What Luck, This Life, by Kathryn Schwille (fiction ‘99),

An excerpt from the novel, What Luck, This Life, by Kathryn Schwille (fiction ‘99), published in September by Hub City Press.
(pub date: Sept. 18) Used by permission of Hub City Press. This section originally appeared in New Letters

What Luck, This Life

She was a bit of a free spirit, his wife. Not your run-of-the-mill preacher’s mate. Pastor Will Simpson knew his congregation, some of them, at least, thought Holly MacFarland and her long wild hair had brushed against the devil’s ways. Her first husband had turned out to be gay. Also, there was her yoga studio, a shady bit of spiritual business. The members of Spring Creek Baptist might have chosen differently for the second wife of Pastor Simpson, but he loved her with all his heart.

Holly had closed her yoga studio – Kiser could not support it – but a little group of them still met on Saturdays, here at the house. Soon they would be coming up the walk in their flowing tops and unfettered pants. Simpson still had tomorrow’s sermon to write, and this presented a problem. Before the yoga, the women would talk, and they would take over the den, which had the most floor space but also his favorite chair. He’d typed a few words from Job on his laptop screen: His wealth will become hunger. Thanksgiving was next week.

            Simpson had married Holly on the rebound, his critics would say, two years after her divorce. She had come into the marriage with a large, stubborn pony and a smart but troubled boy. It seemed to Simpson that he’d spent his whole short marriage trying to connect with the child. He loved Frankie but was relieved when, after totaling Holly’s car in a wreck a year ago – the day after Thanksgiving – Frankie had moved to Houston to live with his father. That left Simpson and Holly with most of this year to themselves. He’d expected it to be different.

            The pony was still with them and Simpson could see him from the den window, staring at his pasture when he should have been eating from it. Drought had brought Texas to its knees; the fields were devoid of grass. There was no hay anywhere in the state, a drought like this not seen since the fifties. Rosco’s new diet was all processed, too expensive by far, and still he was chewing on the fence posts.

Holly came into the room and spread out her yoga mat. Simpson helped her move the coffee table to a corner. “I’m sorry honey,” she said. “You mind going in the kitchen?”

He could smell her shampoo in the damp frizz around her shoulders, a grapefruit scent that wouldn’t linger, though he would not have minded if it did. When they were first married, they would take long showers together and his fingers would be greedy for the slick, lathered abundance of her hair. Soaping her bottom, or her breast, he would wonder how Wes MacFarland could not have wanted her, the way any normal man would. His early sex with her was ferocious, desperate and frequent. She was the most exciting woman he’d ever been with, and she had competition in that regard. Simpson was tall, and some said handsome, dark auburn hair when he was young, a slender build going only a little soft now. He had answered the call later than most.

Holly set a portly beige candle in the center of the room and lit it. Now he smelled sandalwood, which he disliked. “Seems like a nice day,” he said. “I’ll go hide out at the church.” He didn’t have an office there – the church was too small for that – but it was a warm fall day and there was a bench by the cemetery.

“If you hadn’t left it to the last minute,” she said. “You weren’t even teaching this week.”

“I know.”

This was old territory. He procrastinated about the sermons. He was a part-time minister; pastoral inspirations came and went as they pleased. His other job, substitute teacher, came and went, too. The teachers had been remarkably healthy this year, with no emergency surgeries or problem pregnancies. He wouldn’t wish the flu on anyone, but he could wish for the women – the married ones, of course – to be more fertile.

“I’m a sloth. And you’re a good preacher’s wife.”

“So they tell me. What are you writing this week?”

“About hunger, I think.”

“Mmm. Nice.” She gave him the smile that said, I’m about to ask you for something. Her usual smile was girl-next-door-bright, like a model in an outdoor catalog. This other displayed the slightest tension at the corners. He often wondered if Wes MacFarland had found her so telegraphic.

“Could you stop by the feed store?” she asked.

“Again?”

“He has to eat. There’s nothing in his –” she hesitated. “Nothing in his pasture.” When he met her, she would occasionally curse. Nothing in his damn pasture.

“Poor guy. So more alfalfa pellets. How many bags?”

“How many can we afford? He’s going through one a week.”

Simpson had not yet told her that his church salary would be fifteen percent less next year. The Great Recession, as people were calling it now, plus the drought, had bit deeply. Collections were down and the deacons had been firm. He could hardly complain. Some in his congregation had lost their jobs. The salary cut, when he got around to telling her, would trigger a round of frugal, meatless meals. She felt guilty that her job at the furniture store, tied to commissions, paid so little.