Wings of Glass (18 page)

AS SOON
as Trent left for work the next morning, I called our church to ask if I could seek the pastor’s counsel. His secretary put me on hold, forcing me to listen to Muzak so long I was about to start drooling. Eventually, “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” clicked off, and she returned to tell me Nathan would clear his schedule.

Having walked the two miles to the bus stop, I waited beside a woman with a rump the size of two of my pregnant bellies as a plume of exhaust wafted toward us from the back of the city bus. Holding my breath, I held the railing and stepped through the grimy doors behind her. While she took her sweet time inserting two dollars into the slot, I did my best to smooth the wrinkles out of my cash.

Before I could even find an empty seat, the driver hit the gas. Catching myself on the overhead bar, I barely managed to keep my balance. A young woman in a McDonald’s uniform picked up her book bag and slid over so I could sit.
I thanked her and took the empty seat. The smell of french fries reminded me I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

According to my route schedule, we had five stops and two miles before we got to the shopping center that sat behind New Beginnings Church. It took twenty minutes to travel that short distance because apparently people would rather risk their lives and ours than allow a bus to get in front of them. Cars cut us off left and right, slowing us down so much we managed to catch every red light.

Thankfully, fry-girl got off two stops after I’d gotten on, so I had plenty of elbow room, or in my case, belly room. The ride over gave me plenty of time to think about how I would raise my suspicions about Trent to Pastor Harold, or Nathan, as he still insisted on being called.

Over the months, we’d gotten to know the man no better than the first day we set foot in New Beginnings. There had to be a real person, with ups and downs like the rest of us, hiding behind that giant smile of his, but as far as I could tell, he never took off the clergy mask long enough for anyone to see. Then again, what did I know? Maybe the real him was truly always that happy. It didn’t much matter. If he was half the counselor he was preacher, I figured he could at least steer me in the right direction. All I needed was a little guidance.

I could have called Fatimah or Callie Mae, but I already knew what each of them would say—leave Trent. If I told Callie Mae what I feared, I strongly suspected she would feel a Christian obligation to go to the police. She was a trustworthy friend, but her first loyalty was to God.

The bus sputtered to a stop beside a covered bench in front of Food Lion. I thanked the driver, who looked at me from glasses so marred with fingerprints, I don’t know how she saw through them.

It was less than a block to the church from where I’d been dropped off, but it felt like miles with the frigid wind kicking up the dusting of snow that had fallen the day before. My teeth chattered so hard, I hoped they wouldn’t shatter, and my hands were ice cubes inside my jacket pockets.

Finally, I reached the church. Opening the glass door, I was at last shielded from the wind. My hands were red from the cold, and I rubbed them together as I entered the warmth of the church. I walked down the carpeted corridor leading to Pastor Harold’s office and turned in. His secretary, Carrie or Cara or something, looked up from her computer screen and waved me in.

The office was exactly what I would expect a pastor’s space to look like, with hardwood paneled walls, ornamental crosses, and scenic prints with Scripture verses scrolled across the bottom of them.

Suddenly I had a bad case of buyer’s remorse. What if she or Pastor Harold told Trent I had been there?

“I’m sorry to bother you.” I took a hesitant step in. It was too late to turn back now, I thought. I didn’t have to tell everything, just whatever I felt comfortable with. I’d feel him out first and see if I could trust him before spilling my soul. Besides, weren’t religious leaders sworn to secrecy the same way lawyers were? It seemed I heard something about that somewhere.

“Bother me?” she gave me a curious look beneath her overplucked eyebrows. “It’s no bother. You’re one of our sheep. You’re always welcome. Go on in; Nathan’s expecting you.”

The door to the inner office opened, and Pastor Harold stood there in a gray warm-up suit, a pair of bright-white Nikes, and of course, that smile of his.

He held out his hand for me to shake. “Mrs. Taylor, I am so glad to see you. Please come in.” He turned to Carrie or Cara. “Carla, if you could please hold my calls for the next few minutes.”

She gave a thumbs-up, bringing attention to her badly chipped manicure. The pastor’s eyes seemed to linger disapprovingly on her hand. She blushed as she slipped her fingers from sight.

“Thanks, Carla,” I said, mostly just so I’d remember her name. She went back to whatever she was working on, and I followed Pastor Harold into the office. He closed the door behind me, and invited me to have a seat.

The narrow chair was made of hardwood, with the thinnest of cushions, as though he didn’t want anyone to get too comfortable. Shifting in my seat to find a position that didn’t make you lie on my bladder or press into my spine, I glanced around. Three of the walls were veneered in white brick; the last had been painted a warm gold. In the middle of that wall hung a simple, framed poster of a man standing on a summit with both arms raised in triumph. Beneath him were the words, “Failure is but success delayed.”

He sat on the corner of his antique desk and motioned toward the poster. “I have to look at that every day.”

“You could take it down,” I offered.

He laughed. “Let me reword that. I
get
to look at that every day.”

I wondered what he thought he was failing at. His church was affluent and full every Sunday. He drove a nice car, wore nice clothes, had the all-American family.

He pulled the leather chair out from behind his desk and sat. “So, Penny, what brings you here?”

I set my purse on the rug by my feet. With its tassel border and intricately woven design, it reminded me of something that might adorn an ancient castle. “I hate to bother you with my problems.”

“You’re my spiritual daughter; please bother me.”

Spiritual daughter? I would have liked time to chew on that, but he was looking at me expectantly. “I think I mentioned on the phone I was struggling with some things with Trent.”

“Trent?”

“My husband.”
The man you speak to every Sunday.

He hit himself in the forehead like he should have had a V8. “Of course. Trent. How is he?”

I played with my jacket zipper, trying to look anywhere but at that smile. “Well, he’s been better.”

“He’s got quite a testimony.”

I raised my eyebrows, unsure of what he meant.

“What a miracle the way God restored his eyesight.”

“Yes,” I said. “God works in mysterious ways.” I still hadn’t figured out if there had been any divinity behind the loss and restoration of Trent’s eyesight, but I figured even if I didn’t understand, God did, and that might have to be enough.

He straightened the blotter on his desk. “That he does. That he does. So, what’s going on?”

Although I’d rehearsed how I could work into the conversation a hypothetical question of what someone might do if they thought their spouse had information the police should have, words failed me under the blinding glare of those teeth.

“It’s okay, Penny. You can trust me.”

The only other person in my life who’d ever told me I could trust him was Trent. So I guess it was only natural for those words to put me on guard. “What if—” I rubbed the zipper-pull between my thumb and finger—“a wife thought her husband might have done something—?”

“Hold up, Penny.” His smile faded. “Whenever I do marriage counseling, I insist on having both the husband and wife present. There are two sides to every story.”

I felt myself blush, though I didn’t know why I should feel embarrassed. “Trent’s working.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He folded his hands on the desk and glanced up at the wall clock. “A good husband should be providing for his family if he’s able.”

“He’s a good provider,” I said.

This made the smile return. “That’s good to hear. Do you think we should postpone this talk until he can be here?”

At that moment, I so wished I hadn’t come. There was
no way he wasn’t going to mention I was there. Visions of him on Sunday morning asking Trent when we all could get together to resume marriage counseling reeled through my head like a horror flick. “I’m not here for marriage counseling.” I slid my hands under my thighs to keep them still. “There’s something Trent might have done, or might supposed to be doing—”

Tapping his thumbs together, he sighed. “Okay, I’m going to break my own rule and hear you out, but please understand that I’m his pastor too.”

His standoffishness made me feel an unexpected twinge of rejection, but I liked what he said just the same. It meant he was fair-minded. That’s just what I needed. “I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. I want to do the right thing. I want him to do the right thing.”

He nodded, looking deep in thought. “Okay then. How are things between you?”

The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t rehearsed the answer to that one. “Okay—good, for now.”

“For now?”

“Yes, good.”

He stopped tapping his thumbs as he glanced up at the wall behind me.

I turned around to find he was looking at the clock. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” I asked.

His cheeks mottled. “Sorry, no. I’m supposed to make a phone call in a few minutes, but it can wait. Do you know the question I’m asked most often as a pastor?”

I shook my head.

“Why does God allow bad things to happen to good people? And that’s a fair question, but I think a better one is, why do we?”

He went back to tapping his thumbs, looking at me as though expecting me to answer.

I had no earthly idea where he was going with the conversation, and it made me more than a little nervous, like he might know more about my situation than he let on. “I don’t understand what—”

“Tell me about how you two resolve conflict.”

“Conflict?”

“You know, how do you fight?”

I didn’t want to talk about that, but it would be an effective lead into the dilemma at hand. “He has a temper.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Don’t we all?”

“Not like his,” I said.

“Do you love him?”

“Most of the time.”

He frowned. “What would you say is the number one thing missing in your relationship?”

I chewed my bottom lip, considering the answer. “Friendship, but I’m not here to—”

He leaned back in his chair. “Penny, I counsel couples every day. The husband almost always complains his wife wants him to be more like a woman. The woman almost always complains her husband doesn’t understand her.” He paused and looked at me for the longest time without so much as blinking.

Finally, I looked away.

“My answer is always the same.” He glanced up at the clock again, then back to me. “Why isn’t grace enough?”

Enough for what?
I wondered, but the expression on his face told me I ought to know.

I left his office no closer to an answer about what to do regarding Trent, and feeling worse than when I’d come. On the ride home, I kept playing his words over and over. It felt like a slap in the face, a pat answer to a problem he couldn’t possibly know the depths of—not to mention a problem I hadn’t even been there to discuss—yet I couldn’t help but to ask myself the same question.

What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I leave well enough alone, like Trent wanted me to? Why couldn’t I be satisfied being a wife to a man who had his problems, but kept a roof over my head and food in my stomach? Why did I have to constantly long for something I couldn’t give a name to? Hadn’t God given me the desire of my heart with the baby inside of me? Why didn’t all of that fill me with contentment?

Why wasn’t grace enough?

IT WAS
nearly eight p.m., and still there was no sign of Trent. I was having contractions again, but they were nowhere near the five minutes apart required to go to the hospital, so I busied myself cleaning, waiting to see if they would progress.

After I got home from meeting with Pastor Harold, I’d gotten a bee in my bonnet about turning our little house into the kind of home you’d be proud to live in, Manny. I scrubbed behind every piece of furniture, appliance, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. All that was left were the baseboards. On my hands and knees with a potful of hot water infused with Pine-Sol and an old ripped T-shirt of Trent’s, I scrubbed away grime, removing almost as many paint chips as dust and smudges.

A thought came to me as I looked down at the peppering of white paint flecks on the floor—a thought that should have come much sooner than now. Our home was old, and old houses had lead paint. Early in my pregnancy I’d read
in one of the brochures at the doctor’s office that lead could cause brain damage, but hadn’t thought much about it until now. Horror filled me as I pushed myself up off the floor.

What if I’d already hurt you, I wondered as I carried the pot of dirty water to the bathroom. Warm suds sloshed back and forth, trickling over the edge and onto my hands. I dumped the liquid into the toilet. As I stood to flush, the room began to spin.

It’s just stress,
I told myself.
You’ve gotten yourself worked up over what’s probably nothing, and now you’re panicking. Just breathe.
Slowly I inhaled, then exhaled. After a few seconds of doing this, the dizziness left. Replacing it was the feeling my skin was on fire.

Making my way to the hallway, I fanned myself furiously as I checked the thermostat. It read sixty-two degrees.
It must be broken,
I thought, until I remembered the hot flashes Fatimah forever complained about. Fighting the urge to rip all my clothes off, streak through the yard, and dive into the creek, I settled on some fresh air, fully clothed.

Outside, the winter breeze felt blissfully cold through my cotton shirt. The moon above was little more than a sliver, and the street stood eerily quiet. Snowflakes fluttered down on me. Pausing along the walkway, I lifted my face appreciatively to them. The longer I stared up at them, the more I felt like I was traveling through space—white stars passing me by as I flew upward into the black universe. Cold and soft, these star-flakes tickled my skin as they melted.

Snapping out of my trance, I wiped the wetness away and
made my way to the curb to pick up the mail I should have retrieved earlier in the day. As I closed the thin metal door, I glanced down at the Christmas catalog, full of pretty things we could never afford, and the oil bill, which we would have to.

Across the street, I noticed once again, our neighbors had strung holiday lights from their gutters, windows, and bushes. Next year we’d be among them, I resolved . . . just like I had every year since we’d moved here. But next Christmas wouldn’t be like all the others. Next year we’d have you, Manny. Christmas lights or not, it would be the best one ever.

To my right, the neighbor’s calico pawed at something I couldn’t see under a leafless dogwood. When I whistled, he turned toward me. His eyes looked like embers burning in the night. For the hundredth time, I wished Trent were home.

I carried the mail back to the porch and sat on the top step. The concrete felt cold on my bottom, which did wonders to bring my body temperature back out of the triple digits. The breeze whistled through the treetops and set off a distant wind chime.

I set down the catalog and bill beside me and considered the dusting of snow covering our lawn. Images of a future you building a snowman with me for the first time flashed through my mind, and I couldn’t help but be happy. So many good memories were ahead of us, Manny, and I couldn’t wait to start making them with you.

Light streaming out from our living room window reflected off a rectangle of snow in front of the boxwoods, giving it the appearance of being covered in tiny, shimmering
crystals. When a car turned down our road, I strained to listen for the familiar sound of Trent’s engine, but it ran too smoothly to be his.

A contraction hit just then. Grabbing my belly, I groaned. Gone was the tolerable sensation of someone hugging my middle too tightly. I’d now graduated to the feeling of being disemboweled and kicked in the back at the same time.

When the pain passed, and my eyes stopped watering, I remembered the glider swing your father had picked up on the side of the road one fall, and I decided the swaying motion might calm you and me both. Trudging around the side of the house to the backyard, my tennis shoes kicked up snow, allowing glimpses of the brown grass below it.

Like everything else, the bench swing was covered in white, so I pulled down my sleeve and swept it clean. The vinyl cushion was soft and cold. Leaning back against it, I pushed off with my feet, sending myself gliding forward.

Back and forth I swung, relishing the cold wind lapping at my face and imagining I was a little girl at a playground. I thought of my parents and what they might be doing at that moment. Daddy would be perched in front of the television, flipping channels and complaining about the politics of the anchors he loved to hate. Mama would be in the kitchen, maybe cutting him a slice of her apple crumb pie and singing a hymn they’d sung in church that Sunday—still doing her best to win him without words.

Several strong contractions came on each other’s heels, jolting me from my thoughts. Pursing my lips, I breathed
through the pain like the book Callie Mae gave me had taught me to do. For several minutes none came, so I went back to swinging and clinging to Trent’s promise that Mama and Daddy could visit when you were born.

As the tip of my tennis shoes dragged gently across the snow, a twig snapped in the distance. My eyes flew open and I squinted into the darkness. “Trent?” I called. Could I have been so deep in thought I hadn’t heard his car pull up?

A dark silhouette seemed to glide across the snow toward me. I screamed and planted my feet on the ground, ready to bolt. White teeth flashed in the darkness.

I squinted harder. “Fatimah?”

“Peeny?” she called, moving toward me. “What are you doing out here?”

I was so relieved, I laughed. “Hot flash.”

“Ha-ha! See, I tell you they are from the devil!”

As she moved closer, I saw the fat bundle she held and the little, round face peeking through blankets. “I have brought a special guest to you.”

I climbed off the swing to meet her halfway. The baby’s eyes blinking up at me were so big. Puffs of breath from her tiny mouth turned to frost.

“Let’s go inside,” I said. “She’ll freeze to death out here.”

Fatimah followed me into the house. Now that I’d cooled down, the warmth of the living room felt far less oppressive.

I shut the door behind us and pulled the cover away from the baby’s chin to have a better look. She was not at all the beauty Callie Mae described, though I smiled at her just the
same. Instead of a nice round head, hers was shaped like a cone. Her skin was marred by what looked like dozens of purple ink dots, and the whole side of her face was bluish-gray. Even her lips looked ashen as they glistened with several tiny bubbles pooling at the corner of her mouth. When I touched her soft cheek, she turned toward my finger. “She’s something,” I said.

Fatimah beamed. “She is most beautiful baby in world!” She gave her a tender kiss.

“Is she bruised?” I asked.

She nodded. “It was most difficult birth. She is stubborn, like her father, and stayed too long in birth canoe.”

It took me a second to figure out she meant
canal
. “What’s her name?”

She smiled shyly, averting her eyes. “Peeny.”

I made a face at her. “I’m serious, Fati, what’s her name, really?”

Lines formed across her forehead as she frowned at me. “It is really Peeny. And what is wrong with that name?”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You named her after me?”

She shrugged. “You are a good and beautiful woman, and my best friend.”

It overwhelmed me she would name the most precious thing she had in this world after me, of all people. As I looked down at the baby who now shared my name, I was so touched I could have cried. “Still?”

She rubbed noses with the baby. “Yes, still.”

I wanted to ask how she spelled the child’s name, worried she might have done so phonetically, the way she pronounced it, but decided not to ask. If she’d gotten it wrong, she would only feel bad. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” All it takes sometimes, Manny, is someone believing in you for you to begin to believe in yourself. “Can I hold her?”

She looked at her lovingly, as if preparing for a long good-bye, then laid her gently in my arms. Callie Mae described her as a moose, but she was surprisingly light. l leaned in and took in her warmth and baby smell, then planted a kiss on her round cheek. “Hi, Peeny,” I said.

Fatimah scrunched her nose like she smelled something rancid. “Why do you say her name like that?”

I glanced over at her. “That’s how you say it.”

“Her name is like yours. You must say it right.”

“Penny?” I offered.

“Peh-eeny,” Fatimah said slowly, coming closer than I’d ever heard her to pronouncing it correctly.

My stomach began to tighten, and I pushed the baby into Fatimah’s arms just in time. A tidal wave of pain crashed over me and I doubled over.

When it passed, I opened my eyes to see Fatimah looking at me with alarm. “You are in labor, true?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think—” Another contraction stole my words.

Fatimah set the baby gently on the carpet and led me to the couch. “I think yes you are.”

“The contractions are all over the place,” I said as the pain
subsided. “The doctor says the real thing will be regular, and get closer together.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Do you have water?”

“You want me to get you a drink?” I was more than a little irritated that she couldn’t do for herself, with me hurting the way I was.

“No. You have water from this baby?”

When I finally realized she was asking me if my water had broken, I shook my head.

She eyed me suspiciously, then picked up little Penny and sat in Trent’s easy chair with the baby against her chest. “You give birth by tomorrow morning. Place a bet with me and I will be rich.”

I twisted my mouth at her. “I don’t know. I’ve been having these contractions for days, and I’m still early.”

She shrugged. “By tomorrow. You make relations tonight, and Manny will come.”

I smiled, imagining you wrapped in blankets like Fatimah’s baby. “I’m not too keen about the relations part, but I sure would love to meet my son.”

Right on cue, your father’s car roared into the driveway, and my insides tightened. “Trent,” I whispered.

Fatimah gave the door a dirty look.

I stood, intending to meet him outside to warn him she was there and beg him to behave, but before I could take two steps, liquid gushed from me. It was such an odd sensation that I gasped.

I tried to smile. “I think I’ve got water.”

“There is blood,” she said, looking down at the puddle beneath me.

Trent barged through the front door, so drunk he couldn’t walk straight, and sneered at Fatimah. “What’s loudmouth doing here?”

“Your wife is in trouble. I take her to hospital.”

He stumbled backward. “What’s—?” he looked down at the floor and his eyes widened. “What is that?”

Fatimah held her baby tight against her chest as she stood. “Bring your wife to my car, now.”

He stood as still as a wax exhibit.

“Now!” Fatimah yelled.

Snapping out of his trance, he slurred, “I’ll take her.”

Holding her baby with one arm, Fatimah grabbed my elbow with the other. “You will not. You will kill her, the baby, and yourself.” She nudged me toward the door.

His eyes drooped into bloodshot slits. “Don’t you tell me what to do in my own house.”

I felt myself wanting to pass out, but was afraid of what would happen to you and Fatimah if I did. “Back off,” I said to him. A constant stream of warm liquid trickled down my leg, and I was scared.

Not waiting for his reply, I followed Fatimah to the front door. As I stepped onto the porch on Fatimah’s heels, Trent shoved me in the middle of my back. I fell into Fatimah. In horror, I watched her clutch her bundle as she stumbled down the steps. Her right shoulder bore the impact on the sidewalk as she screamed. Safe in her arms, the baby cried.

I looked back at him in disbelief. With a look of utter shock, he stared down at her. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—”

He hurried down the steps to help her up, but she ripped her arm from him. Still on the ground, she examined the baby, then allowed me to hold her while she got to her feet. Without looking back, we hurried to the car and Fatimah clumsily strapped the baby into the car seat.

“You will go to jail for that,” she yelled from the window as we peeled out of the driveway.