T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Then his son stopped singing, and Marcus felt the remnants of his heart wrenched yet again by the sound of the loveliest voice in the entire universe calling out one tiny word.

“Daddy?”

He had no choice. It did not matter that he knew what was to come. His son called to him. He had to respond.

Marcus entered the doorway.

Instantly there was the same horrible flash to his right, the same moment of looking over to see the truck’s polished metal grille catch the sunlight, and there in its reflection to see the face of approaching death. Then there was the sound of exploding metal and glass, and a scream cut off too quickly-one so high he could never tell if it was his wife or his daughter or his son who had made the sound. Perhaps all three. Or perhaps it was his own heart shrieking as the cords binding his life together were severed all at once.

The dream continued. He was back in the hallway, the blackness mocking him now. And again his son called out to his father. Only this time the little boy was crying and frightened by the nightmare Marcus was powerless to end. He leapt through the doorway again. And again he was struck by the truck, the demon, the carrier of death. The wrenching metal and the exploding glass and the single scream catapulted him back into the hallway.

Only this time it was not the hallway where he stood, helpless and straining as the little voice cried to him once more. Now he was in the aisle of the church, caught within the pain of living a nightmare that did not end, not even when he opened his eyes and saw Deacon Wilbur rushing toward him. The agony wrenched Marcus like a bullet to the heart. He fell to his knees, so numb from inner pain that he did not even feel the dozens of hands there to catch and hold him.

A voice too kind and too caring to ever appear in his nightmare world murmured, “It’s all right, brother, it’s all right. The Lord is here. He knows.”

The sound only intensified his pain. He managed a single breath then, one that felt raked over the coals of eternal regret, one that gave him the power to scream his son’s name. “Jason!”

“Yes, Lord, be here with this suffering man. Call his name, God, let him hear you. Let his heart know your healing.”

Marcus could respond only with the cry of his daughter’s name, his precious “Jessica!”

“Dear Jesus, heal this broken spirit, be the salve to bind his wounds and heal his heart.”

A hand gripped his hair so hard he could not burrow into the ground as he wished. He groaned, and felt as though all the earth groaned with him, crying with him and for him. Marcus wept, and felt a rightness that all those around him wept along, for the pressure of holding back a year and more’s worth of tears was so great that all the world should have cried, and still there would be a surfeit of unshed sorrow.

The next morning Marcus arose still scalded by the public shedding of his mask. It mattered little that the nightmare had been but a whisper that morning, and he had slept until the sun’s first traces were strong and clear over the eastern rooflines. He slipped into his sweats simply because it was his morning routine, though it seemed to him that a window mannequin had more life and would fill the clothes better.

When he stepped out the front door, he was greeted by soft footfalls and a pair of young and vaguely familiar faces. He walked down the steps and stood there in the quiet light of morning, trying to figure out where he had seen those dark faces before. Then he recalled the groups of teens clustered on several surrounding porches. Previously they had watched him pass, either in the car or on foot, missing nothing, saying less. No signal had ever been given that they even wished to acknowledge his existence as a neighbor, until now.

When he just stood there staring at them, the taller one informed him, “Old Deacon says you ain’t to go runnin’ alone no more.”

He could not help but show his surprise, which resulted in the sprouting of grins. Marcus asked, “You’ve been watching me?”

“And yo’ house,” the younger boy replied.

The taller one, a young man of perhaps eighteen with an Indian’s chiseled features, said, “Why you think you got something to come home to at night, luck of the draw?”

“Trucks pulled up a coupla times and stopped,” the other said. “We just walk over and give ’em the eye. They pulled away fast enough.”

Marcus fished among the mass of sudden questions. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“We told Deacon,” the older one replied. “Deacon says he told the sheriff. Guess they figured you got enough to worry about already.”

Marcus felt a catch in his throat, as if a vestige of the previous day’s sorrow were still hanging around. So he just nodded, and afterward was glad he had, for there in the predawn light he could not have found anything fitting to say.

The old town became filtered by the comfort of not running alone. A heavy autumnal mist had fallen, squeezed from the stars that seemed reluctant to give way to the strengthening day. His footfalls swished along the narrow path leading across the field and toward the bridge, and the sound merged with birdsong and the panting tread of three men. He seemed to find some remarkable way to draw upon their youth and strength, for he had not run so easily in years.

When he finally pulled back in front of the house, the sun was up and caressing the old fired brick with a ruddy dusting of gold. He stared over the front lawn, a field now of prisms and tiny rainbows, and cherished this place anew. He then turned back to his running mates, puffing and grinning at how they had caught him out and joined his private time. Marcus asked, “What are your names?”

“Aaron.”

“Orlando.”

“I’m Marcus, in case anybody was wondering.” He shook their hands in turn, wishing he could think of something to say, seeing in their eyes that they did not expect words. Or need them.

By the time he had showered and dressed, the deputy’s car was pulled up in front. Marcus gripped his briefcase, then set it back down and stepped out to where Darren and the deputy were talking. “Morning, Amos.”

“Marcus.” His eyes showed a glimmer of deep-set humor. “See you’ve met Deacon’s secret service.”

“Darren, I forgot my briefcase. Would you mind getting it for me?” When the tall young man had departed, Marcus went on, “I can’t thank you enough. For everything.”

“I’ve known good folks and bad, Marcus. And the best kind of folks are those who give more than they take.” He touched Marcus for the first time, settling his hand briefly on the lawyer’s shoulder. “You just worry about winning this here case.”

He heard the door slam behind him, and said, “Has Darren told you about his trouble?”

“Didn’t need to.”

“You know he can’t go into police work with a record.”

Amos gave a fraction of a nod. “Been meaning to speak with you about that. Think you can do something to wipe it clean?”

“The adolescent stuff is no problem, his records were sealed by the court when he turned eighteen.” He heard the young man’s approach, and said simply, “As to more recent events, I understand there’s only one that matters.”

“That’s right,” Amos said. “I checked.”

“I could ask,” Marcus said, nodding his thanks as he accepted the briefcase. “But I’m afraid my stock has sunk pretty low when it comes to calling in favors.”

Amos had to grin. “I do believe you might be in for a surprise there.” He said to Darren, “I’ll follow you gents on in today.”

“There’s no need,” Marcus protested.

This time Darren shared the sheriff’s grin. Amos said, “You best prepare yourself for surprise number two.”