The Great Divide a novelette Read online



  The Great Divide

  A novelette

  J.E. Ocean

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The Great Divide, A Novelette. Copyright © 2013 by Juli Ocean. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Acknowledgements

  Bonus Material

  Painting the Rain

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter 1

  I watch a speck on the horizon, my vision unclear at such a distance. It looks a bit pointy… a shark fin? A knife? No, a sailboat, probably. After watching small sailboats circling on the reservoir, I forgot that it is right and good and normal to sail the sea in a forward direction to get somewhere.

  The bottom rungs of my cheap aluminum beach chair scrape solidly against the gritty, beige sand. I have nowhere to be for hours--days if I choose--and the idea of taking in the view, waiting for the pointy thing to reveal itself and where it lands, seems like a calling.

  No people roam the beach and even the footprints of seashell hunters have undoubtedly disappeared along with the dawn. I set my straw bag and Styrofoam cooler on the seat of the blue and white striped canvas chair, then unfurl a green plaid car blanket on the sand in front of it, like an area rug marking my domain. I transfer the bag to the blanket and set the cooler in front of the chair, and ease into the canvas sling seat. Lifting the flat lid, I reach into the cooler and find one of six ice-cold Coronas and a veggie wrap from a deli in a service station. I lean back, resting my shoeless feet on the cooler as an impromptu footrest.

  The sun isn’t quite mid-sky, but the heat bears down like a sweltering late afternoon. I’m careful to bag my beverage in the unlikely event that someone strolls by and becomes offended. It’s been my experience that people generally keep to themselves and don’t care much what you do unless you give them reason. Getting toasted in the sun isn’t a crime, but drunk and disorderly is another animal altogether.

  Back at the day job, things had crescendoed early for a Tuesday morning. By eight a.m. the anxiety level in the office had reached a ten point five on the panic scale.

  I’d been sitting at one of a dozen collections desks of a semi-private cubicle landscape when he walked in—the recently divorced husband—looking more frenetic and discontented than I’d ever remembered seeing him in the half dozen years we were together. This was precisely the sort of scene I had hoped to avoid, and prayed against all during the court proceedings. And, until today, I’d kept my personal life low profile.

  But he’d kept pressing. Needling, calling, emailing and grilling co-workers over the phone about where I spent my time. He completely disregarded the restraining order, the court order and my threats to have him jailed if he continued.

  “Why don’t you return my calls?” he said, his voice halfway between a yell and a whine, he breathed heavily and glared through dilated eyes, pale skin beaded with great drops of perspiration waiting to fall. Sweat stained a ribbon across his chest.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “I wrote, I called, I left messages. Why didn’t you respond?”

  “It’s against the advice of counsel.”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “It’s against the advice of counsel.”

  “Not that one. Is there another man?”

  I wanted to laugh. I had always been faithful to a fault. The male relationships in my life were blatantly platonic. I didn’t even fantasize about other men. I always kept my mind on the things that were upright, pleasant and hopeful. Hopeful fueled the last five years, and eventually, that tank sputtered dry.

  “There’s no one else.”

  The look of incredulity stammered across his face. He might be able to accept that I was a cheater. At least that would be something to cast about for pity. He could blame me for our failing marriage, never once accepting responsibility; never mind what he had done. Never mind that he had started this.

  The pointy thing edges much closer now and looks decidedly like a sailing ship except for the way it razor-backs on the waves. No boat expressed that kind of maneuverability. A sail board? Ah yes, a windsurfer.

  My first Corona of the day hangs off my finger, empty, the veggie wrap still in my lap untouched, my feet propped on the cooler, head leaning back eyes closed with the sun splashing on my face. After a calming minute, I pull a kerchief from the straw bag to use as a napkin and nibble at the wrap, while a bright yellow sail zigzags its way still closer to land, cutting across waves. The veggie wrap disappears bite by bite. I look in the straw bag and find a slip of paper and a pen. I scribble a message on the paper, roll it into the shape of a cigarette and drop it in the empty bottle.

  Rummaging in the bottom of the straw bag, I find a cork from a bottle of wine, Bogle Merlot, shared last week at a girlfriend’s house. I shove it into the glass neck and slowly stand, sauntering to the water’s ever receding edge. My eyes search the beach again, up and down as far as I can see: not a soul anywhere. The sailor is still a long way off and—educated guess—watching the water more than my antics.

  I draw my arm back and lift my right leg like a World Series pitcher, then hurl the bottle into the ocean with all my remaining strength. It spins slightly end over end, glinting in the sun, traveling a lot farther than I would have thought; I figure the outgoing tide will take it farther still and my message with it.

  I’d been a faithful wife. I was a faithful employee too and, despite the brutal court battle, I found myself smiling politely at Evan, so as not to upset him. While he stood at my desk, my co-workers thought he was merely a client making a payment.

  “You’re still my wife,” he insisted. “’Til death do us part.”

  His emphasis on my wife sent a chill through me. We split up because his erratic behavior made me afraid to be alone with him. I still feel afraid whenever he’s around.

  The man who stood before me reminded me of a crumbling fortress. His choice of words unnerved me, though. Not words I wanted to hear.

  “You aren’t supposed to be here, Evan,” I said calmly, loud enough for him to hear.

  “You’re coming home with me.” Not a question but a demand. The air thickened. His eyes flashed something malevolent. “And we are going to forget all about this silly little divorce…”

  My co-workers remaine
d engaged in the process of negotiating, collecting and spewing mild threats. All except one, Joe. I watched him as his eyebrows rose and his eyes bulged. He calmly picked up his phone and turned his head away, but I heard him whisper, “Get me security, now!”

  “We’re divorced,” I stated evenly. “It’s over.”

  “We can begin again. I want you to see how much I’ve changed. I put a lot of effort into making changes. You’re quitting this job today, leaving all this behind and coming home with me,” he said this louder still. One woman, frightened by the tone of his voice, got up and hurried out of the office.

  When he said, leaving this all behind, his hand arced from his side up to the ceiling and out in a wide sweeping motion. His untucked shirt rose up just a bit, but enough for me to see the Beretta in his waistband. The one he told his attorney he’d sold.

  “I really need to think this over,” I said delicately. “I can’t just up and leave in the middle of a work day.”

  His agitation ratcheted up. This wasn’t the answer he’d expected, not the automatic, instantaneous capitulation he wanted, and for the man quite used to getting his way all the time, he looked as though he’d been slapped. I could barely breathe.

  “We can do this easy or—” he yanked out his Beretta. “—We can do this the hard way.”

  Another woman, Arlene, rose slowly, escape in her eyes. Watching her peripherally, I kept my gaze on Evan, hoping he wouldn’t see her. Others watched and slowly stood. No-sudden-moves-and-no-one-gets-hurt played in my mind. He heard a chair squeak just as Arlene bolted for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice boomed as he trained his gun on her.

  She didn’t stop, focused instead on the exit. She pulled the door open and ran out. He fired and the glass door shattered. Someone screamed. He wheeled around to face his audience. All eyes watched him now. Several hung up desk phones.

  “Sit down!” he bellowed. He waved his gun at them.

  They froze, except Norman, whose hands were open, like stop signs.

  “Let’s just calm down here, fella.”

  “I am calm,” Evan growled.

  Even though my ears rang, I heard the static and code of a two-way radio just beyond the door. Help had arrived… The Ex addressed my co-workers, whose heads peeked above the half walls, his back toward me.

  “I said SIT!”

  They responded too slowly, shock setting in, eyes round and wide as paper plates. Impatiently, he fired another blast through drop ceiling tiles and one of the fluorescent lights sparked bright and died. One of my coworkers whimpered.

  My mind worked in triple time, just as it had when I lived with him. It was like being a mouse in front of an overfed, oversized cat. I’d seen it enough; where a cat played hunt and catch, and the mouse looked nervous enough to have a heart attack. In that situation, a mouse can’t tell for sure if he’s the toy or the meal. Maybe both.

  In a tall pencil cup on my desk stood a long, carved, ebony letter opener, from an African friend. We’d only exchanged greetings, pleasantries and inexpensive Christmas gifts. The Ex stood too far away to stab with that letter opener. In my top desk drawer laid my only real defense: a canister of mace.

  “You little shits better park right where you are and maybe, just maybe, no one gets killed today,” he spoke loudly, a nasty grin on his bloated face. The five o’clock shadow on his jaw was at least two days old. He turned toward them, his back to me. They winced and he reveled in his power. “Ya got me?”

  They nodded in unison. While he bellowed, I eased my drawer open and quietly stood. My coworkers looked even more afraid, if that was possible. He seemed pleased with himself. By the time he turned back to me, I was cocked and ready.

  My finger pressed the trigger, mace sprayed into his face. He brought his gun up as I moved to the side and it fired. Something like a huff of wind blew on my chest. I continued spraying, emptying the can, covering his arms and hands. The gun fired again. His hands went to his eyes.

  “You bitch!”

  So much for all his changing. He howled in pain. I grabbed my straw bag from under the desk and ran full tilt for the door, leading an astonished pack who quickly realized he was temporarily blind. When I opened the door, Arlene pointed past me.

  “That’s him!”

  Security stood against the wall while police armed with riot shields streamed past me like wind, guns drawn. Someone fired another shot. Then a scream followed me down the hall. My legs seemed to lengthen with each stride as I ran to the parking deck, keys in hand. Before I knew it, I shivered, safe in the cocoon of my little car. I jammed the key in the ignition and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. I sped away like the building might explode, heart beat drumming in my throat.

  I rocketed out of the city, racing over the county line, and then flew over the state border. I didn’t stop there, my planned trajectory: the edge of the earth. It took hours for my breath to calm, even though it still felt like early mid-morning. My ragged nerves still jangled with raw fear when I pulled into a truck stop and picked up a cheap little cooler, filled it with ice, Coronas and a couple veggie wraps. Then, I bought a cheap, but durable-looking beach chair.

  The sailboarder cruises waves, less than a hundred yards from the beach. The tide is out and the message in the Corona bottle has disappeared.

  When he coasts in, he pulls the sail board just beyond the reach of the ocean. He strides toward me, smiling confidently, water beads gleaming like silver droplets, against his golden brown skin. His surfing jams are varying shades of blue, teal and aqua, like the water he just left. He flashes his pearly white teeth my way, looking up and down the beach, maybe as amazed as I am with the emptiness. I watch as he walks around the blanket and, about arm’s length away from my beach chair, plunks down in the sand. He could be twenty or forty. He rests his muscular arms on drawn up knees.

  “Beer?” I ask.

  “Thanks.”

  I pop caps off two more beers and hand him one. I catch something in his pale silver eyes, something other-worldly. He drinks heartily.

  I stare out over the water. The colorful sail billowing slightly in the breeze, it looks like a sun gasping for breath. It appears to be out of air. I don’t have anything to say.

  “Been here long?” he asks, watching the surf.

  “Maybe an hour.”

  “Hmm. I usually don’t sail. Flying is more my thing.”

  “I usually don’t drink beer.”

  We drink in silence until his beer reaches half. Then he says, “I have a message for you.”

  Chapter 2

  Terry’s head throbbed mercilessly and he felt as if misery ran down to his toes. He slept most days during the available light of winter. He woke in agony in the wee hours of the morning to take more pain pills. They left him groggy and when he wasn’t, he felt irritable. The neighbors played their salsa music too loud, too late and, very occasionally, gunshots punctured the evening peace. On a more personal level, even though they ran test after test, the doctors found nothing wrong. They’d said, whatever was happening shouldn’t be happening to him.

  Terry didn’t need a medical degree to know something was seriously wrong. Growing weaker by the day were his muscles, his bones and his will to live. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to anyone, even though the phone downstairs rang several dozen times a day. His wife, Rebby, occupied the first floor, and her voice spoke so quietly he couldn’t make out the words. Occasionally, he caught snippets: He’s resting, he just fell asleep, and he isn’t feeling well today. Once he’d even heard, I’m really worried.

  She brought him two meals every day, but often forgot to mention these calls to him, so he never knew who might be concerned about him. Was anyone concerned? When he asked, she reacted evasively, which only added to his heartache. She remained his only connection to the outside and behaved so guardedly, it made him suspicious.

  Lately, Rebby only brought his favorite foods.
He tried a few bites, but she usually took it away in the bucket that stood by the bedside, a sentry to his sensitive stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he kept a meal down, even though he tried several times a day.

  Terry attempted to differentiate whether he’d actually dreamt it or heard the actual words through a drug induced fog. He thought he’d heard his wife on the phone, say, “The doctors don’t think he’s going to make it.”

  He thought possibly actors spoke the words from the television, which came on at six in the morning and ran full blast until eleven at night, every day. If he needed to call out to her, he doubted she could have heard him over the din of the soaps, exclusive TV offers and the WWE.

  Worse than that, he felt confident that he didn’t have the strength to call out.

  Occasionally, between Dr. Oz and People’s Court she came upstairs to open the blinds. Afternoon sun sometimes shot across the room through slatted blinds, like blinding halogen light of many Jedi Swords. The dust motes were most visible then, it hurt his eyes. Sometimes, while she talked, he covered his head with blankets, shivering with cold. And, if he was honest, praying for death. It would be so easy to let go, he thought.

  Intermittently he heard the doorbell ring. The front door and back door closed and opened so often, he lost track of the time. He didn’t know where she went, nor could he remember her dog’s schedule. He couldn’t tell if she was going out or coming in, and while straining to hear, he fell asleep. She had long ago ceased to join him in bed, preferring the couch because, in her words, she felt restless.

  He had no way of measuring how often she left him alone. Sometimes, he let his hand hang over the side of the bed, reaching for his beloved dog Alfie; forgetting he had died the previous year. He laid there, in those dark moments, heart breaking all over again, feeling like it had just happened. He wept silently, feeling utterly alone, until he could barely breathe. He felt completely and totally devastated. The strength of his legs was so far gone, he couldn’t get out of bed by himself, to make a phone call or to let anyone know how he felt. All the phone numbers ran together in his head—except, on the downstairs phone, his son was speed dial number two. He couldn’t remember any actual numbers. He wondered, is this how it ends? Alone, heartsick, lonely, unmissed and in pain until my last breath?