Dividing Earth Part 4

Grady had known about men for a long time, but Mary knew nothing. Oh, she'd probably bedded down with that boyfriend she'd spoken of, but she obviously knew next to nothing about f.u.c.king, about getting your field plowed, about throating a guy until you either puked or made him come, or both. She didn't know about the rocketry of s.e.x, only about the fairy tale they showed you in the movies, where women never lost the sheet wrapped around their torsos and a fire always burned in the background.

Mary was still crying and Grady hesitated out of habit: Ma became furious whenever approached in the midst of a drunken outburst. Grady took a deep breath, then rose. She sat next to Mary, who did not seem to notice her until she spoke. "I'm sorry, honey," she said, the words strange in her mouth. She slid her arm around Mary. "I don't know why, sugar. I really don't," she said.

"Why doesn't someone stop them?"

"Honey, that's just the way boys are. The way frats are."

Mary uncrossed her legs, slapping her bare feet onto the cold tile. She rubbed herself and winced.

Grady stood, grabbed Mary's arm. "You want to go to the cops?"

Mary shook her head, whispering, "They did this to both of us, didn't they?"

Grady ran a hand through Mary's hair. She held her close, kissed her cheek, looked away into a corner. "Lots of people have done that to me," she said.

3.

Mary knelt before her. "Do you love him?"

Grady exploded with laughter, unfolded her legs, touched Mary's shoulders with the sides of her feet. "Are you kidding?"

"No."

Grady wiped her eyes with the side of her hand. "Leave him to me, Mary."

"Leave what to you?"

Grady let out a laugh. "You know, I grew up in a double wide in Asheville. I've always hated girls like you."

"Girls like me? You don't know me."

"My daddy's ticker quit while he was flipping burgers for six bucks an hour. What's your dad do?"

"Why don't you give me a chance?"

When Grady got up, Mary flinched, but Grady only sat beside her, threw her arm around her. Mary looked up and tried to smile. Then Grady drew her close, kissed her forehead. After kissing her again, she fell back onto her pillows.

Sighing, Mary leaned against the wall. "He's a banker," she said.

"Who?"

"My daddy. He's a banker."

"Oh," said Grady, chuckling. She reached out. Mary took her hand, slid down, and Grady moved over to let Mary share her pillows. "Just leave it to me, sweetheart," said Grady, her voice sounding distant now. "Leave everything to me."

Mary's eyes fluttered, and in minutes she was asleep.

Again, she dreams of the beach; again, the figure opposite waves. She steps forward. The figure's hand lowers and she stops, gazes skyward. Spread over her like a burst-open gut, the inflamed sky circles. Clouds roll, colors merge and pa.s.s each other. The backlit sky hovers and somewhere inside it, a corrugated wing beats.

Chapter Six: The Innkeeper and the Preacher.

1.

The innkeeper, William Penneray, a man of ample backside and perpetually shaded feet, thought about Daniel. The strangers had said his name, as the preacher had foretold it years back.

William walked out from behind the counter, into the hallway behind it. The kitchen was at the end of the hall. His wife, Gracie, a woman of mountainous cleavage whose body hadn't agreed with a corset in more than twenty years, looked up from rolling dough on a long sawbuck table. "I've got to step out a moment," said William.

Gracie nodded. A glob of dough tumbled from her mouth.

William's stomach turned, then he smiled, told her he loved her, and left. Walking down Tempest's streets, he evaded piles of manure, turning his face into the crisp night air. Again, he thought about Daniel. He also thought about the good things that happened to people who did as the preacher bid.

William didn't often have an excuse to visit Nathaniel Durham-Tempest's architect, mayor, and preacher-but when he did his chest puffed out and his gait improved. Calmly, he strode down Main Street, watching the moon ride high above the gold-tinged roofs. When he reached Adams Street he veered north, pa.s.sing a row of darkened houses. In only one window did he notice a candle; inside, a shadowed face looked up from what appeared to be a large Bible. The face watched him pa.s.s.

The balloon-framed tenement dwarfed the houses beside it. It echoed with the sounds of the poor. Then the street opened on the world and Penneray turned left, lifted his eyes to the spot in the sky the steeple occupied. The ma.s.sive oak doors were shut, but a light flickered just inside the window. When he pushed open the doors, he was greeted by the trembling light of candles. The pews rested on the puncheon floor, vacant, and charcoal sketches of the savior's pa.s.sion glittered beside pewter whale oil lamps. He stepped inside. Like splattered ink, his shadow splashed against the walls. "Reverend?" he whispered, then jumped when Reverend Durham stepped from the sacristy, his spectacles in hand. The preacher's eyebrows rose, but he didn't speak. "I apologize for disturbing you."

"Then spit it out."

"A family checked in an hour ago," began William, pausing, rolling what followed off his tongue slowly. "They asked for Daniel."

A kind of light played in Durham's eyes. "Daniel," he whispered, disappearing into his office, motioning for the innkeeper to follow.

William glanced at the floor to hide his smile. The world is controlled by men in dark rooms, he thought. He'd always dreamed of existing in the shadows.

Chapter Seven: Symptoms.

1.

Robert Lieber felt terrible. Inexplicably, last night's shot of whiskey had gift-wrapped a hangover for him, and his stomach wasn't feeling much better. To top it off, Veronica was in a mood-she'd gained an astonis.h.i.+ng pound and a half. You should be fat, he thought. You deserve to be fat. She wasn't, though, just retaining water. He thought about pointing this out to her and decided against it. He didn't even have the blessing of his daughter's presence, as Jenn had gone to a roller skating rink with a friend.

Like any sane man, he headed to the office. Officially the semester didn't start until Wednesday, but he had more than enough to keep him occupied. Busy work filled his time until five after four, when he packed up and headed out.

Between cla.s.sroom and car he nervously checked his watch twice. Veronica had warned him to be back at six for dinner-his beloved considered lateness both a character flaw and a personal affront, but he had an hour, so he decided to cruise the Straights.

On the bank of the St. John's River, rust buckets leaned on ancient whitewalls. In a row of lawn chairs, a family fished, their lines glistening loops in the sun. Past the piers, many of which were missing planks, a Budweiser truck idled outside Wolfy's, the bar that crouched on the spit of land between the piers and the harbor; at the latter, five pleasure crafts were floating back to dock, their owners shaded by the sails.

He expected to see Veronica's car in the driveway, but it wasn't there. He wondered if she and Jenn had changed their minds about going out.

Then he saw the note. It was propped up against the candle on the kitchen table. It read, WE WAITED FOR TWO HOURS!

He set his briefcase against the table's leg and checked his wrist.w.a.tch. It was nearly eight. He shook his head in disbelief. Hadn't he left campus around four? He had. He remembered checking his watch and the clock outside the English building. He had only driven around town for an hour.

That's when he heard the rumble of his wife's car.

Seconds later, the front door opened and Jenn galloped in, clamped onto his leg, yelled, "Daddy!" Her pig tails whipped about her face like tether b.a.l.l.s. "I had a Happy Meal!"

"You get a toy?" he asked, eyeing his approaching wife warily.

"They put a s...o...b..-Doo in it!"

Veronica stepped inside, a plastic bag hanging from each hand.

"Can I help?"

"I'm just fine," she said, brus.h.i.+ng by him.

"Vern, I have no idea what happened. It's like I lost time."

Veronica spread her palms on the counter. "Jenn?"

"Yup?" Jenn let go of his leg and walked, head down, to the base of the stairs.

"Draw your bath."

She shuffled upstairs.

Veronica punched her fists onto her hips. "You expect me to buy that?"

"I'm telling the truth."

"Whatever," she said, starting to unpack the groceries.

Robert didn't feel much like kissing a.s.s. Her impertinence was irritating him. "What's your problem?"

She turned. Her cheeks were crimson as beets. "You're my f.u.c.king problem, you little boy. I give you one thing-"

"Go to h.e.l.l. What do I need, a signed permission slip?"

"Oh please, I let you get away with more c.r.a.p-"

" 'Get away with?' I'm a man and you're not my mother."

"Too bad. If I was, you'd wors.h.i.+p me."

He whitened, backed up a step, the fight abruptly out of him.

"Oh please, you never even knew her but you read her diaries as if they were the word of G.o.d," she said, raising her voice in a televangelist-like vibrato. She continued to unpack her groceries and remonstrate with her back to him.

Robert stared at her, feeling as though he'd never met her, and left before the lecture ended.

In downtown Simola Straight, the only light was inside The House of Socrates. The mayor dimmed the streetlights at quarter till nine. He parked behind Dan's red Chevy. Dan was on the bench, a Camel in his hands. "You're here late."

"Domestic squabble," said Robert, pulling out a chair.

Dan took a drag.

Robert shrugged. "I crossed the missus, then rode out to let her cool off. It was weird though. I think I lost time today."

"Lost time?"

"Yeah. Like three hours."

"You been feeling alright?"

Robert hesitated, then caught Dan's eye. "Yeah," he said, stood up, shook his head, looking down the street, which was deeply shadowed and flooded with moonlight. "Dan, what kind of man am I?"

Dan tamped his Camel, then looked into the sky. "What kind of man," he repeated thoughtfully. "An agnostic, a secular humanist." Dan nodded, as if these labels meant something real. "A good man, Robert. A good man."

Robert stepped away from the table, feeling his friend's eyes on his back, and stared at the sky. What did agnostic mean, exactly? A shrug of the shoulders? A raised eyebrow? Robert charted the constellations with his eyes. Only matter, he thought. The heavenly bodies followed their designated courses, eternal and irreversible, and the tides and the cosmos did not tremble with mystic undercurrents. The mystery was man, finite man and his place in the infinite machine. These were the answers he'd always subscribed to, but hadn't he always, deep inside, suspected that something more was at play? "Agnosticism is weak," he muttered, still gazing skyward. Dan said nothing, so Robert turned around.