Suspicious, Amanda crossed her arms. “Tell me again.”
“The ladies specifically asked for you,” Mark repeated.
“By name. They want you to ride with them on the way to the retreat.” Mark sat on a kitchen chair, retying his shoelaces after a Saturday-morning run through the neighborhood.
“They did not.” Amanda taped a black-silhouetted witch to the window. My name. She wondered what they called her. Mrs. Reynolds. She shuddered, thinking of Marianne.
Mark’s wife. The preacher’s ball and chain. She dug into the plastic Wal-Mart sack for the matching cat.
Or had they said Amanda? She remembered Shelinda, with her easy laugh in the kitchen with King Ranch casserole. Shelinda called her Amanda.
She squelched the beginning of hope, flat as a June bug in September. Not liking its unfamiliar creep in the shadows of her heart.
Hope left when Grace died.
Securing the cat with Scotch tape, Amanda slapped the cutout next to the broom.
“Did too.” Mark stepped over the grocery bags and picked up her newspaper tornado, rumpled and forgotten in front of the couch. As he gathered, he folded the sheets into conformity before sitting down to read it himself.
Following him, Amanda mimicked his nonchalance. She didn’t care. She placed a chubby ghost candle on her paperback bookshelf and plugged in an electric jack-o’-lantern on a side table. Examining its blinking grin, she asked over her shoulder, “Who?”
The newspaper rattled as Mark turned the page. “Let’s see. Pam Hart, Missy Underwood. They remembered you from the luncheon.” He added, “Course, Peggy’ll be there. And, whatshername? Courtney Williams, the one who does everything.”
Fantastic. She’d be cornered for hours by the effervescent LeFleur saleswoman. “Did you bring it up, or did they?” She imagined him sidling up to a chattering pack on a Sunday morning and tossing her name among them. An awkward, deflated volleyball. Thunk. They’d have nothing to do but pick it up. “You arranged all this, didn’t you? You. Not them.”
Leaning forward, Mark rested his elbows on his knees. “Forget about who did what. The important thing is the church is paying for the trip. Well, maybe that’s not the most important thing,” he corrected himself. “But the point is, they’re footing the bill since I’m … we’re on staff. It’d be rude for us to turn them down. A weekend in the mountains of Colorado. How could you say no?”
“N-o. It’s not that hard, Mark. It’s called taking a stand. You don’t have to do everything they ask you.” She knew she was being petty. Digging her heels in. But she wanted to lash out, to make some sort of a point she couldn’t even define for herself.
“A stand about what? A women’s retreat?” Mark went back to the kitchen and fumbled in the pantry for his postrun protein drink. He slammed the door, impatient. “It’s not a political statement. It’s called a vacation. And I thought you could use one.” The spoon clicked against the glass like a clock on speed. Ting ting ting ting ting.
“I don’t need a vacation.” She poured candy corn in a ceramic pumpkin bowl. Her thoughts tumbled forth, caught by ambivalent porcelain.
Telling him without sound, wishing he could hear. Watching the sweets fall.
I need my husband at home and not sitting beside every grieving widow inside Carson County.
Sugar niblets cascaded in slow motion, clattering against the sides, spinning in a crazy dance.
I need my partner not to interrupt our dinners with church phone calls, calming down a deacon while the gravy gets cold.
Triangles of white, yellow, and orange candies piled together, blurring into a muted peach.
I need Sundays for us, a lover’s Sabbath, not waiting for hours while you schmooze with the tithers after church.
She picked the broken pieces out. Ones missing the pointed white tip, or cracked in half. These, she ate. But their sweetness spread bitter on her tongue.
I need to talk about our child. The one who died. Let’s use words like loss and grief and heartache and admit our lives aren’t anything like we thought.
But unspoken sorrows had fermented to anger. Acid, just below the surface. Amanda feared the sputtering bile would burn them both, should she crack that lid.
“I need,” she started, the words choked inside her. Their sharpness hung on the sides of her throat. Fresh burrs on tender flesh. “I don’t know what I need.”
“Come on. It’s all set up. A chance to get away. You’ve been so … unhappy.” A protein mustache covered his lip. He looked like an oversize boy. Lost and bewildered.
“So, why would I want to get away? To be unhappy with people who don’t even know me?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a burden-”
“I can’t stand seeing you like this.” His confession strung an invisible banner in the late-morning air.
She played with it in her mind. Folded the streamer into new shapes.
I can’t stand seeing you like this.
I can’t stand seeing you.
I can’t stand you.
It tried to tangle her, this twisted string. Knotted up, she closed her eyes and prayed for freedom. The sun touched her face through the screen door, but not enough to warm her.
“Although”-Mark took a heavy swallow of the thick drink- “I’m glad you’re taking an interest in the house.” He glanced uncertainly at the glow-in-the-dark skeleton, kicking his heels up on the front door.
“This is your solution? Sending me to Colorado? So you don’t have to see me like this?” She stared back at him, not caring about her red eyes and inflamed nose. He should be used to them by now.
“Stop. You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t have a say in this at all, do I?”
“No. N-o, Amanda Reynolds. You have no say-so.” Surprising her, he set the glass on a nearby table without a coaster. His tennis shoes squeaked on the hardwood floors.
He folded her in his arms. She smelled the salt on his skin, the sweet of the drink on his lips. She folded herself into him, wishing she could disappear.
“See, I can do it,” he whispered. “I’m taking a stand. You need to go to Colorado.”
They stood in the doorway, embracing. Appearing, for all the world to see, like snuggly newlyweds.
“For both our sakes, you need to go.”
THE WOMEN ARRIVED for Amanda nearly a week later, early Thursday morning. They swarmed out and grabbed her bedding from the entryway. A few waved to Mark, as an afterthought, but mostly they buzzed around his wife like a prize pie at a summer fair.
Amanda stood as if frozen, not showing her panic. Mark sensed it, though. A silent, high-pitched alarm. An impending warning.
Mark rubbed her arm. “Mandy, you remember Shelinda James, from moving day? And here’s Missy Underwood and Pam Hart. You might not know Kendra Sue McAllister. She leads Bible studies at the church.” He gestured to a woman with glasses and mousy brown hair.
“Hello.” Amanda stayed stock-still.
He wished she would give them a chance. Give him a chance. He missed the dazzling Amanda, the one who lit up a room with her presence. Her fire. Her laughter. The spirit that made him soar.
If he saw her glimmer again, even just for a second, it might give him the strength to carry on.
Maybe he hoped for too much. Maybe this was all a huge mistake.
Shelinda tugged Amanda’s sweatshirt sleeve. “Don’t look like that. We’re fixin’ to have some fun!” The woman laughed at Amanda’s dour expression. “Just wait until we have our evening celebrations. The ones where we cut the heads off live chickens! Course, that’s after the public confessions and ceremonial cleansings. I’m telling you, it’ll bring you close to the Lord!”
Mark didn’t find Shelinda’s gentle terrorization of his wife remotely funny. Then he caught a hint of Amanda’s smile as she followed the others to the bus-size SUV in the driveway.
God bless Shelinda James.
Mark loaded Amanda’s suitcase in the roomy luggage area. He rearranged sleeping bags and hanging clothes in a more efficient arrangement. Finished, he quizzed Shelinda. “I’m assuming you know the way?”
“Sure do,” she sassed back. “Colorado’s what, west of here?”
“Oh.” Frosty breath exited in a puff of anxiety. Mark attempted a chuckle, but it sounded more like a hiccup or a wheeze. “Do any of you have a cell phone? Just in case?”
To the chorusing yeses, he nodded, approving. He walked Amanda around to her side. Kissing her brow, he whispered, “I’ll miss you.”
“Me too.” She clenched his shirt, tight.
“And I love you.” He tugged her fingers away, squeezed them and let go.
“Me too.” She turned to stuff her pillow in the car.
The door, larger than the entire broadside of Amanda’s Toyota, closed and latched. Sealing his wife’s future for the next three days.
Maybe his as well.
They scraped away, running over his morning newspaper. Mark waved until he couldn’t see them anymore. Precious cargo.
His day stretched before him, the pink light just touching the oak next door, brushing on its pointy leaves.
The house looked at him. Empty.
Her car sat in the open garage, dust covering the faded red paint.
An idea struck him with pleasure. He got the keys and started the Toyota with a clinking hum. Backing it out, he found the floorboard full of muck and the seat seams stuffed with crumbs. The interior would need a full cleaning too, but he’d start with the exterior.
The water from the hose splashed cold on his hands, liquid ice. He relished the sting and the soapy bubbles, caressing the hatchback’s dinged panels, washing at the rust. The sun rose higher and warmed him at his work. He whistled through the easy labor.
He needed to do this for her. He needed to show her, without words. A small thing for the woman of his heart.
He only wished he could do more.