“And I’m telling you I had no choice.” Marcus was certain of that. “Maybe you’ve got to go through it to understand.”
“Don’t even think such a thing.” Charlie pushed his half-finished dessert aside. “Look at what you’ve gone and done. Ruined a perfectly good portion of banana-cream pie with your nasty talk.”
“You can’t finish it because you ate about a pound of calf’s liver and twice that of turnips. Even Boomer would be hard-pressed to outeat you today.”
Charlie took a long pull on his lemonade, served in a Ball jar. “Boomer may not be much, but he’s all I’ve got. At least the boy showed the good sense to marry well.”
“Libby is great,” Marcus agreed.
“She is that. Good mother to the children and her husband both. Boomer’s a kid and always will be. Thank you, dear.” Charlie held his lemonade glass up to the waitress’s pitcher. “And the woman is smart as a whip. Back soon after they were married, I got all riled ’cause she convinced Boomer to stop his law studies and come run her daddy’s Chrysler dealership. I went over there ready to tear a piece out of her hide for ruining my boy’s life. Know what she told me?”
“I can’t imagine,” Marcus replied, “what Libby Hayes had to say.”
“The lady met me square on, said she was saving us both a whole world of misery. She said my problem was I’d never gotten to know the real Boomer Hayes, on account of my always pushing him to be me. But he wasn’t then and never would be. Libby told me Boomer was the son her own daddy never had, a man who lived for hunting and fishing and football and family.”
Marcus spent a hollow moment pondering such love and wisdom, knowing it would never be his. “That sounds like Libby.”
“Then she told me to go out and find me somebody else to push and prod and raise to the skies.” Charlie fiddled with his lemonade and changed the subject. “Randall Walker called me this morning.”
“You don’t say.”
“Wanted to know if we were still in touch, you and I.”
Marcus pushed his empty plate out of the way and leaned across the table. “What did you tell him?”
“Now and then, I said. He asked what kind of lawyer did I make you out to be. I pretended like I didn’t understand the question. He said, ‘Well, is Marcus just a paper pusher, or can he carry the ball in court?’ ” Charlie drained his lemonade, wiped his face with an age-spotted hand. “I told him you were weak as yesterday’s dishwater.”
“Good.”
“Randall didn’t think so. Randall said it was a crying shame. They had an opening for an experienced lawyer and he’d been thinking you’d fit the bill.” Charlie lifted his chin until he had Marcus pinned in the proper angle of his bifocals. “I told him not to go wasting his time.”
“He didn’t call about a job,” Marcus said.
“What do I look like to you, a fool on a high horse? I knew that.”
“Randall Walker is outside counsel for New Horizons.”
“I figured it was something like that. Randall Walker is a goat with a good tailor. Always has been.” He spooned up the last of his banana-cream pie. “You sure about his being outside counsel?”
“The file Gloria’s roommate gave me, it had a copy of the letter confirming his appointment.”
Charlie fiddled with his napkin. “Wonder how she got hold of that.”
“I’d like to ask her that very same thing.”
“Anything else in that file?”
“Yes.” Marcus told him what he had found.
Charlie gave his mouth a second swipe, slower this time. “Sounds like you may be better armed than you thought.”
“Looks that way.”
“You remember what I told you before we went fishing?”
Marcus nodded. “We don’t have to win the case to succeed.”
“Good. You were listening. I like that.” Charlie’s fingers scrabbled across the table top for the check. “Sure hope your Professor Hall decides to run with this thing.”
Marcus snagged the check from him. “I’m beginning to feel the exact same way.”
THE SENSE OF ANTICIPATION and progress stayed with him until Marcus pulled up in front of his house, and saw his drive blocked by a scarred and dirty pickup. One that sent his heart thumping into overdrive when he recognized the clay-encrusted sides.
The driver did not look his way. He did not need to. The profile was enough to drown Marcus in fear and rage.
Before he cut his motor, a second man was at his door. He wore a dark suit and a true Southern smile—all teeth and no eyes. “Well, hey there, Mr. Glenwood. Glad you made it home okay.”
Marcus snarled through his open window, “I’m calling the police and having that man arrested for assault.”
“Naw you ain’t.” He turned and called toward the pickup, “That’s okay, Lonnie. I’ll be seeing you around.”
Marcus pushed open the door to his Jeep and rose onto the running board, trying to read the dirty license plate. He could only make out two numbers. The driver waved a languid hand and drove away. “What is Lonnie’s last name?”
“You know, I don’t rightly recall. Ain’t memory a funny thing?”
“What’s your name?” His breath came in tight bursts clumped together. “You remember that much?”
“Sure do, Mr. Glenwood. Hank Atterly.” He started a slow circle around Marcus’ new Jeep. “Work with the city council. Got myself a little business in town. Family’s been here longer than America’s been a nation.”
“This is the way you do things around here, using thugs in pickups to make your point?”
“Now that depends. Lonnie’s a right nice fellow, long as nobody gets him riled.” The man traced a finger down the side of Marcus’ new car. “But you get yourself a fancy-pants lawyer come waltzing in here, saying how he’s gonna start some union trouble, why, Lonnie’s liable to take offense.”
“What do you want?”
“Same as Lonnie, Mr. Glenwood.” The smile slipped away. “To have folks like you leave us alone. Me, my kin, and the people who put food on my table.”
“You’re a supplier for New Horizons.”
“They told me you were a sharp one. Now you listen up, Mr. Glenwood, ’cause I’m only gonna say this once.” He took a step closer, and his voice became a tight growl. “You stay away from New Horizons. Either that or you crawl back in that fancy new car of yours and drive clear outta town.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“Call whoever you want. Won’t do you a bit of good.” The smile twisted hard as the voice. “We know all about how you done lost your kids and the missus. Shame how dangerous the roads are around here.”
Marcus felt the air punched from his lungs. The man took great pleasure in his reaction, turning slowly, watching until Marcus managed his first breath. “You just think on that a while, now. The next time they send somebody down here, why, you won’t even notice till it’s over.”
MARCUS WALKED SLOWLY across his lawn. Clouds were forming overhead, the air sultry with soon-to-come rain. He could smell the fresh paint from Deacon’s latest work as he walked, could see how the shutters and window frames sparkled from the morning’s second coat. The off-white trim made the old fired brick seem polished. Deacon sat on the windowsill of the upstairs corner cupola, paintbrush in one hand, eyes solemn and watchful. Marcus didn’t say anything because he didn’t need to. He walked up the front steps to the veranda. His home. All he had left.
Netty watched him from behind the safety of the screen door. “You all right?”
He opened the door, then turned to look back over the lawn. The dimming light made the grass shine emerald green. “You know who that was?”
“Hank Atterly. I called the police. Not that it’d do a smidgen of good.” Her voice held to tired old bitterness. “Hank and his kind are why this side of town stays locked in a past that nobody but them at the top want to keep.”
“What about the guy in the pickup?”
“Never seen him before. But if he’s hanging around with Hank, you can bank on him being vermin too.”
“Atterly claims he’s on the city council.”
“Is, was, always has been. Him or one of his kind. He rousted you, didn’t he?”
“He told me to stay away from New Horizons.”
“That’s just what I said. You got yourself rousted.” She stared out to where the air over the road remained tainted. “Evil breed. Far as the Hank Atterlys of this world are concerned, folks with a darker hide should never rise above grade school and minimum wage.”
“I’ve heard it said that eastern Rocky Mount is poor because the people with money choose to live elsewhere.”
“Don’t you go believing that lie, not for a minute. Ain’t no reason why the same city council can’t put in the same roads on this side they got over west of the Tar River. Ain’t no reason why they can’t offer free land over here to a shopping center, or build us a couple of them shiny new county buildings, or maybe even a decent school.” She gave her head a decisive shake. “You live here long enough, you’ll learn.”
The phone rang. She turned toward the office and said over her shoulder, “Whole world has changed since your granddaddy built this house. Only thing that hasn’t changed is we still got us a city council and a company with muscle that’re working hard as they know how to hold us back.”
Marcus listened to her answer with his name, heard the rumble of distant thunder as she came back with, “It’s Alma Hall.”
Marcus walked to his corner desk and picked up the receiver. Heard a voice that was familiar and yet utterly new. “You get yourself over here.”
“Alma?”
“Right now, you hear what I’m saying?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t you be wasting precious time with questions. Move.”
ELEVEN
MARCUS SAW NO RAIN as he drove, yet every surface wept recent tears. The roads were clogged with traffic and rivulets from a storm that had missed him entirely.
He arrived to find a state of affairs that resembled the weather. Alma Hall opened the door, tall and upright and still dressed for work in a dark suit and low pumps. But her face was creased with pain and stained by tears she had not bothered to clean away. Her voice sounded tragic, broken. “Thank you for coming, Marcus.”
“You have news.” It could be nothing else.
“This way.” She led him into the living room, where today the plate-glass window showed a world gone monochrome gray. Marcus had time for a single glance before he spotted a third person in the room, one who stopped him in his tracks.
“I believe you know Kirsten.”
He demanded, “What are you doing here?”
“Sit down, Marcus.” This from Austin Hall. The first time he had ever called Marcus by his name. His voice sounded as broken as his wife’s. “Over here, where you can see the television.”
Marcus did as he was told, his gaze drawn back to the silent Kirsten. Today she wore jeans and a cable-knit sweater whose collar was softly rolled, as if she sought comfort from the folds. Her platinum hair lay short and close to her head. The controlling anger was gone, the spiky hair, the barriers. Only the eyes were the same, violet and dry only because she had no more tears to shed.
Marcus asked her, “Gloria contacted you?”
Alma sat on the sofa next to Kirsten and took her hand. “Can you watch it through one more time?”
“It doesn’t matter. I might as well stay.” The words emerged hollowed of all tone, all life. “I’ll be seeing this for as long as I live.”
“All right.” Alma took a shaky breath, nodded to her husband. “Go ahead, Austin.”
He used the remote to turn on the television and the VCR. Before the tape had started rolling, both women were sighing quiet sobs. Austin’s shoulders trembled in tight spasms.
A series of naked bulbs had been strung behind the person who appeared on the screen, so all Marcus saw was a blurry silhouette. It hurt his eyes to watch, for the camera had captured the glare far better than it had the person. He leaned forward, struggling to see beyond the shadows.
The camera overfocused, drew back, sharpened slightly. It seemed to Marcus that the silhouette was mashed somewhat, especially on the left side. Then he realized he was staring at a person with badly matted hair. Probably a woman.
The voice spoke. “Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad. I am fine. Everything is fine here. I am staying here awhile. I am working. I study hard. I am fine.”
The lifeless voice could have been computer-generated. Marcus realized she must have been reading something handed to her. Words written by someone who spoke such poor English he had no idea how wrong it sounded. Or simply did not care.
“I need money for my work. Send money now. Send money and I will be … fine. I am happy. Send money. I want to be left alone. But send money. A hundred thousand dollars. Send it to the Hong Kong branch of the Guangzhou Bank, account four-five-five-seven-two-two.” As she repeated the sum and the account number, a faint keening erupted in the living room, a sound as natural to the scene as Marcus’ own breath. Gloria finished, “I am happy. Send the money. Do it now.”
Marcus sat staring at the empty screen until the other three people managed to regain control. Gloria’s mother finally said, “That’s not my baby.”
Marcus did not understand. “The woman on that tape is not your daughter?”
“No, no.” She stabbed at the television. “That’s what they’ve made her. But it is not my child. They’ve hurt my baby. Hurt her bad.”
Kirsten stared at Marcus with red-rimmed eyes. “You think you’ve finally got enough for a case?”
“This is not admissible evidence,” Marcus said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
“What a perfectly legal thing to say.” Kirsten was too spent to give the words more than a trace of bitterness. “Looks like you’re safe, then.”
“There is no definitive trail of custody, no way to authenticate the tape. We must demonstrate both before—”
“Oh, spare me. What you’re really saying is you still don’t need to commit. Am I right?” She stood and walked from the room. From the stairs she said, “Let me know when this garbage is gone.”
“Don’t mind her,” Alma said quietly. “Those two girls were close as twins.”
Austin Hall sighed his way to his feet, taking it in careful stages. He stepped over to the bookshelves by the television. “Where did you put the photographs?”
Alma replied softly, “Bottom-right shelf, there in the corner.”
Austin opened the little doors, picked out one framed print, straightened, then stood there a long moment. His stillness caused Alma to start sniffling again.
Slowly he turned back to the room. Only then did Marcus notice how unraveled the man had become. From the back he was still the tightly wound professor in his vest and starched shirt and suit pants. But the vest dangled open and the tie was gone and the shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a T-shirt and a trace of graying chest hair. He carried the burden back and stood over Marcus, swaying slightly. “Alma put these things away when she saw how it hurt me to look at them.”
Marcus nodded. He understood that perfectly.
Austin turned the picture so that it faced Marcus. “This is my Gloria. Not what you saw there on that screen. This is my baby girl. Right here. You see what they did to her?”
“Yes.” The woman in the photograph was electric. She laughed so loudly he could hear her voice. More than that. He heard his own children, his son singing in the backyard and laughing like the chimes of heaven.
Gloria Hall wore a cocktail dress of emerald green, probably silk. She was graced by a corsage and the grandest smile he had ever seen. She was a tall enchantress, not beautiful by any means, there was too much of her mother’s strong frame and her father’s sternly powerful features for that. Her shoulders and arms mocked the fragility of the dress. She was aware of
this, and she did not care. Marcus stared at the picture and knew he had never met a person happier with her own skin.
“Whatever it takes,” Austin said, his voice burning the words to charred cinders. “You understand me? Whatever you have to do.”
MARCUS WAITED through the police inquiry. He handled the Halls’ refusal to give up the original video, which meant traveling with them to have it duplicated. This was followed by telephone discussions with various State Department people and a visit from a local FBI agent, all of which were utterly futile. By the time the last police officer left the Hall home, Marcus was more than spent. He was afraid.
He took the first exit into eastern Rocky Mount and drove until he found the first bar. It was perfect for his needs. The place was full of shadows and serious drinkers, men who weightlifted with forklifts instead of barbells, women who put up with a tirade-ridden world for six bucks an hour plus overtime. The bartender managed to take his order without meeting his eye. They didn’t care that Marcus wore the only tie in the place. He was just another drifter looking for a drink and a jukebox that would cry for him.
By the third drink the shadows were whispering hated memories and the air had turned hard and mean. Marcus bought a bottle of vodka and carried it out with him. Back home, the drinks went down smoother but the air stayed heavy. Marcus drank until the whispers stopped, or at least until he stopped hearing. He stumbled upstairs, the railing somewhere far out of reach.
He awoke in the hard blackness of another predawn. His breathing sighed like a woman weeping, and he remembered then why he had stopped drinking. It wasn’t anything so noble as a vow, or a hope of righting the past or trying for something better. None of that. The drink chained him down where he could not escape the nightmares. They were free then to eat at him for hours, long enough to stain the bed with his sweat. Marcus left his bedclothes in a soggy mass on the bathroom floor and went looking for his running gear.
Exercise had once come natural and easy. Except for work around the house, however, Marcus had done almost nothing since the accident. It took him a half hour to find his running shoes. By then his headache had diminished from lightning flashes to rolling thunder.
The Great Divide Page 11
