Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy (5 page)

Chapter Six: The Innkeeper and the Preacher

1

The innkeeper, William Penneray, a man of ample backside and perpetually shaded feet, thought about Daniel. The strangers had said his name, as the preacher had foretold it years back.

William walked out from behind the counter, into the hallway behind it. The kitchen was at the end of the hall. His wife, Gracie, a woman of mountainous cleavage whose body hadn’t agreed with a corset in more than twenty years, looked up from rolling dough on a long sawbuck table. “I’ve got to step out a moment,” said William.

Gracie nodded. A glob of dough tumbled from her mouth.

William’s stomach turned, then he smiled, told her he loved her, and left. Walking down Tempest’s streets, he evaded piles of manure, turning his face into the crisp night air. Again, he thought about Daniel. He also thought about the good things that happened to people who did as the preacher bid.

William didn’t often have an excuse to visit Nathaniel Durham—Tempest’s architect, mayor, and preacher—but when he did his chest puffed out and his gait improved. Calmly, he strode down Main Street, watching the moon ride high above the gold-tinged roofs. When he reached Adams Street he veered north, passing a row of darkened houses. In only one window did he notice a candle; inside, a shadowed face looked up from what appeared to be a large Bible. The face watched him pass.

The balloon-framed tenement dwarfed the houses beside it. It echoed with the sounds of the poor. Then the street opened on the world and Penneray turned left, lifted his eyes to the spot in the sky the steeple occupied. The massive oak doors were shut, but a light flickered just inside the window. When he pushed open the doors, he was greeted by the trembling light of candles. The pews rested on the puncheon floor, vacant, and charcoal sketches of the savior’s passion glittered beside pewter whale oil lamps. He stepped inside. Like splattered ink, his shadow splashed against the walls. “Reverend?” he whispered, then jumped when Reverend Durham stepped from the sacristy, his spectacles in hand. The preacher’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t speak. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

“Then spit it out.”

“A family checked in an hour ago,” began William, pausing, rolling what followed off his tongue slowly. “They asked for Daniel.”

A kind of light played in Durham’s eyes. “Daniel,” he whispered, disappearing into his office, motioning for the innkeeper to follow.

William glanced at the floor to hide his smile.
The world is controlled by men in dark rooms
, he thought. He’d always dreamed of existing in the shadows.

Chapter Seven: Symptoms

1

Robert Lieber felt terrible. Inexplicably, last night’s shot of whiskey had gift-wrapped a hangover for him, and his stomach wasn’t feeling much better. To top it off, Veronica was in a mood—she’d gained an astonishing pound and a half. You
should
be fat, he thought. You
deserve
to be fat. She wasn’t, though, just retaining water. He thought about pointing this out to her and decided against it. He didn’t even have the blessing of his daughter’s presence, as Jenn had gone to a roller skating rink with a friend.

Like any sane man, he headed to the office. Officially the semester didn’t start until Wednesday, but he had more than enough to keep him occupied. Busy work filled his time until five after four, when he packed up and headed out.

Between classroom and car he nervously checked his watch twice. Veronica had warned him to be back at six for dinner—his beloved considered lateness both a character flaw and a personal affront, but he had an hour, so he decided to cruise the Straights.

On the bank of the St. John’s River, rust buckets leaned on ancient whitewalls. In a row of lawn chairs, a family fished, their lines glistening loops in the sun. Past the piers, many of which were missing planks, a Budweiser truck idled outside Wolfy’s, the bar that crouched on the spit of land between the piers and the harbor; at the latter, five pleasure crafts were floating back to dock, their owners shaded by the sails.

* * * * *

He expected to see Veronica’s car in the driveway, but it wasn’t there. He wondered if she and Jenn had changed their minds about going out.

Then he saw the note. It was propped up against the candle on the kitchen table. It read, W
E WAITED FOR TWO HOURS!

He set his briefcase against the table’s leg and checked his wristwatch. It was nearly eight. He shook his head in disbelief. Hadn’t he left campus around four? He had. He remembered checking his watch and the clock outside the English building. He had only driven around town for an hour.

That’s when he heard the rumble of his wife’s car.

Seconds later, the front door opened and Jenn galloped in, clamped onto his leg, yelled, “Daddy!” Her pig tails whipped about her face like tether balls. “I had a Happy Meal!”

“You get a toy?” he asked, eyeing his approaching wife warily.

“They put a Scooby-Doo in it!”

Veronica stepped inside, a plastic bag hanging from each hand.

“Can I help?”

“I’m just fine,” she said, brushing by him.

“Vern, I have no idea what happened. It’s like I lost time.”

Veronica spread her palms on the counter. “Jenn?”

“Yup?” Jenn let go of his leg and walked, head down, to the base of the stairs.

“Draw your bath.”

She shuffled upstairs.

Veronica punched her fists onto her hips. “You expect me to buy that?”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Whatever,” she said, starting to unpack the groceries.

Robert didn’t feel much like kissing ass. Her impertinence was irritating him. “What’s your problem?”

She turned. Her cheeks were crimson as beets. “You’re my fucking problem, you little boy. I give you one thing—”

“Go to hell. What do I need, a signed permission slip?”

“Oh please, I let you get away with more crap—”

“ ‘Get away with?’ I’m a man and you’re not my mother.”

“Too bad. If I was, you’d worship me.”

He whitened, backed up a step, the fight abruptly out of him.

“Oh please, you never even knew her but you read her diaries as if they were the word of God,” she said, raising her voice in a televangelist-like vibrato. She continued to unpack her groceries and remonstrate with her back to him.

Robert stared at her, feeling as though he’d never met her, and left before the lecture ended.

* * * * *

In downtown Simola Straight, the only light was inside The House of Socrates. The mayor dimmed the streetlights at quarter till nine. He parked behind Dan’s red Chevy. Dan was on the bench, a Camel in his hands. “You’re here late.”

“Domestic squabble,” said Robert, pulling out a chair.

Dan took a drag.

Robert shrugged. “I crossed the missus, then rode out to let her cool off. It was weird though. I think I lost time today.”

“Lost time?”

“Yeah. Like three hours.”

“You been feeling alright?”

Robert hesitated, then caught Dan’s eye. “Yeah,” he said, stood up, shook his head, looking down the street, which was deeply shadowed and flooded with moonlight. “Dan, what kind of man am I?”

Dan tamped his Camel, then looked into the sky. “What kind of man,” he repeated thoughtfully. “An agnostic, a secular humanist.” Dan nodded, as if these labels meant something real. “A good man, Robert. A good man.”

Robert stepped away from the table, feeling his friend’s eyes on his back, and stared at the sky. What did agnostic mean, exactly? A shrug of the shoulders? A raised eyebrow? Robert charted the constellations with his eyes. Only matter, he thought. The heavenly bodies followed their designated courses, eternal and irreversible, and the tides and the cosmos did not tremble with mystic undercurrents. The mystery was man, finite man and his place in the infinite machine. These were the answers he’d always subscribed to, but hadn’t he always, deep inside, suspected that something more was at play? “Agnosticism is weak,” he muttered, still gazing skyward. Dan said nothing, so Robert turned around.

Dan wasn’t there. The House of Socrates was dark. The sign had been turned to C
LOSED
. P
lease
C
ome
A
gain
. He peered into the reflective window, knowing Dan was in there somewhere, but he saw no movement. Chuckling, suspecting a practical joke, he jangled his keys and head for his car, only stopping when he saw that Dan’s Chevy wasn’t there either. He checked his watch. And seized up. Stopped breathing.

It was four in the morning.

2

Early Tuesday morning Veronica Lieber was sitting in her car outside a Motel 6, reading a letter headed by the worst F-word in American society. It wasn’t the word most middle schoolers think of in association with the letter; it was the worst word she could imagine, a forbidden word to those ensconced in the type of society she could only dream of:
Foreclosure
. In shock, all she could force from her mind was
I’m in trouble this time
, which was the sort of grand understatement she specialized in.

She closed her eyes. How had it come to this, to these letters devoid of even the semblance of customer service? Consumers shouldn’t be treated like this, she thought, reminding herself of the hefty interest she paid to You’re Home, Inc.—and they had the right to go batshit when she was thirty-five days late? She sat up, breathing deeply. In the enclosed cabin her breath was a mix of stale meat and mouthwash. “It’ll be fine,” she assured herself.

But the mortgage wasn’t her only problem.

The Motel 6 represented a conundrum that had been a blessing in the beginning, a welcome time-out from life. It had started like an afternoon soap—they met at the gym, Christ recognizing her from the portrait on her husband’s desk. At first, her giddiness around him was trés middle school, but that didn’t change the natural course of things from lust to adultery. Within a week, they began their long-standing routine of Motel 6 excursions whenever their schedules permitted, and often when they didn’t. Not only did Chris Flagert have an Adonis-like body, he had the job Robert didn’t have the guts to go after. This made him perfect. Strangely, Veronica felt no happier with him than her husband.

Knuckles rapped on her windshield. She gasped, jumped, crumpled the paper, hoping he hadn’t seen it. Chris stepped back, and she opened the door. His features scrunched up in what she supposed was concern.

The morning air was uncharacteristically chilly. A cold front was making its way down from North Carolina and she shivered as Chris Flagert led her to their room.

* * * * *

The fan was running in the bathroom. Veronica kept looking over at the closed door. Chris was behind it, grunting quietly. There was something so childish about an affair. Marriage was uncomfortably naked, so she’d plunged into a relationship that, by its nature, left the souls of both undisclosed.

Chris flushed the toilet and opened the door, standing in the doorway before coming closer. The muscles in his stomach rippled, his chest flashed. She stretched out on the bed, arching her back like a feline, curling her legs until her muscles flexed. She smiled up at him dreamily.

Chris’s penis hung thick and bald. He dragged a finger along the thick vein on his cock, then curled his fingers around it, lifting it up. She took it, moaned deeply and worked hard until it was over. Afterward, she slumped back, her legs parted, her back flat. Drops of sweat dotted her forehead and upper lip.

Chris stood at the cheap vanity, clasping his belt. He studied his face, fixed his hair, tucked in his shirt, then turned to face her. He frowned. “You’re not ready.”

“No,” she said, reaching for the sheet.

“How come?”

She wrapped the sheet around her, rose to her knees, creeping forward. He sat on the edge of the vanity. “Why didn’t I come?”

He wiped his hands all over his face, then said, “Tense? I don’t know, you never come.”

She slumped back. She had never come. Although she’d occasionally neared orgasm, something had always kept her away from it. She stared off, thought of the letter, of the life that existed outside these walls. “I think I’m in love with you,” she told Chris.

“No, you don’t.”

She looked up and a soft, uncertain smile came over her. “No, I don’t,” she said, staring at her lover in his white shirt and precise tie, his khakis and loafers. A university boy from the word go. She stretched and the sheet slipped off to reveal the corner of her left nipple. “I wish I did, though. I wish I did,” she said. “What do I love?”

Gathering up his coat, Chris didn’t answer. He strolled out and shut the door behind him.

3

Robert awoke at five-thirty on Wednesday morning. He’d been dreaming; again: the beach and the prehistoric sky. He was slicked in sweat. The sheets were soaked. Raising his head, he saw Veronica on her side. Her blankets rose and fell. They hadn’t said much after their screamer on Monday, and last night he’d taken one look at her and decided that making up could wait. He slumped back and his mind wandered. He thought of the first time he’d seen Veronica, how her curly brunette hair spiraled to her shoulders and rested there; and her eyes, round and aware. He approached her that night in the bar, somehow confident of a connection, of smart remarks passing between two world-takers. She’d turned when he tapped her shoulder, seeming so alive, so filled with humor and crazy intelligence. The rest was a blur: two years of dating and bad sex; a proposal around Christmas; a spring wedding.

He tossed his feet over the bed. Downstairs, he entered his office, flicked on the lamp, rolled his thumb over his mother’s diaries. Inside the fourth volume was a photo of his mother his father had taken during a birthday party. She was surrounded by friends, who were all laughing as if at a punch line. She seemed oblivious of the camera. It was his favorite picture of her for that and one other reason: his father had obviously been watching her work the crowd and had lifted his camera, so in love, so proud of his wife that he had to have a keepsake. Then it hit him: Veronica looked like her. The same curly locks, the same vivacious face, the same awareness of the world.

He snapped the diary shut, slid it back in its place.

* * * * *

After breakfast, he dressed and left for the first day of fall semester. He thought it odd Veronica hadn’t gotten up yet, but he was glad. Tonight they could talk. Tonight they could fix things.

Feeling weak, he was curt and irritable during his morning classes. And was it his imagination, or were the students staring at him? Their gawking unnerved him, so he released his second class ten minutes early and retired to his office. He shut the door behind him and sighed, collapsing in his chair.

His office was small. Particle board bookshelves lined the wall opposite his desk, and two others bordered it. The smell of mildew was powerful. Hunching over his barely finalized syllabus, he crossed out lines, added others. He’d only been alone five minutes when someone knocked.

“Robert?” called Chris Flagert, the department chair.

“Yes?” he answered, and Chris entered with a changed body.

Flagert glanced down as if he had no clue. “Oh, the weight,” he said. “I thought Veronica might have told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Our schedules often coincide at the gym,” said Chris, straightening his tie.

“Ah,” said Robert. “What can I do for you?”

“Not that you were required to be there, but I didn’t see you at the department’s orientation. I wanted to touch base with you about your submissions to the journal.”

Robert frowned.
Oh, you mean the tight
-
assed literary journal you’re hoping will cement your rep and land you a spot on a campus more deserving of your erudition?
Instead, he said, “I’ve been working on three, Chris. All summer long.”

Then, for the first time since he’d entered, Chris’s eyes met his. His eyes went blank. “What are they about?”

“The homoeroticism in Cheever. Updike and God. Chabon and comics.”

“Oh,” said Chris, absently raising a finger until it was leveled at Robert. “What’s wrong with your neck?”

“What?” asked Robert, feeling around.

“No, other side.”

He reared back. And felt it. “What the—” As he had when he’d seen the toilet full of blood, he broke into a cold sweat.

“Seen a doctor about that?”

Sitting up, he folded his hand in his lap. “How could I? You just told me.”

“Oh,” Chris said, sidestepping to the door. “You can leave early if you want. Better get that checked out.” On that note, Chris fled.

The knot was under his jaw. The left side of his neck was swollen around the palpable lymph node. He pressed on the skin but it told him nothing. It didn’t hurt, but it was rock-hard. It was the size, shape and feel of a bullet casing. “Christ,” he said, finally grabbing hold of the node between his index and middle finger. It was fixed. His we search had warned of that.