The Divide

by Nicholas Evans

  It was her own fault for coming down here. His morning workout was sacrosanct. And this, the Sunday-morning version, doubly so. He had said no twice already, last night when she arrived and again this morning. But before driving home, she had to give it one more go.

  “Dad, couldn’t you just—”

  “Sarah, I’ve told you. It’s out of the question.”

  “Please, just listen to me for a minute.”

  “I’ve listened. I’ve heard. And the answer’s still no.”

  “Stop!”

  If she had thought about it, she wouldn’t have dared do it. But in the same moment that she hollered, she whacked the off button of the running machine and her father lurched forward and had to grab the rails to stop himself from falling.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Goddamn it, Dad! I need your attention here.”

  She didn’t speak to her father like that and she almost apologized. But it seemed, for a moment at least, to have done the trick.

  “Sarah, we’ve already gone through it ten times over.”

  “This is your granddaughter, for heaven’s sake!”

  He stepped off the machine and snatched up a towel from the chair.

  “It’s not just Abbie,” he said, patting himself dry. “You’ve all gone crazy. How many times do I have to say it? What you’re asking is illegal, Sarah. Illegal.”

  “So when has that bothered you before?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come on, Dad. Don’t give me that. Don’t tell me you’ve always played it by the book. What about all those shady bond deals, all that offshore stuff, those trips to the Cayman Islands. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “How dare you.”

  He picked up his robe and headed for the stairs up to the kitchen. She was more shocked by what she’d just said than he was. It was as if some protective, mother-animal override had clicked in. But seeing as it had, she wasn’t about to stop. She was following him up the stairs now and into the kitchen. Her mother was sitting at the breakfast counter, pretending to read the newspaper. From the arched eyebrow and the delicate tilting of the glass as she sipped her orange juice, Sarah knew she must have heard what had been said down in the gym. This was new territory and her mother was interested. Her father was at the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of water.

  “Dad, talk to me.”

  “I’ve said all I have to say. And you’ve said more than enough.”

  “Listen, I could have told you it was for me.”

  “Well, maybe you should have. What’s she going to use it for? Making bombs? Killing more people or what?”

  “You know Abbie wouldn’t do that. What happened was an accident.”

  “Then she should give herself up and tell the truth.”

  “Well, maybe she will. If we can just establish some kind of contact.”

  He drank his water and poured some more. He wouldn’t look at her.

  “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “If it was me out there, scared to death and starving . . .” She bit the inside of her lip. Damn it, she wasn’t going to cry. “Would you do it for me?”

  Her mother, still pretending to read her newspaper, muttered something. Sarah’s father turned and glared.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, of course, you would.”

  He drained a second glass and put it down on the counter with a clunk, then mopped his face and neck again with the towel.

  “I’ll give you ten thousand.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “All right, fifteen. But that’s it. I don’t want to hear anything more about it. It’s for you and what you do with it is entirely up to you.”

  Sarah walked over to him and put her arms around him.

  “Daddy, thank you.”

  “I must be out of my mind.”

  Sarah had imagined it might take him a day or two to sort things out, but after he’d showered and dressed he went quietly to his safe in the den and within the hour she was driving home with the money bundled up in a yellow plastic bag in the trunk.

  By now she had gotten used to keeping a constant eye on the rearview mirror to see if she was being tailed and not once had she seen anything even vaguely suspicious. Today, however, everyone was suspect. And it wasn’t just cops she was worried about, it was robbers too. Every pedestrian waiting at the lights was suddenly a potential mugger or carjacker. It was just how Josh said it had been for him on his way to meet Abbie.

  Sarah knew something serious had happened the moment the boy walked through the door yesterday evening, after his mysterious—and utterly implausible—“shopping trip” into the city. He had taken her outside onto the deck and told her quietly what had happened. And as soon as Sarah felt she had gotten as much out of him as she was going to get (for he was such a poor liar and she was sure there was more he hadn’t told her), she had packed an overnight bag, gotten into the car, and driven directly to Bedford. She’d wanted Josh to come too, thinking his eyewitness account of meeting Abbie might sway things with her father, but Josh made some lame excuse about having promised to see Freddie. The poor kid was clearly still fazed by seeing his sister, so Sarah hadn’t pressed him. Though now, on her way home, besieged by phantom cops and carjackers, she wished she had.

  Only then did it occur to her that they ought to tell Benjamin about Josh seeing Abbie. He had a right to know, though she didn’t much relish the prospect of calling him. The last time they had talked it had been little short of catastrophic. After that night before the press conference when they had made love, she had stupidly managed to persuade herself that things would somehow change. That the shock of what had happened with Abbie would chase away his madness and bring him back. He loved her, she knew he loved her. The way it had been that night, it was obvious. Men couldn’t fake those things.

  But after a few days, off he’d gone. Back to Santa Fe. And, as the weeks and then the months went by, she knew she had deluded herself. Nothing had changed. Except that the loneliness and sorrow seemed somehow immeasurably deeper. And she felt so stupid, so goddamn stupid, for letting it happen that night. And how could he make love to her like that, so tenderly, so penitently, when he didn’t mean it, when he clearly didn’t have the slightest intention of coming home, how could he?

  But if she felt foolish then, it was nothing compared to how she made herself feel last month when she came home to an empty house after a week in Pittsburgh with Iris. The weather had suddenly gone wintry again and the furnace had given up the ghost so there was neither heat nor hot water. Josh was out partying and so, it seemed, was everybody else she called—Martin and Beth, Jeffrey and his boyfriend, Brian. She put on two sweaters and a coat and lit a fire in the living room and drank a whole bottle of Chianti, then opened another and did what she had vowed never to do again: the late-night drink-and-dial thing.

  Benjamin answered the phone with his mouth full, clearly having some cozy, candlelit dinner à deux with The Catalyst. And Sarah launched into him like a volley of tomahawks, accusing him of everything she could think of, even things she knew he hadn’t done and never would do. How he had never loved her, never loved any of them, how all he’d ever cared about was his work and his goddamn ego. And how he had ruined and wasted her life, stolen all those precious years when she could have been doing so many better, more worthwhile things, had a proper, fulfilling career, instead of making all those sacrifices only to get it all thrown back in her face.

  She could tell from the background sound that he must have walked off to another room, somewhere more private, to spare The Catalyst’s blushes. After a while his attempts to get a word in edgewise grew more assertive.

  “Sarah, listen. Listen a moment. Please. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Yeah, why don’t you? Go and fuck the bitch, like you did me that night. And fuck yourself too while you’re at it.”

  It must have been quite a shock f
or all those FBI phone-tappers, playing their endless late-night game of poker or whatever it was they did to while away the hours.

  She hoped the memory of what she’d said might haze with the hangover but it hadn’t. And though she had tried ever since to pluck up the courage to call him and apologize, she hadn’t been able to. But now that they had heard from Abbie, now that Josh had actually seen her, there was no excuse. Somehow, without alerting suspicion, Benjamin had to be told.

  That afternoon, the money stashed in the washing machine (it seemed appropriate and, for want of a safe, as good a place as any), she gave Josh a wink and asked him to come out into the garden to help her do some planting. She had no idea if the FBI had bugged the house as well as the phones. They’d certainly had ample opportunity. There had been so many agents in the place these past months, going through Abbie’s things and asking a million questions about her so they could “profile” her, chances were they’d planted something. Until now there hadn’t been anything worth eavesdropping on, but now that there was, Sarah wasn’t taking any risks.

  Josh didn’t know about her abusive call, so while sparing him the lurid details, she told him. It was amazing how much he had grown up since his father left. Abbie had always been the one with whom Sarah had discussed important emotional matters. But Josh had revealed himself to be every bit as good a listener and wiser, if more sparing, in his counsel. Before Sarah even thought to suggest it, Josh said that he would be the one to call Benjamin.

  He had it already figured out. So as not to alert any eavesdroppers, he would tell his father that there was a lot to sort out about his going to NYU—forms to fill out and so on. By the by, he would mention that Sarah was embarrassed about their last phone call and suggest that while he was in New York maybe the three of them could have lunch or dinner. It seemed to Sarah a fine plan.

  They went inside and Josh ran up the stairs to his room to make the call while Sarah tried to focus on preparing supper. Within five minutes he was down again. It was all fixed, he said. Benjamin would fly in on Friday. They would have dinner. He sent her his love.

  Josh wouldn’t say how he knew which number to call. He said he had promised Abbie that he wouldn’t tell anyone and that it was safer that way. When he arrived home from school the previous evening he’d handed Sarah a piece of paper with the number on it. It was a New Jersey area code and probably, he said, a pay phone. Somewhere like a mall or a gas station.

  All week Sarah had been racking her brains to think of the best place to call from and had finally opted for Roberto’s, a restaurant she and Benjamin often used to go to. There were two cowled phone booths at the back, beyond the restrooms, and always enough bustle and noise from the kitchen to mask any conversation. It was also only a few blocks from the bookstore. So on Thursday morning at twelve-fifteen, as if on a whim, she announced to Jeffrey that she was going to buy him lunch.

  The place wasn’t crowded but as one o’clock drew nearer it began to get busier. They ate their Caesar salads and chatted about business then Jeffrey started telling her about a new French movie he and Brian had been to see at the Angelika Film Center. Sarah did her best to look interested, although every time anyone went toward the restroom all she could think about was what would happen if, at one o’clock when she went back there, both phones were being used. She looked at her watch. Four minutes to go.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry?”

  Jeffrey was frowning at her.

  “You seem a little distracted.”

  “No, I’m fine. Jeffrey, I’m so sorry. I just remembered. I was supposed to call Alan Hersh this morning. It’s apparently something important and I completely forgot. Will you excuse me a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  She picked up her purse and got up and walked back across the restaurant, weaving her way among the tables where suddenly every face seemed to be staring at her. She felt like Al Pacino in The Godfather, on his way to get the gun. Both phone booths were free. She chose the one farther from the restrooms. It was two minutes before one o’clock. She put her purse down on the little stainless-steel shelf and took out a sandwich bag of quarters and Josh’s piece of paper. And as the second hand of her watch ticked toward the hour, her breathing fast now and shallow and her hands trembling so badly she almost spilled the coins, she picked up the receiver, inserted the money and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  Sarah gasped and swallowed and for a moment couldn’t speak. To hear the voice, after all these long months, overwhelmed her.

  “Mom?”

  “Hello, my love.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  From the small, faltering way she said it, Sarah knew she wasn’t the only one fighting tears. Suddenly, stupidly, she didn’t know what to say. There was both too much and nothing.

  “Baby, how are you?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “I’m okay too.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Sarah could hear music playing in the background, then the blare of a horn. She longed to ask where Abbie was, but knew she shouldn’t.

  “Mom, I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, baby.”

  “Listen, we only have a short time—”

  “My love, come home, please—”

  “Mom—”

  “Everyone will understand, if you just tell them what happened—”

  “Don’t! I told Josh you mustn’t do this!”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  There was another long pause.

  “Did you get the money?”

  “Abbie, honey—”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now listen very carefully. I’m going to tell you what to do. It’s very important you do everything exactly as I tell you. Do you have a pen?”

  There was a man coming down the corridor now. Sarah turned her back and wiped her tears and reached for her purse. She assumed he must be on his way to the restroom. But he wasn’t. He was going to use the other phone.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes. Hold on a moment.”

  She found a pen but her hands were shaking so much that she knocked her purse off the shelf and its contents spilled across the floor.

  “Damn!”

  The man, a nice-looking young guy in a brown sports coat, squatted beside her and helped her scoop everything up. He looked her directly in the eye, maybe a little too directly, and smiled. Could he be . . . ? She thanked him and stood and picked up the phone again.

  “Sorry,” she said, striving for a jauntiness that even to her own ears sounded half-demented. “I just dropped my purse.”

  “Are you ready?” Abbie said.

  There was a tap on Sarah’s shoulder and it startled her so badly she almost cried out. The guy was holding her lipstick. She smiled and took it and thanked him.

  “Is there somebody there?” Abbie asked anxiously.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”

  She knew she had to sound light and breezy now. Just in case. The man probably wasn’t an agent. They wouldn’t do it like that, so unsubtly. Would they? She could tell Abbie was on the verge of hanging up. But she didn’t. She asked if Sarah was ready, then started dictating her instructions.

  When Sarah got back to the table, Jeffrey said he’d been about to call search and rescue. He had already almost finished his pasta and had asked for hers to be taken away and kept warm. The waiter had seen her return and at once brought it back. She had never in her whole life felt less like eating. Jeffrey asked if everything was okay and she said yes, thanks. Everything was fine.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ben reached the mall a little after seven-thirty, a good hour earlier than he was supposed to be there. He was worried about the traffic and worried too that in the dark, if it was one of those massive places with twenty acres of parking, he might get lost and blow the whole
thing. In fact it turned out to be even bigger than he expected, but more by luck than brilliance he found the right spot without any trouble at all.

  Zone M, row 18, at the far corner of the lot, across from Petland and Old Navy. He could even see the black trash can, the third from the left, in which he was supposed to dump the bag. There didn’t seem to be any security cameras, which was probably why Abbie had chosen the place. It occurred to him that she might already be here, watching him from somewhere even now. If she was, it was probably best not to peer or snoop around too much in case it scared her away.

  He drove around the lot, slowing here and there for shoppers pushing their loaded carts out to their cars, and then he pulled out onto the highway again and drove west for half a mile until he saw the red flashing neon arrow and a sign that said Bar Rodeo. He pulled in and parked then went inside and sat at the bar and ordered himself a beer.

  He was pretty certain he hadn’t been followed. He’d slipped out of a side door at The Waldorf, where he was staying, then crisscrossed Manhattan in three different cabs, walked through Macy’s and out the other side, then taken a fourth cab to the car-rental place. Any agent who’d managed to keep up with all that, then trail him through the traffic all the way out here to Newark, deserved immediate promotion.

  Bar Rodeo was pretending, none too convincingly, that it was somewhere out west. There were a few cowboy pictures on the walls and a rather forlorn-looking fake buffalo head that seemed to be watching the ball game on the TV above the bar. The barman was wearing a red satin waist-coat and one of those little black Maverick neckties and greeted every customer with a no doubt obligatory if slightly halfhearted howdy.

  Ben still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock of it all. He’d flown to New York expecting to talk about college with Josh and make peace with Sarah. And here he was, furtively preparing to dump fifteen thousand bucks in a New Jersey trash can for his terrorist daughter.

  At the noisy restaurant last night in Oyster Bay, just as he’d started to think the peacemaking with Sarah was going rather better than he’d dared hope, she and Josh had looked at each other, nodded, then leaned forward over their steaks and broken the news.