Robert Wilson - The Divide

Roch climbed down after her. Amelie fought the urge to run. There was nowhere to go; Roch was fast and she would only make him mad. She stood with her hands at her side, breathing hard.

Roch stood in front of her, close enough for her to smell his breath.

He said, “You don’t trust me.”

She said, “That’s not true!”

He slapped her. It was a hard, stinging, open-handed slap; it rocked her head to the right. Roch was strong … he still worked out in the gym twice a week. Amelie knew this, because he had borrowed money from her to keep his membership current.

“You don’t trust me,” he said, “and you’re lying to me. What kind of thing is that to do? Christ, I’m your brother! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

He expected an answer. Amelie was rigid, frightened. “Sure it means something to me.”

“Liar,” Roch said sadly.

“No, I mean it! I mean—Jesus Christ, Roch!”

He grabbed her wrists; his grip was powerful. “You were running away.”

Amelie could not hold his gaze. She looked at the lake, instead, grey under grey clouds.

“Running away from home,” Roch elaborated. “Look at me, goddammit!”

He took her jaw in his right hand and forced her to face him. His hand traveled up along her cheek in a gesture that was almost a caress; then he took a handful of her hair and twisted it. Amelie said, “Ow!” and began to cry.

“You were going somewhere,” he said.

“I was moving out,” she said. “All right? I’m sick of that place!”

“You didn’t tell me,” Roch said patiently. “You could have told me.”

“I thought you’d get mad!”

He seemed puzzled. “Why? Why would I get mad? I mean, maybe you’re right. We need a bigger place. Hey, I’m reasonable.” His grip tightened on her hair. “But that’s not all of it—right?”

“Shit,” Amelie said.

“Don’t use bad language,” Roch said. “It makes you sound cheap.” He was thinking; his face was contorted with the effort of it. “You wanted to get rid of me. That’s it, isn’t it? Or else—it’s that guy you shacked up with, right? He’s back—right?”

Amelie hated it when Roch talked about Benjamin. Dirty, dangerous words. “Shut up,” she said.

He slapped her again. This time, with his left hand firmly tangled in her hair, it was worse.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he said.

She moaned.

“He’s back—right?”

After a long pause, Amelie nodded.

“You were going to stay with him.”

Pause, nod again. Snow was falling gently now. She felt the flakes against her burning cheek.

“Well, you can go,” Roch said. Amelie looked up. Roch smiled. “You can go if you want to. Sure! Go with him! I’m on your side! All I want—I just want you to prove you trust me. I just want you to tell me where I can find you.”

“No,” Amelie said instantly.

“No? You won’t tell me?”

“I—I don’t know, Roch, we haven’t—”

But she did know. Susan had given her the address of the house; Amelie had written it down and hidden it in her purse. Roch understood this, of course. He always knew when she was lying.

This time, though, he didn’t slap her. This time he jerked his knee up into her belly and at the same time released her hair, put his hand in a frightening grip around her face and pushed. Amelie fell to the ground, doubled over and gasping for breath. The pain was enormous.

Roch said, in a tone of weary patience, “All you have to do is tell me.”

Amelie blinked. She felt like throwing up. She rose to her knees, and then—past Roch, a great distance back the way they’d come along the shore road—she saw a flicker of light. It was a reflection from a car window, and the car was rolling along in slow motion, and it was grey—a grey Honda.

It was Susan, Amelie realized, who must have followed them from the rooming house.

She looked up at Roch, trying hard to disguise her emotion.

He took her hair and dragged her up. Amelie grabbed a double handful of cold, gritty beach sand … and then she was on her feet.

She had seen this in movies. You took a handful of dirt—

Roch frowned. “What now?” Reading her face.

Amelie brought both hands up and thrust them forward, spraying the beach sand into Roch’s eyes.

“What the fuck —!” he screamed.

Amelie ducked past his groping hands toward the Honda. She saw Susan accelerate suddenly down the gritty tarmac. Hurry, Susan!

But the sand-in-the-eyes thing was not as paralyzing as it looked on TV. Roch turned and scrambled after her. She could hear the thump of his big feet against the beach. The sandy beach slowed her down; it was like running in a dream … but maybe it would slow Roch down, too. Amelie saw the Honda speeding toward her as Susan realized what had happened. Amelie drew in great ragged gasps of frigid air.

The Honda veered away from the road and ran a few yards along the verge. It wavered, and Amelie saw Susan groping across the passenger seat to unlock the far door. The door swung open as the Honda curved back to the road. Amelie focused all her attention on that door. It was her only way out of here. Because Roch was mad enough now that he might kill her … maybe not on purpose; but he was strong; she was not.

He was right behind her now. She could hear his angry breathing. She didn’t look back, because surely that would be the end; because he might be right there with his arms outstretched; she might freeze in her tracks, seeing him. She watched the Honda roll forward in lazy dream-time and thought, Here I am, okay, right here, Susan!

Then she felt a tug as Roch closed his hand on her jacket. She pulled away, but only briefly. She stumbled, and Roch tackled her—a football tackle; she went down winded and breathless.

When she opened her eyes he was kneeling over her. But the look on his face was not triumphant; it was queerly mechanical, a vacant gaze that was focused on her only approximately. But his fist was raised and it was obvious what he meant to do. Amelie tried to squirm away but his other hand was clamped in a fierce grip around her neck.

Amelie twisted her head to one side in time to see the front tires of the Honda spitting sand as the car braked beside her. Susan! Amelie thought. But it wasn’t Susan who saved her, really; it was the passenger-side door, which flew open as the Honda stopped and caught Roch across the head and shoulders. Roch slumped forward and his weight was immense, but the grip around her neck had loosened and Amelie slid out from under the limp bulk of her brother.

Susan pulled her inside the car. Amelie slammed the door and hammered down the lock. Susan stepped down on the accelerator. The little car revved against the sand for a long, heartstopping moment; then the rear wheels seemed to bite down and the Honda shot forward. The car missed a leafless maple by inches … Amelie cringed … then they were back on solid tarmac and rocketing down the lakeshore road.

Amelie knelt on the vinyl carseat and peered through the rear window. She saw Roch stand up. He shook himself—she thought of a wet dog shaking itself dry—then stumbled toward his van.

“He’s coming after us,” she said.

Susan said, “Relax,” though she was breathing hard. The Honda turned left and roared through the industrial wasteland. Amelie watched vigilantly but saw no sign of Roch. Then they were into traffic and there was no chance of him following; Amelie sighed and slumped down in the seat.

“Thanks,” she said.

“It’s okay,” Susan said.

Amelie stared vacantly through the window. The snow was falling harder now. The afternoon was turning dark.