T. Bunn - The Great Divide

Clearly this had occupied her thoughts and kept her there the previous night. The pain of resignation was clear in her voice. “They’ll never forgive me.”

This time Marcus felt certain enough of the people involved to know he was offering more than just words. “Kirsten, they already have.”

Marcus had not been to the Rice estate in two years, not since the last time he had come to pick up Carol and the kids. He had never been welcome there. After four years of futile attempts to enter his in-laws’ good graces, he had accepted defeat and restricted their meetings to dinners on neutral territory. The manor had not changed in his absence. The same gardener stooped over the same immaculate flower beds; the same butler opened the door they had stripped off some castle in France. The entrance hall was flagstoned and the arched ceiling rose four stories over his head. Sounds mingled with the scents of furniture polish and fresh-cut flowers. It might be autumn outside, but seasons made little difference within this tightly controlled and sterile universe.

Carol’s mother appeared in the doorway beside the curved stairway, dressed in silk and gold. Her gaze was as coldly furious as it had been in court. “Get out of my house.”

“I’d like to have a word with your daughter.”

“She doesn’t want to speak with you. Not ever again.”

“Nonetheless, I would like to see her.” Marcus planted himself, his stance saying what his words would not. “Please, Mrs. Rice. This is important.”

“There is nothing you could ever say to any of us that would hold any interest whatsoever.” She did not scream. Did not shout. Her breeding permitted no such outburst. But the words cut like daggers. “I await the day your name will be erased from the earth. My greatest regret is that you were ever born at all.”

He did not move. “Please, Mrs. Rice.”

A voice from the study called out, “It’s all right, Mother.”

“It’s not all right. Nothing about this man is right, and nothing ever will be.”

“Let him come in. He’ll leave faster if we don’t fight him.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said, taking it as the only invitation he would ever receive. He entered the long side room, with its handmade windows taken from a Kentish palace. He crossed three antique Persian carpets and passed beneath two chandeliers, his way flanked by bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes. He approached the figure seated by a fireplace burning logs thicker than his waist. “Hello, Carol.”

“What do you want?”

Marcus halted before his ex-wife. She sat with the regal bearing of a queen. Her chair was drawn up close to the fire, high-backed as a throne. The surgeons had done a wonderful job on her face. With her professional hand at makeup, only a single tiny scar was visible just below her left temple. She held her head precisely as he remembered, the chestnut hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to draw her eyes into a habitual squint, her chin tilted and ready for war.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“I asked you why you were here.”

“I’ve come to apologize.” He did not bother to take a seat. Supplicants did not seek chairs or comfort. “You were right about many things. A lot of our arguments happened because I was being too much of a lawyer in our own home, and not enough of a father and husband. You were right about the weekend. I should never have drunk so much the night before. You were right about the accident. If I had been better-”

“You come up here and tell me this and think I won’t tell the newspeople what a snake you really are,” she fired back. “I know you. There’s got to be some ulterior motive to make you grovel like this.”

“No. Not this time.”

“You’ve wasted your time coming here.” Her words were etched sharp into the ice of her eyes and face and voice. “Anybody who asks me is going to hear it all.”

“That’s your privilege.” Marcus found gentle relief in the truth that he really did not care. “I didn’t come to ask for anything. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. For everything.”

Something flickered deep within her gaze, an instant of indecision. The chin lifted, but there was a slight quiver now threatening her poise. “You never could tell the truth. You never gave anybody anything without exacting your pound of flesh.”

“You’re probably right.” Life had always seemed to cost him more than it gave. He had previously sensed a rightness in using any advantage to win a little back. But not anymore. There was nothing to gain, nothing he sought except an acknowledgment of what truth the moment held. “I used my selfishness to keep from seeing just how hollow I always was.”

The quivering rose to touch the words as well. “You’re nothing in my life and never will be.”

Marcus nodded acceptance of yet another judgment against him. “I don’t deserve anything else.”

Carol pressed a fist against her face, clenching back the tremors. Only two hoarse words emerged to command, “Get out.”

“I’m sorry, Carol. For all I was, and even more for everything I wasn’t.” He trod the silent carpeted distance.

He reached the doorway when the voice behind him cried, “Marcus!”

He turned back, saw the hand half-raised toward him, saw the tension that marked her face and gaze. He waited, longing for all he had lost, and watched as the hand slowly retreated, and the face lowered to shelter in tearstained palms. Marcus left the house, wishing there were some way to thank her for trying at all.

On the trip home, Marcus watched the flight attendant push the drinks trolley past his row. The tiny bottles clinked their invitation, the light reflecting off the clear and amber liquids as it would the elixir of life. But the momentary feeling of having done the right thing quenched whatever thirst he might have felt. The feeling stayed with him through the night and into the next dawn, which arrived without either sweats or tremors.

Deacon Wilbur was waiting outside to greet him and Darren upon their arrival at church. The press gathered beyond the barriers to watch and film and be held at bay. Deacon asked, “You give thought to what I said?”

“Yes.” Marcus spotted Kirsten rising from the car with Alma and Austin, and noted the tension. A note of sorrow pealed with the church bell. He realized that Deacon was waiting for more of a response and added, “I flew up and apologized to my wife.”

Deacon Wilbur rewarded him with a single somber nod. “I’d call that a mighty fine first step.”

Marcus excused himself and walked over to the trio. Up close the strain was more evident. He greeted them with, “You’ve discussed it.”

Sunlight rested upon Kirsten’s head like laurels from another realm. “You were right. It had to be said.”

Alma was stiff with sorrow and kept a new distance between herself and the younger woman. Voice tight, she said merely, “We’d figured it was something like this.”

The look that Austin gave Alma held the hoary gaze of shared remorse. “Been thinking it for some time now.”

Kirsten quietly announced, “I’m leaving this afternoon. I’ve caused everybody here enough pain.”

Marcus could not protest, except to say, “You’ve caused me nothing of the sort.” But the words were not enough to dispel her sorrow. Nor to prevent her from entering the church alone.

Even so, the service held to its customary gift of space and peace. Marcus sat encircled by noise and friendship. He watched as a trio of youngsters gathered before the choir to add their dancing and high-pitched voices to a modern gospel song. Two of them wore New Horizons shoes; Marcus recognized the glittering rainbow arcs and the metallic glint to the laces.