Stepping Down

by Michelle Stimpson

She smacked her full lips. “Not beautiful enough for you to come home before midnight, though.”

  Why does she always have to ruin a good thing? Mark stuffed both hands into his pockets. As a matter of habit, he checked his phone’s screen to see if there were any new texts or email messages.

  Sharla rolled her eyes and carried on with the business of securing her hair. “That’s what I thought.”

  He decided to backtrack. “Sorry I’m so late getting home.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she quipped.

  Mark leaned his weary body against the doorframe, trying to decide whether or not he had enough energy left to wiggle through his wife’s brick-hard attitude and find out what was really bugging her tonight.

  He gave himself the benefit of the doubt; maybe her problem had nothing to do with him. Anyone in her family could have put her in a bad mood. Amani might have said something crazy, something he’d been doing a lot more lately.

  For the record, he’d give her a chance to vent. “What’s really going on, babe?”

  She shook her head. “If you don’t know by now, I can’t help you.”

  He racked the last bits of his brain. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m too tired for guessing games tonight.”

  “And I’m too tired to repeat myself.”

  She wrapped a black mesh thing-a-ma-jig around the base of her head. Somehow, it kept its place.

  Mark figured there must have been some kind of Velcro strip holding it in place. Sharla was right up there with the best of them when it came to keeping herself up. As he understood it, this was something the women in her First Wives’ Fellowship taught her she needed to do.

  Mark remembered now. “The church?”

  “Bingo. Mark, when are you going to start delegating more?”

  “I do,” he barely answered. “I delegate what I can. But some responsibilities at New Vision can’t be pawned off on other people.”

  “How about the responsibility of being a husband to your wife and a father to your son here at eight hundred Evanshire Street?”

  “What do you want me to do, Sharla? Ignore my calling?”

  She pouted, “I know you have to do God’s will. But I also know that I did not sign up to be a pastor’s wife. I married a businessman, not a preacher.”

  With that, Mark dismissed himself and made his way back upstairs to the office. They’d had this conversation too many times in the past few months for him to count, and it never ended with compromise. Eventually Sharla would take a look around and see that she had it pretty good. Once she came back to herself, she’d offer to make him a red velvet cake—a most welcomed apology. He would have to wait out her current tidal wave of attitude issues.

  In the meanwhile, all Mark could do was pray that the Lord would mature his wife in Christ to the point where she could appreciate what God was doing with New Vision. He’d keep praying for her until then, because it wouldn’t be fair for him to have to choose between his God and his wife.

  Mark set aside what had just happened with Sharla in order to finish reviewing his canned sermon. But the tension resurfaced as soon as he turned off the light in his office and headed back downstairs again.

  Part of him hoped Sharla was sleep already. At least she wouldn’t be awake to give him the cold shoulder. He always found it much easier to drift off with the comforting idea that Sharla didn’t realize he was in bed than to think she was ignoring him.

  Mark showered and climbed into their King-sized sleigh bed for what might as well be considered a nap. A captivating glow from the pool’s lighting system streamed in through the window.

  When he and Sharla spent their first night in the house, they had both been so spellbound by the blue radiance, they’d stayed up nearly half the night in the hot tub section drinking virgin strawberry daiquiris and enjoying sensual pleasures.

  Memories of how much they used to enjoy spending time with one another kept Mark from sleep. Really, how long has it been?

  He listened closely for Sharla’s breathing pattern. Shallow and fast. She was still awake.

  Slowly, he slipped his left hand across her waist. Rubbed his foot against her leg. Waited for some reciprocity.

  Since she didn’t show any sign of resistance, Mark nudged his chin against her neck. Kissed her ear the way he knew she liked it.

  “Mark, if you want to make love, why don’t you just say it?” Sharla blared.

  “Because I’m trying to show it.” He nibbled on her ear.

  Sharla shot up straight in bed. “What I want you to show me is that you care about me and our son. You didn’t even ask about the conference with Amani’s counselor yesterday.”

  Finally, Mark had a clue about his wife’s extended attitude. “Did you tell me about it?”

  “Yes. I sent you a text, since I didn’t see you Thursday at all.”

  Mark vaguely remembered seeing Sharla’s text flash across his screen, but all it said was, “call me.” He hadn’t seen the message until after the YoungLife fundraiser at the community center. By then it was almost ten o’clock and he was on his way home. Sharla was sleep when he got back, so he guessed it must not have been important enough for her to wait up. Maybe she’d figured out whatever was on her mind earlier.

  “Amani’s grades are ridiculous. Four C’s, a B, and only one A. And I had to sit there and let her tell me all this without you,” she stabbed at him with words.

  How the heck did we go from almost making love to discussing report cards? “I didn’t even know, Sharla. I’m sorry. But can we talk about this later?”

  “Like you’re going to actually be awake and ready to talk when you finish doin’ your business? Yeah, right.” She gave a sarcastic laugh.

  “How is it my business? This is our business,” Mark corrected her.

  “You can’t just spend all day at the church, come home after midnight, spend another hour in your study, and then expect me to roll over and play lovey-dovey with you,” she snarled, her delicate face marred with anger.

  With his heart rate still slightly elevated, Mark tried again. “Look, I’ll talk to ‘Mani tomorrow. But right now, baby”—he ventured to kiss her shoulder again—“it’s about me and you.”

  Sharla balled a handful of covers into her fist and yanked the mass over her head as she resumed her face-down, off-limits stance in bed.

  It took every ounce of godliness in Mark to keep from entertaining the irony of refusing advances from a stranger only to come home and face rejection from his wife.

  Chapter 3

  Sharla was angry with herself for losing sleep again over Mark. She knew the routine, knew her husband’s grueling schedule and his level of dedication to the church. For all intents and purposes, New Vision was Mark’s mistress.

  “Amani, take a bite of turkey bacon at least,” she said to her son.

  “Mom, I already told you. I’m not hungry.” He frowned.

  There it was again—that look of defiance on her son’s face that sent something through Sharla every time she saw it. Made her count backwards from ten. “Get up off your behind and eat this doggone bacon right now,” she ordered him.

  Amani sighed heavily as he drug himself from his spot on the couch in front of the television to the kitchen bar. He shoved an entire piece of bacon into his mouth, chewed a few times, then swallowed it probably nearly whole. “Happy now?”

  “You wait until I see your father.”

  “Good luck with that,” Amani smirked.

  Sharla flew to his side, pointed her finger in his face and threatened, “Forget your daddy, you gon’ make me slap you.”

  With a blank stare, Amani asked, “You’re going to slap me because I’m not hungry?”

  “No, I’m gonna slap you for talkin’ smart,” she clarified.

  “You want me to talk stupid?” he fired back.

  Sharla shoved Amani’s ear with her palm. He caught himself on one of the kitchen table chairs and slid into the seat laughing, “Man, Mo
m, that was amazingly hilarious.”

  “Have you lost your mind? Who do you think you’re talking to?” She towered over him, breathing heavily. In an instant, Sharla had a vision: She was choking Amani with every ounce of strength in her arms. She could visualize him clawing at her hands, struggling to breathe while her French-tipped fingernails pressed deeper into his flesh.

  The image was so vivid, so surreal that she had to take a step away from her son. This child is literally making me crazy.

  Sharla shook her head, forcing herself back to reality.

  Though Amani held onto his smile for its sarcastic effect, Sharla could tell her son was confused by her actions.

  “Let’s go.”

  She rinsed the breakfast dishes and quickly threw them in the dishwasher. She drove to Amani’s school on autopilot and then went straight to the church.

  “Hi Jonathan, I’m here to see Pastor. Is he in with anybody?” she panted from her rush into the building.

  “No, he’s alone.”

  “Thank God,” Sharla sighed as she knocked on Mark’s door while simultaneously opening it. She stormed into Mark’s study and plopped herself down in the guest chair.

  Mark closed the manila folder full of papers he’d obviously been studying. He tilted his forehead slightly and asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “I think I could have killed Amani today.”

  Mark’s throaty laugh scraped up Sharla’s right side and down her left. He rested his elbow on the desk, his chin in one hand. If she weren’t so flustered, she might have appreciated her husband’s buttery brown skin and perfectly straight, periodically whitened teeth.

  “Sharla, he’s a teenager.”

  “I know he’s a teenager, Mark, but this is not about him. This is about me. I’m telling you that I nearly lost it today.”

  Again, the patronizing grin on her husband’s face stood between them.

  “Are you listening to me? Is anybody in this family listening to me?”

  Once she raised her voice an octave, Mark seemed to be getting a clue. “Baby, I hear you. I’m just telling you that Amani is testing his independence, turning into a young man—”

  “Well, he’s a young man who won’t make it to be an old man if he keeps this up. I don’t understand what makes a teenage boy think he can talk to his Momma any kind of way—”

  “Now, wait a minute. Being disrespectful is not part of the plan,” Mark finally changed his tune.

  “I’m glad you agree. You need to have a man-to-man with him, Mark. I’m serious. I sat there and actually thought through what it would feel like to choke our son.”

  By then, Mark had already flipped open his iPad case, entered the passcode, and swiped a few times. “I’m booked for the next couple of evenings. How about Thursday? Does ’Mani have track practice or an ROTC meeting?”

  Sharla set both elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. “You’re not listening to me. This is ridiculous. Saturday night you said you’d talk to him on Sunday.”

  “Yeah, but you know the elders’ meeting went long after service. By the time I got home, ‘Mani was already gone to...wherever you let him go most of the evening.”

  “What do you mean, wherever I let him go?” Sharla crossed her arms and leaned her body into one corner of the chair.

  Mark shrugged. “If he’s acting up, he has no business going anywhere. Like Saturday night. If his grades are as bad as you say they are, he shouldn’t have been upstairs in the media room watching television. He needs consequences.”

  Never fails. “So this is my fault now, huh?”

  Mark raised an eyebrow. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

  Sharla slapped both hands on her thighs, a move she’d performed almost unconsciously since her high school cheerleading days. “I can see where this is going. I’m out.”

  She grabbed the handles of her Louis Vuitton bag and stood. In her most professional secretary’s voice, she mocked, “Just, um, put your only child on your calendar whenever you get a chance, okay? In the meanwhile, I’ll keep doing everything wrong, okay?”

  Mark stepped around the desk, approaching her. “Sharla—”

  Sharla held out both palms to stop him. “No, no. Don’t get up, Pastor Carter. Sit back down and continue with whatever church or community business this is you’ve got going here, benefitting I don’t know how many other little boys in Houston.” She knew the act would soon be over because the tears were beating at the back of her eyes. “Carry on. Keep on servin’ the Lawd, Pastor.”

  Mark followed Sharla all the way to the side exit asking her, calmly, to stop and come back to his office. But she wouldn’t listen; couldn’t listen without breaking down in front of him. She ignored his pleas, hopping into her car and driving away even as he stood at the door watching her leave.

  The whole scene made her even angrier. He’d chase her only as far as he could go without walking outside of the church. He wouldn’t leave his true home for her.

  As she made a right onto the busy street, which was partially responsible for making their six-year-old church such a success, Sharla wondered if she was wrong for wanting her husband to put her and Amani before the church.

  She’d been right by Mark’s side when he founded New Vision in a vacated grocery story. No woman had been a happier helpmate than Sharla when this whole thing first started. She’d typed up church bulletins, helped clean up after services, called the visitors and personally invited them to return to New Vision.

  Tears traveled down Sharla’s cheeks as she made the short trip back home. When she thought of all the people who had given their lives to Christ at the church’s altar, a sense of shame enveloped her. The church couldn’t be a bad thing. I’m being selfish.

  Maybe she was the bad one. After all, she’d just sat there and imagined strangling the life out of her own son. And then came another thought—one Sharla rarely entertained, but nonetheless one that surfaced whenever she second-guessed her parenting skills.

  Maybe this is why God didn’t bless me to give birth to a child.

  Chapter 4

  Rev. Jackson prompted, “Let the church say…”

  “Aaaaaamen,” the congregation answered, acknowledging the official benediction.

  Mark wasn’t too happy about the number of people who’d adjourned themselves early, walking out of the sanctuary during the final moments of service as the new members’ names were announced. More and more, people seemed to be leaving when Mark walked away from the podium—especially the people in the balcony. They had their nerve, since they’d come late in the first place.

  But he couldn’t get too upset about their disrespectful behavior when his own son sat on the second row texting throughout most of the service. Amani knew better, and he should have been acting better after their talk the other night. Mark might need to add a little extra muscle to his next lecture. Though Amani was almost eye-to-eye, physically, Mark might have to resort to “laying hands” on Amani if he didn’t respond to words.

  “Pastor, you ready?” Jonathan asked, scooping up Mark’s Bible and tablet from the stand next to the tallest chair in the pulpit.

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  Swiftly, Jonathan led Mark around the east pathway and back into a smaller meeting room across from the church’s small bookstore. This was where he met personally with the first-time visitors nearly every Sunday.

  This “receiving room” as they called it, had been inexpensively yet classically decorated by Sharla, with a sparkling chandelier and beveled mirrors on one side that made the room appear twice its size. Silk flowers adorned each corner and the tables bearing fruit, and cookie trays sported festive tablecloths. Members of the hospitality committee served up the snacks with a double-dose of smiles, hoping to make a positive impression on the visitors.

  Mark nodded at a few of the prospects from afar while Jonathan performed his weekly duty. “May I have your attention please?”
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br />   The room of roughly thirty adults and children quieted as the strangers found seats, holding food in one hand, plastic cups filled with punch in the other.

  “The shepherd of this house, Pastor Mark Wayne Carter, III, would like to address you personally at this time.”

  Applause—first from the hospitality committee, then the visitors—followed suit. Mark raised his hand to stop them. Somehow he felt like he was supposed to stop them. “Thank you. Really, I should be applauding you for coming here today. It’s always a blessing to see new faces at New Vision church.”

  Mark paused briefly as one face in particular caught his attention. It was her, wearing another tight shirt with her legs crossed and that same strip of skin on display. Truth be told, Mark really couldn’t remember what she looked like from the neck up, but her body, the way she sat was unforgettable.

  He forced his eyes to travel in another direction. “Here at New Vision, we have something for everyone. If you’re into traditional ministries, we’ve got a choir, a lovely hospitality team.” Mark extended an arm toward Miss April, the head of that ministry.

  She gave a toothy smile and a humble bow, appearing almost giddy with the recognition.

  Mark continued. “If you’re the more contemporary type, we have ministries for artists, dancers, rappers; you name it we’ve got it. And if we don’t have it, maybe you can start it. We believe God is calling everyone to service in these last days.”

  A soft “amen” trickled from the small crowd.

  “So on behalf of my pastoral staff, my wife in her absence—she’s serious about getting home and making sure that meat turns out just right, you know?”

  The visitors laughed at his half-truth. Sharla was probably on her way home, but since she was in one of her moods, she certainly wasn’t at home slaving over a stove in their kitchen. Mark hoped the Lord would charge that lie to his wife’s account. If she’d been there, like a First Lady was supposed to be, he wouldn’t have felt the need to make up stories about what might otherwise appear as his wife’s lack of concern.

  “And on behalf of the entire New Vision body, we welcome you with open arms and hope that you will be back again. I leave you in the hands of the membership team.”