T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“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.”

North Carolina State University had once been content to anchor the empty stretches east of Hillsboro Street. Now Hillsboro was a six-lane thoroughfare aimed straight at the capitol, and State’s campus sprawled in every conceivable direction. In the fifties it had been nicknamed Cow College, since over half its student body had been Piedmont farm children down to learn the new science of agriculture. Now its atomic-engineering department held seven NASA contracts, the agricultural-genetics division designed pest-resistant seed strains on behalf of the United Nations and eleven African nations, two professors had won Nobel Prizes in biochemistry, and the veterinary-medicine department held over a thousand groundbreaking patents.

Marcus parked by the original stone bell tower and asked directions to the math department. He found Dr. Austin Hall’s name on the address board and climbed to the third floor. A secretary took note of his age and his suit, checked the roster, and reported that Dr. Hall had a class but should be stopping by his office in about twenty minutes. Marcus used the time to reread the folder from Kirsten Stanstead.

“Mr. Glenwood?” Despite his stiff demeanor, Austin Hall looked seriously jolted by finding Marcus camped outside his office. “What are you doing here?”

Marcus closed the file and rose from the bench. “We need to talk.”

“I’m extremely busy.” Keys jangled nervously in the professor’s grasp. “I have a faculty meeting in ten minutes-”

“You might just make it,” Marcus replied, holding his ground. “If we don’t waste any more time out here.”

Austin Hall’s entire face folded with resignation. “Come on, then.”

The professor wore a three-piece suit of charcoal gray and shoes that squeaked as he walked to his door. “I wish you’d just speak to my wife.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Hall.” He watched the man have difficulty fitting the key in the door, and knew he was right to come. “This is between you and me.”

Austin Hall entered an office as clean and tightly structured as his clothing. He dropped his briefcase on the desk and retreated behind the polished wood surface. “All right. What is it?”

Marcus shut the door. “Please sit down, Dr. Hall.”

“I told you, I’m in a hurry to-”

“Sit down.”

The man’s jawline knotted, but he did as he was told. Marcus pulled a chair front and center before the desk, seated himself on the edge, took a breath. Another. Forced himself to expel the air and the words, though he had to clench his hands and his gut to get them out. “Eighteen months ago I was driving back from Wrightsville Beach. My two children were in the backseat. My wife was beside me. We stopped at a diner for lunch. We got back in the car and started off, arguing like we had been ever since we left the beach.”

“Really, Mr. Glenwood, I don’t see any reason why you should barge in here and unload these highly personal details.”

Marcus raised his face a notch. Nothing more. Just let the other man see his eyes. It was enough to shut off the protest. Austin Hall dropped his gaze, fiddled open his jacket, and began toying with the gold watch chain that arched across his middle. Anything but look back into Marcus’ eyes.