Divided Man
Short Story
Stephen Collicoat
Mark Crawford was shocked.
He walked into the kitchen to find his wife in the arms of his
employer. They were kissing. Not passionate kissing, but the gentle foreplay of
a couple who had loved each other for many years.
Frank Horden was sitting in Mark's kitchen, at his table, with his
breakfast set out in front of him and his newspaper unfolded, about to be
read. Mark's wife stood behind Frank, her arms about him, while she
lightly kissed the nape of his neck.
Chantal and Frank looked up in surprise as he entered the room. Oddly,
their expressions weren't guilty. Rather, they looked bewildered as
though Mark had no right to be there.
'Frank,' he demanded roughly, 'What the hell are you doing here?'
Frank Horden seemed puzzled by the question. 'Why wouldn't I be here?
It's where I live.'
Chantal spoke, 'The question is, what are you doing in our kitchen,
Mark? How did you get in and what do you want?'
'But this is my kitchen,' Mark protested, wondering if he was still
sleeping or had gone mad.
'It's never been your kitchen, Mark,' Chantal said firmly. 'Frank and I
have owned this home for twenty years.'
Mark glanced around the kitchen. It was similar, but it wasn't his.
'I can show you the house title if you like,' Frank offered, then
stopped; realizing how stupid that sounded.
The doorbell rang. After a brief pause, it rang again, followed by
insistent knocking. The two men stood in the kitchen, staring uncertainly
at each other. 'Isn't someone going to answer the door?' Chantal asked
impatiently.
Automatically, Mark left the kitchen, strode down the hallway and
opened the front door. A deliveryman stood there. He thrust a parcel into
Mark's hands. 'Good,' he said. 'I was starting to think no one was home. I
just need two signatures from you. I'm running behind schedule. Sign
here and here.'
'I'm not Frank Horden,' Mark stumbled.
The deliveryman glanced at his clipboard. 'Doesn't say anything about a
Frank What's-his-name. Just states ''Occupant''. Are you an occupant?'
'I suppose so,' Mark said diffidently. He was beginning to wonder what
he was.
'Then, just sign your name mate,' the deliveryman suggested, 'and we
can be on our way.'
Mark signed and took the parcel. In the hallway, he placed the parcel
on the telephone table and checked his reflection in the mirror. Apart
from his puzzled expression, Mark decided he looked normal.
The hallway now looked exactly the same as the one in his home and when
he opened the door, he could see that the kitchen was undoubtedly his.
Chantal was leaning over the stove, frying eggs. The aroma of freshly
brewed coffee filled the room.
'Was that the door, dear?' she asked. A strange question, Mark thought.
She knew it was.
'Yes, there was a parcel. I've left it on the hall table. Where's
Frank?'
'Frank who?'
'Frank Horden, of course.'
'Frank Horden?' she puzzled. 'Oh, your boss. I don't know where he is.
Why should he be here?'
'Well, he was here a minute ago with you.'
'With me,' she gaped. 'What would he be doing here with me?'
'He...Oh, never mind,' Mark gave up, sinking tiredly into his chair.
Chantal slid two eggs, sunny side up, onto the buttered toast on Mark's
plate. 'Eat up,' she suggested. 'Are you feeling okay?'
'Yes,' Mark said slowly. 'I think so. It was the silliest thing. Must
have been a dream or something. Anyway, it doesn't matter. Um-m, this
coffee's delicious.'
'I'm glad you like it. I tried a new blend that was on special. It's
from Bali.'
Mark was parking his car, when Frank Horden, the managing partner, slid
his Porsche into the next slot.
'How are things, Mark?' Frank greeted him as the two walked toward the
lift. 'Is Chantal well?'
'Great, Frank. And Celine?' Frank had divorced five years before and
was now casually dating. He had been with the vivacious, blonde Celine
for the unusually long time of five months.
'I don't know. O.K., I guess. We split two weeks ago.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' Mark said as the two auditors waited for the
lift. 'Maybe, you'll hook up again.'
'I doubt that,' Frank replied bitterly. 'She's already met someone
else. Celine isn't like Chantal.' There was no disguising the envy in his
voice. 'I hope you realise you're a very lucky guy.'
'I do,' Mark agreed uncomfortably.
Frank Horden had met Chantal at a social function shortly after Mark
joined the firm. Mark recalled feeling both proud and jealous at seeing
the two laughing together. It helped both came from similar, privileged
backgrounds. The rich, Mark suspected, sent out subtle but instantly
recognizable signals. It wasn't meant to exclude others, but it did.
Frank might well have married Chantal if Mark hadn't met her first.
Acknowledging that, Mark also knew his wife was steadfastly loyal. Frank, he
reflected, as the two men entered the lift, was like most men: fated
never to meet his perfect partner. Beneath Frank's confident manner, Mark
sensed a disappointed and lonely man.
The rest of the day passed quietly. Frank, dropped in briefly to Mark's
office. He asked Mark to travel to Albury, a city on the Victorian
State border, the next day to commence an audit of the accounts of a large
automobile parts manufacturer.
Mark agreed. Although it would be a long drive, he decided to take his
car. Even the thought of bucketing through the winter skies on a
regional plane made him feel queasy. Besides, he reasoned, the long drive
would give him time to think. The Albury audit would require several
visits, but the first meeting would only take a day. He'd interview the
principals, gain an understanding of how the business worked and return the
following week to begin a detailed analysis.
Mark decided to set his alarm for 3 a.m. That way, he would clear the
city and drive at a comfortable pace up the Hume Highway, reaching the
regional city soon after the plant opened.
It was mid afternoon when he was tidying his desk that his secretary,
Alison Maugham came in.
'There was a call from your wife,' she began hesitantly. 'She told the
switch that she didn't want to interrupt you and that she'd just leave
a reminder.'
'Go on,' Mark prompted.
'Well, Chantal reminded you to pick up Angie from the Pre-school
Center.'
'What?' Mark gulped, then glared at Alison.
'I'm sorry,' she hurried on defensively. 'I'm just passing on what the
switch was told.'
'Impossible! It couldn't have been Chantal.'
'I know. I said the same to Susan, but she swears it was Chantal's
voice. She's heard it often when Chantal calls here.'
'I can't understand why anyone would want to play such a cruel joke on
me.' Mark recovered with difficulty. 'Thanks, Alison. Leave it with me.
I'll try to get to the bottom of this.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Not your fault. I'll raise Chantal on her mobile.' Mark rang the
number several times. Each time, a recorded message told him the number
wasn't connected. That made no sense. It had always worked before. After
the fourth, failed attempt, Mark slammed his phone down, cursing the
telephone company.
He tried to return to work, but kept wondering who would play such a
cruel hoax.
One Sunday, 18 months ago, Chantal and Mark had taken their young
daughter, Angie to a park. Mark recalled every moment of that day. He
remembered the warmth of the sun, the brilliant flowers, the way in which
Chantal and he had held hands and sat on a bench, watching Angie with some
small children. The children were playing tag; darting around, laughing
and shrieking with excitement
Angie swiftly ducking away from a little boy who tried to tag her had
run out of the park and into a busy road. There was a screech of brakes,
a heavy thud and a woman's voice began to scream, 'Oh no! No! I didn't
see her. Oh no! I've killed her!' Chantal and Mark were running,
calling for Angie. But it was too late. All too late.
Even now, they couldn't talk about that day. One day, they knew they
must decide if they wanted children again. Now was too soon. Although
they loved each other, it was impossible to make love.
Giving up work, Mark went out to his Lexus and backed the car out of
the parking bay. Anger swept over him. What creep would do such a thing,
he kept asking himself. Someone who knew of Angie's death and was
viciously twisting the knife.
It was irrational, but something prompted Mark to drive past the
Pre-school Center on the way home. And there was Angie, waiting by herself,
outside the gate.
Mark stamped on the brakes and the little girl opened the car door and
flung herself into the front passenger seat. She pecked him on the
cheek and shut the door.
'You're late, Daddy,' she told him sternly. 'Billy Thorne said you
weren't coming, but I knew you would. I hate Billy Thorne: He's always
saying nasty stuff like that.' Then she added in a puzzled voice, 'Daddy,
why are you crying?'
When they arrived home, Chantal greeted them casually. If this is a
dream, Mark thought, I never want it to end.
That night, Mark read Angie a fairy tale. Before she slept, he hugged
her and Angie whispered, 'I'm so happy.'
'So am I, darling,' he replied, his voice thick. 'More than you'll ever
know.'
He set the alarm, not expecting to sleep. The clock however woke him
from deep slumber. He tiptoed down the corridor to Angie's room. She was
gone. The bed was no longer in the room and all the posters that
Chantal had torn from the wall in helpless rage at her daughter's death were
gone. Strangely, it didn't surprise Mark. Deep in his mind, he was
starting to sense what was happening.
Leaving Chantal sleep, he had a light breakfast and set off for Albury.
The day went as planned, most of the time spent in intensive
discussion. Around 4.30 p.m., Mark rang Chantal. 'I've finished today,' he told
her, 'I'll grab a quick snack and be on my way.'
'Are you sure,' she sounded worried. 'You had such an early start. It's
silly to drive when you're tired. Find a motel, have a nice dinner and
sleep. Come home tomorrow when you feel refreshed.'
'I hate spending the night away.'
'It's only one night. I'm perfectly safe here.'
'Okay, I'll do that. See you tomorrow. Love you.'
That was the plan, but just as he was about to turn into a motel, he
impulsively drove on. There was no reason to sleep in Albury, he
reasoned. He'd find a place down the Hume, closer to Melbourne. That way, he
wouldn't need to drive as far the next day. Besides, it was still light.
Hours to go before he'd need to find accommodation. Better to drive
than stare at a motel wall until it was dark.
So he drove on. The number of motels thinned and the sky darkened. As
he drove, he fought a growing weariness. Continuing was a fatal error.
Mark set the cruise control and the powerful car sped on through the
night. He kept to the far-left lane, occasionally flicking the wheel to
pass a slow moving car or lumbering truck. To remain alert, he set the
temperature control to cool. Then he tuned in to a late night jazz
program. Billie Holiday cried and teased through a medley of classics, her
voice winding like a vine around trumpet and saxophone. Oncoming lights
swept in, dazzled and were gone. When the jazz retrospective ended,
Mark punched off the radio. Now the car was silent, except for the soft
purr of the engine. His eyes began to close.
A sharp blast from an air horn startled him awake. A semi-trailer
loaded with sheep, passed on the outer lane: Dozens of frightened eyes
stared at him from behind metal bars as the truck passed.
This is crazy, Mark thought. It had been hours since he had last seen a
motel. He'd pull aside and sleep by the side of the road. A powernap
and he'd drive on to find a bed.
But finding a spot to lay by wasn't easy. He had read of too many cases
where inattentive drivers had rearended parked cars to risk parking on
the side of the highway. Mark began looking for feeder roads but the
dark countryside of forests or paddocks seemed unbroken.
He fell asleep.
The Lexus drifted across the road, mounted the dividing strip and
continued on into the opposite lanes of traffic. Mark didn't wake as a truck
smashed into his car, its huge wheels crushing the bonnet and
shattering the windscreen as it rolled onto Mark. He died instantly. The
truckie, trapped in his burning cab, died screaming 15 minutes later.
It was quiet in the forest. During the night, rain had fallen. The
morning air smelt of wet bark, gum leaves and bracken. Mark slowly woke. He
gently moved his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles.
Still, he felt better than expected. At first, he had wondered where he
was. Then he recalled his growing tiredness the night before. He had
found an off-road and traveled some distance from the highway. He had
stopped the car, and got into the front passenger seat. He remembered
thinking, as he adjusted the rake of the seat and lay back, that he probably
wouldn't sleep. Yet he must have fallen into a deep slumber because it
was now light with the dashboard clock blinking 7 a.m.
Thank goodness, I found an off road, Mark thought. He could imagine all
too clearly a different scenario: one in which he drove until he fell
asleep, the car drifting over the dividing strip and into the opposite
lanes of traffic for a head on with a car or truck. He should have taken
Chantal's advice and found a motel. He decided not to tell her he had
slept in the car.
Mark started the Lexus. Returning to the highway, he found a truckies'
pit stop and, ravenous from missing dinner, enjoyed a hearty breakfast
of two wedgelike BLT sandwiches washed down by a pot of savagely strong
coffee. He felt elated as he set off. The traffic on the Hume was light
and he drove back to Melbourne without incident.
When he reached the city, he decided to drive home, check Chantal was
well, grab a shower and then decide if he should visit the office. Mark
had rescheduled his work before leaving, so he didn't need to show up
that day.
He passed Chantal at the top of their street. She glanced at the Lexus
as though it was a stranger's car. Mark braked and ran back. She wore a
blouse and jeans he couldn't recall seeing. 'Chantal, darling,' he
said, moving toward her, 'I was just on the way home. Is everything okay?'
She stopped and stared at him, her anger plain. Stepping forward, she
slapped him twice. Mark reeled back in surprised pain.
'You pig!' she hissed. 'You walk out of my life ten years ago without
explanation and now act as though nothing happened.'
Chantal strode off, leaving Mark staring at her in astonishment.
'Darling,' he heard a familiar voice behind him. 'What are you doing
here?' It was Chantal, but wearing a different outfit. She hugged him
with fierce affection. Over her shoulder, he saw the first Chantal
disappearing into the distance.
As she released him, stepping back, smiling, he saw other Chantals
walking toward him. A Chantal holding Angie's hand. A Chantal arm in arm
with Frank Horden. None of the women seemed aware of others.
He finally understood. Two words slipped into his mind. He knew what
was happening though how it had occurred or how long it would continue,
he couldn't imagine.
For years, physicists had puzzled over major inconsistencies in forces
governing the universe. At the subatomic level, in the strange world of
string energy, logic became counter-intuitive or broke down. Beyond the
fourth dimension of time, lay other dimensions - parallel universes.
You chose one road in this existence, but in a parallel world, you
chose another route or perhaps refused to choose. Chantal, Angie, Frank
Horden, death on the Hume: the walls that usually hid all the other
scenarios, had crumbled.
And there, holding Chantal in his arms, he knew fear.
There were many worlds to choose, but which would bring Angie back to
life? In choosing that world, might he also inadvertently accept a path
that one day would lead to even greater pain?
Divided Man© COPYRIGHT 2005 Stephen Collicoat.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
01/18/05
