Without asking, the older of the two white-coated women fitted the straw into his mouth. “Can you talk?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded rusty and disused.
“I’m Doctor Teller. You’ve had a clean break of your left forearm, what appears to be a mild concussion, and around your middle there’s bruising of a sort I haven’t seen before.”
The man by the window cleared his throat. “I have, ma’am. Mr. Glenwood was most likely worked over by somebody wearing knuckle-dusters.”
Marcus’ stomach convulsed slightly at the pain and the memory. The doctor set the cup back on his side table and continued. “We’ve done a scan and there appears to be no skull fracture. Does it hurt to move your head?”
“Yes.”
She pulled a penlight from her pocket. “Follow the light, please.” She watched his eyes track. “Any blurred vision? Dancing colors?”
“No.”
“Good. Tell the nurse if that changes.” She motioned to the uniform. “The deputy here wants to ask you some questions. Feel up to it?”
“Yes. What time is it?”
“Nine o’clock Saturday morning.” To the deputy, “Keep it short.”
But after the doctor had departed, it was Alma who moved around to seat herself by the bed. She reached down and came up with a thermos. Before she had unscrewed the top, Marcus was already salivating from the aroma.
“I’ve boiled this for six hours before I put it through the sieve.” Marcus watched her fill the cup with a golden liquid thick as syrup. “Can’t imagine we lost too many vitamins.”
Marcus sucked so hard the chicken soup squirted hot and sharp to the back of his throat. He kept it up, sighing noisily for air, until the cup was drained. Alma poured a second cup and held it for him, smiling tired and sad all the while.
He shook his head to the offer of a third cup. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything. Not ever.” She screwed the top back on. “I’ll leave this right here for whenever you want more.”
The deputy shifted his weight, causing the leather of his gunbelt to squeak noisily. Marcus turned his gaze back toward the window.
“Amos Culpepper. We met at the Halls’.”
“I remember.”
“You see who did this?”
“One of them. The others wore masks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Marcus did so, pausing often to allow the pain in his head to subside. The arm ached no matter what he did, but each word had to be squeezed through his pounding skull. By the time he was finished he was sweating hard.
“So you think two of the men were the same as those over at New Horizons.”
“Yes.” He shut his eyes, and saw again the mud-spattered boots. “Can’t be sure.”
“Think I’ll mosey on over, see what I can stir up.” Amos started for the door. “When you’re moving around I’d like you to look at some pictures.”
“All right.”
He opened the door, then paused another time. “You aim on dropping this case?”
“No.”
The deputy nodded once, up and down, very slow. “Good.” His eyes tracked over to Alma. “Ma’am.” Then he was gone.
Alma waited until the door sighed closed to turn back and start in. “Marcus …”
But he could hold to the room no longer. He closed his eyes and went spinning away.
MARCUS AWOKE to a fuller sense of alertness. With the wisdom of the ailing, he knew it would not last. Even so, he was grateful for this assurance that his faculties were not damaged. What was more, the thunder in his head had lessened somewhat. He was able to turn without agony and see Austin Hall seated there beside him, dark eyes glittering in the light from the window.
“Like some more soup?”
“Please.” Marcus moved one limb at a time, saving the weighty cast on his left arm for last. “But first help me to the bathroom.”
He had to lean heavily on the older man, who took his weight without complaint. When Marcus returned he rested a moment on the edge of the bed, though it hurt his head to do so. He wanted to revel in his mobility a moment longer.
Austin took it as a sign, and handed him the steaming mug without a straw. “How’s the head?”
“Better.” The soup was divine, almost a distillation of good health. “You don’t have to sit here.”
“I wanted to.” Austin finished that subject off cleanly by holding out a plastic pill cup. “The nurse said you were to take these when you woke up.”
Marcus did so, not minding the prospect of more drugged fogginess now that he knew it would pass. Then, because they were both thinking of her, he said, “Tell me something about Gloria.”
Austin seemed to have expected the question. Or perhaps it was just that his thoughts remained centered upon this subject. All his thoughts, all his energy. “She hates math.” The late-afternoon light was golden and warm and glinted off the man’s tie. Sitting weekend duty in a sickroom and the man’s top button was still closed, the tie still tight. “She has a great mind for strategy and none whatsoever for numbers. Three rows needing addition sends her screaming from the room.”
Marcus sipped at his mug. “Strategy.”
“She’s brilliant at chess. Learned the game before she started school.” The smile was a swift shadow. “Beat me the first time on her ninth birthday. I was astonished, I can tell you.”
Marcus felt that it all meant something. Or it should. But the mental struggle was too much. “She looked so happy in that photograph.”
“Gloria is all or nothing. And all the time. One hundred percent happy, one hundred percent angry, or sad, or excited, whatever. She dives into her emotions like she does all of life. She is a good student when it suits her, and terrible when her mind is elsewhere.”
“How was she just before she left for China?”
“Like the walking dead. Utterly and completely miserable. She had been absolutely despondent for months. Morose and weepy and quarrelsome. Kirsten was the only one who kept her on an even keel. The two of them had been close for years, but they grew closer than sisters. Ever since she and that Loh boy broke up, Gloria had been teetering on the verge of a breakdown.”
Marcus set down his cup. “Who?”
“Gary Loh. Brilliant kid. Medical student. Strong in the church.”
“You approved of him.”
“He changed Gloria’s life around. Before, well, Gloria went through a wild stage her first year at Georgetown.”
A lethargic fog began to take hold of Marcus’ limbs. “So I heard.”
“Who from?”
“Oathell.” He swung his legs up and onto the bed, eased his head onto the welcoming pillow.
“Yeah, she broke that boy’s heart. But Gary was good for her and Oathell couldn’t keep up, and that’s the truth from her own daddy. She and Gary made a fine-looking couple. Real fine.”
The warm languor seeped into his bones and traveled up his body. “But they split up. Why?”
“Gloria wouldn’t say a thing. One moment she and Gary were planning to get married. The next, nothing. We didn’t hear anything for over a month. Then she came home for Thanksgiving and spent the entire time locked in her room sobbing. Like to have broken Alma’s heart, especially when she wouldn’t tell us what was wrong.”
His mind could not hold a train of thought. It flittered about, landing where it would. “How did she get so interested in New Horizons?”
Austin seemed to find nothing odd in the sudden shift. “I doubt there’s a single family in our church without some tales about that company. All of them bad.”
Marcus murmured, “You?”
“Ask Alma sometime about her nephew, the one who worked for the unions.”
Marcus wanted to ask more, but the talk left him. His final awareness was of a strong dark face watching as he slid into sleep and away.
HE AWOKE late in the night. It was only in the midst of this silence tha
t he recognized the noises that had occupied the rooms and hallway outside his door. Marcus reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory. When Charlie Hayes answered, Marcus asked, “What time is it?”
“I know you must be sick. Calling me in the middle of the night, waking me up so you can find out the time.” There came a rustling sound, then, “It’s just gone one. There. You satisfied?”
“I was thinking about one of the stories you told me. About that case when you got so excited in your closing argument you fell over the railing and landed in the jury’s lap.”
“I won that case, by the way. Guess the folks figured if I was that excited I had to be telling the truth.” A pause. “How are you, son?”
“Better.”
“I came by twice, but you just snored through my visits. Libby brought me one time, Deacon the other. Made Libby cry to see you lying there with your head all bashed in.”
Marcus fingered the bandage over his left temple. “Tell her I’m fine.”
“That why you called, to remind me about some foolishness from forty years back?”
“No.” A single breath, then the commitment. “Jury selection is scheduled to start on Monday.”
“Been pondering that myself.”
“I can’t handle it alone.”
“Recognized that fact the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“I don’t want to postpone the trial, Charlie. It means they win, at least for the moment. And every day counts.”
“You can go ahead and ask, son. I won’t turn you down.”
“That means a lot,” he said, taking an easier breath. “Good night.”
MARCUS WAS ALONE when he awoke the next morning. After breakfast he showered and shaved, finding great consolation in his isolated mobility. The doctor came soon after, inspected him carefully, and declared him free to go. “But I want you to watch for signs of internal bleeding.”
“I will.” His belly was a rainbow of dark and violent hues. It was not a time for a cavalier attitude.
“And if your vision should start blurring or the headaches worsen, call me immediately. Otherwise I want to check you over in a week’s time.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
As the doctor departed, Kirsten stepped inside. “You’re up.”
“I’m more than that. I’m free to go.” Marcus wanted to ask why she had been apologizing earlier, but not at the cost of that small sad smile she gifted him. “You look very nice.”
And she did, standing there in the doorway in her floral-patterned skirt and dark blouse and hair so blond it held highlights of fine morning mist where the sun touched. He even liked her uncertain air and the way her purse strap was wound tightly through her fingers.
“Alma and Austin are downstairs. We wanted to check in on our way to church.”
Though his body ached and he doubted he would have the energy to go the full round, he found the prospect pleasing. “Is there room for me?”
Clearly this had already been discussed. “I could drive you in your car, if you like. The deputy brought it over from the courthouse.”
“That would be great.” He rose slowly, ashamed of the need to test each joint in turn. Then he was glad of it, for she walked over and fitted herself to his side. Almost as if she belonged.
THE DRIVE out of Raleigh was under clouds so low they almost grazed the eastern hills. Their leaden color was scarcely lighter than the asphalt. Marcus cracked his window and let the warm, humid air wash away the hospital’s bitter tang.
Kirsten followed Alma and Austin out of town. She waited until they hit the four-lane U.S.-64 to say, “I want to help you.”
“That’s good. I need all the help I can get.”
“I mean with the case.”
“I know what you mean, Kirsten. And I’m grateful. Really.” Her expression showed she needed more convincing. “We’re going up against an army. They had seven lawyers in the meetings with Judge Nicols. I need help with the prep work. A lot.”
“I thought after what I told you in the hospital, you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
Marcus knew he would have to ask her to repeat herself, and sooner rather than later. But her tone had the somber openness of the confessional, and right then his greatest desire was to give back in kind. “I never wanted to take this case.”
“I know.”
“Not because I couldn’t win it. Because I was afraid of letting the Halls down.” He settled his head onto the backrest, easing deeper into the cushions, letting the seat take all his weight. “I guess you’ve heard about the accident with my family.”
“Alma told me. I’m so sorry.”
“I never went back to my old house. Neither did Carol, my ex-wife. I hired a mover and some friend of Carol’s supervised. Except for my clothes, I haven’t unpacked any of the boxes. I couldn’t risk accidentally coming across something that belonged to one of the kids.”
“I could do that if you like.”
The offer meant so much he had to confess, “I never wanted anyone to rely on me for anything important, not ever again. I’ve been too good at letting people down.”
“Alma said the accident wasn’t your fault.”
Marcus sighed and made do with, “I always saw my grandparents’ place as my last refuge. Somewhere I could go and take only what was comfortable.” He paused, then concluded, “It’s not the first time life has proven me wrong.”
To her credit, Kirsten did not respond. She held to her silence as she drove into the church parking lot. Only after she cut the motor did she say, “Alma and Austin both think you are the only one who can bring Gloria home. Deacon Wilbur feels the same.”
The words weighed heavily upon his entire being. Marcus opened his door and started the distressing process of unlimbering, only to be halted by a featherlight touch on his arm. He turned back to meet a gaze far keener than the day’s light. Kirsten said, “I think they are absolutely right.”
THE CHURCH gleamed white beneath the slate-colored sky. The neighboring hillside was dotted with autumn colors, startling in their brilliance when all else loomed dark and gray. The building on the summit seemed washed to an ashen sullenness, as though mortally offended by Marcus’ arrival.
The congregation had always been pleasant in their welcome, gracing his arrival with genuine smiles and warm handshakes. Today the customary was not sufficient, however. Marcus was met by a charge of faces and greetings and softly spoken questions. Alma and Austin could not even make it to where he stood, for too many others moved in and claimed him as their own. Everyone seemed intent upon calling him by name. There was much laying on of hands as they ushered him inside and settled him down. Even then they still surrounded him, reaching over to pat his shoulders, arms, hands. The attention left him wounded and grateful both.
He sat by himself, Kirsten across the aisle with Alma and Austin. People stood all around him, their singing a shout of impossible harmonies. Impossible that so many voices could find so many different ways of joining together. He felt sorely alone and yet glad of it, as though the two sides of his conflicting nature were both exposed and comfortable in this noisy yet hallowed place. Here he was, both the man who sought to remove himself from the world and the man who loved to do battle. The man who scorned the fray and the one who lived for the formal jousting of courtroom wars. The man who was newly wounded and the one who could not deny that he was healing still.
Marcus found the world returning to focus, and he realized that Deacon Wilbur was walking toward the center of the stage. The audience hummed approval. Clearly this was an unexpected gift. Marcus had not heard the old man preach before.
Deacon reached forward and took hold of the podium. He did not merely stand. He gripped the wood and leaned out, scowling, fierce as a bird of prey. Through his fatigue, Marcus struggled to listen.
“You’re out there, running life’s race. The pressure is constant, the pace relentless. Is it so? Let me hear how hard it is for y
ou folks outside these sacred doors.” Deacon Wilbur waited through the calls and the clapping, scowling and squinting, forcing those who watched to watch themselves. “Tell me, brothers. Are you tired? Speak your mind, sisters. Do you lose sight of the finishing line?”
He remained utterly unmoved by the clamor he was raising. He shouted to be heard. “Do you feel like you’re not going anywhere, you just stay busy running? Is an easy breath hard to find? Has the struggle left you wounded?”
A woman in the second row, big and made bigger by a bright scarf wrapped around her middle like a second skirt, wriggled by those blocking her way and danced into the central aisle. She shook from her head to her feet, her hands up and waving, the words a chant of startling beauty. “Hard, oh yes, Jesus, so hard, so hard!”
Deacon Wilbur remained unfazed. Only his glistening face suggested he was moved by the message. “Then the problem is, brothers and sisters, you are running alone.”
Marcus was not aware he had risen to his feet until he noticed that Deacon had become easier to see. “Brothers and sisters, just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you’re moving in the right direction. No. Can I have me an amen?”
The crowd sang its chant of accord.
“You’re not drawing closer to the goal just on account of you’re making good time. No. The task here isn’t to be busy. No. The world is full of the lost and alone, filling every crack in the mask they use to hide an empty heart with busy. Look around, see the desperate people shouting words they don’t want to hear. Just filling the world with busy, yeah, filling the void with everything they can.”
Deacon Wilbur was a man transformed, fierce and authoritative now, as though the cloak of age had been kicked aside. The old pastor’s face shone like it was coated with a fine sheen of oil. “Listen to me now, brothers and sisters. Listen good. Your very lives depend on this. Are you listening to me now?” When they shouted their attention, he said, “All right. Here’s the truth revealed. You’ve got to do your work for a higher cause. You’ve got to take your steps for something more than yourself. You’ve got to draw that next breath with something greater than your own selfish desires in mind. Can I have me an amen!”
The Great Divide Page 21