Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy (16 page)

And secreted inside her was a fetus, its conception a crime against her and, as her mother had made clear, her family’s honor. Would her folks be relieved if she aborted it? She could tell them she’d miscarried.

Mary left her reflection, returned to bed, but her mind refused to shut off.

* * * * *

She tried on three outfits before striking the correct combination: navy slacks and a white blouse. She bundled her hair, swirled it atop her head, and spent an hour on her makeup.

Grady, who could be ready to go almost anywhere in five minutes flat, watched with a smirk. “You gonna talk to him?”

“To who?”

“Professor Lieber? Or should I say, Robert?”

Mary glanced over, pausing with the lipstick over her lips. “What are you talking about?”

“You barely slept last night.”

“The baby.”

“Liar. Someone’s got a crush.”

3

The class ended, and Robert gathered up his materials. He felt watched and looked up. The McDylan girl and her blonde friend were whispering. The blonde eyed him, then walked out, and Mary hesitantly approached him. “Hey, Professor Lieber.”

“Hey yourself. And you can call me Robert when I’m not addressing the class.
Professor
makes me feel ancient.” He stopped picking up his papers when he noticed Mary staring at his shaking right hand.

“Okay, uh, Robert. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. It’s Mary, right?”

Mary nodded, smiling, watching the kids file out. “My Mom and Dad were in the kitchen last night, and I overheard them, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, and to thank you for getting me—”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Robert, raising a trembling hand. “I had lunch with your dad yesterday. I’m assuming they were talking about the death of my wife.”

Mary nodded.

Robert smiled tentatively, scratched his head. “Well, thanks for your—”

“Robert?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“What I wanted to ask you was, well, I noticed the picture on your desk, and thought maybe you could use a little help.”

“Some . . .”

“You know, babysitting, cooking, whatever.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, if you don’t need—”

“No,” said Robert quickly. “That’d be great. Fantastic even. My dad’s been staying with me the past few weeks, but I’m seeing him off tonight, so that’d be . . .” and he paused, smiling at her. “Thanks, Mary. Really.”

“Can I get your number?”

“Of course,” he said, still smiling. “Unfortunately, you won’t be getting an A.”

“Why’s that?”

“I must guard against ass-kissing in all its permutations.”

Mary laughed, then punched him playfully in the arm. Robert tried very hard not to scream.

* * * * *

That same evening, while Robert was getting ready for the drive to the airport, his father appeared in his bedroom doorway. “Hey, kid,” he said. Tears made his eyes gleam.

Robert looked up from tying his shoes. “Hey”—he hesitated, seeing the wet gleam in his father’s eyes—“Dad.”

Jimmy sat beside him, put a hand on Robert’s knee. “Look, son, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I have to. I promised Juanita I would, but I’ve been putting it off.”

“Tell me what?”

“I never thought it was important that you know, but I think that was probably my own grief process talking,” said Jimmy.

Robert had never heard his father mention a process in his life. Juanita had forced him into therapy for years, though. There had been times Jimmy had been mighty friendly with Jim Beam.

“Your mother disappeared. She vanished, Robert.”

Robert stood up before he realized he was moving. “I’m sorry, what?”

“She disappeared,” said Jimmy. His chin quivered. “We knew she was dying, knew it was only a matter of days, really, but she left you close to a . . . a kind of church, Robert. Just left you sitting in the dirt. You were four years old.” Jimmy paused, closing his eyes. “She’d burst into this place that day, and the guy, some type of priest I guess, wouldn’t even tell me what she’d said. Then your mother ran outside, and I guess she ran off.”

Father and son stared at each other. “What in God’s name are you telling me, Dad? Did they find her? Her body?”

Jimmy shook his head. “The cops asked her doctor’s opinion, and he said she’d probably crawled off somewhere and died. She didn’t have long, son. She weighed less than one hundred pounds, and she could barely hold you in her arms.”

“They never found her body?”

“No,” said Jimmy, hiding his eyes, his tears, from his son.

* * * * *

After Robert dropped his father off at the airport, he went to The House of Socrates.

Dan was rolling the carts inside when he pulled up. “Leaving so early?” asked Robert, racing out of his car to help Dan with the closing chores.

Dan consulted his watch. “Been dead all day, and I’ve got a date. How you feeling?”

“Like shit. Got a minute?”

Dan nodded, pushed a book-cart inside. “Always for you, my dear. One minute, considering that my other appointment has breasts and you, clearly, do not.”

“Could you put the girl off, just for tonight?”

Dan shook his head, rolled his eyes. “Robert, Robert. You put pussy off until tomorrow, you might never get it,” he admonished, but he was already unclipping his cell phone from his belt. He had her on speed dial. Must have been serious.

They drove to the Denny’s at the edge of town. At a reasonably clean corner booth, Robert didn’t bother with small talk. He told Dan what his father had said, and only then noticed that his friend had not touched his fries. Eventually, Dan did pluck one up and dip it in catsup, but he left it there, growing pink and soggy. “For once, I’m speechless.”

“Unbelievable.”

“The soul makes the body,” said Dan.

Robert pushed his plate away, on which was only a bunched napkin, catsup stains, and a fork. “Emerson?”

Dan nodded. “You were there that day, Robert. You may not consciously remember it, but a part of you has.”

“Come on, Dan. Enough with the New Age shit.”

Dan leaned forward. “Are you so arrogant that you believe you’ve figured out the world in thirty years? Logic isn’t the same as strength. Don’t try to think your way through this. You aren’t dead yet.” Then Dan grinned, as if he knew something that Robert should.

“What?” Robert asked.

“I think you’re ready.”

“For what?”

“There’s someone you have to meet. Tomorrow. Come by tomorrow. Now eat. You’re getting skinny.”

4

Mary didn’t leave her room until past one. Grady was gone, out job hunting.

Down the hall a slit of light shone under her mother’s door. Mary heard a soap playing on the big screen TV.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was dark. The lone light was a glowing circle beneath the coffee pot. She carried a cup of black coffee to the table, sat in silence a moment, then smelled it. She couldn’t bring herself to take a sip. It smelled horrible. As always.

She jumped when the phone rang, then picked it up.

“Mary?”

“Who’s calling?”

“It’s Robert. I mean, Professor Lieber.”

“Oh! What’s up?”

“Do you have the afternoon free?”

Mary beamed. “Absolutely,” she said.

5

While awaiting her arrival, Robert changed clothes twice. Jenn giggled behind him. “Hey, girl.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Daddy’s got to run a couple of errands and . . .” he trailed off, not knowing how to finish. He stroked Jenn’s smooth, brown hair. Instead of smiling, she stared into her father’s eyes. “I’ve got to go somewhere. A friend is going to watch you.”

“What friend?”

“A student of mine,” he said, and the door bell rang. Jenn ran, bounding down the stairs.

As he came down, Mary looked up, smiled. “Am I on time?”

“Any time was fine,” he said. “You’ve met Jenn?”

Jenn giggled. “Yup!” she screamed.

Mary nodded. “Yup,” she said without a trace of a smile.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Take your time,” said Mary. “We’ll girl-talk.”

* * * * *

Driving to Dan’s, Robert felt washed-out.

The hands clutching the wheel, his hands, were unrecognizable to him: coursed with blue-green veins, raised tendons and gnarled bone, they were the hands of an elderly, arthritic man. The eyes in the rear view mirror were surrounded by blotches of pink and red, and seemed hollow in their sockets.

He was angry with his father, and he was angry with himself. Behind him were unrecoverable days, days he could have taken his daughter to a park, to a beach, to a movie, but so often he’d spent them hunched behind a screen, commenting on the art of long dead men, forgetting the people who lived with him and were wanting. Have I meant nothing? he asked himself. He couldn’t answer.

Rolling by the ridiculously huge courthouse, he scanned the harbor and her blue-trimmed pleasure vessels, drove behind The House of Socrates, and pulled around front.

Dan was on the smoking bench, allowing free reign to the customers. His eyebrows arched, the lone distinctness on his never-ending forehead. “You look terrible,” he said.

“Who’s this man I’m ready to meet?”

“Are you sure you want to see him?”

“Give me a break.”

There was a glint in Dan’s eyes, a dimple on the outskirts of his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said. For a moment, he thought Dan was blowing him off, but he picked up the cordless phone, kept his back to him. After a moment, he said quietly, “Hey Monty, sorry to bother you. He’s here. Yeah, her son. Alright, thanks.”

Robert heard Dan’s voice but did not recognize the words. He’d closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow, his circulation to smooth out. His hands were knots of pain. The beat of his life reverberated in his ears and he imagined the muscle in his chest—squeezing, releasing, the valves opening and closing, blood slipping in and out, forcing its way into the outer reaches of him, the tips of his fingers and toes, catching on bits of the disease and distributing it to all points. It was a river slowly eroding a poisonous bank, carrying it piece by piece into itself until they were no longer mere acquaintances, but lovers.

“Monty will see you.”

“Monty?”

“Get some paper,” said Dan, ignoring the question. “I’ll give you directions.”

“Sure,” said Robert, moving inside to find some paper. “But who’s Monty?”

“Shut up. You’re off to see the wizard.”

6

Mary and Jenn talked about everything over games of Checkers.

Jenn surprised her by both clearing the board twice on her and by bringing up subjects that seemed to be uncomfortably far down the road toward womanhood. But Mary did her best to explain things she knew of only secondhand, like marriage and love and death, and Jenn seemed to look favorably on her feeble attempts, happy that someone was attempting to spell out answers.

“You’re good at this game,” she said, seconds after Jenn had demolished her.

Jenn only giggled. “I know. Mommy taught—” and she stopped smiling.

Mary stared. Speechless, she displayed her palm, placing it on the table. Jenn’s eyes were drawn to it, but some seconds passed before she lay her palm into Mary’s. They sat like this for a long time. Presently, Mary gazed out the window, saw the glow of sun, the color of brick, over the jagged tips of pine. She squeezed Jenn’s hand and let it go, ascended the living room steps and opened the door onto the sunset, breathed in the barbecue, gasoline, and the burnt smell of the neighborhood. Jenn joined her. Mimicking Mary’s deep breaths, she tossed her head back and made a show of it. “I hope I have a little girl just like you,” said Mary, not realizing how prophetic this statement was.

“You’re having a girl?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ll have a baby sometime next year.”

“Wow. Neat!” cried Jenn. “Are you married?”

Mary shook her head. “No,” she said, looking up.

And saw him.

The vagrant stood in the middle of the road past the yard. He was staring at them. The wind tugged his thick beard, and his coarse, almost horse-like hair poked out from under a Confederate flag bandana. Mary could barely make out his eyes for all the hair. It was the man from the truck stop. A horrible fear pulsed through her.

But the man just lifted his nose to the sky, grunted, looked at them once more, then turned, shuffling off.

7

Cassadaga is Central Florida’s mystery. Many people never go there, never hear the town’s unique history, but whenever the name is mentioned in polite circles, eyebrows raise, noses turn up, a few repudiating words are spoken, and the subject is changed. But so few actually know Cassadaga. It’s as if the town’s borders constitute a magic circle, and for the institutionalized religious to break through would mean a loss of faith. Many fear what Cassadaga represents: communication with the dead, Tarot readings, and cosmic possibilities.

Robert Lieber numbered with the many: he’d never been here, but had heard enough to make him feel as though he had. The town conjured many images, most of them borrowed from the B-movies that had populated his childhood: wide-eyed villagers moving through a midnight town by lantern light; women roped to stakes, shrieking their innocence; an old gypsy inspecting the Pentagram in the palm of Larry Talbot.

The drive prepared him for a ghost town: barren fields where tractors rusted in the sun, as sedentary as weary, sun-beaten beasts; farm houses nestled back from the two-lane road, shaded by naked pines and stick oaks; once-grand Southern manses now senile, their walls gaunt and ghostly.

But then he drove in. It was almost a disappointment. He peered down Stevens Street, passed Harmony Hall, a rectangular two-story building with a gambrel roof and tiered verandas that extended across both floors, and thought of the summer he and Veronica had visited a distant aunt of hers in New England. Many of the meeting places there were constructed this simply, but it was unusual to see this late-Colonial style architecture in Florida.

He came upon the white fence Dan had mentioned. It enclosed two separate fields and bordered a dirt driveway that led to a huge cottage painted in gray and cream. A railing similar to the fence wound around an airy veranda, bracketed by four white posts. Rising above the gray eaves, a smaller second story overlooked the fields. Its gable roof hung over an odd fenestration: while the primary stories windows were wide and open, the second floor’s windows were close together and boarded up.