“Them who know don’t talk about it,” Charlie agreed, grinning and pointing across the water. “Lookit your nephew there. Like he’s done died and gone to bass heaven.”
The pastor glanced over but did not smile. “Mind you don’t tell nobody ’bout this.”
“No sir, Deacon.” Subdued now. Respectful.
The pastor asked Marcus, “You aim on fly-fishing?”
“It’s been a while. But I’d like to try.”
“Run on over to that big cypress there to the other side. There’s fish been playing between them roots I can’t get to with my cane pole.”
Their boat flitted through the circle of sun and heat, then returned to the cool shade on the pool’s far side. Occasionally whoops erupted from the other boat. Marcus remained content with his own boat’s silence. He had more than enough to concentrate on just then, relearning the art of casting.
After he hooked and landed his second fish and Oathell his fourth, the young man said, “Uncle says you want to ask about Gloria.”
“You knew her?”
“Guess I did. We had us a thing going till she left for D.C.”
“What was she like?”
Oathell was using a spinning rod and a top-water plug. He flicked it expertly between cypress roots. Instantly the water erupted furiously. He pulled, hooked, reeled. Marcus plied the net, then raised the dripping prize over his head for the other boat to offer soft accolades. The bass hung over both sides of the net. “Must weigh over six pounds.”
“This is my reward,” Oathell said, accepting the net and fish, drawling the last word so it came out, ree-ward. “Been after Deacon to show me his secret place ever since I could walk.” A dark gaze flitted his way. “Uncle says, I talk to you, he’d bring me along. Wouldn’t tell me why he was letting you in on this.”
Marcus said mildly, “I expect it’s a bribe. He thinks I should accept the Halls’ case.”
The young man stared openly now, then turned back to the lake and the fish with a quiet “Huh.” A few more casts, then, “Gloria had a wild streak in her. She’d hide it good, then something’d set her off. Man, it was like night and day. You ever met her daddy?”
“Last Sunday.”
“What’d you think of him?”
Marcus was abruptly caught by something his grandmother used to say. “He struck me as a man uncomfortable with his own hide.”
Oathell laughed once, a quick bark, but it rang through the quiet air long after the sound was gone. To Marcus it felt like an unexpected compliment. “That’s Austin Hall, all right. But he loved that girl of his. Loved her like a straightjacket, it seemed to me. Sometimes the fit got too tight, and Gloria’d just go crazy.”
“Is that why she went to Georgetown?”
“Partly. Girl was smart, could’ve gone anywhere.” An angry flick of the rod. “I didn’t want her to go. We were young, sure, but I was ready to settle down. We tried to make it, me here at Nash Community College and her up there in the big city. Like to have drove me crazy, trying to keep tabs on the woman. Didn’t like to think about her going wild up there, with me …” Another angry flick of the pole. “That spring I asked Gloria to marry me. She said no way was she ready. We fought. She broke it off.” Another cast. “Maybe she’d already met Gary, but I don’t think so. She says that didn’t happen for another year after we broke up.”
Marcus stopped pretending to pay attention to the water. “Gary?”
“Gary Loh. Oriental guy, Chinese parents, born in this country. Med student up at Georgetown. Man had it all. Looks, brains, money. Ran some kinda campus outreach for a local church.” A glance at Marcus, flicking like the lure. “You a religious man?”
“No.”
“Hear you went to Deacon’s church last Sunday. How’d you find it?”
“My ears are still ringing.”
Another barked laugh, quiet this time. “I hear you. Gloria didn’t have time for no church until this Gary started sniffing around. Then every time she came home it was God this and God that, like to drive you crazy. Then something happened, I’m not sure exactly when it was, maybe a year back. They broke up is what I heard. I tried to get back with her. She wasn’t having none of it.”
Marcus set down his pole and turned to face the stern. His movements were slow, deliberate. He inspected Oathell, who continued casting and reeling, the motions as constant as breath. “How long ago did you two break up?”
Oathell flung the lure far out over the water. “Six years.”
The young man was handsome, even with his features pinched by pain kept fresh with unvanquished love. Oathell was about his own height, a couple of inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and narrow waist. Marcus asked, “What do you do?”
“I’m a technician with IBM out in the Research Triangle. Work on grinding the silicon plates for chips. Been there ever since I graduated from Nash.”
Marcus noticed the slight hunch to the shoulders, realized the young man was dreading a further torrent of personal questions. But Marcus had no desire to cause anyone unnecessary discomfort. So he said, “Why would Gloria take on New Horizons?”
The muscles unbunched, the man took an easier breath. “You know the saying, the thing folks love to hate? That’s New Horizons.”
“So the stories about the way they treat workers are true?”
“Don’t know what you’ve heard, but I imagine they are. Every family in that church has somebody who’s worked over there. And anybody who works for New Horizons is sooner or later gonna come into a story all their own.” He lifted the lure from the water, sat watching the dripping hooks. “My daddy worked there for nineteen years. Hated every minute of it.”
Marcus spoke his thoughts. “So Gloria might have been able to access a lot of in-house data through her contacts inside the church.”
“I reckon that girl could’ve gotten her hands on just about anything she wanted.” The pinched expression returned. “Hard to find anybody at that church who doesn’t love Gloria.”
Marcus thought of his own contact with the company on the hill. “Even so, a lot of people rely on New Horizons for their paychecks.”
Oathell shot him another glance, this one as dark as the waters beneath their boat. “We’ve got a lot of practice eating the bread of folks we despise.”
SEVEN
WHEN MARCUS ARRIVED at church that second Sunday, it was to the sound of thunder.
Four young women stood on the stage behind the podium, rapping out a message about going astray. The amplified music was so loud he could not hear most of the words. Marcus tried to slip into the back row, but smiles and little hand motions invited him forward. There was none of the sullenness he found on every street corner in Edgecombe County, none of the silent watchfulness. Gentle hands patted his back as he moved toward a seat in the middle of the congregation.
The discomfort he had known the previous Sunday did not return. Not even when the young pastor came to the lectern, raised his hands in benediction, then invited the congregation to welcome the newcomers. Not even when a woman three times his weight turned and engulfed him in lilacs and talcum powder. Not even when her place was taken by a dozen others, all of whom knew his name and welcomed him with an offer of Sabbath peace. Not even when the crowd launched into the next song, and Marcus slid quietly back into his seat.
People nodded his way, smiled whenever their eyes met. He was neither the tallest man nor the only white face. And he was far from being the best dressed. By the time the singing stopped and the prayers began, Marcus had come to recognize that the only discord was that which he had brought in with him.
After the service he noticed Alma and Austin Hall in the parking lot and walked toward them. As soon as Austin spotted him, he turned and walked away. Marcus halted in front of the big-boned woman and said, “I’m sorry I trouble your husband.”
“It’s not you, Mr. Glenwood.”
“Call me Marcus, please.”
“It’s not yo
u,” she repeated, her voice as sorrowful as the gaze that followed her husband’s retreat.
“I was wondering if I could come by and speak with you today.”
“I have a board of trustees meeting that runs all this week. I’ll be tied up in strategy sessions the rest of today and most of tomorrow. Could we just take a turn here?”
He followed her through the parking lot, observing how people noted their closeness and turned away politely. He moved through a tumultuous crowd, yet was shielded even from the children. Parents steered the littlest ones aside; the older children took swift note of their elders’ reactions and pretended the pair was not even there. “The people here think a lot of you.”
“Gloria was one of their own,” Alma said matter-of-factly. She waited until they had reached the path that bounded the cemetery to ask, “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“You do not have a case against New Horizons.” It was not how he had intended to express himself. But the day continued to reverberate with an authority that permitted no glossing over his message. “I’ve spent a lot of hours going through the evidence. And I am telling you here and now, there is no motion I could prepare that would result in a positive verdict.”
Alma Hall continued along the gravel path. The cemetery’s waist-high fence was a derelict affair, with many of the iron rods eaten through and weeping rust. The path itself was weed-strewn and unkempt. Thistles and honeysuckle scrambled over the fence and climbed the oldest headstones. The air was scented with wildflowers and blackberries. Families walked the interior ways, pausing now and then to look down at graves and talk quietly among themselves while the children sang and danced about. The atmosphere was subdued yet happy, a pleasant realm of memories and peace.
Alma Hall demanded in her quiet precise way, “Why do I have the impression there is more you want to tell me?”
Marcus took a breath and held it. Kept it locked up tight for what felt like ages, long enough for them to make the turning at the back corner. Which was where Alma halted and turned to him. “Well?”
He squinted out to where girders for the New Horizons headquarters building thrust like giant pikes into the scarred hillside. And released the breath. And committed. “I need to know whether your goal is actually to win a case against New Horizons.”
“I want my baby home.” A response as firm and solid as the woman herself.
“We might be able to accomplish that just by bringing suit. An accusation of this magnitude would attract a lot of negative attention.”
“Do it.”
“I’m not promising a thing, Mrs. Hall.”
“It’s time you started calling me Alma.”
“This could backfire in the worst possible way.” Almost wishing she would relent and release him. “If New Horizons had a hand in your daughter’s kidnapping, this could drive them farther underground.”
She stabbed the Sunday afternoon with a finger as straight and true as the distant girders. “Those people over there are snakes. They are evil. It doesn’t take a genius to know they’re involved. They’ve lived their entire lives crawling around underground.”
Marcus studied the woman. “That’s a mighty strong statement.”
“You ask anybody who’s had dealings with that group. They dress it up with a fancy logo and nice colors, but they’re snakes out to make a killing off the young. Creating a world of make-believe, telling kids they’ll grow up to be stars if only they buy these fancy clothes and special shoes.” The arm dropped to her side. “What about the warning the other lawyer gave my husband, something about the court arresting us?”
“Actually, they would come after me, not you. It’s called filing a frivolous claim. And yes, it could just happen.”
“But you’re willing to go after them anyway? Even after that other lawyer turned us down?”
The sun rested like a gentle hand upon his head and shoulders. “Let’s just say I’ve got a lot less to lose.”
EIGHT
THE RITUAL of fearful tremors chased Marcus from his bed long before the light was strong enough to be called morning. After breakfast he took a final cup of coffee out to the veranda. The wrap-around porch was one of the house’s many follies, with great open rafters of wild cherry exposing a cedar-shingled roof with tiny fake cupolas at each corner. The pillars were maple, including the new ones Marcus had turned and carved himself, and the floor’s planking was ten-inch heart-of-pine. Three of the dozen-odd rockers he remembered from his childhood had been salvaged from termites and wood rot. Marcus was trying to decide which one to sit in when the process server came and went like a ghost from the dreams he had hoped would remain inside. He settled himself just the same, leaving the bulky envelope unopened and unread in the seat beside him.
A morning mist whispered silent fables of autumnal chill. The trees stood as apparitions in the gray half-light. Even the house’s own connection to earth seemed gossamer and fragile. Somewhere out beyond the borders of his vision a motor purred. It appeared to approach from all directions at once, the fog was that thick. A bulky shadow pulled into Marcus’ drive. A door slammed. A wraith scrunched up the graveled walk and became the old pastor in paint-spattered coveralls.
“Got folks telling me of signs all over the county,” Deacon Wilbur said in greeting. “Portents of a hard winter to come.”
“Soon as this mist burns off, we’ll be back in summer heat,” Marcus replied.
“For now.” The old man turned and stared over the porch railing, squinting his whole face as though peering ahead through the mists of time. “But the dogwoods are already casting off leaves, like we’d lived through hard frosts for weeks on end. And there’s tales of gray squirrels warring over nuts while the acorns lie ten inches deep under the oaks. Nanny goats with winter beards already a foot long. Hoot owls crying the whole night, restless like they was hunting against winter hunger. You ever heard the like?”
“Not in all my born days,” Marcus said, liking the old man immensely.
“Don’t you scoff, now. Don’t you scoff. Such signs and portents are the writing of nature’s hand for them who know the tongue.”
It was the closest Deacon had ever come to what Marcus might consider the normal conversation of friends. “I could brew up a fresh pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”
“Thank you, no. My back teeth are already like to floating.”
“Would you have a seat here?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Deacon Wilbur settled himself into the rocker next to Marcus. The chair creaked a gentle welcome, and the floor drummed comfortably as the man set a slow cadence to the morning. “Nice to see you in church yesterday, sitting there among the faithful.”
The burnished mist shimmered slightly. “I enjoyed it.” Marcus fretted that the words were so insufficient as to be insulting, but the old pastor simply rocked and hummed a quiet listening note. “And the music was incredible.”
“I always wanted to sing in the worst way. Only thing I ever got was the worst way.”
“Have you ever been to a white church?” Marcus asked.
“A few times. They were just fine, I suppose.” Deacon Wilbur chose his words carefully. “Problem wasn’t with those churches. It was me. I heard the spirit in there, yes. I wanted to stand up and thank God for the gift. Dance, shout, clap my hands.”
“And they didn’t.”
“Not that I saw. Felt like I was sitting there with the chosen frozen.”
“While I was in your church, I felt good. Comfortable.” Marcus was stymied by his inability to confess just how rare those moments had become.
“I tell you what’s the honest truth.” Deacon’s words flowed in time to the rocker’s creak. “You’re welcome. The place is yours. I don’t know how to say it plainer than that.”
Marcus felt the pastor’s gift deserved an honest response, and motioned to the packet in the seat on his other side. “A process server showed up an hour ago with the final divorce decree.”
“Right sorry to hear that.” The words were spoken to the fog. “Yes, I truly am.”
The sympathy in Deacon’s voice left Marcus too open not to say what burned his gut like a branding iron. “I’m seriously thinking about getting drunk.”
There was none of the condemnation he expected and half-hoped he would receive. “Didn’t know you were a drinking man.”
“Used to be. Always thought it came with the good life. And it fitted the job. People unload their problems on a lawyer like they do a doctor. I found bourbon helped ease the blows.” He waited for a response, and when none came, the bubbling pressure gave him no choice but to proceed. “I’d been drinking that weekend of the accident. A lot.”
Deacon contemplated the fog a long moment before asking in that deep, honeyed voice, “You taken a drink since then?”
Marcus finished off his mug, wishing it held more than cold coffee. “Not after that first week.”
The reverend spoke as though reading lines written in the mist. “Afraid if you started you might never stop.”
“That’s about right.”
“Afraid when you hit the bottom of the bottle you’d be staring into the darkness of eternal night. Looking straight into your own personal hell.”
Marcus said to the bottom of his cup, “Sounds like you’ve been there yourself.”
“Something I’ve found on life’s hard road. When I’m staring at the great temptations, I’m being turned from an even greater opportunity.” He faced Marcus for the first time since seating himself. “You got something that needs doing? Something strong enough to call to your heart just like this hunger is firing your belly?”
To his surprise, the blinding mist suddenly revealed what he had been half-seeing all morning. “Yes.”
“Then I expect your comfort is gonna come from going and doing.” Deacon rose, and in the process settled a solid hand upon Marcus’ shoulder. He turned from the fog, the portents read and dismissed. “My bones tend to settle of a morning. Best to get them up and moving about.”
The Great Divide Page 9