Potter Springs

by Britta Coleman

  Mr. Chesters mewled again. His yellow eyes reflected the neon sign.

  “It’s fine, see.” Mark got down on his hands and knees, tapping the grass like the hair of a good child. “It’s a great place to go.”

  Mr. Chesters squared his hind legs and lowered himself.

  “Good boy,” Mark whispered, afraid of interrupting nature, yet sensing a gentle encouragement couldn’t hurt. “That’s a good boy.”

  At the last second, the cat, instead of eliminating, leaped forward with all the force of his hind legs. Away from Mark’s reach and toward the back of the garage, where piles of tires had been stacked to the station’s roof. The cat’s tail snaked through black rubber, then waved a saucy good-bye and disappeared.

  “Mr. Chesters?” Mark whispered, unbelieving. Abandoned by a cat. Alone in a town with no Wal-Mart and a closed gas station-and miles and miles away from Amanda.

  He was tempted to leave the animal, to fend for himself at Gary’s Gas.

  Take care of Mr. Chesters for me, Amanda had said. One of the last things she’d asked of him.

  So, by all that was holy, he would. All the way to Mexico. “Mr. Chesters?” he called again, this time louder. He glanced at the houses, weighing safety against anger. He let his frustration rip.

  “Mr. Chesters!” He shouted at the maze of tires, creeping toward the pile. “Heeeere, kitty, kitty.”

  His voice sounded less like a loving pet owner and more like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  The tires shifted. The tower nearest Mark leaned to the left and he shoved it back. Too hard, unsettling a high-rise of hubcaps. The stacked wheels danced like a tin man, scraping and wiggling, then, in a shower of metal, clattered to the ground. But not before one particularly mobile piece bounced off rubber and hit him in the forehead.

  The ensuing noise made a rebel symphony, with metallic pitches high and low and Mark’s furious shouts added to the mix.

  “Mr. Chesters!” he bellowed, bracing the head wound with his palm.

  The cat raced from the tires into a field behind Gary’s Gas. He darted past a clump of shrubs and out of sight.

  “Mr. Chesters, come here!”

  At a house nearest the station, a porch light blared on. The front door flew open, and Mark heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun, cocked and ready.

  The gun’s bearer could have been an extra from Deliverance. “I don’t know no Mr. Chesters, but you best quit that racket or I’ll quit it for you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  buns

  Marianne giggled as she tripped on the edge of the thick carpet. “Watch out, Mandy, that one’s tricky!”

  “Got it.” Still in the doorway, Amanda brushed sand from her legs and tightened her sarong.

  “Ohhh, there’s a bar!” Marianne whipped around, her grasp on a melted margarita tenuous at best. She pointed, as if Amanda couldn’t spot the crowded area for herself.

  The lobby looked like a carnival, full of spandex, sounds and languages. People danced and talked and laughed. Some dressed for the evening, others simply wore cover-ups and shiny tans. The spirit of the beach had blown indoors for the evening.

  “You know what I wanna do? One of those drinks in a little glass!” Marianne pointed to a low table next to the door, where a group of sunburned Europeans stacked their empties and roared at one another over the din of the cover band onstage.

  “Tequila? You want a tequila shot?” Amazement raised Amanda’s voice. What had started with a few innocent margaritas had taken a decided turn for the worse. “I’m not sure you should have any more to drink.”

  “Nonsense”-Marianne huffed-“I’m a grown woman, and I’d like to have a shot of tequila!” She shuffled to the bar, skirting the dancers on the edge of the parquet floor, leaving Amanda no choice but to follow.

  Marianne straddled a high stool and plopped the orange hat next to her. “Yoo-hoo! Bartender! Tequila, por favor!” She flapped a hand in the air.

  He nodded and turned to pour the shot.

  “Look at the buns on that bartender,” she whispered.

  “Shhh.” Amanda retied her mother-in-law’s cover-up, where it threatened to slip away. “It’s getting late, let’s go.”

  “Oh, pooh. Don’t be a spoilsport.” Flashing a wicked grin, Marianne launched into a singsong, “Bartender buns, bartender buns, bartender buns?”

  Expressionless, the man handed the drink over and waited for the signature. Amanda mouthed, “Sorry,” and sank into the nearest chair.

  On the other side of them perched a woman with leathery skin, stuffed in a sequined catsuit. The bartender placed a shot in front of her.

  Marianne tapped the lady. “How do you do this?”

  “You lick the salt, take the shot, then suck on the lime.” The woman showed her, with the panache of a seasoned professional.

  “Oh, how nice! You did that just beautifully,” Marianne complimented. “Let’s see.” It took her twice as long, movements awkward and slow. Her eyes widened as each taste set in. She slammed the glass down and grinned. “I did it!”

  Catsuit woman lifted her refilled glass in salute.

  Marianne spun on the bar stool and clapped to the music. The bunny hop. “You’ll watch these for us, won’t you?” She pushed their beach bags closer to their bar companion.

  “I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “Thanks!” Cramming her hat on with a flourish, she grabbed Amanda’s hand, with a grip suddenly like steel. “Come with me, o daughter of mine.”

  “Oh no. No way. I am not doing the bunny hop.”

  “Oh yes, you are….”

  The chain wriggled through the lobby like a reeling Tilt-A-Whirl. Amanda found herself shoved in line and mercilessly pushed forward with a stranger’s heavy mitts on her shoulders. She lost her mother-in-law in the mix and looked for her in the crowd at the song’s end.

  “How about the Cotton-Eyed Joe!” A perky voice yelled at the band. On the other side of the room, Marianne hopped up and down, waving. “We’re from Texas! Play the Cotton-Eyed Joe!”

  The band obliged and Amanda slipped back to the bar, hiding as she watched the proceedings unfold.

  Marianne taught other dancers the simple steps, her hat flopped over her eyes. It fell off in the shuffle and got stepped on. When the song’s stomps and yells subsided, someone sailed the hat like a distorted Frisbee and it landed in a nearby palm.

  “This one’s for our friends from Texas!” The dulcet tune of “Blue Bayou” poured out as the revelers crept to their seats or found partners. Not exactly a Texas song, but close enough.

  A tall, dark man asked Marianne to dance and she clung to his shoulders as they swayed across the floor.

  “I’m going back someday, come what may…”

  Amanda thought of Doyle, who never came back again. And of Mark. When would he be ready? She didn’t think she could last much longer. She ached with the longing, her heart rose and fell with the music. Mourning for what was lost, hoping for the future.

  I’m coming home, Mark. Come what may.

  When the couple turned, silver streaks wet her mother-in-law’s cheeks.

  Amanda retrieved the crumpled hat from the palm tree, and approached when the song finished. “I’m a little tired. What do you say we head back to our rooms?”

  “Tired.” She nodded, her face slack as a sleeping child’s. “Back to the rooms.”

  “Thanks for the dance.” The man smiled kindly.

  They made it to the elevators, where Marianne leaned against the wall with her eyes closed.

  Digging through the fuchsia carryall, Amanda found the room key. Inside, the dark room smelled of fresh sheets and the ocean. She clicked on the bathroom light. Toiletries lined up in precise circles. Illumination hit the open closet, where shoes sat in rows with aligned heels. Clothes hung on equidistant hangers.

  Amanda gently guided her mother-in-law to the bed, where she flopped back, legs dangling off the side. She poured a glass of water and
set it on the nightstand. “Need anything else?”

  One brown eye pinched open. “Do you think something was wrong with those limes? I feel a little… odd.”

  “The limes?” Amanda shook her head. “We’re in a nice hotel. If anything, it might be the-”

  Marianne sat upright with panicked eyes and raced to the bathroom. A polka-dot whirlwind.

  “Tequila.” Amanda finished.

  Horrible gurgling sounds came from the bathroom. Amanda slumped on the bed and stared out at the darkness, preparing for the long night ahead. She reached for a water glass and the phone caught her attention.

  Trust me, Marianne had said.

  Can’t go home, he’s not ready.

  But they never said anything about calling.

  One eye on the closed bathroom door, Amanda picked up the phone and dialed.

  MARK’S EARS RANG from the warning shot fired just over his right shoulder, landing harmlessly in the field behind him. Tasting the burnt gunpowder, he threw his hands in the air à la every bad Western he’d seen. “Don’t want to cause any trouble. Just looking for my cat.”

  The man with the gun lowered his bushy brows like hairy shades. He thrust his chin toward the gas station. “More like you’re looking to break into Gary’s.”

  “No, really. I’m traveling through and my cat ran off.” Mark put his hands down. “I’m a minister. From Potter Springs. Honest.”

  “A minister?”

  Suspicion marched across the man’s face, wrinkling it further.

  “Prove it.”

  “Well, I’ve got a business card.” He edged his wallet out, slowly, and held out the piece of paper.

  The man edged closer, trying to read from thirty paces.

  “Listen, I’ll go.” Mark started to put the card away, but the man snatched it up. “If you can point me toward a motel, I’ll get out of your way and come back for my cat in the morning.”

  “No motels round here.” The man propped the gun on the floor and drew a sleeve over his nose, reading. “If you’re who you say you are, don’t guess it’s right for me to turn you out. Name’s Clark Myers. You need a bed”-he gestured to the screened-in porch with the card-“there’s a cot out here.”

  “I couldn’t possibly-”

  The man’s brows shot up, nearly reaching the creases of his bald head. “Why, if it’s not good enough for a fancy man like yourself from the big city-”

  Potter Springs, a big city?

  “No, no.” Mark eyed the shadows. At least it was free. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”

  Mark spent a sleepless night tossing in the crusty folds of Clark Myers’ cot, clutching a moth ridden blanket to his shoulders. He used his shirt as a pillow, wiping the soft cotton above his eye, where the cut from the hubcap throbbed. Twice he killed spiders inching their way up his arms.

  Clanging sounds from Clark’s kitchen woke him at dawn. With his back in a vise, he lay still, turning only his head. Sunless light showed the mess he’d made at Gary’s next door, tires and hubcaps lay about like the aftermath of a tornado. Still no sign of Mr. Chesters.

  Mark sat up, groaning, and smoothed out his shirt. Blood stained the front and dirt streaked in the cotton weave. He slipped it over his head, his back cracking like fireworks.

  Careful of his throbbing hand, he picked through the strewn tires, balancing tires against his chest. The oil left tracks like he’d been run over. He stacked them, one by one, as the sun rose higher. The heat and humidity soaked him and his clothes clung to his skin.

  From inside the house, Clark hollered, “Found him!”

  Mr. Chesters hunched in a corner of the screened porch, wolfing down eggs and bacon in great lurching gulps.

  Clark took a deep drink of coffee from a heavy ceramic mug. “Never did know a cat to refuse a little breakfast grease.” He tipped his head toward the frying pan. “Want some?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Myers. I’ll just get changed, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Outside, Mark reached in the Toyota’s open window and found Peggy’s goody bag torn apart. Next to the bear and candle, the remains of the brownies looked decidedly chewed. He forgot to shut the window, and Mr. Chesters apparently had enjoyed a midnight feeding frenzy.

  Mark stared at the destruction in silence, noting the candle had melted in the heat and was stuck to the bear’s fur.

  “The cat’s been in here.” Clark stepped behind him.

  “You think?” Four-toed chocolate footprints smashed into the Toyota’s upholstery.

  “No. I mean, the cat’s been in here.” Hands on his waist, Clark shook his head.

  Mark looked at his unzipped duffel bag, where he’d pulled the wipies out last night to stop his bleeding hand. He leaned closer, and the unmistakable odor of Mr. Chesters’ spray hit him. Gingerly he touched the clothes. Damp.

  “Looks like he’s marking his territory. Either that or a grudge of some sort,” Clark observed from over Mark’s shoulder.

  Hoping to find something worth putting on, Mark tugged the bag out. Even his shaving kit had been fouled. His clothing reeked, beyond salvation. He zipped the bag to contain the odor and shoved it in the farthest corner of the trunk. Thankful that the second bag, the one with special things for Amanda, remained unharmed, still dry.

  “Guess I’ll just have to stay in what I’m in.” He turned and nearly bumped into Clark, the man stood so close. “I need to get on the road.”

  Clark looked him up and down. “You know, I might have something you could wear. My son’s bigger than me, about your size. He left some old things here at the house.”

  The older man disappeared and an instant later returned with a strange smile and a neon yellow T-shirt. He held it up, displaying the front with four women in thong bathing suits. Across the gleaming buttocks, a cheery airbrush read SUN YOUR BUNS!

  Clark bit his lip, a hint of mischief on his face. “How’s this?”

  The short sleeves waved at him. Clean. Cool. Dirt and blood and sweat-stain free. For the second time in less than twelve hours, Mark heard himself say, “I’ll take it.”

  Hours later, stuck in San Antonio’s swampy traffic with a greasy cat, a nifty new T-shirt, and the wound on his forehead turning into a third eye, he wondered if Amanda would even recognize him when he found her.

  If he found her.

  CHAPTER 35

  ill advised

  “I brought you some orange juice. And crackers.” Amanda peeked into the hotel bathroom. “Since you missed break-fast… and lunch.”

  Head resting on the side of the toilet bowl, Marianne slumped against the marble tiles. Dark rings formed semicircles under her eyes.

  “Leave them by the bed,” she whispered, her pallor a distinctive green. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “No hurry. I’ve got some Imodium too, if you want it.” Amanda softly closed the door.

  “No, I”-a choking cough, then a splash. A flush, water running-“need to let this run its course.”

  Amanda clicked on the television to muffle Marianne’s misery and afford her some privacy. Maps of the coast splayed over the screen. The weatherman circled the Gulf Coast with a pointer and swooped toward the south.

  He chattered on in Spanish, but Amanda watched where he pointed the arrow. Looked like a storm blowing in, a considerable distance from Laguna Madre. Clips of old hurricanes cut back and forth, images of ravaging winds and floods. The weatherman looked serious, unsmiling.

  Marianne emerged, her hair wild, walking with the gait of an old woman. She peeled back the comforter and lowered herself by degrees onto the bed.

  Amanda pressed the remote. “Looks like a storm’s coming.” She stood by the balcony, the afternoon clear as cut glass. Prisms danced on the waves as they calmed from the day’s activity. The white beach looked like a bride’s smooth satin, wrinkled here and there in tiny waves. No signs of a storm.

  “From what I could make out, it looks like it’ll hit south of here. Still, coul
d be bad. Do you think we should leave? I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.” In the van, her albatross.

  Amanda glanced at the pad of paper next to the phone, where she’d doodled through countless calls to Mark, last night and this morning. Sitting at the desk, she’d written, please, please, please, over and over, blue scrawls on the square white page. Superscripted, outlined, underlined. Surrounded with frantic flowers. Anxious daisies.

  He hadn’t answered. Not even in the darkest hours of night when she cared for his vomiting mother, when he should be home asleep. Not in the morning, long before his workday began.

  The breathtaking view stretched beyond the window. The same view as her own room.

  Paradise.

  Prison. Held in a cell of her own choosing, longing to break free. She wanted to go home, but home apparently didn’t want her.

  “I couldn’t possibly travel today.” Marianne covered her eyes with the back of her hands, as if daylight hurt. “You can go if you want.”

  “No.” Amanda drew the curtains. “We’ll stay.”

  THE TOYOTA GAVE out in Berna Lista, Texas. After pulling away from Officer Martinez and the near ticket, Mark pressed ahead, staying under the speed limit, searching for the next town. The heat mesmerized him, the road lulling him to a half-aware state, so he hardly noticed the change. No warning light flashed. The engine didn’t bang or smoke. It simply lost power, coasting to the feeder, until it rattled to a stop.

  Watch that fluid, Jimmy had warned.

  Mark sat in the car, narrowing his eyes against the sunset. A front of clouds rolled in, riding, floating, moving faster than clouds should. Perhaps it took minutes, perhaps an hour. The gray-black eclipsed the brightness.

  Could get ugly, Joe Don had said.

  Mark knew only the purrs of Mr. Chesters asleep in the back, the throb of a headache in his forehead and the bitter taste of yet another failure.

  It had all been so clear before.

  His bladder pressed in discomfort. He creaked the door open and stood on the side of the road, oblivious to the occasional car as it zoomed by. There was, literally, no place to hide anyway.