Robert Wilson - The Divide

Amelie, who was tired of this, said, “So why didn’t you?”

“Because she had some goddamnned pit bull or something on a leash beside her. One of those killing dogs.” He emitted a high, drunken laugh. “It even looked like her! But I should have … you know … I should have fucking killed her.”

So do it sometime. Just do it, and then they’ll lock you up and I won’t have this problem.

She said, “There must be someplace you can stay.”

It sounded like pleading.

“You’re it,” Roch said. “You’re my sister. You owe this to me.” He added, “What’s the problem—that shithead you’re living with? Well, you can just fucking ditch him. This is an emergency. I mean, I’m family, right? So tell him to get the hell out or I’ll kick his ass.”

You didn’t have much luck last time you tried, Amelie thought—but then she remembered that Benjamin was gone. Maybe because she was stoned and frightened now, his absence became abruptly real. She really was alone here. All by herself in these broken-down rooms.

She didn’t want to give in to Roch. But if she refused, odds were he’d be over here anyway. He would want a fight; and she couldn’t face that … not now…

So she told him, “Just tonight. Just until you find something. Okay? Just tonight.”

He was instantly soothed. “That’s my girl.”

“I’m not your girl, Roch.”

“You’re there when I need you. That’s what counts, right? That’s what family is for.”

“Sure. That’s what family is for.”

In the aftermath of his call, the silence in the room was stunning. She turned down the volume on the TV but she could still hear a high-pitched whine radiating from inside the set. A leaky tap ticked in the kitchen.

She turned away from the phone, then turned back as a flutter of motion attracted her eye. A slip of paper had been tucked under the phone; now it slipped to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it.

A phone number. A name.

Susan Christopher.

The woman who had come looking for John Shaw.

Maybe Susan Christopher knows where Benjamin is, she thought. It was possible. But the Christopher woman might be out of town by now. Probably was. There was a hotel address written under the fold of the paper. Probably she would have checked out. Still—

No, Amelie instructed herself. Don’t think about it now. Save it.

She tucked the note into her purse, down deep between her wallet and her make-up case—a safe place. She might want it, she thought. Later.

Susan stayed an extra month over schedule in Toronto, living frugally on the money Dr. Kyriakides had wired her and waiting for the phone to ring.

She developed a schedule. Her mornings were her own, and she used them to explore the city, on foot or by public transit. There was always the possibility that John might try to contact her during these hours, but it was a calculated risk: she could not simply sit in her room and wait. So she would wake up, shower, buy breakfast in the hotel coffee shop. She had left standing instructions with the switchboard to take her messages—which must have amused the telephone staff, since there weren’t any messages, ever—and she was careful to get back no later than one o’clock in the afternoon, a stern rule that served to assuage her guilt.

In time, she developed a few favorite destinations. She liked riding the ferry to Ward’s Island and back, Lake Ontario bleak and pretty in the November weather. She liked Chinatown. She discovered cheap, interesting lunches in the Vietnamese restaurants along Dundas west of University—John would approve, she thought. She shopped for reading material in the second-hand bookstores along the city’s somewhat bohemian Queen Street strip. Afternoons, she would read by the phone. There were days when she spoke to no one except the waiter in the Saigon Maxima and the desk clerk at the hotel. The isolation had become a fact of her life. I am, she thought, like those people who live in caves for months on end. She had begun to lose any real sense of time.

It was Dr. Kyriakides who reminded her of how much time had truly passed. He phoned at the end of November and said, “I want you to come home now.”

“But he hasn’t called,” Susan said. “He—”

“I think at this point we have to admit that it might not happen. When was the last time he contacted you? Almost a month ago, wasn’t it?”

Approximately that. And it had been Benjamin, not John, and the news had not been encouraging—he was calling from a motel somewhere out west and he believed John was acting out some kind of regression, unwinding his life down the highway toward some unknown destination.

“But he said he’d try to call again,” Susan protested. “If I leave now he won’t be able to find us!”

“John can always find us if he wants to. That decision is in his hands. I suppose it always has been. We can’t force our help on him. But my main concern, Susan, is you.”

“I’m doing all right.” But it sounded petulant, childish.

“You’re becoming obsessive,” Maxim Kyriakides said.

“Shouldn’t I be? You’re obsessive about John. You told me so.”

“I have a legitimate reason. I’m entitled to my guilt, Susan. I’ve earned it.”

She didn’t want to explore the implications of that. “One more week.”

“I don’t see any point in prolonging the inevitable.”

“I’ll make you a deal. One more week, then I fly back—no arguments, no regrets.”

Dr. Kyriakides was silent for a moment. “You know, you’re not in a position to bargain.”

“As a favor, then.”

“Well … then let me make the arrangements. I’ll buy you a flight back to O’Hare. One week from tonight. Precisely.”

The thought of it was chilling. But he was right, of course; she couldn’t stay here forever. She was living on his money, borrowing time against an academic career she could not postpone indefinitely. “All right,” she said. The offer was generous, really. “Yes.”

“Good. I’ll call back when I have a flight number for you. You can pick up the ticket tomorrow.”

The deadline came quickly. Susan counted off the grey, cold days one by one until they were gone. She confirmed her reservation at a travel agency opposite the hotel, and on the afternoon of the day of her flight, she packed her bags.

Funny, she thought, how anonymous a hotel room seems when you arrive; and then you occupy it, you make it your own. Now the process was running in reverse. With her clothes folded into her suitcases, the closet empty and the key on the dresser—it was as if she had never moved in. Where had all the time gone? But that was one of those dumb, self-punishing questions.

Darkness came early these cloudy days. At four o’clock she flicked on the room lamps and began to dress for the flight. A seven-thirty flight, but Susan preferred to arrive early at airports. Dress and maybe catch a snack at the hotel coffee shop, then a cab to the airport. Check in by six or six-thirty … buy a book at the newsstand and camp out in a waiting room until the flight was ready to board.

She was standing in her slip when the phone rang.

She scolded herself for a sudden leap of hope. Reprieves did not come at the last minute. Only in the movies, Susan.

She picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?”

“Is that—” It was a woman’s voice. “Is that Susan Christopher?”

Far away and unfamiliar, tremulous and odd. Susan frowned. “Who’s this?”

“Amelie Desjardins. You remember me?”

Amelie who had lived with Benjamin. Amelie barefoot in the doorway of a slum apartment, radiating suspicion. “Of course.” Susan wanted to add, How did you get this number? She asked instead, “Is anything wrong?”