Green-gray clouds swam over the Houston moon, bloated and heavy. In her parents’ house, Amanda peeled back the bed comforter, pink roses on brushed cotton. As if on cue, her Princess phone rang its warbled tune.
“Hello?” She balanced the phone on one ear, settling in for her nightly visit with Mark.
“Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. Forgive me for calling so late. This is Dale Ochs, from the Lakeview Board.”
“Yes, Mr. Ochs.” Surprise made her voice louder. Dale the Watchdog, calling her long distance in Houston. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes. And please call me Dale. Actually, I’m calling on behalf of the board to check on you. To update our prayer logs for members. Tell me, how is your father?”
“Much better, thank you,” Amanda said, relieved. “He’s home now, getting stronger by the day.”
“Wonderful. Can’t tell you how glad we are to hear it.”
An awkward pause filled the line, as if Dale expected further discussion. Or maybe an explanation for her continued absence.
Amanda wasn’t about to give one. Or inform the deacon that she planned to head back to Potter Springs tomorrow morning. Mark deserved to be the first to know.
She hadn’t meant to stay so long, but problems in Potter Springs seemed bigger, and harder, than simply easing into life in Houston. She slept in her childhood bedroom and played cards with her father, convincing herself that his continued care, and her companionship, provided reason enough to stay.
Going home meant facing truths she wasn’t sure she could handle. The hurts on both sides, she realized after the van fiasco, ran deeper than she’d thought.
But the calendar ticked by and her father looked better by the day. Amanda sensed her usefulness as a houseguest coming to an end.
“Why don’t you come with me to the fund-raiser this Saturday?” Katy had asked over eggs Benedict at the breakfast table this morning, flipping through her calendar.
“I don’t think so, Mom.” She’d been to enough of the things to know she’d be squished into panty hose surrounded by her mother’s obsequious friends, as plastic as the Botox in their faces.
Amanda imagined bringing some of her new friends to such a function. Kendra Sue in her socks and Earth sandals, or Pam with her gastric problems and puffy sweatshirts. With a smile, she realized she missed them. “Besides, I should be getting back.”
“What for?” Katy adjusted the tie on her cashmere robe.
“For Mark,” Amanda answered easily. The truth dawning as she spoke. “He needs me.”
She couldn’t wait to tell him when he called. He’d ask, When are you coming home, Mandy? and instead of her standard, I’m not sure, she’d whisper, Tomorrow. After weeks of pleading, and persuading, he’d be so pleased.
“Isn’t Fall Festival this evening?” Amanda made conversation with Dale, wondering why he lingered on the line.
“That’s right,” he answered. “Just finished up. Quite a turnout. Your husband is rather effective with the congregants.”
The way Dale said it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“He’s gifted that way,” Amanda agreed. She flipped through one of her mother’s fashion magazines, noting that most of the outfits cost more than her car. Her old car anyway.
No stores back in Potter carried that kind of high-end couture. Everybody shopped at Super Wal-Mart or Target, and Amanda found a freedom in the simplicity. A lack of ferocious fashion and competitiveness she’d experienced in her mother’s world. She decided she liked the Potter Springs way of things better.
“Between the Ladies’ Guild and Mark,” Dale went on, “it was a tremendous showing. They’ve worked closely together.”
“Who?” She didn’t like the way he slid through “closely together.”
“Mark and the Ladies’ Guild president, Ms. Williams. Do you know her?”
“A little.” As much as I want to. In the magazine, an article promised to reveal “Ten Secrets to Sizzling Romance.”
“They’ve become quite a team. A regular Frick and Frack.”
“How nice.” Amanda stifled a yawn and looked at the clock.
When would Mark call and get her off the line with this nutcase?
“In fact,” Dale added, almost as an afterthought, “they must have some follow-up work to do this evening.”
“Follow up?” The glossy pages rustled.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. They left together, after the carnival. Courtney’s hard to miss in that Camaro. Perhaps he needed a ride home. The church truck, from what I understand, is in the shop for repairs. That would leave him without transportation, now wouldn’t it? Thank goodness he and Courtney are such good friends.”
Left the carnival together. Red Camaro. Such good friends.
Blood rushed to Amanda’s head and the magazine fell shut. High on wooden shelves, her porcelain doll collection became jeering gargoyles in the shadows of the room.
“Yes. I guess so.” Hollowness filled her. She focused on one doll, its Shirley Temple curls forever perky, the rosebud lips pursed just so. Smirking.
“Anyway, just wanted to check in about your father. We’re praying for you. On behalf of the board, let me extend our best wishes for a continued speedy recovery.”
“Thank you for calling.” She could hardly breathe.
“And can we expect you back in Potter Springs anytime soon?”
His question slithered down her neck, reptilian and cold. “Yes,” she answered, the pressure crushing her throat. “Soon.” She hung up the phone and rubbed her ear.
Ugly scenarios whirled in her brain like a film reel.
Courtney, ever the saccharine saleswoman, going on about LeFleur’s incredible products. Just feel my skin!
Courtney tossing her hair. Courtney licking her gloppy lips. Courtney crossing her Barbie-doll legs.
Wow, Mark would say. That’s some lotion.
Amanda picked up the phone again. Dale Ochs must be wrong. Checking the clock on her desk, she figured it out. The carnival. Mark must be exhausted. He probably went straight home and fell asleep. That’s why he hadn’t called.
She dialed. No answer. The click of the machine. No one home. She imagined the brown phone by the bed, its cord twisted in knots, the ringing loud enough to wake the dead. The one he whispered I love you into each night, to her. Me too, she always said. But not tonight. Tonight, he wasn’t home.
She didn’t leave a message. Her heart twisted, and nausea surged. The thought of it, of Mark with Courtney, roiled inside her. She ran to the bathroom and vomited. Wiping her face, she stared in the mirror. Her eyes streamed, sorrow and fear pinched her brow.
Could Mark have done this?
No. After what his father had done to Marianne, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, because he knew better. Didn’t he?
A DREAM CATCHER hung behind Courtney Williams’s velour couch, the long feathers dangling above Mark’s head. Her oak bookshelf held a variety of titles. When Good Men Leave. He Said, He Lied. The Delightful Divorce.
Courtney thrust a glass in Mark’s hand, carbonation fizzing at the top. The bubbles brushed his nose. He drank, then sputtered.
“I hope you don’t mind. I put a little something in it.” She winked, standing in front of him in her Alice costume. “Thought you might want something stronger than a Dr Pepper, after working so hard. Is it too strong?”
“No, it’s fine.” Surreal, Mark thought. That he sat on Courtney’s sofa, her etched Coca-Cola glass in his hand. His Moses wig and beard lay in a scraggly pile on the floor, the Ten Commandments propped against the wall.
“Thanks for helping me with those decorations.” Courtney pointed to a pile stacked in the entryway. “I had no idea how many boxes I’d have to carry up here by myself. I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. Nothing to go home to.
“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m going to change.” She stepped past him, her Mary Jane shoes shining in the shag carpet. “Be back in a flash!”
Just a friendly little drink, she’d said. A reward for carrying five thousand pounds of festival paraphernalia up two flights of stairs to her apartment.
Mark stared at her coffee table, glass inserts under a floral arrangement. He reached out to touch the flowers. Fake. As Courtney rummaged in her bedroom, Mark took another drink, and this time it didn’t burn going down.
He remembered the apostle Paul’s biblical admonition to young Timothy. No longer drink only water, but use a little wine for your stomach’s sake, and your frequent infirmities. Mark tipped his glass skyward. A tribute to the wise theologian. Maybe next year’s carnival, he’d wear a Paul costume.
“I’m back.” Courtney settled beside him on the overstuffed couch, the only other seat in the small apartment. “Whoops!” The thick cushions propelled her weight toward him and she pushed against his thigh. Her nail polish twinkled against his burlap costume for the briefest of instances. “Excuse me.”
She wore loose pajama bottoms and a sleeveless top.
He tried hard not to guess if she had anything on beneath the shirt.
“Like another?” She lifted the glass.
He found himself nodding, and watched her pad to the kitchen. “Thanks.”
When she reached for the ice, the tank top inched up just enough for him to see the small of her back, tanned and slender.
“Good carnival.” She placed the refreshed drink on a wicker coaster.
“We did a good job.”
“Sorry Amanda couldn’t be here to see it. I bet you miss her.” Courtney brushed her hair back, revealing a bare shoulder, round and shining, like a caramel apple.
“I do,” Mark said. He should be calling his wife now. She never called him first.
“Amanda’s been gone for quite a while,” Courtney said. “You think she’ll be back soon?” Sipping her drink, she held her pinkie aloft.
“I hope so.”
“Must be tough.” Concern turned her ever-present smile downward. She placed her hand on his arm.
“Yeah.” He rattled the ice.
“So difficult. I know.”
“’S not so bad.”
“I know what that’s like. Even though it’s been over a year for me. Still, it’s hard when they leave.” She sighed, the top stretching against her curves.
“Amanda’s coming back.” He tore his gaze back to the table.
“Of course she is.” Leaving the couch, Courtney bent in front of the stereo. Phil Collins sang through mediocre speakers.
She returned to his side and they sat, listening to the music. Mark sank deeper into the cushions, tilting his head back, the velour soft on his neck. He thought of simple pleasures. Rock-lite. A cold drink. Sitting next to someone on a couch. An attractive someone.
Courtney brightened. “It’s good to have friends, though.”
“Friends.” He nodded. Gomer Pyle for a boss and the Wicked Witch for a secretary. Dale the Watchdog sniffing around his heels, ready to steal his job.
Got no wife. Got no friends.
Maybe she wants a friend like you, Amanda had said.
Maybe so, he agreed to himself, and polished off his cocktail.
“I’m so glad you came over,” Courtney said. “This is nice.”
“Nice,” he repeated, his voice soft.
“Just so you know”-her eyes sparkled at him, pearl teeth caught the swell of her lip-“I’m here for you.” Her breath smelled of sweet cherries and whiskey.
She went to take his glass. “You done with this?”
“Not yet.” He stopped her wrist, and held it. Maybe I want a friend like her.
A charge pulled him, drew him in. A slow motion frame inching forward. The light caught the gold on his ring finger, wrapped around her hand, shimmering like a faded dream.
“ARE YOU INSANE? Back off !” Amanda tapped her brakes like an SOS pattern. On Houston’s deadly I-45 interchange, she resorted to red-light communication with the eighteen-wheeler on her tail.
The behemoth bellowed its displeasure in a long, low moan. Amanda had long since turned the radio off to better calm her nerves in the traffic. She hated Phil Collins anyway.
She wondered if she had made a mistake. After packing in a fury, she wrote a note to her parents and left within an hour of Dale’s phone call. Downstairs, she slipped out to the driveway with her bag over her shoulder. The engine started with a faithful hum and she backed into the overcast night.
Now, on the freeway, the truck behind her finally whipped around and passed on the left. It cut into her lane, not six inches between their bumpers.
Driving blind behind the gigantic box-on-wheels, she concentrated on not hitting the orange barrels on either side of the van. Her skills were rusty from puttering around Potter’s lazy streets. Stop signs there outnumbered traffic lights a hundred to one, and the only freeway was on the outskirts of town, for coming or going.
Still, if she didn’t ding the van, maybe Steve Boyd would take it back after all.
Entertaining that hope, she forgot to double-check the scrambled interchange, as if she could see anything beyond the silver metal of the truck.
Much later, in the darkness, she spotted her mistake. HIGHWAY 59, read the sign. That’s right. But wait. Her worn-out eyes had played tricks on her, tired as they were. That cost her a few more miles.
South, the next marker confirmed. She wasn’t headed toward Potter at all. Through a slight of the road, aided by confusion and abetted by emotion, she was speeding in the wrong direction.
She found herself driving in the middle of the night on Houston’s busy southbound route.
The road to Mexico.