War Room (2 page)

“Elizabeth, you’re killing me,” he whispered.

Elizabeth sat on the white ottoman at the foot of her bed rubbing her feet. The time with Melissa had been good
 
—she’d been able to make a list of all the repairs and staging decisions that had to be done. The two boys hadn’t made things easier, but children always had a way of complicating home sales. It was something you just needed to work with and hope you could navigate.

It had been a long day, with another meeting in the afternoon and then getting home before Danielle arrived from her last day of school. By the time she sat down, Elizabeth was exhausted and ready to curl up and sleep, but there was more to be done. There was always more to be done.

“Mom?”

Elizabeth couldn’t move. “I’m in here, Danielle.”

Her ten-year-old daughter walked in carrying something. She had grown several inches in the last year, her thin, long body sprouting up like a weed. She wore a cute purple headband that highlighted her face. Elizabeth could see her father there
 
—that bright smile, eyes full of life. Except her eyes were a little downcast.

“Here’s my last report card. I still got one C.”

Elizabeth took it and looked it over as Danielle sat and shrugged off her backpack.

“Oh, baby. You have an A in everything else. One C in math is not that bad. But you get a break for the summer, right?”

Danielle leaned forward and her face betrayed something. She sniffed and then reacted like the room was full of ammonia. “Is that your feet?”

Elizabeth self-consciously pulled her foot away. “I’m sorry, baby. I ran out of foot powder.”

“That smells terrible.”

“I know, Danielle. I just needed to take my shoes off for a minute.”

Her daughter stared at her mother’s feet like they were toxic waste. “That’s, like, awful,” she said, repulsed.

“Well, don’t just sit there looking at them. Why don’t you give me a hand and rub them right there?”

“Ewwww, no way!”

Elizabeth laughed. “Girl, go set the table for dinner. When your daddy gets home, you can show him your report card, okay?”

Danielle took her report card into the kitchen, and Elizabeth was alone again. The odor hadn’t been a problem until a few years earlier, and the foot powder seemed to take care of it. But maybe she was kidding herself. Maybe the odor was the sign of some deeper problem.

What was she thinking? Some disease? Some problem
with her liver that leaked out the pores of her feet? She had a friend, Missy, who was constantly looking online at various aches and pains and connecting them with her own symptoms. One day she’d be worried about a skin problem and conclude she had melanoma. The next day a headache would be self-diagnosed as a tumor. Elizabeth vowed she would not become a hypochondriac. She just had stinky feet.

She picked up one of her flats and sniffed. There’d been a cheese served at the hotel where she and Tony had honeymooned that smelled just like that. She dropped the shoe. Funny how a smell could trigger her brain to think about something that happened sixteen years earlier.

She ran her hand over the comforter and thought about that first night together. All the anticipation. All the excitement. She hadn’t slept in two days and the wedding had been a blur. When her head hit the pillow in the honeymoon suite, she was just gone. Tony had been upset, and what red-blooded American male wouldn’t be? But what red-blooded American females needed was a little understanding, a little grace.

She had made up for her honeymoon drowsiness the next day, but it was something they had to talk through. Tony had talked a lot in the year they had dated and been engaged, but not long after the
I do
s, something got his tongue and the river of words slowed to a drip. She wished she could find the valve or tell where to place the plunger to get him unclogged.

They didn’t have a bad marriage. It wasn’t like those celebrities on TV who went from one relationship to the next or the couple down the street who threw things onto the lawn after every argument. She and Tony had produced a beautiful daughter and they had stable careers. Yes, he was a little aloof and they’d grown apart, but she was sure that drift wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t.

Elizabeth put her shoes away, as far back into the closet as she could, then went to the kitchen to start dinner. She filled a pot with water, put it on the stove, and dumped in the spaghetti. The water came to a slow boil, and she stirred the tomato sauce in a pan next to it.

Elizabeth watched the spaghetti, feeling something happening, something boiling inside her. A stirring she couldn’t put her finger on. Call it restlessness or longing. Call it fear. Maybe this was all she could hope for. Maybe this was as good as marriage got. Or life, for that matter. Maybe they were destined to go separate ways and occasionally meet in the middle. But she had a nagging feeling that she was missing something. That their marriage could be more than two people with a nice house who rarely spent time together.

Elizabeth was busy with the salad and Danielle was putting napkins next to each plate at the table when the garage door began its hideous sound
 
—a clacking that had gotten louder in the past year. If Elizabeth had been trying to sell their own house, she’d have suggested they get it looked at by her garage door guy. But Tony was content to let it clack and clamor.

Like their marriage.

“I just heard him pull in, Danielle.”

“Will he be mad about my C?” Danielle said. The look in her eyes made Elizabeth wonder. She wanted to march out to the garage and tell Tony to affirm their daughter, say something positive, look at how full the glass was and not see the one little thing that was less than perfect.

“I already told you, baby. Getting a C is not that bad. It’s okay.”

She said it to convince not just Danielle, but also herself. Because she knew her husband wouldn’t feel the same.

Clara was in her war room,
as she called it, when she got the distinct impression that her life was about to change. It was a sense that she was about to do something drastic, but she had no clue what it was or why she should do it. Skydiving? She chuckled. At her age the ground was already too far away. Find some homeless woman down on the corner by the grocery and give her a sandwich? She had done that the day before.

Clara knew that prayer could easily become a list of things for God to do. Just run through the gamut of wants, needs, or things hoped for and put an
amen
at the end. Any way you sliced it, she thought, it was selfish. At the
core of every human heart was someone who wanted to please herself, she believed, and that truth fought against the power of prayer.

Prayer, at its most basic level, was surrender. Like Jesus in the garden, saying, “Not My will, but Yours, be done.” The ironic thing was, when a person surrendered their will, they got God’s, and then they received what they were really looking for all along. This was what she believed.

Earlier in her life, she had looked at prayer as talking to God and telling Him things. It was like crawling up in the lap of a daddy and explaining your aches and pains and disappointments. But after a while, she discovered the listening part of prayer, the allowing of God’s Holy Spirit to move and help her recall things and desire things she hadn’t requested.

In her war room, the little closet on the second floor of her home, something began to stir. There was no audible voice, no mysterious letters sticking out at her from the word jumble in the morning paper. It was simply a sense that God was moving, pushing her from her comfort zone. She had no idea what that meant, and the more she prayed and asked God what the feeling was, the more quiet the Almighty seemed to get.

“Whatever You want to do, Lord, I’m willing to go with You. Just lead the way.”

And then she waited.

Tony pulled into the garage
and turned off the ignition. He hit the remote and watched the garage door inch its way down behind him. He had flipped through stations on his way home, trying to subdue the anger with some song on an oldies station, but instead he heard a conversation on a sports talk program about another football player accused of doping. The player had also had a public conflict with his wife. Everywhere Tony looked, he was being brought back to his situation with Elizabeth. Why did she have to do that with their money? Why did she spend . . . ?

He had switched off the radio and stewed as he drove the familiar streets of Concord, North Carolina. It was
funny how he could get in the groove of his thoughts and not remember making turns or passing familiar landmarks. Such was life on the road.

He loved Elizabeth. He had always loved her. But he didn’t like her right now and couldn’t remember the last time the two had spent an evening together without getting into an argument. Maybe this was what married life became. Maybe this was the rut you got into and had to stay in the rest of your life. But he hadn’t signed up for this.

As the garage door shut, Tony grabbed his satchel, and the business card Veronica had given him fell to the floor. He picked it up, pulled out his phone, and flipped to the app where he kept important names and numbers he needed to remember. This would record the information and any notes on his phone, but he could also access it from any device. He held the card to his nose and smelled a slight hint of Veronica’s perfume that lingered. She was so delicate
 
—slim and vibrant and younger. And interested. She’d given him the distinct impression that she was interested. It had been a long time since he’d felt that from anyone. Especially Elizabeth.

He put the card in his satchel and took a deep breath. He was not going to yell. He was not going to fly off the handle. He was not going to be “somewhere else,” as Elizabeth often accused him. He would be there for Danielle and his wife. But before he could be there, he needed to set the money thing straight. If he got that out of the way, he’d be fine. He could go on with life and not feel so . . . tight, so constricted.

He walked inside and was greeted by the familiar smell of cooking spaghetti. He’d come to hate spaghetti because it was a symbol of their marriage. Something quick and easy to get on the table. Couldn’t Elizabeth learn to cook something else?

Danielle greeted him with a hopeful look. She was holding something in front of her. “Hey, Daddy.”

“Hey, Danielle.” He wanted to sound warmer but there were things on his mind. Tony put his satchel on the counter and turned to Elizabeth.

“I got my last report card. And I made all As except for one C.”

“So I just got a notification that you moved five thousand dollars from our savings into your checking account,” Tony said, ignoring Danielle.

Elizabeth stopped dipping salad into the three bowls on the counter and glanced at him like some frightened child. Danielle was silent.

He stared at Elizabeth, his voice stern. “That better not be so you can prop up your sister again.”

And with that, her back raised up. He’d tried to hold back, but five thousand dollars
 
—and the history with her sister
 
—sent him over the edge.

“You just gave that much money to your family last month,” Elizabeth said. “And my sister needs it more than your parents.”

“My parents are elderly,” Tony said, his heart rate rising.
“Your sister married a bum, and I’m not supporting someone who’s too lazy to work.”

“Darren is not a bum. He’s just having a hard time finding a job.”

“Liz, he is a bum! I can’t even remember the last time he had a job.”

Elizabeth’s face tightened as she glanced at Danielle. He noticed his daughter walking away from them, the piece of paper on the island. What had she said? A report card?

The effect on Elizabeth was instant. She de-escalated quickly, tossing a shaming look at him. “Can we talk about this later?”

Tony stood firm. “No, we’ll talk about it now. Because if you want to give them what you make, that’s fine. But you’re not giving them my money.”

“Your money?” That brought out the fangs. “The last time I checked, we both put money into that account.”

“And the last time
I
checked, I make about four times what you do. So you don’t move a cent out of that account without asking me first.”

So much for keeping his cool. So much for “being there.” Tony kicked himself for exploding, but they were too far into the dance now to turn back. And she had to hear the truth, once and for all, about their finances.

Elizabeth looked away for a moment, and he felt the old wound reopen. He had heard early in marriage that once children came along, a wife turned her heart to the kids and a husband turned his heart to his work. He’d told
himself that wouldn’t happen with them. He wouldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. But here they were.

“Can we please just eat dinner?” Elizabeth said in a measured tone, like she was trying to talk a nervous home buyer down off the ledge after he looked at the interest of a thirty-year mortgage.

Tony glanced at the table, the plates and napkins, the salad and spaghetti, and he couldn’t take it. There was something inside that wouldn’t let him just sit down and bite his tongue and ask Danielle about her grades or anything else because of that five thousand dollars. For crying out loud, five thousand dollars!

“You know what? Go ahead,” he said, picking up his jacket and satchel. “I’m going to the gym.”

Elizabeth watched Tony turn his back to her and walk toward the bedroom. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to run out and jump in her car and go to the gym herself. Why couldn’t she be the one to run away? But running from their problems didn’t help anything. She wanted to stand toe-to-toe and argue until he heard her, finally
heard
what she was saying instead of accusing and walking away. That was what he always did and it infuriated her. Just ended the conversation like he was slamming the door on an aluminum siding salesman.

The thing that had kept her from exploding was the sight of Danielle. She had stood there looking at her report
card. All those As and all she could do was stare at the C. No wonder. Danielle had been nervous about her father’s reaction
 
—but he didn’t react. He hardly acknowledged her presence, let alone her concern. Why couldn’t he see what he was doing to her? Any person with half a heart could see it.

Elizabeth smelled something acrid, some disturbance in the cooking force, and looked at the oven. A tuft of smoke belched from the vent and her heart sank. She opened the oven door and pulled out the rolls that were supposed to look all buttery and brown on top but were as black as charcoal. She picked one up with prongs and inspected it.

“Well, I burned the rolls,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. She tossed the roll in the trash and then threw the whole batch out.

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. She dished out the spaghetti and sauce for Danielle, put her salad bowl beside it, and went to the bedroom to talk with Tony.

“Look, if you’ll just come and eat with us
 
—”

“I can’t,” he snapped. “This has wrapped me up all day. As soon as I got the notification . . . I can’t believe we’re going through this again! Of all days!”

“Of all days?” she said.

“I made a sale today. A big one. The one I’ve been angling for. I mean, it was the best feeling to seal that deal and shake that guy’s hand. And then I get the news that you’ve
 
—”

“Tony, please
 
—Danielle needs to hear you say it’s okay. That she’s okay.”

“I’ll talk to her later,” he said. “I’ll tell her that later. And I don’t need you telling me what I have to do. I have a relationship with my daughter, okay? You don’t have to get between us like this.”

“I’m not getting between you, I’m trying to help you understand!”

He grabbed his gym bag and stormed out of the room. The door to the garage slammed like thunder. And then she heard the familiar clacking and the sound of Tony’s car pulling away.

Tony drove fast to the gym and stretched out while waiting for a pickup game
 
—and then he was off, dribbling and moving the ball up court as fast as he could. He was aggressive, going for the basket each time he touched the ball, driving to find an open lane. When one closed, he’d pull back and look for another. On defense he went for steals, fouled hard, and worked up a good sweat at the expense of his opponents, mostly slower white guys. It felt good to be on the court, to be in a game he could control instead of something he couldn’t.

They were at game point, going to twenty, of the third matchup when his lifelong friend Michael called for the ball at the corner. The defense shifted slightly and Tony shook his head. Finally he got him the ball and Michael
dribbled near the top of the key and signaled. Tony nodded and followed Michael down the lane.

It was poetry in motion. Everything slowed as Michael elevated and laid the ball off the glass. Tony jumped, took the ball, and jammed it through the net.

“Ball game!” Michael shouted.

Every player on the court and those waiting whooped and yelled at the move. Tony was surrounded by teammates who slapped his back and gave him high fives. His opponents even congratulated him.

“That was sick,” one said.

“Let’s run it back again,” someone said behind him.

“Nah,” Tony said. “I gotta go, man.”

“Come on, one more game.”

“We just beat you three times.” Tony glanced at the bleachers and saw two fresh players waiting. “Let these guys play.”

“All right. Jump in, fellas.”

Tony sat on the bleachers and wiped his face with a towel. His muscles were loose now and a lot of the stress from home was gone. The five thousand dollars still hung over him and stung his gut, but he had calmed somewhat about it.

Michael sat next to him and gave him a slack-jawed look. “You all right, dog?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Why?”

“You looked like you played a little mad tonight.”

Michael was a good player, quick and able to see the whole court. But he didn’t have the killer instinct.

“So? It just means I play better,” Tony said.

“Better means ball hog? Dude, I can’t get a pass from you. It’d be easier to baptize a cat.”

“I just needed to blow off a little steam, okay?”

“Well, I hope you’re done.”

Tony smiled. Michael was right, but he was also jealous. There were some who had it and some who didn’t. On the court and in life.

“Anyway, it’s cool, man,” Michael said. “We all gotta do that sometime.”

Tony could tell Michael was opening the door to talk about
why
he needed to blow off steam, and part of him wanted to go there. But he thought better of it, especially with somebody from church. The stuff about his family, his marriage
 
—all of that was best kept to himself. And there were other things beneath the surface, steam rising from different places in his life he couldn’t let escape. Not with somebody like Michael. Not with anybody, really.