Futures

By Deana Carmack

God had let him down, simple as that. The God that Mark Stafford had believed in since he was old enough to believe in anything the God Mark had worshipped and served and tried to obeythat God.

Where had he been when Mark had needed a miracle?

He had prayed; oh, how he had prayed. But when push came to shove, God had simply jumped shipabandoned Mark and Gloria to face her death without Him.

So now, Mark just didnt believe in a loving and caring God anymore. He felt pretty sure there was a Supreme Being, just not one who cared about His children, who heard and answered their prayers. That God was gone forever, and Mark was left with a hole in his heart, an aching void in his spirit that he dared not hope would ever be filled again. But God, as He always does, had a plan

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449716523

Deana Carmack

Deana Carmack began her journey as a writer after fulfilling her ambitions as a teacher, an artist, and an entrepreneur, as secretary and children’s minister of her church. Her belief that “everyone has a story” has sparked her interest in capturing at least some of them on the written page. Her first novel, The Dragon Outside, was released in May 2010. She lives in a small west Texas town with three horses, two dogs, and an assortment of cats.

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Copyright © 2011 Deana Carmack

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-1652-3 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1651-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1653-0 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011928143

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/8/2011

Contents

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

conclusion

bibliography

Also by Deana Carmack

The Dragon Outside

To the Author and finisher of our faith…

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Jeremiah 29:11

chapter one

Mark Stafford, fifty-two and balding, slouched in the comfortable wing-backed chair, absently tapping the edge of the tri-folded sheet of typing paper against his thigh. He leaned to the left, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, supporting his head in the V created by the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. His gaze through the living room’s bay window remained fixed on the figures romping in front of the Austin-stone house across the street and down one.

The delighted squeals of the two youngsters floated on the warm September air, filtering through the closed front door of Stanley’s house. Watching the children skip back and forth through the sprinkler, he couldn’t help but envy their gay abandon. Had he ever been that young? Felt the uninhibited freedom to just be, to just enjoy the moment? In his present state of affairs, he seriously doubted it.

Rather intently he studied the trim, middle-aged woman reclining on a lawn chaise she had hauled out onto the small stoop in front of her home. Her slender legs, clad in white crop pants, were crossed at the ankle; her feet bare. With arms draping loosely on the arm rests, she appeared to be keeping an amused eye on Mark’s three-year-old grandson, Clayton, and her own granddaughter, a bubbly golden-haired little cherub named Susanna.

The lady’s wide, floppy straw hat and sun glasses shielded her face and eyes from the September sun, but her relaxed pose indicated that she might be enjoying herself almost as much as the children were.

As he regarded the youngsters once again, another sigh escaped his lips. His own spirit felt so crimped, so drained of everything joyful, as if he’d been wrung through the wringer of his mother’s old washer—leaving him paper-flat lifeless. His heart squeezed again, reminding him, as it did every day, that there was no delight to be found anywhere. Not anymore. Not in this life.

Reluctantly he forced his eyes from the pleasant scene and reread the note he held in his hand. It wasn’t a note, actually; it was more of a little poem.

Bubbles

Although we’re only 2 and 3,

I like you and you like me.

Do you think we’ll someday be

Sweethearts?

You have nice eyes;

You’re just my size.

You like French fries

And SweeTarts.

Would you like to pet my pup?

Share Kool-Aid from a sippy cup?

If so, you know, we might wind up

As sweethearts.

There was a note scribbled at the bottom. He could almost hear the smile in her voice.

"My sister, Cindy, laughingly hinted the other day that my Susanna and your Clayton made a cute couple and might have a future together. This little ditty just popped into my head…about four o’clock this morning, ugh!

Wanted to share it with you. Hope you get as much of a kick out of it as I did.

MH."

Although its content suggested nothing menacing, Mark couldn’t help wondering about the motive behind it. Did she have some kind of design on the mayor’s alluring son, his only grandchild? Was the possibility of a real threat lurking behind the seemingly innocent words? Or was he just being paranoid?

He sighed again and caught himself doing it. Seems like every other breath is a sigh. He loathed it…this aimless drifting through life without really living.

It hadn’t been too long ago, though presently it felt like a lifetime, that he had met each day with a joie de vivre. There had always been something to relish, even to be excited about. He had considered each day to be a gift from God, and so he had felt happily obliged to rejoice in its blessings. The warm, sweet smell of newly-mowed grass. The crisp, delicious tingle of an early-autumn morning. The gentle ribbing between comfortable friends. Innumerable threads of pleasure and praise woven into the tapestry of his life.

But he had changed in the last couple of years. Or to be more accurate, life had done a number on him, had knocked him about rather brutally. At the beginning, when the storm clouds gathered on the horizon and the seas had just started getting rough, he had trusted God to calm the waves, to make things right. But where had God been when he needed Him? When he cried out to Him for healing and mercy? Certainly not looking my way, Mark thought bitterly. He felt his heart clamp down even tighter as the bitterness to which he had become accustomed strengthened its grip on his spirit.

Following a quick glance at his watch, Mark laid the poem absently on the occasional table beside his chair, then pushed himself slowly to his feet with a small grunt. Cathy’s instructions were to retrieve Clayboy around three. It was now five ‘til. Believing his people instincts were still pretty sharp, Gloria’s comments to the contrary notwithstanding, he decided he could check out the neighbor lady while collecting his grandson.

He crossed the room, turned right upon reaching the hall, strode to the front door and opened it. The bright, hot afternoon Texas sun blasted through the entrance, making him squint and take a step back. As soon as his eyes became adjusted to the light, he ambled down the front walk, which radiated the summer heat through the soles of his shoes, to the curb and aimed catty-cornered across the street to the yard where the children were playing.

The woman on the chaise lowered her sunglasses onto her nose, peering over them as the slender, silver-haired man approached. She smiled tentatively. He smiled back.

Thought you might need rescuing, he said, hoping his voice sounded more congenial than he felt.

From?

He nodded in the boy’s direction. Clay can be a bit rambunctious at times.

She was still smiling but raised an eyebrow. And you are…?

Ma’am?

Now the smile disappeared altogether, and keeping her voice soft, but firm, she continued, Excuse me, but I don’t know who you are.

Oh! Forgive me. I’m Mark Stafford, Clayton’s grandfather. Cathy asked me to come over and get him around three.

As if on cue, the toddler glanced in his direction, and spying Mark, ran up to him squealing delightedly, Poppy! He threw his wet arms exuberantly around Mark’s knees.

Hey, Clayboy! Mark greeted the child. He patted Clayton’s dripping, dark-brown curls then looked up sheepishly as he noticed the dark, damp ring left when Clay’s soggy body came in contact with his khaki pants. So much for the suave, debonair facade he was attempting to perfect.

The lady laughed. O.K., your password is accepted. You can stay.

Nice smile. He noticed a slight gap between her two upper front teeth. Like me, she grew up in a time when only the rich or vain or seriously disfigured depended on braces to straighten their teeth. The rest of us just lived with what Mother Nature provided us.

Now, you have the advantage of me. He extended his hand in what he hoped was his most engaging manner.

She met his grip with slender fingers. Marianne Hunter.

Pleased to meet you, he said and was a little surprised to realize that he actually meant it

She smiled her agreement and rose from her seat to turn off the sprinkler. Serves two purposes. Giving him a sideways glance, she continued, Gives the kids something cool and fun to do and waters my lawn at the same time. They’ve been having a grand ol’ time.

Then she addressed the children. Come on, kids. Let’s dry off and have an ice cream cone before Clay has to go home.

Nice move. Divert them with sugar before they have a chance to holler about the sprinkler, and at the same time prepare them for the inevitable goodbyes ahead. Smart lady. She must be accustomed to handling kids.

Marianne reached for the beach towels and handed Mark the one with the Power Rangers on it, keeping the Little Mermaid towel to dry off Susanna. Do you mind?

Not at all, he answered, taking the towel. I’m already wet from the knees down. A little more water can’t hurt a thing. Come here, Clayboy.

He squatted down and playfully wrapped the towel around the child, rubbing him briskly and pausing when his hands moved near Clay’s ribs to give him a quick tickle. Clay scrunched up his body giggling. When the little boy laughed, his whole face radiated merriment. Mark utilized one corner of the towel to quick-dry Clay’s hair.

I apologize for giving you the third degree when you asked about Clayton. You just can’t be too careful with children these days, she offered in way of a qualified apology. Although her tone was friendly, he got the distinct impression that if Clayboy hadn’t immediately affirmed their relationship, she would have sent Mark packing in short order.

It’s too bad that’s the case, he returned. But it is. Mark shoved aside the twinge of guilt at the thoughts he’d entertained, however briefly, about her.

Would an ice cream cone make amends? she asked amiably as she finished toweling off her granddaughter, giving her wet little bottom an affectionate pat.

Mark grinned at the action. There was absolutely nothing as innocently delightful as a baby’s behind.

That depends, he said with mock severity, his hands on his hips. What do you have to offer?

Vanilla, strawberry, and fudge mint—a lady has to have her chocolate, you know.

I think a fudge mint cone sounds great. But you don’t need to apologize for being protective of my grandson. I’m relieved that you are.

After everyone had happily dispensed with the cones Marianne had served on her back patio, Mark took Clayton’s hand and led him back across the street. The September sun at 3:30 was still quite warm, so he hurried his grandson along, Clayboy’s flip-flops making little smacking noises on the pavement, toward Stanley’s house..

So, did you two keep out of trouble while I was gone? Cathy smiled as she set the kitchen table for supper a couple of hours later. Clayton sat cross-legged on the tile floor with his crayons and a coloring book. He hadn’t learned yet that he was supposed to stay within the lines. His idea of high art involved scribbling a few colorful marks onto each page, then turning to another one to enhance it.

Mostly, teased her father-in-law. He picked up the stack of plates from the corner of the table. How was your art class?

Great, Cathy beamed. It’s so much fun, I can hardly stand it. Lila Gates tries hard not to laugh when she sees the mess most of us make. I may never be any good at it, but I’m having a blast. She grinned at Mark, raising one eyebrow. And what do you mean you ‘mostly’ behaved?

He winked at her. Oh, nothing.

Don’t you ‘nothing’ me. What’s going on?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clay had a great time playing with Susanna. Didn’t you, Clayboy?

Yeah, the three-year-old agreed, nodding vigorously.

Yes, sir, Cathy gently corrected.

Clay’s chin turned up, and his eyes laughed into Mark’s. Yes, sir, Poppy. We played in the ‘prinkler, and I got Poppy’s pants a-a-a-ll wet. He grinned mischievously.

Mark leaned over to tousle Clay’s hair. You sure did, you rascal.

Clayton giggled, then returned to his art work.

So you met Marianne?

Mm-hmm. She seems nice. What do you know about her?

Not too much. You’re right about her being nice, though. I’ve chatted with her briefly a few times when she asked Clayboy over.

Does she ask him over often?

Occasionally, when she has Susanna with her. They have a great time together.

So, you don’t really know her very well?

No, not really. She’s been here only about eighteen months, or so. She lives alone and is kind of quiet; keeps to herself most of the time. And I’ve been so busy, I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good neighbor.

Hmm. Red flag warnings again. A loner.

But you’re comfortable allowing Clayboy to play over there? Mark watched her face for any signs of concern.

Oh, absolutely. She’s a retired teacher, and I can tell by the way she treats Susanna that she adores kids. She’s no pushover, though…makes them behave. Why do you ask?

No reason, really. He hesitated a moment. Let me show you something and see what you think. He hurried into the living room to retrieve the poem. Cathy raised an eyebrow as he re-entered the breakfast room.

It was stuck in the front door when I went to get the mail, he explained. It wasn’t addressed to anybody in particular, so I read it. He studied her expression while she glanced over the poem. To his relief, she handed it back to him with a broad smile.

Cute, cute. Marianne is an aspiring author. Someday she may be rich and famous, so you might want to hang on to that. It could be valuable in a few years, and you could say you ‘knew her when’. It was sweet of her to bring it over. Think I’ll bake her an appreciation pie.

So it doesn’t bother you at all? he asked, needing affirmation that his instincts were correct.

Heavens, no! Why? Does it bother you?

I guess not. It seems innocent enough. Guess I just obsess sometimes about Clayboy’s safety, what with Stan being mayor and all.

Marianne touched her father-in-law’s arm gently. I appreciate that, but if there’s anything devious or malicious about Marianne Hunter, I sure haven’t picked up on it, and I can usually read people pretty well.

"That’s why you’re so crazy about me, huh?" he returned with a twinkle in his eyes.

Absolutely. She planted a kiss on his cheek. Just don’t press your luck. Women are fickle, you know.

He smiled and thought for the hundredth time of his extreme good fortune to have a young woman like Cathy for his daughter-in-law. She was young, comfortably pretty, congenial, and bright. And, most importantly, she had made an excellent wife and mother.

She returned to the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with a glass of milk for Clay and tall glasses of iced tea for herself and Mark.

By the way, thanks for watching him this afternoon.

My pleasure. He’s an O.K. kid.

Cathy grinned. Yeah, he is, isn’t he? She sent an affectionate glance toward her son before she finished setting the table.

It’s so warm today, I thought a light supper would be good. Tuna sandwiches all right with you?

Great.

Cathy smiled again. You’re too easy.

I’m not sure Gloria would have agreed with you. He sighed. Drat! I did it again. The pain in his heart was still so tender, even after two years. Does it ever get easier? He forced his mind to shift gears.

Will Stanley be here for supper?

He has a regular meeting with the city council on Tuesday nights. He’ll come back late and grumpy, so we might as well go ahead and eat whenever we want to.

After a light supper of tuna sandwiches, Cheetos, and sugar cookies, Mark helped Cathy clear the table and load the dishwasher.

It’s time for Clay’s bath, she announced. Is there anything special you’d like to do while we irrigate the bathroom, Poppy?

Maybe I’ll take a little walk. The doctor said to exercise, and I haven’t done much more than sit around the house since I got here. Hopefully, it’s cooled off a little by now. In Texas in September, the days were still warm, sometimes even hot, but as the sun went down, the dry, crisp air often hinted at approaching fall.

Mark opened the door and stepped onto the front porch. Actually it wasn’t much of a porch. Just a small raised layer of cobblestone one shallow step up from the curving sidewalk that led out to the street.

They don’t put porches on houses like they used too, he mused, the big old wrap-around kind where you could hang a porch swing and set out a couple of lawn chairs and sit out in the evening to talk or read. Or just look out at the distance to the horizon where the earth and sky folded into each other, Mark thought.

As a little kid, he sometimes wondered how far you would have to walk to get to that convergence point and what you would find when you did. Was the sky like a giant sheet, all painted with blues and oranges and pinks and golds and purples? Could you punch a hole in the sky and see Heaven where God lived?

Sometimes, even though he was an adult, an over-ripe, about ready to fall from the tree, adult, he thought wryly, he allowed his mind to meander back to those childish notions. He recalled how he would stand out in the middle of a freshly-plowed field, gazing at the distant hills and imagine that they were the burial mounds of the giants that had roamed freely about the earth in those mysterious days long since passed.

He harumphed. The giants weren’t buried at all; they were still here…they were just masquerading as cancer and Alzheimer’s, cruelty and poverty.

As he stood there on the stoop of Stanley’s home regarding the lawns that stretched up to the houses lining the quiet streets of small town suburbia, his mind wandered back to the long porch that had spanned the entire width of the farm house where he grew up.

On summer evenings, once the supper dishes were done, the family would escape the often stifling heat of the house and head outside to the porch. In season his mother would bring out brown paper grocery sacks full of black-eyed peas to shell or corn to shuck. And all the kids were expected to pitch in. No one complained about the chores, though…the laughter and songs that accompanied the shelling or husking kept everyone’s minds as pleasantly occupied as their hands were productive.

When there was no produce from the large garden she kept, and if there was still enough daylight left at the end of the day, his mother came through the screen door with the daily crossword puzzle and a pencil. He could still see her, propping her feet up on the porch railing, licking the end of the pencil and setting to work. Occasionally she’d ask the kids to help her with a word she was stuck on, but of course they seldom had a clue how to help her, so most often she’d have to figure it out for herself.

As the day gave way to twilight, the Stafford family would settle in quietly, listening to the mourning doves, the mockingbirds, crickets and cicadas. Usually the kids would position themselves at the bottom of the wooden steps, alternately drawing figures with sticks in the dry dirt and swatting mosquitoes.

Not infrequently he and his brother and sister would voice concerns about the more important aspects of life that they hadn’t been able to figure out. Mama and Daddy would almost always have sensible answers for them. A lot of life’s mysteries had been unraveled strand by strand out there on that porch. A lot of lessons taught in that way his parents had of helping them figure out the truths for themselves. More often than not, their questions were answered by other questions.

Mark still missed those times. He occasionally wished he could pick up the phone and call his parents again. Even after all these years, there were still some things he didn’t understand. He remembered the time, several years into his marriage, when Stan had come to him with a rather serious ethical question, and he was forced to face the fact that now he was the adult, the one who was supposed to know the answers. The revelation had been a disturbing one. And he hadn’t felt at all prepared. He wondered now if his parents had had the same feelings of inadequacy he had often felt as he and Gloria learned, by trial and error, the ins and outs of parenting.

Mark chuckled to himself as he traveled back in his mind to the rare occasions that Grandmother and Granddaddy Stafford came to visit. Customarily, if the weather permitted, the whole family would end the day on that big front porch.

Granddaddy would wait until it was quite dark, then have their imaginations turning cartwheels as he regaled them with tales of the mysterious gyascutis…a dreadful, voracious creature that lurked down by the railroad tracks and ate any little kids who dared to venture there. The monster apparently had four legs, with two on one side being considerably longer than the two on the other side. This peculiar attribute enabled him to scamper around the sides of mountains with ease.

All four of them, he and his two brothers, Wyatt and John, and his little sister, Sandy, had bought the yarns, hook, line and sinker. And it wasn’t until quite a few years later that they had become brave enough, or skeptical enough, to risk a trip to the tracks. Even then, they went in a pack, no one being quite daring enough to venture out alone. Although they never encountered any evidence of the monster, they were unconvinced that he didn’t exist. Gyascutises were sneaky creatures, abandoning their hiding places only after the sun went down.

Over the years, Mama and Daddy often stayed out on the porch long after the kids had been sent to bed, talking, sometimes laughing softly, sometimes, not. The children would fall asleep listening to the reassuring murmur of their subdued voices.

Mark remembered once he had awakened thirsty around midnight. He happened to glance out the open front door as he made his way in the dark to the kitchen. There on the porch, their silhouettes framed between the door jambs and spotlighted by the moonglow, stood Mama and Daddy, holding on to each other and swaying slowly to their own private, silent melody. He had stood transfixed, watching them, and somehow comprehending more in that moment about what it was like to live in a marriage than he could ever have learned from any book or marriage enrichment course.

Maybe the understanding he’d gleaned from that instant, along with hundreds of others like it, contributed to the success of his life with Gloria. They’d had their turbulent times, like all couples do, when their relationship had been muddied by anger or disappointment, frustration or selfishness, but on the whole, theirs had been a rich, mutually satisfying journey.

Mark recalled, again, how sometimes, at the end of a trying day, his parents would be at odds with each other about some misunderstanding or difference in expectations, but by morning, they were usually exchanging smiles and holding hands again. Looking back, Mark wondered if maybe that porch might have had something to do with it. It all seemed pretty ordinary and maybe even a little boring to him back then. But at this stage of his life, he recognized it for what it really was—peaceful. He caught himself sighing once again and experienced a sudden pang of longing to return to those times, to recapture at least part of the sense of peace and well-being he had known back then.

Well, this won’t do it. Wishin’ ain’t walkin’. The doctor said to exercise. He stepped gingerly off the stoop and picked up his pace as he proceeded down the gently curving sidewalk and turned south. Thank goodness for sidewalks that spanned the whole length of the city blocks. No having to walk through somebody’s yard or out in the street.

As dusk settled on the community, the temperature of the air dipped a little. A movement caught the corner of his right eye, and he followed it. Marianne Hunter was on her knees working in the flower bed that lined both sides of her walk. She looked up, wiped the perspiration from her brow with a cotton-gloved hand, and gave a little wave. He waved back, then ambled on.

Nice neighborhood. Not too up-town, just nice. Well-manicured lawns. Some looked professionally done. Others were not quite so well-planned, but were pleasing to the eye anyway. He suspected, from the way she seemed to enjoy working outdoors, that Mrs. Hunter had done her own without professional help. He breathed deeply the sweet fragrance of petunias and honeysuckle and freshly mowed lawns. Now and again a dog barked from behind a wooden fence.

Gloria would have loved this. But not long after their son, Stan, and his wife, Cathy had purchased their present home in this area of Twin Oaks, Mark’s wife had become sick with the cancer that would eventually claim her life She’d been able to visit only a time or two before her advancing illness prevented her from traveling.

The fatigue that, of late, had been Mark’s constant companion dissipated slightly, and he found his energy level rising as he continued down the street. After he had gone what he estimated to be about a mile, he turned around and headed back toward the house. No need to overdo it the first day.

While he was still almost a block from Stanley’s house, a front door opened and a smartly-dressed woman came down the sidewalk, apparently headed for the mailbox that stood next to the curb. He noticed that she was considerably shorter than he and round all over. Not unbecomingly fat, just pleasantly chubby. As she smiled in his direction, her dimples settled back into her round, friendly-looking face. Of course, he smiled back.

Hello, she greeted him, her eyes twinkling. I saw you walking past a while ago. Are you new to the neighborhood?

Not really. I’m in town visiting my son.

Oh? You’re Rob Winston’s father?

No. He paused, at first hesitating to give out too much information without knowing anything about the woman. Why am I suddenly suspicious of strangers? First Mrs. Hunter, and now this lady…that’s not like you, Stafford. Maybe it’s just being in unfamiliar surroundings.

He sized her up. She looked nice enough as she stood there with her eyebrows raised expectantly. I’m Marcus Stafford. I’m here spending some time with Stanley and Cathy.

Marcus, huh? What a nice name; it sounds Roman or Greek or something. And is your wife with you? There was a hint of something in her voice that Mark only vaguely noted and made no effort to identify.

Unfortunately not. I’m a widower. And, actually, my full name is Marcus Anthony Stafford. I think my mother must have had a thing for Shakespeare. He grinned wryly.

She smiled. I do remember now hearing that Stan’s mother had passed away a while back. I’m sorry about your loss.

Stanley observed that, though she gave it a good effort, she didn’t look all that sympathetic.

I’m Doris Latham…nothing at all poetic about that name. She extended her hand, which he took.

Your son and daughter-in-law must be thrilled that you’re here. Stan and Cathy are tops in my book. He’s one of the best mayors we’ve ever had.

Well, thank you. He tries to do a good job. I’m pretty proud of him.

And you should be. Will you be staying long? she asked brightly.

Not too long. Probably just a couple of weeks.

Her cheerful countenance flickered, but she rallied quickly. That’s not very long at all. Maybe we can talk you into staying longer.

Possibly. But I don’t want to wear out my welcome.

She smiled sweetly, her eyes twinkling. I’m sure you could never do that. And who knows? Our little town may grow on you. You might find that you don’t want to leave at all. She flipped through the small stack of letters in her hand before looking into up his eyes again. "I’d love to get to know Stanley’s father better, Marcus. Do you have time to