T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“He told me to stay away from New Horizons.”

“That’s just what I said. You got yourself rousted.” She stared out to where the air over the road remained tainted. “Evil breed. Far as the Hank Atterlys of this world are concerned, folks with a darker hide should never rise above grade school and minimum wage.”

“I’ve heard it said that eastern Rocky Mount is poor because the people with money choose to live elsewhere.”

“Don’t you go believing that lie, not for a minute. Ain’t no reason why the same city council can’t put in the same roads on this side they got over west of the Tar River. Ain’t no reason why they can’t offer free land over here to a shopping center, or build us a couple of them shiny new county buildings, or maybe even a decent school.” She gave her head a decisive shake. “You live here long enough, you’ll learn.”

The phone rang. She turned toward the office and said over her shoulder, “Whole world has changed since your granddaddy built this house. Only thing that hasn’t changed is we still got us a city council and a company with muscle that’re working hard as they know how to hold us back.”

Marcus listened to her answer with his name, heard the rumble of distant thunder as she came back with, “It’s Alma Hall.”

Marcus walked to his corner desk and picked up the receiver. Heard a voice that was familiar and yet utterly new. “You get yourself over here.”

“Alma?”

“Right now, you hear what I’m saying?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t you be wasting precious time with questions. Move.”

Marcus saw no rain as he drove, yet every surface wept recent tears. The roads were clogged with traffic and rivulets from a storm that had missed him entirely.

He arrived to find a state of affairs that resembled the weather. Alma Hall opened the door, tall and upright and still dressed for work in a dark suit and low pumps. But her face was creased with pain and stained by tears she had not bothered to clean away. Her voice sounded tragic, broken. “Thank you for coming, Marcus.”

“You have news.” It could be nothing else.

“This way.” She led him into the living room, where today the plate-glass window showed a world gone monochrome gray. Marcus had time for a single glance before he spotted a third person in the room, one who stopped him in his tracks.

“I believe you know Kirsten.”

He demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“Sit down, Marcus.” This from Austin Hall. The first time he had ever called Marcus by his name. His voice sounded as broken as his wife’s. “Over here, where you can see the television.”

Marcus did as he was told, his gaze drawn back to the silent Kirsten. Today she wore jeans and a cable-knit sweater whose collar was softly rolled, as if she sought comfort from the folds. Her platinum hair lay short and close to her head. The controlling anger was gone, the spiky hair, the barriers. Only the eyes were the same, violet and dry only because she had no more tears to shed.

Marcus asked her, “Gloria contacted you?”

Alma sat on the sofa next to Kirsten and took her hand. “Can you watch it through one more time?”

“It doesn’t matter. I might as well stay.” The words emerged hollowed of all tone, all life. “I’ll be seeing this for as long as I live.”

“All right.” Alma took a shaky breath, nodded to her husband. “Go ahead, Austin.”

He used the remote to turn on the television and the VCR. Before the tape had started rolling, both women were sighing quiet sobs. Austin’s shoulders trembled in tight spasms.

A series of naked bulbs had been strung behind the person who appeared on the screen, so all Marcus saw was a blurry silhouette. It hurt his eyes to watch, for the camera had captured the glare far better than it had the person. He leaned forward, struggling to see beyond the shadows.

The camera overfocused, drew back, sharpened slightly. It seemed to Marcus that the silhouette was mashed somewhat, especially on the left side. Then he realized he was staring at a person with badly matted hair. Probably a woman.

The voice spoke. “Hello, Mother. Hello, Dad. I am fine. Everything is fine here. I am staying here awhile. I am working. I study hard. I am fine.”

The lifeless voice could have been computer-generated. Marcus realized she must have been reading something handed to her. Words written by someone who spoke such poor English he had no idea how wrong it sounded. Or simply did not care.

“I need money for my work. Send money now. Send money and I will be … fine. I am happy. Send money. I want to be left alone. But send money. A hundred thousand dollars. Send it to the Hong Kong branch of the Guangzhou Bank, account four-five-five-seven-two-two.” As she repeated the sum and the account number, a faint keening erupted in the living room, a sound as natural to the scene as Marcus’ own breath. Gloria finished, “I am happy. Send the money. Do it now.”

Marcus sat staring at the empty screen until the other three people managed to regain control. Gloria’s mother finally said, “That’s not my baby.”

Marcus did not understand. “The woman on that tape is not your daughter?”

“No, no.” She stabbed at the television. “That’s what they’ve made her. But it is not my child. They’ve hurt my baby. Hurt her bad.”

Kirsten stared at Marcus with red-rimmed eyes. “You think you’ve finally got enough for a case?”

“This is not admissible evidence,” Marcus said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

“What a perfectly legal thing to say.” Kirsten was too spent to give the words more than a trace of bitterness. “Looks like you’re safe, then.”

“There is no definitive trail of custody, no way to authenticate the tape. We must demonstrate both before-”

“Oh, spare me. What you’re really saying is you still don’t need to commit. Am I right?” She stood and walked from the room. From the stairs she said, “Let me know when this garbage is gone.”

“Don’t mind her,” Alma said quietly. “Those two girls were close as twins.”

Austin Hall sighed his way to his feet, taking it in careful stages. He stepped over to the bookshelves by the television. “Where did you put the photographs?”

Alma replied softly, “Bottom-right shelf, there in the corner.”

Austin opened the little doors, picked out one framed print, straightened, then stood there a long moment. His stillness caused Alma to start sniffling again.

Slowly he turned back to the room. Only then did Marcus notice how unraveled the man had become. From the back he was still the tightly wound professor in his vest and starched shirt and suit pants. But the vest dangled open and the tie was gone and the shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a T-shirt and a trace of graying chest hair. He carried the burden back and stood over Marcus, swaying slightly. “Alma put these things away when she saw how it hurt me to look at them.”

Marcus nodded. He understood that perfectly.

Austin turned the picture so that it faced Marcus. “This is my Gloria. Not what you saw there on that screen. This is my baby girl. Right here. You see what they did to her?”

“Yes.” The woman in the photograph was electric. She laughed so loudly he could hear her voice. More than that. He heard his own children, his son singing in the backyard and laughing like the chimes of heaven.

Gloria Hall wore a cocktail dress of emerald green, probably silk. She was graced by a corsage and the grandest smile he had ever seen. She was a tall enchantress, not beautiful by any means, there was too much of her mother’s strong frame and her father’s sternly powerful features for that. Her shoulders and arms mocked the fragility of the dress. She was aware of this, and she did not care. Marcus stared at the picture and knew he had never met a person happier with her own skin.