Some Other Town (18 page)

Lola nods, sadly. “That poor man home all alone,” she says. The crooner is getting on now in years, and Lola says she can just see the ol' boy. He is sitting there in one of his golf sweaters right now, in some leather recliner, just sitting. Lola imagines he is playing carols, some album he made for the Christmas show. He is sitting in his recliner on a fine spring day listening to “Away in the Manger” and waiting for the Personality to return.

Once in a while, the crooner gets up and looks out to see if she has pulled in. And then when he sees she has not, probably he just hobbles back to the stereo, turns over the album, and with a great deal of effort sits down again.

Lola cannot herself bear the thought. “The weekend, Marcie?” she says. “Are you sure Steinem told you the weekend?”

Marcie shakes her head no. “He didn't tell me a thing, Lola,” she says. “MaryBeth wrote it to him in a letter.”

And well, I think here, so I was right. Marcie does indeed read Steinem's mail. I wonder if Steinem knows this.

Marcie gives us a little smile. “The Personality is not stupid,” she says. She never writes Steinem anything much, she must guess his mail's opened by somebody else.

Yes, I think, but I still wonder if Steinem guesses.

“In her last letter,” Marcie says, “she wrote she'd be arriving on Friday.” For the taping, she wrote, she called it “taping” in her letter. “The Personality is always careful to make it sound like just business.”

Frances looks at Marcie, disgusted. “And Steinem is paying her
too,” she says. “Steinem would do that, for all three days, right out of one of our grant funds. Consultant fees: one TV personality, services rendered.”

Lola herself is not so concerned with financials. She is still on the topic of extramarital affairs. And “Well,” she says, “I jes don't think it is right. When some ol' gal's married, she jes shouldn't be seein' somebody else. And Steinem shouldn't be seein' her neither. It ain't what you call complex.”

Complex? I tune back in. We have stumbled onto familiar ground here. I know something about this matter of seeing. And oh Lola, I want to tell her, you have no idea how complex it is, when you find it is you who is seeing a married man.

But Lola is off now about a previous visit from MaryBeth. That time, she and Steinem had been in his suite working all day. Until, that is, about five when Lola, who'd stayed late, noticed the shade at Steinem's door was now all the way down. And then, Lola says, when the two of them left for dinner, they jes sorta had that look to 'em.

“Right there in his suite?” Marcie says. How bold.

Lola lets out a snort and nods. It is easy to tell she is only just started on this subject of would-be adultery. Texas outrage is Lola's particular forte, yet another reason for not bringing up Ben around here.

Ben? My mind takes a sudden sharp turn. And it's no use then to pretend I'm still listening here, that my mind is anywhere but on Ben.

Because here is the thing. Just now when Lola brought up Steinem's drawn shade, I thought once again of my trip to Ben's. How once I got to his farm, the shades at Ben's windows were all down
as well. And what I couldn't place then but has come to me now is that something was wrong with that picture. Ben likes things open, he likes a view, he is not one to be pulling shades. In the time that I knew him all this fall, never once did I see them down. Not even when Ben was away.

So what does that mean, those drawn shades? What were they hiding behind them? Why wasn't Ben to be found?

And despite what I've been thinking about rescue, how there is probably no real reason for it, I'm thinking I may be wrong.

But now the editors check their watches. We have talked enough for one day. And at any rate, look at the time. It is almost four o'clock at the Project. Time we were all heading home.

And I'm relieved then at last when I am back on the bus into town. I need to be off to Ben's, I still have Ben Adams to find today, it is more pressing now than ever. But the ride home is slow, we have a new driver as I feared we would, and we arrive in town later than normal. I hurry off the bus and push on.

At the crosswalk I head north, wait as normal for the light at Summit. And once again, there, the white van. I catch it out of the corner of my eye, in the haze of late afternoon sun. A large white van moving in from behind, idling sinisterly just off to my left. I turn and take a quick look through the glass. It is never, as I've said, someone I know. But then, in a glint off the windshield, I see him, the large angry man from the dream, oddly smiling and beckoning—get in.

My heart slams into my chest. So it's true, he has found me. I try to think which way to turn. The street is quiet, no one is out, there is no one to call to for help. The man could easily jump out of the van and stuff me into the back of it. That's how it goes with vans, it is why serial killers drive them. I know I should run. I start to push off. But like in a dream, both my feet stick hard to the walk.

I turn my head to call out. Maybe someone inside a house will hear. “Help me,” I call. “Help me! Oh please, for godssake help!”

And when no one comes out of his house then, waving his arms and shouting, copying license plate numbers as he runs to me, I think well what now do I call? The large man in the van has arrived? He is here now in life to do me harm as the dreams predicted he would?

“Help me!” I call again. And when still no one comes, I cannot help thinking well isn't it just like a dream though? To twist things like this and hang you to dry? Instead of driving off a bridge on a country road, I am cornered here at a crosswalk, almost dead center of town. Looks like the dreams' directions were wrong.

I turn one more time to the van. Maybe I'll offer the driver a deal, or simply plead for my life. But now the sun's gleam is gone, and as I look through the glass, I see I have made a mistake. The driver is not who I thought he was. It is just some town hippy, a man with white hair and a beard from out of Zap Comix. He is gesturing to me to cross. The light is green. I've failed to notice it's my turn.

The man smiles and waves. I hurry on, I do not know what came over me. But I know now I have no more time for white vans. The number of vans in this town is uncalled for.

I walk fast down the rest of Church and Grant, turn onto Mott, and plunge on, head down, race-walking for home. But when I stop then a moment for bearings, there up ahead I see her. Mrs. Eberline is again at my door.

She has spotted me too, she has turned and is hailing me feverishly, her arm up and waving high. I can hope only it will be a short visit.

“Mrs. Eberline, well hello,” I say from the walk. I climb the bank and up the steps to my door. Then standing, towering actually, over her, I say, “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Eberline?”

I am wary now of course about this new visit. There is my couch to consider. And there is also of course Ben Adams. I do not think I can take any more of Mrs. E and her threats and rants about Ben. Or her visions of Ben and the trouble he is in. Just now, I would say, I have trouble enough of my own.

“Open the door, missy,” Mrs. Eberline says. “I got somethin' to say.” She looks at me, determined, unmovable.

Mrs. Eberline is on one of her missions, it appears. And I know from experience there's no stopping her. So I check first for any lighted cigarillo, then reluctantly I unlock the door. Well all right, I am going to tell her, come in. But just for a minute, please. Really, I have just a minute.

Before I can say this, however, Mrs. E pushes past, I assume headed for the front room. But she stops then, looks up, and suddenly breaks into a grin. “That Ben feller, he come back!” she
announces. She points toward the window. “I seen his truck right there out front.”

My whole body jerks back like it's just hit a wall. “Ben was here?”

Mrs. Eberline nods and smiles widely, showing all of her gums.

I look at her hard. Ben? Could it be true? She's not just imagining things?

“When, Mrs. Eberline?” I say. “When did you see Ben's truck?” I think Mrs. E is mixed up here. She's only remembering how it used to be.

“Just now, missy,” she says. “Just a hour ago, while you was out at work.”

I study Mrs. Eberline closely. I do not know if she knows what she's saying, it could be some other truck on this street. I do not know if Mrs. E knows her trucks.

And besides, I think, why after all this time away, why now would Ben choose to stop by? And why, when he knows my schedule, would he come when I was away?

It is not making sense. “Well no, Mrs. Eberline,” I say. “I do not think it was Ben that you saw.” And I offer that the truck was probably just someone a neighbor on Mott Street had called. Some plumber or TV repairman.

“We need to be sure of our facts here,” I say.

Mrs. E's smile fades. She considers me, stares a moment more. Then as though she's just got the picture, her eyes narrow and she gives a short, incensed “humph.”

She turns away. She is now all action. As quickly as she is able, she drops to her knees, puts her cheek to the floor, and takes a look under my couch.

“Mrs. Eberline?” I say.

She pretends not to hear me. She stands. Then straightening the hood on her parka, she scuttles back toward my entry and opens the coat closet door. Peering inside, rummaging, she reaches behind the dry cleaning I've hung there and pats along the far wall.

“Mrs. Eberline,” I say. “Just what is going on?”

She stops where she is and takes one last glance. Then her shoulders drop, she turns, and she trudges back slowly to me.

Mrs. Eberline does not now look herself. Her face is pale and her eyes have gone flat again. She appears less stable than ever, and I am worried something is wrong. “Here, Mrs. Eberline,” I say. “Take a rest. Have a seat. Sit here.” And I offer her usual end of what is now left of my couch.

Then against my better judgment, I also offer to go get her water. But on my way back to the kitchen, apparently Mrs. E revives some. Apparently she has also thought up a new tack, I can only guess to what end, because “Tea, darling,” she calls in her Belva contralto. “If you don't mind, dearest, I'd much rather a cup of tea.”

It takes me a while to find the tea bags. I myself drink only coffee at home, but for Mrs. Eberline's sake, or maybe for Belva's, I make a proper tea tray. Then as I am lifting the tray holding my best china cups and my mother's silver teaspoons, I hear a creaking in the floorboards above me. A sound that can only be Mrs. E. She has shown herself up to my second floor and is pacing around my bedroom.

“Mrs. Eberline!” I say. I hurry to the stairs. “Mrs. Eberline!” I call again, my voice rising as I climb.

Mrs. Eberline meets me at the top of the stairs. She cocks her head and eyes me. “So there, missy,” she says, tossing tealess Belva aside. “What've you did with the man?”

“Man?”

And I realize then what she is up to. Mrs. Eberline thinks Ben is here. That indeed his truck was outside just now, and he is somewhere now here in this house. Has been maybe for some time. Because rather than continue to share Ben with her, I've decided instead to hide him.

I take Mrs. Eberline's old, crepey hand. I lead her carefully down the stairs and station her back on the couch. I bring in our tea, sit, and pour her a cup. “Sugar?” I offer, and hand her a teaspoon to stir. Then, as kindly as I can muster, I say, “You still miss our Ben Adams, I see.”

Mrs. Eberline just stares at her cup.

“Oh Mrs. Eberline,” I say. I sound heartfelt. I reach again for her hand. “Oh Mrs. Eberline,” I say, “let us put Ben Adams behind us.”

Mrs. Eberline glares and snatches her hand back to her side. She watches me warily.

I try to think what to say. I want this issue of Ben put to rest. I want Mrs. E off my back. So I lie and say something I don't myself feel but something I think she just might fall for. I tell her how I am pretty sure, given a little time, we'll both forget all about our Ben Adams. It can happen, I say, if we try. I make it sound like we are in this together.

Mrs. Eberline does not look like she believes me. The point here being, of course, we are not in this together. We have never been in anything together. Mrs. E, if anything, is behind enemy lines. Or then again, maybe I am.

That is, simply put, Mrs. E is just no fun to live next to. For years now I have had my concerns about her. She is, as I've mentioned, an incorrigible thief, also a liar and bully. She is the reason I no longer leave things in grass or linger outdoors myself, that I keep watch now pretty much always.

Which I must say, as a homeowner and former renter, is not the kind of freedom I'd hoped for. And now knowing about neighbors like Mrs. E, about owning a home nearby one, I do not think I would buy a house again. I dislike the proximity to so wanton a force, to all of the snatching and loss. It just makes me hold tighter myself. Which is no way to be a good neighbor, I know, and also not good for the soul.

Mrs. Eberline taps at my shoulder. “Missy?”

I turn to look at her. I've been neglecting my duties as host. So I thank Mrs. E for stopping by. And getting back to the reason for her visit, “Ben Adams is not here, Mrs. Eberline,” I say. “Ben Adams, you'll remember, is gone.”

I stand and look at her on my scorched, soggy couch. She sits, head down, more wan and wizened than ever, and for a moment I truly do feel sorry for her. And while there is nothing at all to be done about that, still I grasp for something to say, a way to end on a more pleasant note. I tell her once more how we'll forget about Ben. How we'll be happy then back alone in our houses. “Happy enough as we were before,” I say, smiling brightly and bravely. Then I walk to the front door and open it. “Just you now wait and see.”