Some Other Town (11 page)

But how? they say. How will they know when they see it?

He smiles, says only that they will know. It will possess them, it will make them want to begin. So that then they must paint with all that is in them. It will pretty much be their one chance.

They do not understand.

You must paint what you saw, as you saw it. Not a copy, but
rather a moment, just that one instant you saw. And then you will understand painting.

He looks again at their faces.

The way in is the way out, he tells them.

They do not understand.

He closes the window. Turns up the lights. Asks them to return to their places.

I hold my hard smile for Frances. I'm still angry, it's true, she has so casually brought up our secret, something on which our work lives depend. We do not any of us just go spilling the beans here. We're a team, after all: Steinem Associates, Unified. The point here is unification. If one of us slips and our secret gets out, most likely the whole Project is through.

That's how it is at the Project, Frances. Surely I don't need to remind her.

But I look now again at Frances and realize it is not easy smiling so hard for so long. My mouth is beginning to ache. And I realize besides that Frances is taking no notice. It is fruitless with Frances, I should of course know. She understands only what she chooses. And so while she and the others move on with their talk, I feel my thoughts move on as well, or rather, I should say, back again. Back to that packet of sugar, that is, and the crucial point I noticed as Ben spun it.

Which I should have caught right away of course, first thing
earlier in the evening. It is an unfortunate lack of awareness on my part when encountering a new man socially—a disability of sorts, actually—and I have been trying for keener perception.

So now that night with Ben it occurs to me at last to stop and take a look. And there on his hand, the one with the sugar packet, there on the left fourth finger, there, after all, it is—a gleaming and gold wedding band. Gold, fat, and rubbed smooth as a river. He is married, this Ben Adams. Long married. I am having late night coffee with a long-married man.

Which need not change anything at all, of course. That is what occurs to me next. We are only just having coffee. We have only just met. Still, it is a new point, this wedding band, and something I will have to think over.

“I have two geese,” Ben Adams says then. “A goose and a gander. On the farm where I rent.”

I look at him, nod. But I'm still not fully attending. I am wondering instead so do I mention the ring, or maybe Ben Adams's wife? “Well now,” I could say. “Doesn't your wife mind? About the geese, I mean. I would think they're a responsibility.” It is the kind of thing women say, I believe, although I'm not really sure of the point. It may be only to acknowledge you've seen the ring, you know that this man is married. And that it's all right with you, all right. You yourself are just having coffee. It makes no difference at all if the man you are with just now all alone and getting to know and possibly like is in fact actually married. It is not that you have designs. You are only just having coffee.

I nod at Ben. “Geese,” I say. “Yes. I've heard they are friendly birds.”

We both of us just look down at our mugs. Ben gives his another
swirl, I take a sip from mine. The coffee is cold. Well, we are probably both thinking about leaving.

But just then, the truck stop front door opens wide and “Janice!” a large man calls. He makes a wild-eyed scan of the room. “Janice, I know you're in here. Come back out to the car now, Janice.”

Ben shoots me a look. We are the only ones here in the truck stop, the man at the door must see this. “Oh-oh,” Ben says to me, low.

Our waitress appears from her back room. “Larry,” she says. “Now calm down there, Larry.”

“I've lost Janice,” the man says to our waitress. He lowers heavily onto the counter's end stool, bows his head, and with no further notice, starts to sob.

“Larry, Larry,” the waitress says. She goes to him, rubs the top of his head.

The man's back and shoulders are heaving. “Janice,” the man cries, “Janice. Where is Janice?”

“There, Larry,” the waitress says. “Shh. It's all right.”

The large man lifts his head to look at her. From our booth we can see his face is swollen and red, soaked wet from the tears. And we can smell the alcohol on him.

Ben stands, walks over. “Need help?” he says. It's not clear if he's asking the waitress or Larry.

“It's OK,” the waitress says. “It's just Larry. He comes in a lot. When it gets bad, I just call the cops.”

Larry places both arms on the counter, leans forward, drops his head. He lies then, chest and face on the counter

“It's his wife,” the waitress says. “He just misses his wife, that's all.”

The waitress turns to check Larry, who has now gone into a moan. She turns back to Ben. “She left him. Gone almost a year now. Larry just can't seem to get used to it.”

Ben nods, watches Larry. Then moving in, he stands and places a hand on his shoulder. The large man still moans. Ben does not move, he says nothing, he holds on. And after a while Larry quiets down. Leaning closer, Ben says something into his ear. And you can see then from the man's back he relaxes.

Ben stands over him watching. The waitress watches too. And then, “Thanks,” she says, smiling, like she can take it from here. “I'll let him stay. He'll just sleep now, we'll be fine.”

Ben comes back to our table. He offers to drive me home.

On the way I think to ask him, “So what did you say to that man just now?”

Ben keeps his eyes on the road. He gives a little shrug. “Nothing much.”

I watch Ben drive. He can feel it, I guess, because in a little while more, “I just told him I know.”

I look at Ben's profile. You do? I am going to ask. But Ben is still watching the road and I can tell from the way he seems now, faraway, alone, that probably Ben does, he knows.

We drive on pretty much silent the rest of the way. The evening is definitely over here. And once in town, I just direct us to Mott Street and then quickly point out my house. Although it is not all that late, I will of course not be asking Ben in.

But at the curb, when I am out of his truck and thanking him for the ride, “Margaret,” Ben says, like he's just had an idea. He leans over and looks up to where I'm standing. “Have dinner with me tomorrow? I cook.”

I am surprised. I hold the door open, I consider. The thought of Ben Adams's smooth wedding band does naturally cross my mind. A fact we have not yet discussed. But then “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I would like that.”

Which is true. I have decided I like this Ben Adams. He is someone I would like to know better. So “Yes,” I say. “OK. I mean, thanks.” And I write down and hand him my number.

I sit thinking about this last part. How good and kind a man our Ben is. And I think again how Mrs. E is right. He has been missing for far too long. I really should find where he's gone. Which is to say, I must be off. I must go now and save Ben Adams. It could, after all, be just the thing that will end up saving us both.

But I know first I need a plan. For any good search and rescue, always there is a plan. Nothing happens without a plan.

And I make a few notes in my head:

I think over my notes. Yes, it is a good start to my plan. The part about searching for Ben. I will indeed find the missing Ben Adams.

And once then I do, I will go into the rescue part. Which, frankly, I have yet to work out. Rescue is hard and will take more thought, maybe an additional plan. Or then again, I may just have to wing it. Because, to the point, just now I am anxious to start.

The reason being, there is need to hurry. First, of course, in case Ben is really in trouble. But also because time in general for us is running out. Ben's second semester is almost up. His year here is at a close, and I know Ben has plans not to stay. I must catch him now, before he leaves town. If for no other reason, I will tell him, so at least we can say good-bye.

Luckily enough now, before Frances can go any further, Lola holds up her watch. “Well lookee here,” she says. “Time we all light a shuck back to fourth floor.” Somehow we've talked ourselves well past one.

We all rise and near the elevator doors, while Celeste is off pressing for up, Frances mercifully moves on from the Personality. Instead, watching Celeste as she saunters ahead, gauzy skirt freshly laundered and billowing, Frances cannot resist. “Celeste is certainly well cared for,” she says to Lola, in a voice loud enough for all of us.

Celeste pretends not to hear, because now the elevator doors are opening. We all fit ourselves in and begin our slow ascent to fourth floor. We stand facing the front and we are all of us suddenly quiet. We remain like that for almost a floor, until from the back, when she can take the silence no longer, Celeste speaks up.

“So, Margaret,” she says. “We haven't heard much from you today. Anything new with you?” It is of course just the quiet that's making her ask, Celeste has no actual interest. The editors in general
have no interest in me, rarely do they ask anything personal. They do not, for instance, want to know over lunch about any of my new boyfriends, the assumption being that I have none. Still, to fill this little void the elevator has brought on, Celeste is asking me something now. It's a kind of last resort of the extroverts present when faced with communal silence.

I do not immediately answer, and as we near the next floor, “Well, so, Margaret,” Frances says at my shoulder. I can feel her looking at me. And to encourage me then, I suppose, “Margaret, dear, Celeste asked you a question. Anything new? Any big date for the weekend?”

I try to think quickly. There is so much to say and really so little I can. I cannot of course bring up Ben here. The terrible fact he is gone.

We continue in silence. Still I can't think what to say. “Margaret?” Frances says. “Are you listening?”

From behind, I feel Lola give Frances a nudge. “Margaret don't like to talk much, honey.” Then “Haven't y'all noticed?” she says to the group and pats me helpfully between the scapulas. Which only makes me think harder. Surely there is something I can offer. Surely I won't let myself need to.

I clear my throat. “Surely,” I start to say. But I am spared then as the doors jolt open at fourth. And “Oh my,” the editors all chime in at once. “Look! Chaise du Jour.”

I study the foyer. It is Chaise du Jour, all right. Again. The editors are correct about that one. Right there as usual in our foyer.

Which, before we move on, calls for a note here of interest, not about chaises but foyers: This sanatorium is full of foyers. On each of the floors, in every wing, the elevators all let out at them. Yawning,
rib-vaulted foyers. Though, to be clear, there were foyers before there were elevators. In the beginning, when the sanatorium was first built, it had only stairs. Everyone used what we now call the back flight, the staircase with brass rails that Earnest complains of polishing. To reach our wing in those days, people climbed up four floors and were ready enough when arriving here to sit for a while, catch their breath. Foyers were, for the times, a good idea.