PHYLLIS STARTED THE car and shifted it into gear. She didn’t know where she was going as she wheeled down the street. All she knew was she wasn’t going home. She kept straight at the stop sign rather than turn right toward her house and continued to Wydown Boulevard. There she made a right and drove about a mile, past the stately old homes and majestic trees she always admired along this stretch, especially this time of year when the leaves were brilliant with reds and oranges and yellows. She couldn’t appreciate them in the dark, but even if it were light it wouldn’t have mattered. She couldn’t appreciate anything beautiful right now, not with this heavy cloud hovering over her world.
When Wydown ended at Skinker Boulevard, across from Forest Park, she paused on the quiet street, pulling a tissue from her purse and wiping her nose. She often walked to Forest Park for exercise, taking different trails, enjoying the scenery and the activity of golfers, bikers, and other walkers. She needed that wide-open space right now, a space bigger than her cares. She needed to gaze into a limitless sky, just to focus on something beyond her own corner of the world, to know that this wasn’t all there was. Just to breathe.
It was too late to walk in the park by herself, but she turned left and headed inside anyway. She could do her gazing from the car. She drove slowly until she came to the water basin. Hardly anyone was around, only a few parked cars and a handful of couples walking their dogs. She parked where she could see the water and sat back in the seat, Hayes’s voice engulfing her. “That’s a bunch of bull . . . You’re all in a cult.”
She would’ve been upset if he’d said it in the privacy of their home. That he’d said it in the group—that and everything else that came out of his mouth—was more than she could bear. How could he have been so rude? Didn’t he know these were her friends? All that talk about treating his wife with utmost respect. What about treating people with basic respect? How about not rubbing Scott’s nose in his affair every chance he got?
Through tears, she watched a blurred vision of a man jogging by with a big black dog. She closed her eyes and hung her head as emotion flowed at will. How could she have thought it would be a good thing to have Hayes come to the group? Why did she get her hopes up? She knew better. Now things were worse than they’d ever been. His words were worse than they’d ever been. Never mind that he had no respect for her friends. He had no respect for God. Where did he get the gumption to say that the Bible—and even Jesus—was basically nothing? Nothing but the makings of a cult.
She let the wave of tears pass and stared out at the darkened sky, a sad realization washing over her. It was true—Hayes might never believe. Might never know what it was to walk in sweet fellowship with God . . . which meant they might never know the blessing of marriage as God intended, where they would be one with one another and one with Him. Their love and their lives would always be missing that vital element, that Spirit-connection that comes only from above. They would live at a level that was fine for Hayes but could never be enough for Phyllis. Not when she knew there was so much more.
She was meditating on it, facing it as a very real possibility, telling herself to stop building hope upon hope that Hayes would change— when Rod popped into her mind. Her heart rate accelerated, and everything tilted.
Rod.
Suddenly she was back in Jasper’s again, at the tailgate, the old-school party. In the car. She knew she shouldn’t go there, but her spirits took an upturn just thinking about going there. The images skirted the edges of her mind, shadows of the two of them talking, his profile, the way he held his head. She heard his voice now, that thickness, like a soft caress . . . and those eyes.
She took a breath and zapped herself out of the weekend . . . which only took her back to tonight and all the heartache associated with it, and thoughts of the future and all the heartache associated with that. Before she knew it, she was reaching for her purse, just to see. She swiped a tear and brought it into her lap, fumbled through it. There it was, wedged near the bottom. She opened the piece of paper and stared at his handwriting, the numbers he’d written. Then she looked at the clock on the dash. Close to nine thirty his time. Not too late. Her stomach tied in knots of warning and exhilaration as she contemplated dialing. He was that close, a few seconds away. What would he be doing? What was his evening routine? How would he receive her call?
She held the paper as a couple walked past her car. What would she even say? As she thought about it, she really didn’t know him well, wouldn’t know how to begin a conversation. The whole thing would be awkward. He probably thought she wouldn’t actually call. She was married, after all.
A sigh released itself. Yes, she was married. She couldn’t call Rod. Shouldn’t call Rod.
And yet . . . what would it hurt? It was just a phone call. What was wrong with talking on the phone once in a while, seeing how the other was doing? That was it. She would say she was just calling to say hi, see how he was doing. Simple. No big deal.
She took her cell phone from her purse and looked at the paper again, deciding to try his landline first. With each push of a button, her finger twitched. She brought the phone to her ear and listened, her insides growing jumpier with each ring. Had she decided what she was going to say first?
“Hey, Phyl.”
His voice, soft and welcoming, was soothing to her soul. Had he called her Phyl before? She settled into her seat, glad caller ID had broken the ice. “Hey, Rod. Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all. What’s going on? Must be a blue moon out.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“I’m, um . . .”
Sitting in my car, in a park, too upset to go home.
“. . . on my way home from a friend’s house. You crossed my mind, so I thought I’d give you a quick call. What are you up to?”
“We got home from church about an hour ago, got the baths going, did the bedtime routines. Now the girls are asleep and I was just sitting down catching a breath, about to grade some papers.” He paused. “What about you? You said you were at a friend’s house?”
Phyllis sat up, trying to still herself. How could this man’s voice stir such a sensation inside? “Normally I would’ve gone to church tonight, too, but Pastor Lyles started a special series and wanted us to meet in discussion groups to talk about it.”
“A special series? Must be deep if he’s got you meeting like that to discuss it. What’s it about?”
She felt awkward saying it. “This first sermon was on adultery.”
“Hmm. Bet that discussion was interesting.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” Last thing Phyllis wanted to talk about was the meeting. “So what were you all studying?”
Rod chuckled. “My pastor’s been giving the men a rough time. He’s on a series called How to Be a Real Man, and he’s hitting it hard on Sunday morning and Wednesday evening.”
“So what’s a real man?” Phyllis was smiling inside, enjoying his company.
“A real man is a man who knows and fears the Lord.” Rod was having fun, trying to sound like his pastor. “A real man is the spiritual head of his home and leads his wife and children in the ways of the Lord.” He laughed at himself. “Seriously, though, it’s been good. Challenging.”
Wonder what Hayes would say about that series.
“So what’s been the most challenging for you?”
“Hmm,” he said, turning thoughtful. “Probably the reminder of how much I need God. It’s like, I know it, it’s there, but in the day-to-day I can get caught up in everything I have to do, and I’m not praying like I should. I can get lax.”
It was almost comical. She’d easily take one of Rod’s lax days over one of Hayes’s so-called best. “I know what you mean,” she said. “Sometimes life can throw you off track.”
“Everything okay, Phyllis?” Rod’s tone took on a softness. “You sound kind of down.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Listen . . .” Talking to him was making her sadder now, making her long for what she couldn’t have. “I won’t hold you. I know you’ve got work to do.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“I’m glad you called.”
If she weren’t crying she might have smiled. “Me too. Take care, Rod.”
“Bye, Phyl.”
She held the phone to her chest, replaying the conversation, recording his voice, wishing she could transport herself eight hundred miles east. She would much rather go there than the one mile home to her husband.