The Great Divide a novelette

by J.E. Ocean

  “I don’t want to live without you in my life.”

  “What are you saying, Terry?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  Chapter 7

  The phone number appearing on my cell screen indicates a local call; a prefix from a neighboring county. I don’t give out my number to just anyone, but as an avid book reader, I once participated in several book groups in the area. Eventually, I abandon all but one—mine— after Evan deliberately embarrasses me, making a scene at each. He finally stops attending them altogether. I figure someone from a former group has this number from an old list. I answer.

  “Is Evan there?” It throws me when someone calls me and asks for him. The Ex. I hope I don’t sound familiar to them.

  “No, you have the wrong number.”

  I shut off the phone, avoiding a call back, I’m not up to explaining him or why our marriage failed. It’s now been a year since the incident at the office, and longer still since finalizing the divorce. I had quit my job the next day, of course, unable to face those people after what happened.

  Terry had already abandoned the book club when he fell ill. Without him to look forward to, I never go back. Terry and I become a couple, I move in with him, and to the surprise of quite a few, we elope. We now move in different circles. He takes me to beach picnics, we sail on lakes and hike in the woods. We find new jobs and new friends.

  In the sweet heat of summer evenings, we drink goblets of Burgundy by candlelight, and afterward, we make passionate love.

  When he works, I miss him. I wait by the door from the time he clocks out of work until he pulls into the driveway. He does the same on the days I work. Every day when I come home, Terry wears a smile to welcome me back. Sometimes, that’s all he wears.

  Everything seems to be gliding right along. In fact, it seems to be gliding along too well. It makes me nervous. I start wondering if there might be something wrong with being so happy every day, never arguing and making great meals that Terry enjoys night after night. He praises them to the moon and back, thrilling me to no end. He and I never tire of our wonderful conversations while cooking, at the dinner table and while washing and drying dishes.

  We share our histories, our dreams, our setbacks and our victories. We share laughter and tears. We can’t get over how much different this relationship is compared to the numerous others we’d barely survived over the course of our rocky lives. We’re synchronous on almost everything. Our grown children live full lives at various points all over the country.

  I start thinking that something is definitely wrong with being this happy. Maybe I’m dying and divine grace is preparing me for crossing the great divide. What else could it be? I once heard that a good marriage is supposed to be like a slice of Heaven, a glimpse of what’s to come in the next life.

  Until Terry, I experienced relationships as more of an endurance test and a torturous grinding of wills. A few prior relationships had actually been more like full servings of hell. I’d given up on love in general, certain that only particularly blessed people enjoyed a successful marriage; until Terry said he couldn’t live without me.

  And, if I’m honest, I realize that I always harbored a deep respect for him and secretly loved him—secret even from myself until that night at his apartment—for many years.

  One thing bothers me, though. I can’t seem to reach any of the people I worked with before. Their phones ring and ring, but no one picks up. I tire of leaving messages.

  After Evan came to the office with a gun, and I ran out, I never bothered to find out what else happened that day. I don’t know why, exactly. I think it has to do with avoiding exposure to unpleasant events, or not wanting to be reminded of Evan’s face, or hear his voice in my head. Instead, I focus entirely on Terry.

  It didn’t escape me about the final shot, where the woman screamed as I ran down the hall. I wonder what happened then, but not enough to look back; not enough to find out. No one in my current circle of friends ever talks about that day. Almost like none of us listens to the evening news, or reads the paper. And that’s fine with me. Who needs all that depressing fact spewing?

  I can’t get over how much greener everything looks on this side of the relationship fence. Eerily so. There must be some explanation.

  Terry and I decide to go on a walk. As soon as we get started a little dog runs up to him, tail wagging. I reach down to him and his tail stiffens, he looks at me sideways, bares his teeth and growls. I pull my hand back, afraid he’ll bite me. He steps over to Terry, looks up adoringly at him and wags his tail again.

  “Hey there, little fella,” Terry coos. When Terry tries to pet him, he gets his hand licked. It tickles him that the dog’s friendly to him. “This little guy looks exactly like my little dog, Alfie. I wonder where his owner could be?”

  We start walking again, and the little dog falls in step with us.

  “Do you think we should try to find him?”

  “Nah. Let’s ignore him; he’ll give up after a while.”

  A beautiful summer day, cloudless, grill smoke tinges the slight but comfortable breeze. We talk about our own dinner plans: grilled vegetables with pasta Parmesan and salads of baby green, and a glass of wine each, of course.

  Before we know it, we walk over a mile and stand in front of our house; the pup follows us the whole way. Terry makes for the door and turns the handle and the dog whimpers. Terry bends down and practically beams while playing with the little fur ball, but after a time, we look around for a little boy or someone slightly frantic-looking holding a leash. We’re the only ones on the street.

  “You think he’s lost?”

  Terry doesn’t answer, but traces his fingers along the dog’s collar to the little dangling silver tag in the shape of a bone.

  “You know what’s funny?” he’s resting on his haunches in front of the pup. “He’s got the same name my dog had.”

  “What are the chances?” I ask, watching Terry pull the tag into the light so he can read the name and phone number he expects to find engraved there. Terry freezes and he slowly stands. When he turns to me, the color drains from his face. He shakes his head.

  “I… uh…”

  “Terry, what is it?”

  “I’m not sure what to make of this.”

  “Of what?”

  “The owner is listed as me: Terry Jackson. The address and phone number on the tag are mine.”

  Chapter 8

  We’re still scratching our heads in wonder about “Alfie” two weeks later when no one comes to claim him. Alfie makes himself at home and tolerates me when Terry’s at work. He also sleeps on Terry’s side of the bed whenever he’s away. What really amazes me, is when Alfie jumps off the bed, gets himself down the stairs and sits facing the front door just moments before Terry arrives in the driveway. I find it jarring because Terry doesn’t work the same schedule every day. Unpredictably, they get very busy, and when they do, he stays after until it calms down. He usually can’t let me know until he’s in the car on the way home. But, Alfie always knows.

  Their immediate and peculiar connection required no adjustment time, it is as if, according to Terry, they picked up right where they left off. It’s another one of those too good to be true events. In an effort to explain the dog, I suggest that maybe Alfie ran away and Rebby lied about his death.

  “He died in my arms, Dacey. Even she couldn’t lie about that.”

  “At what moment did you know your life had truly changed?” I asked.

  Terry drives by the office where I used to work. Its vacant windows like the staring eyes of the dead. It looks like it’s been up for rent for a long time. Since I’m unable to reach anyone from the office, we decide to go to the library and see what might be gleaned from old newspapers.

  “I think my life changed the day I got the card from you, when I was sick.”

  “How did it change?”

  “At the time, I couldn’t get out of bed by myself. But that day, I did.
And I made a promise to myself that I would get stronger every day. I began getting better very quickly after that.”

  “Wow, how long did that take you?”

  “A few months. I just started moving what body parts I could, repeatedly.”

  “Doesn’t that seem extraordinarily fast?”

  He nods, explaining his recollection of the progress. The improvements seem exponentially impossible.

  “When did you know?”

  I think about this a few moments, while Terry parks the car and we step out of it. When we rejoin hands, walking to the library doors, the answer comes to me.

  “The day Evan shot at the woman running out of the office.”

  No one pays any attention to us, two sporty looking people in their forties. We roam to the city history room, find two open chairs side by side and begin searching through data banks.

  “Do you remember the date?” Terry asks.

  “Like it was etched on my mind.”

  Terry taps the keys, entering the date and searches the news of the day. Not wanting to search every line of seventy five pages, he asks how we might narrow down the search.

  “It happened in the Howard building.”

  After he adds that to the query, it pops up in less than thirty seconds with the headline.

  Man Holds Office Workers Hostage. Terry turns to me.

  “You want to print this off or read it here?”

  I feel a shiver go through me. What I really want is someone to return my call. Is it possible that they’ve all died? How badly had things gone after I got out of there? If we print it off, we can reread parts that may not sink in with the first reading.

  “I think we should print it off. Then you can read it to me at home. You want to know what happened too, right?”

  “Uh huh.” Terry nods. He taps a few keys and hits ‘print’.

  After leaving the library, we drive home in silence, both of us sensing that the truth is so significant that everything, including our next breath may well hang in the balance. The air feels like static. Even though I don’t want it to, my heart beats in my throat. I’m less certain by the minute that this is a good idea, our wanting to know. Some things are better left to the imagination. Or so I begin telling myself on the ride home.

  “Terry, no matter what happens, or happened, I still love you. I’m glad we married.”

  “Me too, baby. Nothing is going to change that.”

  Terry pulls into our two car garage and lets the door down. He gets out and opens the door into the house, where Alfie sits waiting for him, his tail whips back and forth like a metronome on speed.

  “Hey, Alfie!”

  While Terry plays with the dog, I step around them, ignored. I wonder about the print out, when we’ll get to it, or if I even want to get to it. And I watch Terry play with Alfie. I recall what he said about the dog tag informing that Terry is the owner.

  When he told me, I still crouched down and looked myself. His old address stamped into the little tag was the same house number where he had lived before our little house. The same address where Terry had had his turn around and where he and Rebby lived together. The same house where they last lived as husband and wife.

  I can’t help but wonder what she thinks, Terry and me married…

  “Ready to read the article?”

  Terry holds up a little chunky dog treat over Alfie’s head. Alfie dances on hind legs leaping up and maintaining his two legged stance until Terry lightly tosses the treat. Alfie leaps and it bounces off his nose and hits the kitchen floor where it lays for only micro seconds. Terry tosses a few extras and then leads us to the kitchen counter. He slides a barstool across the floor to me and we both perch on them as he scans the first few lines silently.

  “Dacey, why don’t you pour us a glass of wine?”

  I wonder if this is a bad sign. His eyes don’t leave the page. Even though he thinks I turned away, I watch him.

  “Terry?”

  He keeps reading. His eyes blaze across the page. I’m not upset that he fails to hear me so much as why. If I call him from another room, or he isn’t expecting me to speak, that’s one thing. If I start by calling his name, I get his immediate and undivided attention. He’s completely present.

  “Terry?”

  Nothing. His eyes shoot across line by line, his skin pales by degrees. My panic rises at the same pace. He asked for wine. It seems like a great idea, even more so now. I step over to the pantry and grab an already tapped bottle of Bogle. I pull two glasses down and wonder if this requires cheese, crackers, olives or hummus… I tug the cork from the neck and the bottle sighs.

  Yeah, I think. Me too. I pour until the first goblet is half full, then pour the remainder of the bottle into the second glass. It seems fuller and I spend a little time equaling them. Terry’s eyes are still devouring the page when I return with our drinks.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” I ask. He looks up as I hand him a glass.

  “Well, that’s a matter of opinion. For some people, yes.”

  “For what people?”

  Terry cocks his brow and frowns. He blinks several times before he gives me his honest answer. And not before taking a deep breath.

  “Darlin’ it’s not bad for us. It’s bad for our kids.”

  I can’t imagine all the ways that Evan could possibly affect my son, or his wife and their baby. Evan can’t possibly know how to reach Terry’s family. Could he?

  “You better tell me, Terry. My panic level is so high I’m already light headed. Do we need this to calm our nerves?”

  Terry laughs aloud. He laughs wholeheartedly for half a minute. Then, he suddenly stops.

  “Dacey, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. We’re celebrating! But first, let’s toast.”

  His comment makes me more nervous.

  “To what are we toasting?”

  “The hereafter!”

  We clink glasses. Terry drinks deeply, I sip. I have my reservations.

  “Because we are here after all this?” I ask.

  “It’s time to sit.” He dramatically pats the seat next to his. I park my skinny little butt on the barstool near him.

  “You’re scaring me. Get on with it already.” I sip a bit more wine, feeling more calm.

  “Fine, spoil sport.”

  “C’mon, Terry.”

  He grabs the sheet of paper as though it’s a declaration and he’s town crier.

  “‘Evan Strickland entered QRS Collections, a privately owned business in downtown Agea, early this morning. Witnesses on the scene said Strickland held the entire office hostage in hopes, of reuniting with his estranged wife, Miz Dacey Theroux. She had been with QRS for five years.

  “’Witnesses heard the couple exchanging words, but upon coming to no agreement, Mr. Strickland pulled a weapon. One woman, Arlene Boxout ran for the door and died in the first round of shots.’ ”

  “Oh!” My hand covers my mouth.

  “You knew her?”

  “She stood in the hall… She pointed him out to police when I left the office…”

  “‘Mr. Strickland brandished his weapon, threatening co-workers and his recently divorced wife, whom he told, to quit her job, come home and forget all about this silly divorce.

  “‘Theroux remained unmoved and attempted to calm Mr. Strickland. Startled, Mr. Strickland turned toward her co-workers who were trying to flee the scene. She took the opportunity to pepper spray his face and arms. After which Mr. Strickland screamed expletives and threats.

  “That was a moment of genius!” Terry exclaimed.

  “What?” I still feel the shock of Arlene’s death sinking in.

  “You sprayed his face and hands? Who thinks of that? Of course he would react with his hands to his eyes and…” Terry stopped, figuring I knew why I’d done it. “Bloody genius.”

  I considered the scene only briefly. I had been defending. Not the aggressor. Not taking. Only protecting. Baggage I hadn’t considered in years
resurfaces.

  “‘Security and local police were called during the altercation, witnesses said,’” Terry suddenly stopped reading. “You okay? I can quit.”

  I know already that Terry’s read to the end, he’s way ahead of me making peace with the events. I’m hearing all of it for the first time. To Terry, these are faceless people, to me, they were friends. They were—close or not—the forty hours of life that made the other one hundred twenty possible, livable.

  “No, go on.”

  “‘Theroux ran for the door and according to witnesses, Mr. Strickland, in a blind attempt to shoot his ex -wife, fired at her glass topped desk. The shot ricocheted and struck her in the back. She ran down the hall as Police rushed the scene.’”

  “That’s when I saw Arlene. She was still talking. This reporter got his facts goofed up.”

  “Can I go on?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Mr. Strickland waved his gun, threatening police. They shouted warnings, but Strickland failed to comply. When he pointed at police, officers fired their weapons. Strickland died at the scene of his injuries.’ ”

  I stop breathing, and suddenly inhale sharply.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wow. I think I’m speechless. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.”

  “Well, it explains why he hasn’t bothered you anymore.”

  “So, that’s it?”

  “No.”

  “What more could there be?”

  “They found you in your car in the parking garage.”

  “No one found me in my car! That’s a mistake. I drove for many hours to the beach. I had beers and lunch and saw a windsurfer that day…”

  “A wind surfer?”

  “You know, they look like surfboards, but they have a sail on them.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He came in off the water.”

  “Who did?”

  “The surfer.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “He came straight to me from so far away, that at first, I didn’t know what I was watching. But he walked around then sat next to me. I offered him a beer and he took it. Then he said he had a message for me.”