The Divide

by Robert Charles Wilson

  But, Amelie told herself, there was no point in dwelling on it now.

  She dried the dishes, put the towel up to dry, joined Benjamin in the main room. The TV was a black-and-white model Amelie had bought from a thrift shop, attached to a bow-tie antenna from a garage sale. The rooming house didn’t have cable, so they watched sitcoms on the CBC all evening. Benjamin didn’t say a word—just folded his hands in his lap and seemed to watch, though his eyes were foggy and distracted. Sometime around midnight, they went to bed.

  * * *

  She was almost asleep, lying on her back in the dark room listening to the sound of the rain against the window, when he said:

  “What if I went away for a while?”

  She felt suddenly cold.

  She sat up. “Where would you go?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about that part of it.”

  Everything seemed in sudden high relief: the faint streetlight against the cloth curtains, the coolness of the bedsheets where they touched her thighs. “Is it connected with this woman?”

  Saying it out loud at last.

  He said, “She’s a doctor.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is it about—” Another taboo. “About John?”

  He nodded in the darkness, a shadow.

  Amelie said, “Well, I don’t want you to leave.”

  “But if I have to?”

  “I don’t know what that means—’have to.’ If you have to, then you just do it.”

  “I mean, would you be here for me.”

  His voice was solemn, careful.

  “I don’t know,” she said. Thinking: Christ, yes, of course I’ll be here!

  He was the best thing in her life and if there was even a chance of him coming back … but she couldn’t say that. “Maybe,” she said.

  He nodded again.

  He said, “Well, maybe it won’t happen.”

  “Talk to me,” she said. “Before you do anything.”

  “I’ll try,” Benjamin said.

  And then silence. And the rain beating down.

  * * *

  They woke a little after dawn and made love.

  There was one frightening moment, when Amelie looked into his eyes, and for a second—not longer than that—she had the terrifying feeling that it was John looking down at her, his cold and penetrating vision a kind of rape … but then she blinked, and the world slid back into place; he was Benjamin again, moving against her with a passion that was also kindness and which she had allowed herself to think of as love.

  The vision of him crowded out her fear.

  He was Benjamin. And that was good.

  7

  For the rest of that rainy October week Susan immersed herself in the mystery of John Shaw.

  I’ve talked to him, she thought. In a sense, I know him…

  But beyond that loomed the inescapable fact:He is not entirely human.

  There was no way to reconcile these ideas.

  She tried to stay in her hotel room in case he called, but by Thursday morning she was overcome with cabin fever. She left a firm order at the desk to take any phone messages and set out on foot with no real direction in mind.

  The rain had stopped, at least. The sky was overcast and the wind was cold, but even that was gratifying after the monotony of recycled hotel air. She walked west, away from the downtown core. Toronto was a banking city, crowded with stark office towers; its charm, she had decided, was peripheral to this, in Chinatown or the University district. She turned north along University Avenue, willfully avoiding the direction of Benjamin’s office. Shortly before noon she found herself between a phalanx of peanut carts and the granite steps of the Royal Ontario Museum, with pennies in her pocket and nowhere else to go.

  Inside, the museum was all high domed ceilings and Egyptians, botanical displays and gemstones under glass. Susan appreciated these, but she especially liked the dark vaults of the dinosaur arcade, cool Pleistocene fluorescence and faint voices like the drip of water. The articulated bones of Triceratops regarded her with the stately indifference of geological time. Susan returned the look for almost a quarter of an hour, reverently.

  Beyond Triceratops, the corridor wound away to the left. She eased back slowly into human history; where she was startled, turning a corner, by the Evolution of Man.

  It was one of those museum displays that compare the skull sizes, tools, curvature of the spine across the eons. Here was Homo habilis leading the human march out of Olduvai, but surely, Susan thought, the entire concept was archaic: did anyone still believe evolution had proceeded in this reasonable arc? From stone club to Sidewinder missile, here at the pinnacle of time?

  But she supposed John would have had a place here, too, if anyone had known about him. Dr. Kyriakides had once told her that he wanted to engineer the next step in human evolution. “A better human being. One who would make us obsolete. Or at least embarrass us for our vices.”

  So here would be John, leading the march toward the future, a little taller and a little brighter and in his hand—what? A pocket H-bomb? A neutrino evaporator? Or he might be as pristine as Dr. Kyriakides had envisioned him … as weaponless and innocent as a child.

  She turned away. Suddenly she wanted the high ceilings of the main arcades, not this cloistered space. But before she left she paused before the diorama of Neolithic Man, stooped and feral in wax, wincing at the first light of human awareness. Our father, she thought. Mine and John’s, too; as obdurate, inscrutable, and foreign as every father is.

  * * *

  Still he did not call.

  Friday afternoon she phoned Maxim Kyriakides at his office at the University.

  He said, “I should have come myself. Forced the issue. Then he could not have avoided me.”

  “I don’t think that’s what he needs. That is—I had the impression—it would have made things worse.”

  “You may be right. Still, I could come there if necessary.” He added, “I suppose I’m feeling guilty about demanding so much of your time.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Is it really? You weren’t so obliging when you began the project. I had to talk you into leaving.”

  “I think it’s different now—meeting him and all. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Some kind of monster.”

  “Are you sure he’s not?”

  She was quietly shocked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Only that it’s easy to forget that he is what he is. He has abilities you won’t have encountered. His point of view is unique. He may not feel bound by conventional behavior.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Do you really, Susan? I hope so. I worry that you might be projecting your own concerns onto him. That would be a mistake.”

  “I know.” (But she was blushing.) “There’s no danger of that.”

  “Then I’m sorry I mentioned it.” He was being very Old World now, very charming. “I really do appreciate the work you’re doing, Susan.”

  She thanked him—cautiously.

  He said, “Stay as long as you like. But keep in touch.”

  “I will.”

  “And ultimately—if there’s nothing we can do—”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m prepared for that.”

  She was lying, of course.

  * * *

  Benjamin called that evening. The call was brief, but Susan could hear the anxiety in his voice.

  “There’s a problem,” he said.

  “What is it? Is it John? Is he sick?”

  Cold night and the city bright but impersonal beyond the windows.

  “He’s thinking of leaving town,” Benjamin said. “You want the truth? I think he’s afraid of you.”

  “We have to talk,” Susan said.

  * * *

  She met him at an all-night cafeteria on Yonge Street.

  The club next door was hosting a high-powered reggae band; the bass not
es came pulsing through the wall. Susan ordered coffee and drank it black.

  Benjamin came in from the street shivering in his checkerboard flannel jacket. She marveled again at how unlike John he was: nothing to distinguish this man from anyone else on the street. He smiled as he pulled up his chair, but the smile was perfunctory.

  He shucked his jacket and ordered a coffee. He added cream and sugar, sipped once, said: “Oh—hey, that’s good. I needed that.”

  “You look tired.”

  “I am. Ever since we had our talk … I guess I’m kind of reluctant to fall asleep. Don’t know who’ll wake up. He wants more time, Susan. All of a sudden he’s fighting me.”

  “I didn’t know he had a choice.”

  “You come to terms with something like this. But there was never any real conflict before. I mean, you don’t understand what it’s like. It’s not something you think about if you can help it. You just live your life. I think … John was fading because he didn’t really care anymore. He let me do what I wanted and he wasn’t around much. Now … this whole thing has stirred him up.”

  Susan leaned forward across the table. “You can tell that?”

  “I feel him wanting to be awake.” Benjamin sat back in his chair, regarding her. “You think that’s a good thing, don’t you?”

  “Well, I—I mean, it’s important to know—”

  “I had to take a couple of days off.” Benjamin smiled ruefully. “John was kind enough to phone in sick for me.”

  “You said he was thinking about going away?”

  “Both of us have been. I talked to Amelie about it. I asked her if it would be okay, you know, if I didn’t see her for a while.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Basically, that it would be okay, but it wouldn’t make her happy.” He took a compulsive gulp of coffee. “If we do this—if we go for treatment—would it be possible for Amelie to come along? There’s not much to keep her here. I mean, budget permitting and all.”

  “I’d have to talk to Dr. Kyriakides. It may be possible.” She hoped not. But that was petty. “You were saying about John—”

  “John’s pulling in the opposite direction. I don’t usually have much access to his thoughts, you know, but some things come through. He’s thinking of leaving, but not for treatment. He wants to hit the road. Get out of town. Run away.”

  “From me?”

  “From this doctor of yours. From the situation But yes, you’re a part of it. I think you disturbed him a little bit. There’s something about you that worries him.”

  “What? I don’t understand!”

  Benjamin shrugged. “Neither do I.”

  “You think there’s a chance he’ll really do it?”

  “Leave? I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe, if he panics. This is all new territory for me, you know. It’s hard to explain, but … I was just getting used to living a life. I mean, I know what I am. I’m a shadow. I’m aware of that. I was always a shadow. I’m something he made up. But I look around, I have thoughts, I see things—I’m as alive as you are.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to go back to the way it was before. You know what I like, Susan? I like the sunshine. I like the light.” His gaze was very steady and for a moment he did remind her of John. “So is that why you’re here? To send me back into the shadows?”

  Susan inspected the Formica tabletop. “No. No one wants that.”

  “Because you’re right. There is something happening to us. Something up here.” He tapped his head. “I can feel it. Like the boundaries are loosening up. Things are stirring around. And I don’t know where that’s taking me.” He added, “I have to admit I’m a little bit scared.”

  Susan took his hand. “Both of you need help. We have to make sure both of you get it.”

  “The thing is, I don’t know if I can do that. I’ll do what I can. Whatever happens, I’ll try to keep in touch. I’ll let you know where we are. But I’m not in charge here. It’s not my choice.”

  “Tell me what I can do.”

  “I don’t know.” He smiled wearily. “Probably nothing.”

  8

  Tony Morriseau was hanging out at the comer of Church and Wellesley minding his own business when he saw the Chess Player coming toward him.

  Actually, stalking him was more like it. This was unusual, and Tony regarded the Chess Player’s lanky figure with a faint, first tremor of unease.

  Tony knew the Chess Player from the All-Nite Donut Shop on Wellesley. Tony had never spoken to him, but the guy was a fixture there, poised over his board like a patient, predatory animal. Hardly anybody ever played him. Certainly not Tony. Tony wasn’t into games. His experience was that the Chess Player didn’t talk and nobody talked to the Chess Player.

  Still, Tony recognized him. Tony was a quarter Cree on his mother’s side and liked to think he had that old Indian thing, keeping his ear to the ground. Tony made most of his money—which was not really a lot—selling dope out of the back of his 78 Corvette, parked just down the block. His profit margins weren’t high and his only steady customers were the local gay trade and some high school kids. Still, Tony was a fixture on the street; he had been here since ’84. Same Corvette, same business. He told himself it was only temporary. He wanted to make significant money, and this—dealing in streetcorner volume at a pathetic margin, from a supplier who had been known to refer to Tony as “pinworm”—this wasn’t the way to do it. He would find something else. But until then …

  Until then it was business as usual—and what did this geek want from him, anyhow?

  Tony pressed his back against a brick wall and gave the Chess Player a cautious nod. The evening traffic rolled down Church Street under the lights; an elderly Korean couple strolled past, heads down in abject courtesy. Tony looked at the Chess Player, now directly in front of him, and the Chess Player stared back. Big deep hollow eyes, round head, burr haircut. He made Tony distinctly nervous. Tony said, “Do I know you?”

  “No,” the Chess Player said. “But I know you. I want to buy something.”

  “Maybe I don’t have anything to sell.”

  The Chess Player reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled a fifty off the top and stuffed it into the pocket of Tony’s down vest. Tony’s heart began to pump faster, and it might have been the money but it might also have been the look on the guy’s face. He thought: Am I afraid? And thought: Fuck, no. Not me.

  He transferred the bill to his hip pocket. “So what is it you want?”

  “Amphetamines,” the Chess Player said, and Tony was briefly amused at how dainty he made it sound: amphetamines.

  “How many?”

  “How many have you got?”

  Tony did a little mental calculation. He began to feel better. “Come with me,” he said.

  Down the block to the Corvette. Checking the guy out sideways as they walked. Tony kept most of his stock in the back of the ’Vette. He had been ripped off twice; and while that was something you expected—he was not a volume dealer and he could eat the occasional losses—it was also something you didn’t want to set yourself up for. But Tony was fairly smart about people (his Cree instinct, he told himself), and he didn’t believe the Chess Player was a thief. Something else. Something strange, maybe something a little bit dangerous. But not a thief.

  Tony opened the car door and rooted out a Ziploc bag of prescription pharmaceuticals from the space under the driver’s seat. He held the bag low inside the angle of the door, displaying it to the buyer but not to the public. “Some of these suit your fancy?”

  “All of them.”

  “That would be—you’d be talking some serious money there.”

  He named a price and the Chess Player peeled off the bills. Large money amounts and no haggling. It was like a dream. Tony stuffed the cash into his rear pocket, a tight little bulge. He could go home. He could have a drink. He was prepared to celebrate.

  But the Chess Player leaned in toward him and said, very
quietly and calmly, “I want the car, too.”

  Tony was too startled to react at once. The Corvette! It was his only real possession. He had bought it from a retired dentist in Mississauga for a fraction of what it was worth. Put some money into it. The fiberglass body had been through some serious damage, but that was purely cosmetic. Under the hood, it was mainly original numbers. “Fuck, man, you can’t have my car—that’s my car.”

  But it came out like a whine, a token protest, and Tony realized with a deep sense of shock that he was afraid of this man; it was just that he could not say exactly why.

  Big, almost luminous eyes peering into his. Christ, Tony thought, he can see right through me!

  Without blinking, the Chess Player pulled out his roll of bills again.

  Tony stared at the cash as it came off the roll. It was like a machine at work. Crisp new money. He counted up to $5000; then—without thinking—he said, “Hey, look, I paid less than that for it … it needs bodywork, you know?”

  The Chess Player put the money in Tony’s vest pocket. The touch of his fingers there was weirdly disturbing. “Buy a new car,” the Chess Player said. “Give me the keys.”

  Be damned if Tony didn’t do just that. Handed them over without a word. Mysterious.

  He would spend a lot of long nights wondering about it.

  The Chess Player was about to climb in and drive away when Tony shook his head—it was like waking up from a bad dream into a hangover—and said, “Hey! My property!”

  “Take what you want,” the Chess Player said.

  Panicking, Tony retrieved ten ounces of seeded brown marijuana and a milk carton of Valium and stuffed them hastily into a brown paper A P bag.

  The door slammed closed as the Corvette pulled away.