Dividing Earth Part 2

Freddie raised her martini gla.s.s, swirled the gin around in it, and then knocked it back.

Mary blinked. Her mother was more nervous than she'd thought. They'd come here many times, Savannah being relatively close to home, but Freddie had never pounded her c.o.c.ktail.

Her mother lifted a finger and the waiter nodded, jumping into motion.

Materializing in the spotlight, a pony-tailed sound engineer counted out, "One, two, three . . . testing . . . testing . . . one, two," then vanished into the darkness surrounding the stage as the band members strolled on. A fat man in a tank top descended onto a stool behind the drums while, beside the microphone, a man so vascular as to inspire stage-side gossip tore his guitar from its resting spot against a speaker. He tossed the guitar strap over his shoulder. They paused, waiting until a tall, thin man made his way into the light, a ba.s.s guitar across his chest. His baldness, waxy in the glare, was glazed with sweat. He slid a pair of sungla.s.ses on and nodded at the man behind the Baldwin. The ba.s.s hummed a line beneath the bright, crisp chords of the piano, and the front man bent his knees, fixing his mouth under the metal ball, and time seemed to freeze a moment, and then the man began an old Leonard Cohen song.

After her late night of jazz and gin, Freddie McDylan slept through Georgia and South Carolina, leaving Mary to nervously pilot the van. Although Mary had flown in to check out the campus last year, seeing the geographical transformation from the ground left her with a tangible sense of her life's change. For the first time she admitted to herself that she was frightened.

Leaving Charlotte behind, they veered onto Interstate Eighty-One. Freddie finally stirred, holding her head in her hands. She was silent until they took the steep incline of the off-ramp, then spoke only to mention her hangover.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning at Carmichael University. They entered through the main gates, Freddie commenting on the huge oak, whose branches shouldered the sky. She hadn't yet seen the campus, and she went on and on about the old style Southern architecture. Each building, with the exception of the dorms, looked as if it belonged on a plantation: marble steps led to porticoes enclosed by ornate trim; ivory columns held up nothing but parents's hopes. Mary guessed the north end of campus existed to justify the tuition.

Freddie helped her up with her things, then burst into tears before leaving. Only after several long embraces did she finally find the strength to get back on the road.

Once her mother had been gone a while, the room began to register. It consisted of approximately the dimensions of her shoe closet back home. Two beds lined the outer walls, separated by a desk. Between the second bed and the outside wall, a mini-fridge held the smallest television she'd ever seen. Dazed and hungry, she began to unpack, and had nearly finished when her roommate burst in.

"Well, hey!" the girl exclaimed, waving as if she were seeing Mary off instead of greeting her.

"Hi. I'm Mary," she answered, instinctively backing up.

"Grady. I didn't think you'd get in 'till later. s.h.i.t, I could've helped you up."

"I got in a couple of hours ago," Mary murmured, dazed.

Grady was a spiky platinum blonde. Her ears were cl.u.s.tered in pendants, and a cross dangled from her right lobe. Her cut-offs displayed ankle tattoos and her half-shirt bulged with b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Mary self-consciously glanced down at her own.

"Do you have anything casual but s.l.u.ttish?" asked Grady, sliding the wooden closet door back. She began rifling through Mary's clothes.

"For you?"

Grady gave her a gap-toothed grin. "No, for you."

"For what?"

"A frat party. 'Sides," she continued, striking a Madonna-esque vogue. "You think I need a s.l.u.t-fit?"

"Guess not."

"As for you," Grady said, sizing up Mary's Gap jeans and white polo. "You couldn't show less skin if you put a paper bag over your head."

"Wouldn't hurt."

Grady tossed her head back and laughed. "Whatever. You're gorgeous."

Mary smiled.

Grady didn't notice. She yanked a t-shirt out of the closet and lifted it up for an inspection that turned out to be perfunctory. "We'll slay the boys," she announced.

Mary would remember those words, and later she would wonder if they weren't some sort of ironic prophecy.

Having grown up in Florida, the North Carolina fall was something of a shock for Mary. Grady led her by the hand as she gazed around, admiring the way summer died here. Leaves dangled from withered branches while the gloom stabbed through the balding tree tops. Everything glowed.

Decked out, they crossed campus sluggishly because Grady shouted to anyone within distance of her high-pitched voice. She and her t.i.ts make friends quickly, thought Mary, dazed with a list of names, potential majors, and Grady's seemingly boundless charisma.

"It's gorgeous here," said Mary, looking back at the forestry surrounding the south end of campus. She like this area better than the campus proper, which smelled of money decadently spent.

Grady shrugged. "Florida girls fall in love with this s.h.i.t. The turning leaves, the oaks, the three-story view. But the only sight I can't wait to see is Mike Randall's beautiful c.o.c.k."

Mary cupped a hand over her mouth.

"Please," said Grady, smirking. "You've sucked a little d.i.c.k in your day."

"Not a little one," Mary retorted. She was surprised by how quickly it came out.

Grady threw her head back and bellowed laughter.

Mary took stock of her acquaintance. Back in high school, she'd always chosen the artsy crowd, kids who might show their art in the local lesbian pub, or, after a quick shot of whatever was handy, shout out a few lines of bad verse from the back of the bar. She'd never had a friend like Grady, a girl who if she hadn't grown up in a trailer should have. Did this make Mary a sn.o.b? "I had a boyfriend," she said, taking a deep breath, reminding herself that she'd wanted to go away to college because she'd been sick of the sameness of high school life. College was about getting out from under what you knew.

"A boyfriend? Listen, don't ever date a guy under twenty-five. Most couldn't satisfy a farm goat with a cattle prod. Other than the ill.u.s.trious Mister Randall, that is, who just happens to have the eighth wonder of the world attached to his pelvis. But Mike doesn't have a manual for it, he's just blessed."

Mary laughed, caught Grady's eye and smiled at her.

Ba.s.s greeted them as they trudged the ravine. At the crest, it changed from a deep sensation to a bright sound. Then Mary caught sight of the two-story dump of the frat house. She hesitated. In high school, frat house was an exotic, enticing image: dusky corners where boys hovered over girls, beers held like labels for their amorphous personalities; dark rooms where couples groped for the parts they'd longed to touch in the light; whispered refrains, half-poems, and boozy dreams. But here, with the romance of the old campus behind them, the house caught her off guard. She'd never actually seen one.

Grady grabbed her by the arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah," said Mary, but she couldn't take her eyes off it. On the porch, a crowd fought for the limited s.p.a.ce. There were so many that she found it hard to make out individuals: pale ovals twisted on fleshy sticks, some framed by clumps of oily wire, others by blonde helmets; arms that ended in claws or k.n.o.bs flashed out, ownerless; t-shirts advertised personalities while others were bold enough to emblazon their ideals and demons in streaks of ink on their flesh.

"Chicken?" asked Grady.

"After you," said Mary, and they started down the hill together.

The kids parted without a word from Grady and Mary trailed behind her, amazed at the magic of it. She jumped when Grady screamed, "Mike!" and ran into a muscular set of arms. She hopped onto him, curling her legs around his hips. Mike Randall's hair bounced stiffly.

Mary smiled nervously, averting her eyes as the dark boy flanking Mike took her in. He leaned over, whispered something into Mike's ear and Mike pried Grady from him. His grin was feral. "Who's your girlfriend?" he asked Grady, running his eyes up and down Mary's body.

"Mary," she offered, although she had the feeling he had only wanted to hear her voice, not her name.

Mike stepped toward her, repeated her name, and his eyes fastened onto hers.

Mike told Mary to sit. She obeyed and her senses regained their foothold: The thrum of yelling, conversation and music blasted back. Mike strolled off to the center of the frat house's living room. There, three rusted garbage cans stood, bound by telephone chord. Sloshing around their tops was something that smelled like fruit punch. He scooped a Styrofoam cup through the red liquid and glanced back, flashing a smile. The room dimmed until all she saw was this beautiful guy making his way back, and she thought, If only Scott could see me now.

Mike slid his knees onto the couch, placed the cup under her lips and tilted it, slowly pouring the liquid into her. She only stopped to cough once. When the cup was dry, he removed it, patted her head and said, "Good girl," as if she were a dog. She was too busy wiping the liquid from her lips to notice. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's called Jungle Juice," he answered.

"Oh," she murmured, starting to feel it sliding down into the depths of her. Her chest was warm, her cheeks hot.

"Ever had Everclear?" Mike yelled over the music and screams.

She shook her head. She either needed more or needed to leave.

"Sixty percent alcohol. Good stuff."

"How much have you had?"

"Almost enough," he answered.

"May I have more?"

"You sure can, sweetheart."

When he returned, she was half past buzzing and going on s.h.i.tfaced. Mike, smiling at this happy discovery, poured the cupful down her, and this time, she didn't cough. As she wiped her forearm over her lips, she asked, "Where's Grady?"

Mike pointed to a closed white door beyond the garbage cans. "I think she's keeping Enrique company in the bathroom."

"Oh," she said. Her tongue was thick as a drain stopper. "Water?"

"How 'bout another cup?"

"Can you get me some water with it?"

"Oh, you bet."

Mary looked around. People moved, but without meaning.

When Mike returned he had another cup but no water. Mary opened her mouth and downed it, a true pro this time. It didn't taste good. It hadn't tasted good from the start.

As the third cup settled in her like a sickness, Mike sat beside her. "You're gorgeous, a f.u.c.king angel," he whispered, but to Mary the words were disembodied, part and particle of the air. She smiled under the onslaught of the Jungle Juice and the boy's insistent voice; her eyes rolled up. When she could see again there was a white rectangle, within which an impenetrable darkness gathered. He was carrying her like a bride. The heat glowed in her abdomen, descended toward her legs and she wiggled around, noticing she lay on a bed. Fingers fumbled on the catch of her jeans. She squirmed, too drunk to make sense of it, until hands clapped onto her thighs and lifted them. "Open your mouth," said Mike, his voice an octave lower than before. Before she could scream, hands pried her mouth open. Her dry, cotton tongue quivered as the flesh shoved between her teeth, drove over her tongue, slammed into the back of her throat. A pulsing, skin and hair, vague of p.i.s.s. She gagged. Hands took hold of her hair. Fingers clamped over her ankles, shoving them back at her. She struggled.

"Close the door," someone said. There was a shove, then another boy said, "No, I'm first."

She thought it was Mike's voice so she arched her head to see, but could only make out floating silhouettes against the backlit window. Outside, a bloated moon sat on the edge of the world.

Mary awoke to darkness. Her head swirled, her entire body ached, and she felt sick. The odors of beer, sweat, and mildew plunged into her. Looking out the window, she recognized the window mullions as the last thing she'd seen before pa.s.sing out. Outside, the stars didn't look so much like pin p.r.i.c.ks in the blackness as rips. The moon was opulent and pockmarked. And that's when she remembered. She was sharing the bed with two naked boys. On the floor was another, wearing p.i.s.s-stained underwear. Snoring and hissing breaths filled the room. Looking down, she noticed her top was still on, but she was naked from the waist down. Her panties lay neatly over a boy's ankle. She covered her eyes and tears fought through her fingers, spilling down her cheeks. She cried silently, afraid to wake the boys, afraid they might want another go. She reached down, lifted her panties and stood, careful not to step on the boy on the floor. As she stepped into her panties, her v.a.g.i.n.a felt afire. "Oh G.o.d," she whispered, thinking of her mother. Shame wrapped its arms around her. She didn't look for her pants. Tiptoeing out, she evaded the kids strewn about. She stepped on a clump of puke; bits of food and liquid fought between her toes. Upstairs, Kurt Cobain's m.u.f.fled and indistinct voice fell to her, a broken voice descending from the top of a well.

Then she saw Grady. She was asleep on the couch, her head on Mike's lap. She wore only her bra. He was shirtless.

Mary rubbed her eyes. Her heart was a timpani. She stepped over and around sleepers, crossed the porch, nearly tripped down the steps, then was at the street. She turned, as if in need of a picture of the place to burn it on her memory. The dark house seemed to rear up, the screen door slapping against the jamb like the jaw of a predator. Then the world breathed and leaves skittered across the porch, taking flight in her direction.

Mary ran.

Chapter Three: Sarah.

1.

Once they'd pried the wagon from the mud this morning, Sarah knew it wouldn't last much longer-the wheels were far more wobbly, and the spokes more brittle, than Papa was ready to admit. She only hoped they reached Tempest by nightfall. But this was a precarious hope, as were all hopes on the plain-there were only the three of them and a team of oxen yanking a rickety wagon through the dust, dirt, and mud. Sarah didn't want to think about being stranded out here. Winter was coming.

At least they'd left The Five Points far behind. Of course, she'd had the same thought after they'd fled Salem. Although their kind's blood-Old blood in a new world, she sometimes thought-had been thinned out over the years, enough purity remained that Sarah feared they'd never rest, that it was only a matter of time no matter where they landed before they heard that dreaded word: Witch.

She had wanted a simple, quiet day. Indeed, after her display last night she'd wanted to spend the day in the back, riding with the supplies.

It started after supper. Her stomach had been rough for an hour or more, and she had left her tent to take a walk. She thought the night air might do her some good, but instead her belly tightened. When clouds darker than the night sky rolled over the plains, though, she decided to head back. Even if the sky was only innuendo, she knew to be in bed-this land was nastier than back east, and with less warning.

She nearly made it back when the cramps lifted. She stopped, stared down at her stomach. One moment pain, the next nothing. She chuckled, got moving again, but then wet trickled down the inside of her legs. It ran down her calf and her feet and onto the ground. She stepped back. The moon illuminated black dots of liquid. She spread her legs slightly and whatever was dripping from her spotted the ground.

Spears of lightning stabbed at the earth, but she couldn't see them clearly; everything she saw shook and jumped, as if she were still sitting in the wagon and suffering the endless b.u.mps of travel. The low voice of thunder followed, but to Sarah this was a distant sound. Her hands shook. She crouched down, ran a finger through what was now a small pool of the black-or was it red?-liquid, and held her finger under her nose. She shot up at the smell, broke into a run and yelled for her mother.

"What is it?" Mama asked, appearing beside her tent.

A few feet away Papa rose, his eyes bleary with sleep. He ran a hand through his long black hair, sweeping it from his face. It lifted and spiraled in the quickening wind.

Sarah parted her legs; a dark liquid was smeared over her thigh. Mama's eyes followed hers. After a moment, she smiled, took her by the hand and led her off.

Papa ducked back under the buffalo-skin tent.

Once they were out of earshot, Mama laid her arm over her shoulders. "Congratulations," she said. "You're a woman."

Sarah hadn't slept much. Between the cramps and the embarra.s.sment, she couldn't shut her eyes. So she wanted a quiet day, but after they packed up the wagon and yoked the beasts, her father chuckled, staring at the wagon's rear left wheel. The ground had turned to mud during the night's rain, and the wheel was buried. Papa trudged behind it, leaning against the wheel with all his weight, breathing through his teeth, groaning. Then he noticed Mama staring at him in disgust. He glanced back, shrugging his shoulders.

"Why?" she spat. "There's no need to pretend. Free it!"

Papa stared at her a moment before turning. He brought his hands before his face, seemed to appraise their size and shape, then plunged them into the mud behind the wagon's stuck wheel. Buried to the elbows, he fished around in the earth, turning it like dough.

Sarah watched him, then the mud. Nothing was happening. Come on, she thought.