The Cracks That Held

Book summary

In July 1976, as the former United States faces the possibility of reunification a century after a drawn-out Civil War, citizens on both sides of the heavily guarded border await a chance to rebuild their lives in a fractured nation. Amid this uncertainty, a fledgling government struggles to restore unity while unseen forces threaten to exploit the divisions that remain.

THE CRACKS THAT HELD is an alternate history novel that blends political intrigue with a mystical, thought-provoking narrative.

Excerpt from The Cracks That Held

ENTER THE MAYFIELDS

The fallen cedar made her sad. It had not died from some invasive beetle. The ground had just given it up in its prime. The exposed network of roots shot out into the morning air shocked, killed for doing only what nature asked of them. For some reason she couldn’t get it out of her mind. With so much going on, it didn’t warrant such grief, but the way it lie, long and straight yet broken amongst the weedy rocks, garnered an authentic tear down her cheek. Maybe it was because the branches were still full of green, the bark a rich brown. If the other trees would just help it back up all would be right again. They didn’t bother though, just lorded over their fallen brother ready to watch him decompose.

Misty Mayfield was directly across from the murder scene on the other side of the road, sitting precariously on a cracked plastic crate. The smoke from a struggling fire stung her eyes and obscured the view of the cedar, but it was wormed into her brain by then, almost two weeks since they had pulled over to set up camp and await the execution. Misty was halfway through the awkward age of sixteen, unnaturally tall like her brother and gangly, full of freckles and bereft of grace. Her restless big brother Ulysses (the family called him Uly, which he wasn’t too fond of as he preferred Grant, his middle name, as did most boys who were saddled with the pairing) had marched to the borderline with their father Barrel Billy in tow to get their number in the queue for crossing over to the south. Misty didn’t know how close they were to the border, but there were throes of people with their furniture strapped to rusty flatbed trucks piled up in as far as she could see. Dirty children ran up and down the cracked blacktop kicking deflated balls. Older boys tried to conduct a primitive cricket game with a stolen broom. There were arguments at night, and gunshots pierced the black to settle them, or just fired blind to keep the wolves hidden in the trees at bay. Misty’s mother Martha never took her hand off the family shotgun while the men were away. It was a lawless stretch of road and Martha knew idle hands were the devil’s playground. Misty wondered how people who were disenfranchised, transient creatures could have an endless supply of liquor. It seemed there were those breaking bottles on the pavement with a hoot and holler from first light on, not even considering they would eventually have to drive their bald tires over the glass.

Barrel Billy and Uly had been gone two full days. Mother and daughter rarely moved from their vigil around the wet wood, refusing to truly burn unless it was to climb into the cab of the army tank-sized 3000-kilo truck to lock the doors when it got dark and the evil danced. Neither ate from the tasteless cans or sleeves of stale biscuits. Martha would scan the dark view out of the cracked windshield, hand inched ever closer to the trigger as the hours passed slow. Misty kept track of those twitchy fingers, and dread blossomed in her core. The whole thing could have been an elaborate trap, lure the best men to the border with promises of free travel, then execute them for treason. Misty had read in a forgotten book she found at a dead woman’s house about how the Union army would lure Indian chiefs to the fort to talk of peace only to execute them. When more came to inquire, the army would ask them to come in also, they would organize a search party to help locate the missing chiefs. Another round of executions. On and on and on. It was no wonder the Native Nations had finally risen up to send the whites packing with their tails between their legs. She hoped her father could sniff out such a deception. He was never the quickest on the draw, but his aim was true. Uly would see it coming for sure. He was skeptical even if he hoped beyond hope it was all true. He despised the cold, for reasons none of the Mayfields could remember. He had his mind set on working in the gulf on an oil rig, surrounded by grey saltwater. The rest of them would settle somewhere on the coast, stand on the shiny beach and watch Uly work from afar. Misty had never felt sand between her toes, seen it shift under them with the waves. There was so much she was ready to wash away.

Before dawn Misty screamed from the explosion of a shotgun blast just outside of the cab. She had drifted off but hated trying to sleep on the bench seat. The tired cloth was itchy and smelt of pipe tobacco and grease. For most of the hours, they sat leaned into each other recounting the few happy memories they shared. Making gingerbread ornaments to hang on the plastic tree, their late dog Peaches carefully pilfering them one at a time so as not to tip it all over or be otherwise found out. They giggled over the summer Barrel Billy had brought home a kiddie pool that Misty and Uly about lived in until Billy ran over it because he heard there were some stevedore jobs going fast at the Port of Detroit. Misty always needed to talk because as soon as Martha locked the doors she felt the urge to urinate, even if she had squatted behind the rear bumper right before they climbed in. Martha had fired a round straight into the air but had brought the smoking hole back down with her as she pumped in a new shell. It seemed the neighbors had also noticed the lack of men folk in their camp and had become brave enough to rifle through the Mayfield’s belongings strapped snug to the bed of the pickup Barrel Billy had traded their fabled old gunship Mackinaw wagon for.

“That’s the only warning you will get,” Martha shouted into the dim light. There was a sound of scampering away, even the faintness of hyena laughter hinting the transgressors would be back. Bolder. With more devious malice on their minds. Misty was shook. All the sunny dreams Uly had put in her head were melting down the wall, exposing true horrors that were always there. They should have stayed put where they were safe, at least until they died from the toxic air or the water or some other poison of ignorant man. Who were they to hope and plan for some better life? They were taught from an early age to make the most of what you had because it could always be worse. Should have been on the one-jack bill, it could always be worse. Just like you didn’t jinx the unborn painting a nursery or buying gifts. Bad was always peeping around the corner and there was always a corner.

And then, as if from some storybook British play, when the inescapable fate is sidestepped with aplomb, father and brother approached with the rising sun. They strode side by side swiftly down the middle of the road, the faded yellow line their only guide. They may have walked right past if Misty had not ran up with flailing limbs of glee to greet them. Uly smiled and showed her a big brown paper bag, giving a detailed explanation of its contents she could not hear due to the high-pitched ringing in her ears from the blast. Martha not far behind embraced Barrel Billy tight, her face buried in his broad chest as she gratefully handed over the shotgun. They were all together again and their grand scheme was back on the rails. Misty felt she could smell the ocean again while more than a few pairs of low eyes watched their reunion with disappointment.

Slowly through that day of relief, Misty regained some semblance of hearing. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle when all the pieces are blue sky. She could make out what her family was saying but they sounded far away. Even though she could see them right in front of her it made her anxious, as if there was a void she could not traverse. Inside the paper bag had been all kinds of snacks, candies and fizzy drinks. Misty had never seen the bold-colored brands before or the wonders of taste that lay inside the flimsy plastic wrappers. She ate her first pork rind and washed it down with a green soda called Buster’s that tasted like a grapefruit dipped in sugar. A nice fresh grapefruit, not the old, bruised ones her mom would bring home as if they were a prize. She could have guzzled the entire liter herself, but it was only fair to pass the bottle around, follow the hobo code.

Uly took the bottle from her and let the carbonation tickle the inside of his long neck. “There’s nothing to sign up for. There aren’t any numbers to get. It’s just gonna be wide open on the fourth. I suppose people will just pull out and get in line. We gotta stop at Benny’s though, Dad, tell ‘em. Misty has got to see Benny’s.”

“Yeah, we’ll see how crazy it gets. Don’t know about sightseeing. Main thing is just getting across.” Barrel Billy took the bottle from Uly. Unscrewed a flask he pulled from somewhere, took a deep slug and washed it down with the Buster’s. Martha still clung tight to his arm, and he held the flask up to her lips so she wouldn’t have to let go. Neither wanted that.

Misty grinned at Uly’s enthusiasm, it fed her soul richly. “Oh, you will love it, kid! It’s huge. Rows and rows of everything you can imagine. They got about 50 kinds of jerky. Heck, I didn’t even know they could make meat out of some of the animals they have. A long line of nothing but ice creams. Every Brit mag there is. Radios to roasted nuts. About anything you could print flags on. Northern and Southern. Probably should of bought some of that seeing as it’s all going up in flames. Collector items or something.”