Potter Springs (31 page)

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.

“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, could 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.

Zipping his fly, he turned to the familiar sight of flashing lights slowing to a halt behind the hatchback. No siren.

Officer Martinez heaved himself out of the vehicle and crunched toward Mark, shaking his head. “I thought I told you not to
break any more laws today. Could cite you for indecent exposure, you know.” Martinez stared at the Toyota. “Run out of gas?”

“I don’t think so.” Mark stared with him. “I think it’s worse than that.”

Martinez lifted the radio from his belt. “I’ll call you a wrecker, see what we can do.”

Two hours later, in a shop that smelled of gasoline and cigarettes, the mechanic wiped a rag over his sweating forehead and
pronounced the verdict. “Transmission’s out. Had a leak. Good-size one if your friend topped it off two days ago. Need to
replace it.”

“The transmission? The whole thing?” Mark set the three-year-old
Readers’ Digest
back on the wobbly table.

“We can get the parts, start work in the morning.”

Mark checked the clock and the full dark outside. He knew the shop should have closed, but the owner, Tony, stayed late as
a favor to Martinez. So many favors.

He felt his luck running out, slipping away as he spent his favors one by one. “But I can’t. I don’t have the money… the time.
There’s a storm coming and I need to get to Mexico.”

“I’m not sure this vehicle will get you there.” Tony rubbed his stubbled chin. “Course you could just load up on the fluid,
keep her full. Still, it’s ill advised.”

“No offense, mister, but right now my whole life is ill advised.” Mark opened his wallet, counting his remaining cash. “I’ll
take the transmission fluid, to go. As much as you’ve got.”

A
manda woke to the sound of crying outside her window. At first it sounded like a baby, then like her name, rolling on the
tongue of an old woman. Calling out to her. She fought to find it, dragging out of exhausted sleep. She clung to whispers
of alertness, crawling out of her slumber.