T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“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.”

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 you,” 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.”

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.”