Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy (2 page)

“Funny, I’m always in a better mood when the bills are paid.”

Veronica looked away, sighing. “We’re a little behind.”

“Why, pray tell, are we a little behind?”

“You’re just mad because I mentioned the degree.”

“No, I’m pissed because you need me to keep moving up in the world so you can continue spending. You need a bigger closet every month.”

“I work at a bank. It’s natural that I take care of the money.”

“You take care of it, all right.”

“Why are you doing this on our anniversary?”

“Because it’s so special to me. By the way, I farted at dinner.”

Veronica finally turned to him, screaming, “I will not let you treat me like this!”

“Don’t like it? Leave. You can open the door now if you like.” He sped up, and she crossed her arms, quieting, looking out at the highway.

As Interstate Four unfurled before them, he searched for brake lights, knowing the county was expanding this portion of highway by two lanes, and there was often traffic regardless of the hour. But he saw nothing except the slumbering snake of the macadam.

Once they arrived home, Veronica stomped upstairs to check on Jenn, and Robert paid Lauren, trying to keep his eyes off her huge breasts. Why did fourteen-year olds have to go braless? “Thanks, Mister Lieber,” Lauren said as she shook her ass out the door. He sighed.

Upstairs, he undid his tie, watching his wife slowly undress before the armoire he’d built last summer. She draped her dress over the oak door, then bent over to peel her hose from her legs. He caught sight of her pudenda, but could do that now without a change of blood flow. Clinically, he noted what fine shape she’d stayed in. Every week, steady as a clock, she made it to the gym on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Her skin stretched over her bones like a piece of canvas pulled tight into a frame.

She unhooked her bra and it fell into her hands. Stuffing it into her drawer, she turned, smiling as Robert hurriedly resumed undressing. “Sorry about tonight,” she said.

He thought his heart might stop. An apology was cause for celebration, if only because she usually accompanied one by administering a lazy blowjob.

“You still like it?” she asked, clumsily fondling her figure.

“It’s perfect,” he told her.

“Want it?”

He looked at her, then turned to the door. “I need a drink,” he said, leaving her naked and wanting.

* * * * *

Sundays were complicated for Robert. On one hand, his wife and daughter attended church while he stayed behind. Veronica’s argument was that church taught young minds values. Though he recognized the sense of this, he wondered why it did nothing for Veronica. On the other hand, Robert cherished the two hours of solitude his agnosticism bought him.

For an hour while Veronica got ready, he lay half asleep in bed, listening to the shower and the hair dryer. He pushed his nose into the pillow when the smells of hair spray and perfume misted over him. As soon as she left the room he sat up, threw his legs over, consulted the mirror that stretched across the bedroom wall, pinching his middle. Since his thirtieth birthday, he’d kept a tight watch on calories. His metabolism was being taxed by the horizon line of middle age, and despite the fitness magazine’s proclamations of ‘Get the body you want in six weeks!’, he was unconvinced.

Veronica breezed by him. He jumped. “Didn’t hear you coming,” he said.

“What are you doing today?” she asked, and that’s when he noticed yet another just-off-the-rack gown clinging to her figure for dear life.

“Is that new?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re lying.”

She snapped around. “How dare you. Especially after last night.”

He took a step toward her. She backed up. “I haven’t seen the same dress twice in months. How deep are we in?”

“I only shop when I find deals.”

“Plastic is always a deal, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” she said, brushing past him.

He stood impotently, watched her leave and listened for the car. Once the coast cleared, he went outside, dropped to the driveway and stretched for his run. The day was overcast; shadows from roaming clouds rolled over him. After completing his regimen of stretches, he began to jog, picking up speed until he’d found his pace. Strangely, a stitch formed in his side at the mile mark, forcing him to slow until it passed. Although it hadn’t completely vanished, he lengthened his stride after another quarter of a mile and edged into the zone moments later, only slightly aware of the darkening grayness above. Cars passed him, but he remained body-focused: steady, rhythmic breathing, his arms pacing his legs, and the cataloguing and disregarding of the various aches that pop up when your vanity keeps you a runner past thirty.

A half hour later he made it home, the stitch doubling him over now, rendering his breathing shallow, and he grabbed the plastic-wrapped Sunday paper off the lawn. He’d finally made it to the best part of Sunday mornings: the peaceful, serene lavatory expedition. It was the defecatory highlight of the week, neither wife nor child to bother him, and no colleague to inform him that his shit did indeed stink and would he mind flushing and starting over? Better yet, no warm toilet seat. It was top-notch privacy.

Once the guilt of being a heathen had passed, he looked forward to Sundays, counted down the days when he was forced to be regular at work, where invariably the guy in the stall beside his was a grunter. But today his legs were asleep before he noticed that nothing had happened. With a shrug, he resigned to finish the front page and patiently await his Citrucel and morning run to work their customary magic. But after another ten minutes of nothing much, he dropped the paper and got down to the serious business of heaves, groans and lamentations. Ten clicks later and not even a hernia to show for it, he stood, awash in sweat. He shook his head, turning to see if perhaps he’d accomplished more than he’d imagined.

And stopped breathing when he saw the blood.

Chapter Two: Mary

1

During the five hours that elapsed between Simola Straight and the outskirts of Savanna, Mary and Freddie McDylan did not speak. Mary’s emotions were almost too much for her to bear, but she wept quietly, checking her urge to scream. This sudden despair was stifling, along with the silent I-told-you-so passing between her and her mother, who had been right on the money about Scott. Freddie being right was almost worse than getting dumped.

She squeezed her eyes tight, her stomach growled, and she clamped her hands on her knees, gripped them as hard as she could, allowing the rhythm of the van to lull her. She began to think about tires turning, spinning so fast they were shiny with speed, the rims so blurred they appeared motionless. And then she was back at her house. She and Freddie were readying themselves to hit the road for North Carolina when her father’s voice kept them from getting in the van. “Ladies?”

Mary followed her father’s approach over Freddie’s shoulder. Even on his day off, George wore one of his monogrammed starched shirts, although the top two buttons were rebelliously undone.

“Sorry,” he said, pushing his spectacles toward the bridge of his nose. “Scott called, begged you two to wait.” George hesitated in the middle of the sidewalk, his prized flowerbeds on either side. His azaleas and forsythias were in full bloom, bracketed by carefully pruned bushes. Stark against the brick walls of the house, ivy crawled from the earth to the sky. “I guess that’s it,” he said, hurrying back into the air conditioning.

Mary and Freddie faced each other. “Didn’t you see him last night?”

Mary avoided her mother’s eyes with a nod.

Scott had stopped by around ten, and she met him in the driveway. She reached forward to kiss him and Scott offered his lips, but the kiss wasn’t much.

They spent the better part of an hour alone outside, discussing such far reaching topics as Mary’s nervousness and Scott’s dreams, but they didn’t mention their chances. She considered bringing it up more than once, but wondered if they weren’t on such solid ground that the thing didn’t need talk; but another part of her wondered whether their bond was so thin that discussion might sever it.

When Scott noticed the blinds parting at regular intervals, and Mary noticed Scott’s disgust at her mother’s not so subtle snooping, they parted with another chaste kiss. He swept his long silver hair from his face, told her he’d stop by later, much later, then jumped into his Z-28.

Around one, a rapping woke her. Starting from her doze, she unlatched the window. Scott pushed through, the tang of clove cigarettes and whiskey wafting in with him. He held a fifth of ABC’s cheapest; half gone, the liquid swirled behind the label. He leaned forward and kissed her sloppily, then rambled drunkenly for a few minutes. After Mary noticed his words slurring, they got down to it. He stretched her out, slowly peeled off her clothes, and inched his tongue along her skin in the careful, sincere strokes she’d come to expect. He spent what seemed like forever pleasing her, only stopping when she ran her hands through his hair and told him to make love to her.

Scott was still freaked out over this summer’s accident, the day he’d pulled from her to find the condom broken. Tonight, he cautiously unrolled the condom over his penis, careful not to leave any air bubbles. When he finally entered her, she was shocked by his subdued, almost sad lovemaking.

It was as if he was touching her for the last time.

Mary stirred in her seat, bit her lip.
What an asshole
, she thought. He hadn’t shed a tear, hadn’t so much as murmured an apology for last night, for taking that last piece of ass before unceremoniously dumping her after three years. No, he’d done the dirty deed, jumped into his beloved Z-28, jacked up some Kid Rock and peeled out.

Did he even care? Just what kind of guy was Scott? Was he about convenience, about keeping a low-rent fuck buddy handy? Could it be that he would turn out to be just another serial monogamist in this world of sound bytes and quick edits, another rock and roll dreamer ready for the quick sell for any muse with big tits and a tight ass? Or was it her? Were her tits too small? Her ass not tight enough?

Freddie let off the gas, reaching over.

“I love him,” Mary said, hiding her face in her hands.

“I know,” whispered Freddie. She tapped on the brake, guided the van to the shoulder of the highway, jammed the lever into Park, then reached into her purse for a tissue. Dabbing it along Mary’s face, she asked, “Anything I can do?”

Mary placed her hands on her lap. The air conditioning began drying her face.

“Where do you want to eat tonight?” asked Freddie.

Mary looked over, ventured a smile. “The usual.”

* * * * *

As they entered the smoky darkness of The Overtree, Freddie and Mary huddled close, both remarking how George would disapprove of this place. They giggled like sisters sneaking one past the old man.

The hostess led them to a table near the spot-lit stage, where a microphone, drums, a stack of speaker, and a piano sat. At the Baldwin an old black man made of sharp lines and gums was plunking out a Monk cover.

“I love it here,” whispered Freddie, reacquainting herself by stealing long looks, like deep breaths, around the place.

The waiter approached, and Mary said, “Sweet tea,” her mother, “Bombay martini, straight up.” Freddie eyeballed Mary playfully.

Smoke kept the taint of whiskey aloft, and Mary wondered if they weren’t cooking with it behind the flapping kitchen doors. Servers rushed in and out of them, announced by the clink of dishes and the shouts of red-faced chefs. Above them, the balcony hummed. “I wonder who’s playing tonight?” she asked.

“They must line up for months for this gig,” said Freddie.

Gig
, thought Mary, turning her head to smile. Words like that reminded her that her mother had been alive—if not, hopefully, sober—during the sixties.

Her mother’s eyes closed and Mary stared at her, knowing Freddie was culling tidbits of conversation from the thrum.
She’s still beautiful
, she thought. Mary knew, from an oft-consulted year book photo, that her mother had once been a devastating beauty. How had her father, a teenage accounting major who’d skipped two grades, even scored a date? She closed her eyes, seeing a younger version of George nervously drying his palms on his pressed slacks, strolling up to Freddie, and setting his briefcase down in a prim bow. Mary laughed out loud.

“What is it?” asked Freddie.

Mary shook her head. “Just thinking about something happy,” she said. “You know, taking my mind off Scott.”

Freddie raised her martini glass, swirled the gin around in it, and then knocked it back.

Mary blinked. Her mother was more nervous than she’d thought. They’d come here many times, Savannah being relatively close to home, but Freddie had never pounded her cocktail.

Her mother lifted a finger and the waiter nodded, jumping into motion.

Materializing in the spotlight, a pony-tailed sound engineer counted out, “One, two, three . . . testing . . . testing . . . one, two,” then vanished into the darkness surrounding the stage as the band members strolled on. A fat man in a tank top descended onto a stool behind the drums while, beside the microphone, a man so vascular as to inspire stage-side gossip tore his guitar from its resting spot against a speaker. He tossed the guitar strap over his shoulder. They paused, waiting until a tall, thin man made his way into the light, a bass guitar across his chest. His baldness, waxy in the glare, was glazed with sweat. He slid a pair of sunglasses on and nodded at the man behind the Baldwin. The bass hummed a line beneath the bright, crisp chords of the piano, and the front man bent his knees, fixing his mouth under the metal ball, and time seemed to freeze a moment, and then the man began an old Leonard Cohen song.

* * * * *

After her late night of jazz and gin, Freddie McDylan slept through Georgia and South Carolina, leaving Mary to nervously pilot the van. Although Mary had flown in to check out the campus last year, seeing the geographical transformation from the ground left her with a tangible sense of her life’s change. For the first time she admitted to herself that she was frightened.

Leaving Charlotte behind, they veered onto Interstate Eighty-One. Freddie finally stirred, holding her head in her hands. She was silent until they took the steep incline of the off-ramp, then spoke only to mention her hangover.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning at Carmichael University. They entered through the main gates, Freddie commenting on the huge oak, whose branches shouldered the sky. She hadn’t yet seen the campus, and she went on and on about the old style Southern architecture. Each building, with the exception of the dorms, looked as if it belonged on a plantation: marble steps led to porticoes enclosed by ornate trim; ivory columns held up nothing but parents’s hopes. Mary guessed the north end of campus existed to justify the tuition.

Freddie helped her up with her things, then burst into tears before leaving. Only after several long embraces did she finally find the strength to get back on the road.

Once her mother had been gone a while, the room began to register. It consisted of approximately the dimensions of her shoe closet back home. Two beds lined the outer walls, separated by a desk. Between the second bed and the outside wall, a mini-fridge held the smallest television she’d ever seen. Dazed and hungry, she began to unpack, and had nearly finished when her roommate burst in.

“Well, hey!” the girl exclaimed, waving as if she were seeing Mary off instead of greeting her.

“Hi. I’m Mary,” she answered, instinctively backing up.

“Grady. I didn’t think you’d get in ‘till later. Shit, I could’ve helped you up.”

“I got in a couple of hours ago,” Mary murmured, dazed.

Grady was a spiky platinum blonde. Her ears were clustered in pendants, and a cross dangled from her right lobe. Her cut-offs displayed ankle tattoos and her half-shirt bulged with breasts. Mary self-consciously glanced down at her own.

“Do you have anything casual but sluttish?” asked Grady, sliding the wooden closet door back. She began rifling through Mary’s clothes.

“For you?”

Grady gave her a gap-toothed grin. “No, for you.”

“For what?”

“A frat party. ‘Sides,” she continued, striking a Madonna-esque vogue. “You think I need a slut-fit?”

“Guess not.”

“As for you,” Grady said, sizing up Mary’s Gap jeans and white polo. “You couldn’t show less skin if you put a paper bag over your head.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

Grady tossed her head back and laughed. “Whatever. You’re gorgeous.”

Mary smiled.

Grady didn’t notice. She yanked a t-shirt out of the closet and lifted it up for an inspection that turned out to be perfunctory. “We’ll slay the boys,” she announced.

Mary would remember those words, and later she would wonder if they weren’t some sort of ironic prophecy.

* * * * *

Having grown up in Florida, the North Carolina fall was something of a shock for Mary. Grady led her by the hand as she gazed around, admiring the way summer died here. Leaves dangled from withered branches while the gloom stabbed through the balding tree tops. Everything glowed.

Decked out, they crossed campus sluggishly because Grady shouted to anyone within distance of her high-pitched voice.
She and her tits make friends quickly
, thought Mary, dazed with a list of names, potential majors, and Grady’s seemingly boundless charisma.

“It’s gorgeous here,” said Mary, looking back at the forestry surrounding the south end of campus. She like this area better than the campus proper, which smelled of money decadently spent.

Grady shrugged. “Florida girls fall in love with this shit. The turning leaves, the oaks, the three-story view. But the only sight I can’t wait to see is Mike Randall’s beautiful cock.”

Mary cupped a hand over her mouth.

“Please,” said Grady, smirking. “You’ve sucked a little dick in your day.”

“Not a little one,” Mary retorted. She was surprised by how quickly it came out.

Grady threw her head back and bellowed laughter.

Mary took stock of her acquaintance. Back in high school, she’d always chosen the artsy crowd, kids who might show their art in the local lesbian pub, or, after a quick shot of whatever was handy, shout out a few lines of bad verse from the back of the bar. She’d never had a friend like Grady, a girl who if she hadn’t grown up in a trailer should have. Did this make Mary a snob? “I had a boyfriend,” she said, taking a deep breath, reminding herself that she’d wanted to go away to college because she’d been sick of the sameness of high school life. College was about getting out from under what you knew.

“A boyfriend? Listen, don’t ever date a guy under twenty-five. Most couldn’t satisfy a farm goat with a cattle prod. Other than the illustrious Mister Randall, that is, who just happens to have the eighth wonder of the world attached to his pelvis. But Mike doesn’t have a manual for it, he’s just blessed.”

Mary laughed, caught Grady’s eye and smiled at her.

Bass greeted them as they trudged the ravine. At the crest, it changed from a deep sensation to a bright sound. Then Mary caught sight of the two-story dump of the frat house. She hesitated. In high school,
frat house
was an exotic, enticing image: dusky corners where boys hovered over girls, beers held like labels for their amorphous personalities; dark rooms where couples groped for the parts they’d longed to touch in the light; whispered refrains, half-poems, and boozy dreams. But here, with the romance of the old campus behind them, the house caught her off guard. She’d never actually seen one.

Grady grabbed her by the arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Mary, but she couldn’t take her eyes off it. On the porch, a crowd fought for the limited space. There were so many that she found it hard to make out individuals: pale ovals twisted on fleshy sticks, some framed by clumps of oily wire, others by blonde helmets; arms that ended in claws or knobs flashed out, ownerless; t-shirts advertised personalities while others were bold enough to emblazon their ideals and demons in streaks of ink on their flesh.