranced off to a nearby plot of grass.

  “You ungrateful, godforsaken pile of…” Mark dug for Missy’s wipies. Wrapping one around his hand, he shouted at the cat, still picking its way among the green blades. “Now’s the time,” Mark ordered. “Not in the cage, not in the motel.”