Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two: Intersection

1

Robert awoke late in the morning, stumbled into the bathroom, stared at the scale a moment, then stepped into the shower. This morning he didn’t vomit, and in a half hour was clean and dressed.

He went down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister, and trudged outside to get the mail. Pulling out a stack of envelopes, he shuffled through the top two—junk mail he let fall to his feet—and came on his pay stub. Next was a credit card bill—which he dropped beside the junk—then a letter announcing parent-teacher day at his daughter’s school (another dropee), and finally a yellowed envelope bearing his name and address in fading ink. There wasn’t a return address. He flipped it over. And stumbled back, inadvertently dropping the letter next to the others. A wind kicked up, and everything took flight. He yelled at the wind and, bent over, waddled through his yard, picked up envelopes, cursed, tossed them back into the air, and rushed over to the next white rectangle to catch his eye.

He’d almost given up when he saw it facedown in the driveway, and he lifted a finger, as if to say
Ah
-
ha!
and ran to it, scooped it up. He couldn’t take his eyes off his name; the writing, so delicate, elegant even. His mind felt empty. Slowly, he turned the envelope over, and the name came into view; his head felt emptier still, and all he could do was stare. Contemplation seemed far off. Then he said it. “Mom?”

* * * * *

He sat alone in his office. He’d been studying the back of the envelope, which bore his mother’s name and the address of the house where he’d grown up. He had yet to open it. “Impossible,” he murmured, laying it beside the letter-opener.

He leaned past an open-faced book, grabbed the phone, dialed his father’s number. Juanita answered. She seemed overjoyed to hear from him, but sensed he hadn’t rung for her, and called for Jimmy. He heard birds, a breeze, laughing adults.

“Son?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“What’s wrong?”

“How are you?”

“Peachy. How’s Veronica?”

“She left.”

“Jesus.”

“And I’m sick, Dad. Real sick.” There was a pause. The laughing stopped, the birds silenced, the breeze quieted: His father had moved inside. Robert had never seen their home, had never visited Puerto Rico. He’d always meant to.

“Tell me,” Jimmy said.

“Like mother was.”

“When did you find out?” Jimmy’s voice was weak now.

“Not long ago.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Not yet, Dad. I’m going to pull through, I promise.”

“Don’t fuck around. You have a little girl, and apparently no wife. I’m coming up.”

Robert paused. “What about Juanita?”

“Just me.”

“Are you two—“

“We’re fine. You need me. She’ll be fine without me for a while.”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh,” said Robert, more dazed than ever. “I got something strange in the mail today.”

“What?”

“It’s postmarked October of 1970.”

“Mail never was any damn good.”

“It’s from Mom.”

“Someone’s jiggling your meat.”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“Christ, but you were always dramatic. Open it.”

Robert slid the knife into the top of the envelope, tore it end to end. His heart throbbed at the root of his throat. It was one piece of paper. He took it out, held it to the window’s light, unfolded it, but there was nothing. No ink, no impressions, only a blank sheet of paper. “She didn’t write anything.”

“Son?”

“Yeah,” said Robert, oblivious, staring at the blankness.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Robert hung up, glanced around his office, took out one of his mother’s diaries, thumbed through it, comparing the writing to that on the front of the envelope. It was a perfect match. Dumbfounded, he stuck the paper into the diary, and put the volume back into place.

* * * * *

Later, the doorbell rang twice, and he exited his office. “Just a minute!”

“Company!” cried Jennifer, racing down the stairs. She reached the door first, and her enthusiasm suddenly waned. She backed up.

“What’s up, baby?”

“It’s the law and order,” she said. Robert let her stay up too often, watching cop shows.

“Alright,” he said, joining her at the door. He opened it on two uniformed men. “May I help you guys?”

“Robert Lieber?” the cop on the right asked. He had greased hair, a uniform devoid of jewelry, and his right hand shook by his hip.

“Yes,” said Robert.

“May we come in?” asked the other man. This officer, though no older than the other, was obviously walking the rookie through this.

“Sure,” he answered, motioning them into the foyer, where a couple of couches sat facing each other, a coffee table between them. “What’s going on, fellas?”

“Hello?” called a voice behind them.

Robert craned his head. Standing in the entryway was a large man. His comb-over threatened to roll over his head like a tumble weed. He wobbled into the foyer. “You two were gonna wait for me,” he told them.

“Sorry,” said the kid. “You were late.”

“Man’s gotta eat,” said the man. Now he looked down at Robert. “Must be Lieber.”

“Yes, sir,” said Robert.

“Why don’t you two wait outside?” Once they were gone, the man labored past him to the couch nearest the door. Grunting, he lowered himself down. “Honey, I need to talk to your daddy alone.”

Jennifer looked at him. “It’s okay, Jenn,” said Robert. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” She slowly went up the stairs to her room.

The man turned to him. “I’m Donald Hackman.”

Robert had seen the face on billiards over Interstate Four, but the man looked different in person. “You’re the County Sheriff.”

“We found your wife this morning.”

Robert slapped his hand over his mouth. “Is she okay?”

“No. Matter of fact, she’s not. Where were you last night?”

“Oh God,” muttered Robert, staring at the floor. “I was here.” He pressed his fingers into his eyes.

Hackman placed a hand on his knee.

“How did—”

Hackman ignored him; he slumped into the couch, looking around. “You two separated long?”

Robert shook his head.

“I’m sorry. Me and mine have been parted before. Does she have any family?”

Again, he shook his head. “Plane crash.”

“Siblings?”

“Only child.”

Hackman hitched up his pants, clapped a hand on Lieber’s shoulder. “We think it was the proprietor of the inn she was staying at. Man had a long list of hairy problems,” he said, chuckling for some reason, shaking his head. “When they get her, the local home will phone you about arrangements.”

“When they—” he began, then realized who Hackman meant.

Hackman trudged the stairs, turned. “I’m very sorry, Mister Lieber. If you should need anything, give me a call. Oh, and stick around,” Hackman told him, letting himself out.

Robert just sat there, staring dumbly at the carpet. Then a soft noise shocked him out of his daze. He stood, glanced around. “Jenn?” He made his way toward the stairs.

Jenn was at the top of the stairs, hugging her knees, weeping.

* * * * *

Robert had barely dozed off when the buzzing woke him. Propped on his pillow, he opened his eyes, searching the darkness.

Something was popping off of the porch doors. He went to the glass, peered up and down. Dawn would break in an hour or so, but it was always darkest before first light. There wasn’t a star in the sky. The moon wasn’t much more than a smudge. The sound seemed to register from different directions; he flipped on the porch light. A fly was hovering over it, as if the light had been on all along. It’s shadow flitted over the boards in wide arcs.

“A fly’s making all that noise?” he asked aloud, and was about to switch off the light and return to bed when a second shadow joined the fly’s on the rugged planks of the porch. It mirrored the first, following in identical arcs, so close he could’ve mistaken it for an optical illusion. But his eyes had worked perfectly for a few days now. He probed around for another insect, saw nothing but midges hovering in the ethereal glow. Pressing his nose to the glass, he followed the twin paths of the shadows. The fly zoomed about the light, smacking into it periodically. Shaking his head, he looked down.

The second shadow had split. There were three.

Four.

Five.

In seconds, the shadows collided, split, sped up, and the buzzing grew so loud he could feel it in his chest—a subtle, deep growl, as if a microphone had been fixed on the insect—then another sound, almost a chewing, came as the wood crunched, split. A two-by-four ripped apart. He raised his arms to protect his face; slowly, he lowered them, and his eyes widened.

The plank hadn’t fallen yet. It was suspended, perfectly vertical.

The buzzing sounded like an angry hive. The wood was tearing, splintering, torn by unseen hands. Another two-by-four tore off, floated impossibly up and was suspended beside the other. The porch light shadowed their grooves and depressions. As if fastened by nails to the blackness behind them, both remained motionless. Then the second plank moved. It didn’t waver, didn’t shake, but sliced through the air with a purpose, almost intelligent, and stopped when it was horizontal and behind the other.

He blinked. Cupped a hand over his mouth.

The planks had formed a cross.

* * * * *

Robert spent two hours cleaning up the mess, though part of his porch remained as proof of what he’d seen. It was ten after five when he came inside. The sun was a promise behind the trees that surrounded his yard.

After showering, he sat in his den, and the reality of his life began to sink in. In a few weeks, he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer, of which he should already have perished; his marriage, long on the rocks, had ended; his estranged wife had been murdered; and he’d been witness to several strange, if not supernatural, occurrences. Life was shit, and then . . . .

Robert picked up the envelope he’d received yesterday, thinking about what Dan had said, how sooner or later you’d see the pattern. He turned it over and over, tossed it back on the desk, moved to his bookshelf, withdrew the diary, opened it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispered, running his palm over the paper. It appeared as if some sort of ink had bled. He tried to remove the formerly blank paper, but it was stuck. Carefully, he pried the edge up, peeled it inch by inch from the page, and turned the paper over. And stared, his mouth open.

Written in his mother’s elegant handwriting were these two words: “I’m inside.”

2

Two weeks passed.

Robert had buried Veronica, and did his best to console his daughter. He shed another eight pounds and the night sweats got worse. Sometimes he felt depressed, but often he felt possessed of a strength, a preternatural perseverance. During these moments, he nearly convinced himself that the end was not near, and that he would live on.

His father stayed. Jimmy slept on the couch and got up with Jenn in the mornings, saw her off to school. He woke Robert with hot tea, saw that he dressed and went to work. “You should go until you can’t, son. Keep your mind on your work.”

3

Mary and Grady began classes the week Robert of Robert’s bereavement. Mary wondered where the teacher her father had told to thank was. When she finally met him the following week she was horrified by his sickly appearance, but then he stood to teach, and although his legs shook under him and his hands trembled, he told stories, he presented compelling ideas, he filled the air with the myths and legends of literature. He was magic.

Mary began looking forward to his class.

* * * * *

One evening Mary left her room and made for the kitchen. She stopped short, hearing her parents deep in conversation.

“Yeah, I had lunch with Robert,” her father was saying. “I still can’t believe it. Veronica’s dead.”

“Why didn’t he tell you sooner?” asked her mother.

“Who can blame him, Freddie? It wasn’t working out, and I’m sure that’s filled him with guilt. He’s a mess. He looks terrible, just awful.”

“Small wonder.”

“No, I mean there’s more. He’s sick. AIDS, maybe. Or cancer.”

Mary, huddled outside the kitchen door, suddenly knew who they were talking about. Veronica was her dad’s employee; she’d met her several times on daughter day: the woman was a perky bright sugar-freak who wore a perpetual smile and looked like she lived in a gym. And Robert? The only Robert she’d met recently was the professor who’d helped her out, the man who looked sick. AIDS maybe. Or cancer. A tear came to her eye. She made her way back to her room.

Grady looked over a paperback. “Whatsa matter, darlin’?”

Mary sat on her bed opposite Grady. The room’s configuration was disconcertingly like the dorm; at times, she woke up thinking she was back in North Carolina. “It’s the professor,” she said.

Grady looked confused. “Which one?”

“The one you’re reading the book for.”

“The skinny one?”

“The sick one.”

“What about him?”

“His wife’s dead.”

Grady sat up, laid the book face down on her lap.

“He’s so sweet, so cool in class,” Mary said. “I had no idea he’s been going through something like that. It’s sad.”

* * * * *

Mary slept neither well nor much that night. She couldn’t get her mind off of Professor Lieber’s misfortune, and the grandness of his tragedy made her feel small. She’d thought her own problems were rough. Sure, she had been in some hard places, still was, but nothing compared to Professor Lieber’s current situation.

She thrashed around, twisted the sheets around her. Hot and constrained, she ripped them from her wet skin, wiped at her arms and chest, threw her feet over the bedside. She hammered her fists into the mattress, then rose, sighing, heading into the bathroom.

Her reflection was pale, almost evanescent. Although she’d gained ten pounds, she was pallid. She leaned over the sink, regarded her face, which people had said was gorgeous. She just didn’t see it. It looked wan, disgusting, a membrane of skin stretched over too-thick bones.