Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy (6 page)

Uncradling the phone, he dialed. His beloved Spanish receptionist answered. “Jes?”

“Hi, this is Robert Lieber.”

“Oh, jes, Meester Leeber. How ees jore een-grown nail?”

“Healed wonderfully, thank you. Matt doesn’t have a spot this afternoon, does he?” She covered the receiver and conferred. His heart hammered away.
She’s probably confirming his fucking tee-
time
.

“Wut tine?”

He scrolled through his own itinerary. “Four thirty?”

“Ah, jes. For dirty.”

4

Seven minutes late, Veronica strolled into Trust National Bank. Her subordinate, Babs Tanner, met her in the lobby, a grin plastered on her face. “Sorry, Veronica, but Mister McDylan would like to see you.”

“God knows he wouldn’t like to see you,” said Veronica, tramping to McDylan’s office. But the second her newest stiletto clicked over the threshold her ebullience faded.

“Sit down,” George McDylan told her.

Veronica had worked over a decade for him and he’d never been stern with her. Over the ten years of her employment here, he’d bumped her from the teller line to credit card sales, from sales to mortgages. George had been front-row-center at her wedding.

McDylan adjusted his spectacles, picked up a manila folder and reached over his desk. She took the folder, laid it in her lap. The cover fell back. She gasped, and her internal temperature dropped ten degrees.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asked, red-faced, a vein pulsing at his hairline.

Veronica lurched forward. “George, I can—”

He lifted a finger. “Don’t tell me you can explain. You can’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s better.”

“What should I do?”

“Are things alright at home?”

“They’re . . . okay.”

“Then why are you ruining your life?”

Veronica shrugged.

“You realize I helped push your mortgage through? Did you think Pete wouldn’t call if you were defaulting on the loan I helped you get?”

“I didn’t . . .,” she began, then burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.

He scanned a paper while Veronica continued to sob. “Do you have a plan to get these accounts up to date? Have you spoken with the lien holders? Or did you ignore them, thinking they wouldn’t repossess your cars and foreclose on your house?”

“I don’t—”

“Does your husband know about any of this?” Then George held his palm up. “Never mind.” He opened a drawer, tossed a checkbook on his desk, slipped a pen from his shirt’s pocket protector and clicked the top. “How much?”

Her mouth dropped open. The tears began to dry.

“How much?”

“About . . . four thousand.”

George’s eyebrows rose over his spectacles. But he wrote the check, tore it off, and handed it over the desk.

She hesitated.

“This is a one time offer.”

She took it.

He raised the pen. “Ten percent interest, and I’m taking money out every pay period.”

Standing, she clamped the check over her heart. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

“Shut up, Veronica,” he said, pointed at the door. “Get out.”

5

So close to Doctor Rectal Peeper’s tee time, Robert Lieber was immediately ushered to a room. He smiled at Marie as she closed the door on him, then climbed up on the vinyl bench. Sliding around, he ripped the tissue paper that lay along it. To his right was a porcelain sink. A book entitled
101 Doctor Jokes
was propped atop it. He didn’t think he could find humor while surrounded by such sterility.

Matt knocked. “You decent?”

“Wearing nothing but my pubic hair,” joked Robert.

Matt Robinson entered wearing his perpetual smile, grabbed a stool and plopped his immense body on it. The stool sighed and groaned as he adjusted his weight, but then he eyeballed the knot of sickness beneath Robert’s chin. “What’s up?”

“You saw it.”

Matt nodded. He squirmed, repositioning his ass on the stool. “When did you notice?”

“A colleague pointed it out this morning.”

“Any tenderness around the swelling?”

Robert shook his head.

Matt hopped from the stool, grabbed a clipboard that had a pen chained to it, and wrote. “Any symptoms of maybe flu, a virus?”

“Been a weird week.”

“How weird?”

“Weird enough.”

“Any constipation?”

Robert shut his mouth, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. Gooseflesh sprouted along his arms. He nodded, awaited the next question.

“Night sweats?”

Again, Robert nodded.

“Any blackouts?”

He sighed, then remembered. “I’ve been losing time,” he said, speaking in the voice of a child, the voice that had asked his father what had killed his mother.

“Has the constipation been recurring?”

“No, I’ve gone, but—”

“But what?” asked Matt, hurriedly scribbling on his pad.

“There’s been blood.”

Matt looked up.

“A lot of it.”

Matt’s brow furrowed, thick lines gathering like thunderheads. He rubbed is goatee, set the pad on the cart behind him. From what looked like a box of Kleenex he removed a set of plastic gloves.

Robert couldn’t stop shivering, “What is it?”

Matt snapped the gloves, crimped his hands to make sure they were secure in them. “You’re so dramatic,” he said. “When I saw you three weeks ago, you were fine. If something’s going on,” he said, turning, his long white jacket billowing around his slacks. “It’s just settling in. Most likely, you have the flu and a hell of a hemorrhoid.”

“Shouldn’t we draw blood, do a biopsy . . . .”

“Slow down.” Matt’s chuckle was strained. “You know what to do,” he said, snapping the gloves.

Robert scooted from the bench and dropped his pants. He’d had this done for the first time eight months ago. He turned, set his hands on the tissue paper, and assumed the position. Thick beads of sweat ran between his fingers. He winced when Matt began. Maybe it was the size of his meat hooks, but the man did not have a delicate touch.

“No, pretty normal—oh.” Matt withdrew his hand.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Matt, strolling over to the waste basket, dropping the gloves in.

Robert bowed his head. “Tell me.”

“I’m sending Marie in. She’ll take a vial. Can you be here in the morning?”

Robert raised his slacks, clasped his belt. “I . . . I have a class.”

“Get a sub. I’ll see you at seven, and don’t be late.” Then he left, called for Marie to bring a needle.

6

The offices of You’re Home, Inc. were located by the food court in the Simola Straight Town Center. Malls had always been her worst enemy: shoes, purses, perfume, and smart outfits exclaimed
This is what you need to be complete.

She drove around the food court’s parking, but failed to locate a space, so she settled on the lot by Sears. After parking, she moved through the huge department store with four grand in her purse. It was a gauntlet, but she made it without perusing a thing. Outside Sears, she evaded the carny barkers at the jewelry kiosks, bypassed the survey-takers with clipboards, and did not turn her head toward the entrances of the other department stores. Her breathing returned to normal once she saw the sign for You’re Home.

Behind a counter a broad, partitioned room was flooded with fluorescent light. A black woman in dreadlocks rolled her eyes. “Hello,” she chirped. “What can I do for you?”

“I . . .uh—” mumbled Veronica, out of breath.

The woman rose and came to the counter. “It’s okay, sweetie, catch your wind.”

“I need to make a payment.”

“All right,” the woman replied, flipping the front page of the receipt book. “Will that be check or cashier’s check?”

Veronica’s heart hammered. “I have cash.”

“Sweetie, I can’t take cash.”

She ran the numbers: their checking account was close to being overdrawn and a bad check was grounds for termination, but if she deposited the funds first thing in the morning, she should be alright.

Veronica opened her purse, took out her billfold, flipped it open on her checks and began writing the date. “I’ll write you a check. Sorry, I should’ve known,” she said, laughing, tearing out the check.

The woman took it and stepped to the computer. As soon as the account popped up there was a beep. Her eyes dashed to Veronica and back.

She blushed. “I know it’s late. Had a death in the family.”

“Oh,” said the woman. “You do know your property tax is overdue, correct?”

“No. Are you sure?”

The woman nodded.

“How much more do I owe?”

The woman consulted her screen. “Let’s see,” she said, hitting keys. “Twelve hundred and four dollars. And eleven cents.”

Veronica’s stomach turned. Her mouth dropped open. She wouldn’t have enough to catch up the car payments. She thought she’d borrowed too much, but now? With the penalties and unpaid interest on three loans, plus property taxes? Smiling weakly, she started writing another check. “Just give me a moment,” she said. She tore it off and shifted her stance, hoping she wouldn’t faint.

The woman lifted her fingers from the keys and a receipt slid out of a plastic box. She tore it off, handed it to Veronica. “Looks like you’re safe for another month,” said the woman, her eyebrow raised.

Veronica smiled, folded the receipt, stuck it into her billfold, then traipsed back the way she’d come, keeping her head down, her shoulders rounded, her eyes on the squares of tile. Again, she successfully navigated the mall, only lifting her head when a boy with strange silver hair touched her arm. She halted, regarding the boy’s gray slacks and white polo.

“I know you,” he said.

“I don’t know you,” she answered.

“Yeah,” the boy said, pointing, his silver hair bouncing. “Your picture’s on Professor Lieber’s desk. I just started his class. He’s the coolest teacher I’ve got.”

“Oh, great.”

“Only he dresses kind of funky.”

“He what?”

“You know, dresses drab. I thought maybe you could help him.” The boy backed up, into a men’s clothing store named Ralph’s. “I work here,” he said, pointing up at the sign. “We got a shipment in today.” The boy smiled, reached out. “Name’s Scott.”

As he neared her she noted a long cylindrical object in one of his cargo pockets. A drummer? Then his hand slid inside hers, and his grip was tender, his skin moist and soft.

Scott helped her for an hour, putting the best Ralph’s had to offer on display. Veronica was all blushes and pouty, sexy looks, only pausing to think when he asked her, “You ready to check out?”

It’ll only be a couple of hundred dollars, she assured herself. You can spare it. Both of us get paid in a couple of days. Nothing will be repossessed in two days, right? “Yes,” she finally answered, handing over a shirt and brushing her hand against Scott’s. Eighteen, she thought.

He carried the clothes up front, laid them down on the desk top and began popping off the security stickers. Her heart was racing, her hands were wet. “Thanks for all your help, Scott,” she said, her confidence bolstered by the thought that this kid, who was really kind of cute, wouldn’t steer her in the wrong direction.

Scott rang it all up quickly, as if he knew she was reconsidering, folding and placing the items in the bags hurriedly. When he hit the ‘Total’ key, and nine hundred and seven dollars and a penny appeared on the screen facing her, she gasped. But he was nice enough to repeat the amount. She moved slowly, as if in a dream, popping open her billfold, thumbing through her credit cards and previous receipts, delaying the inevitable.

Finally, she removed a stack of bills from her purse and counted out the hundreds, laying them on the counter side by side.

7

For three hours following his appointment with Matt, Robert paced the bank of the St. John’s, watching fishermen load up their cars, the sun melt into the choppy water, and Wolfy’s light up for another long August night.

When he made it home he asked his wife to join him in the living room. He’d wanted to discuss their relationship, but the docket had changed. She took the couch, Robert the chair beside the coffee table. “I went to see Matt this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she replied. “How come?”

He stretched back, pointed at the node.

“Infection?”

“Come on. It’s huge.”

“What did he have to say?” asked Veronica, looking at the carpet, the couch, anything to avoid looking at him.

“He checked my prostate. I think he felt something.”

“Robert, don’t self-diagnose. Remember what Matt told you last time.”

“He asked me to get a sub for tomorrow. He just called my cell, gave me an address.”

“Okay,” she said.

“The address is the Simola Straight Cancer Center. I looked it up.”

Veronica stared at him for a long time, then fell back, crossing her arms. “Shit,” she mumbled. “One thing after another. Does it ever end?”

* * * * *

Later, Robert slumped into his pillows. His mind wavered on the edge of sleep. He tossed and turned. All his life he’d figured that if God existed, He’d created life by accident. Maybe knocked over a bucket of paint, and—Oh, shit! Look what I did! Life was a cosmic practical joke, a statistical aberration that wouldn’t repeat until the galactic tide returned and its net dragged through the universe again, bringing bits of whatever shit lay on distant solar system’s shores.

He opened his eyes and tossed off his covers. All that had sounded good years ago, when he’d been young, but now? It seemed almost too easy. Sure, people died all the time and they didn’t haunt houses, they didn’t thirst for blood, they didn’t form crop circles, and they sure as hell weren’t doomed or pardoned by a demigod with a spear mark in his side. They vanished. Wasn’t that it? Vanished. No more. But something about that thought struck Robert as lazy.

He closed his eyes. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing quieted. He lay naked under the ceiling fan. Slowly, sleep came. He dreamt.

* * * * *

Cold. Water swallows his skin. He leans back. Blood streaks the sky. Purple runs a line through the black-tinged thunder heads. A crimson sword of light plunges into the west. Beyond him, sand and yellow trees reach into the vastness, beckoning.