by Marie Sexton
He finally made it around to Ben’s side of the display. He’d expected to find movies, but that wasn’t what had excited Ben so much. Instead, it was box sets of old TV shows.
Ben was practically beside himself, his pale hands pointing to different boxes and then fluttering in wild gesticulations around his head as he talked. His eyes were bright, his lips so perfectly expressive and mobile, and for a while, Jason could only watch him, still stupidly holding his phone to his ear, not catching a single word Ben was saying, just drinking in Ben’s enthusiasm and his joy and his beauty. It took him a minute to come up with something good to say.
“Pick some,” he said at last.
Ben froze, all of his motions settling into stillness like a bird finally fluttering to a perch. Really?
“Sure. I mean, maybe not all of them, but we can buy a few. Which ones do you like best?”
Ben bounced on his toes, his hands clasped under his chin, and not for the first time, Jason found himself thinking about how young Ben was—not even twenty-one—and yet how strangely, terribly old at the same time.
Ben began scanning the shelves, occasionally pointing to boxes, at which point Jason would pick them up and flip them over so Ben could read the back. In the end, they left with season one of Fantasy Island, season three of The Love Boat, season four of Dallas—Jason realized with some guilt that he never had googled who shot J.R.—and the entire series of something called Murder, She Wrote.
“Are these for your grandma or something?” the teenage girl at the register asked.
“For a friend,” Jason told her, smiling at Ben. He didn’t need to hear Ben to read the thank you on his lips.
“What should we do today?” Jason asked Ben the next day when the latter finally made an appearance late in the morning. “It’s Thanksgiving, but I’ve never baked a turkey before, and it wouldn’t do you much good anyway.”
They were in the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows into the small space as Jason loaded the dishwasher. He used so few dishes each day, it made more sense to wash them by hand after each meal, but who had that kind of self-discipline? He’d let an embarrassing number of coffee cups pile up next to the sink. Time to fall back on modern technology.
Ben stood in the corner, by the entrance to the mudroom, ostensibly with a hip against the counter, although he’d missed by about three inches. “Anything is fine.”
“Well, there’ll be movies on TV, and there’s football, although don’t ask me to explain it to you, because as far as I can tell, they’re all just running into each other. And there’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Have you ever seen that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Me neither, but I know it’ll be on.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly eleven. “Unless we missed it. It’s on the East Coast, and it might be a morning thing.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ben crossed to the window, pushing his face right through the white curtain to peer outside so that it looked as if his head ended half an inch in front of his ears.
Jason found it disturbing and turned back to the dishes. “Do you want me to take you outside?”
“I don’t know. The sky is clear, but it looks awfully cold.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Maybe later.”
His response lacked his usual cheer, and Jason risked a glance his direction. Not that it did any good. Ben’s face was still obscured by the curtain. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” But his voice was pensive, and Jason waited, knowing there’d be more. “I remember the first Thanksgiving,” Ben said at last.
“What?” Jason dropped the little pellet of detergent in and closed the dishwasher, flipping it on as he did. “You mean like at Plymouth Rock? You’re not that old.”
Ben laughed, turning back into the room as Jason wound the music box back up in order to keep the conversation going. “No. I mean, I remember when President Lincoln declared it a holiday.”
Jason frowned, trying to recall what he’d learned about Thanksgiving back in grade school. All he really remembered was tracing his hand on construction paper and coloring it to look like a turkey. “It wasn’t a holiday before that?”
“Well, sort of. The president or the governor would occasionally decide to declare some random day ‘a day of thanksgiving.’ But it wasn’t a yearly thing. It was more of a religious celebration back then—”
“Really?”
“Sure. In Tennessee, the Episcopalians celebrated Thanksgiving early in November. But then sometimes the governors would try to declare the last Sunday of the year as a day of thanksgiving, which would piss all the Episcopalians off, because they’d already done that. But mostly, we thought of Thanksgiving as a Yankee idea. Something those silly superstitious Puritans did in New England. And anything they did in New England wasn’t something we were anxious to copy in the South. It was something of a joke.”
“So you didn’t celebrate it at all?”
“Some people did. I know Arkansas declared it a holiday a few years before the war, but Tennessee was a bit slower to embrace it. Nashville had a Thanksgiving parade in 1859—that was a big deal, it was all anybody talked about for weeks—but when the war started brewing, Thanksgiving became one more point of contention between the North and the South.”
“I had no idea.”
“Then, in 1863, President Lincoln declared the last Thursday in November as a national holiday. Of course I was north by then, living with the Yank who’d stolen the globe and his family, and they talked all about it, how Lincoln had called on the nation to reflect upon its lost brethren, and to find a path to healing, or some such nonsense.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I remember laughing, thinking how back at home, they were probably up in arms. Anything Lincoln said was cause for a riot. If he told them the sky was blue, the South would be out there blustering about how any damn fool could see it was red. So even though I wasn’t there anymore, I knew the South would fight it. And I knew my dad would spend the whole day in a rage over it too.”
“I bet you missed them.”
Ben shrugged. “I missed being home, and I missed Sarah, but I can’t say I ever really missed my dad.”
“And now?”
Ben hung his head, staring down at his scuffed boot. “I feel like I should say yes, I miss them. But it’s been so long. The truth is, I hardly even remember them. I remember that Sarah was terrible at spelling, and she hated needlepoint, and when we were little she was always climbing trees and tearing her dresses. But I’m not sure I even remember what she looked like.”
“What do you remember?”
Ben’s eyes became distant as he thought back. “Smells and sensations, mostly. I remember . . .” He moved his hands futilely, as if trying to grasp at the words. “I remember the smell of fresh-baked bread, and the warmth of it in my hand, and the way the butter would tear right through the slice Cook gave me, no matter how carefully I tried to spread it. I remember the drone of cicadas, even though I haven’t heard it in more than a century, and how the sound seemed to rise and fall as I drifted off to sleep. And I remember the smell of horses and hay, and the snorting sound our old mare made when I walked into the barn, like she was saying hello. I remember the odor of rain-soaked cotton bales and sun-baked tobacco fields and the rhythm of the songs the slaves sang and the itchiness of my best Sunday shirt. But the people?” He shook his head. “I remember Edith more than my own sister.”
Jason couldn’t imagine. He thought about people he’d grown up with, friends from twenty years before. In most cases, he remembered little more than a single moment, or a sensory impression. In some cases, he recalled a smile or a distinct face, and yet when he tried to focus on it, it grew hazy and nondescript. How must it be after a hundred and fifty years? He felt bad for having brought it up.
“Well,” he said, wanting to lighten the mood, “I’m happy to report that the holiday is no longer about Puritan superstitions, or w
hatever it was you said. Now, it’s mostly about pigging out.”
“And being thankful.”
“Yeah. That too, I guess.”
Ben smiled at him, like some kind of blessing. “I am, you know.”
“What?”
“Thankful. For you. Every minute of every single day since we met, I’ve been thankful.”
As so often happened with Ben, the frankness of such an intimate statement caught Jason off-guard, as did the knowledge that Ben still lived a half life at best. And yet, despite everything, Ben found a reason to smile each and every day. Here Jason was with a career many would envy, a bank account that kept him fed and clothed, a house out of a fairy tale, and yet how often did he stop and take account of his joys?
I’m thankful for you too, he wanted to say, but Ben had already turned away to stare out the window again. This time, he peeked through the gap in the curtain rather than sticking his spectral face straight into the fabric. “The parade,” he said. “I think we should watch the parade. Do you think we missed it?”
“I’ll find a way,” Jason promised. “Anything for you.”
They watched the parade, then started season one of Murder, She Wrote. Ben seemed to enjoy both, but as the afternoon wore on, he became distracted. He fidgeted, his eyes often straying away from the screen to the window and the pale sky beyond it.
“I can take you outside if you want,” Jason said at last.
“I don’t want you to freeze on my account.” Jason had never heard him sound so frustrated. “I hate that I have to depend on you for every little thing.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Not at the moment, maybe. But you will eventually.”
Jason didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to deny it, but he understood on some level that the devotion he felt now might wear off after a few years of carrying the globe from room to room. But he was also sure they’d eventually find a way to get Ben out of the globe. Or they’d find other people who could see Ben. Or they’d just learn to better navigate the barriers in their way.
“Well, for right now, I’m perfectly happy to take you outside, as long as you don’t mind waiting for me to put on some shoes and a coat.”
It was warmer outside than he expected—still cool, but not freezing—and Jason turned to Ben, who was barely visible in the daylight. “Which way? You want to go back to the stream?”
Ben tilted his head, considering. “Which direction can we go the farthest?”
Jason thought back to the property maps he’d seen when he bought the house. He pointed toward the woods at the back porch. “That way. Why?”
“I’ve been wondering about my limits. I was able to stay with you in that big store. I wish I’d tried going through that automatic door when somebody else walked through. I wonder if that would have worked. I doubt it, though. I think I would have been stuck inside with the globe like I am with houses. But what about your car? I wonder, if you rolled down the window, would I be able to get out?”
“Can you normally get out of open windows?”
“No. But I keep thinking a car might be different.”
“We’ll have to try.” But the question brought up other possibilities. “I wonder how it would work in a different house. Mine’s pretty old-fashioned, all the rooms separate. But a lot of modern homes have really open floor plans. It can be hard to say exactly where the kitchen ends and the dining room or living room begin. I wonder if you’d have more movement in a space like that?” What would Sydney think if he called her up and told her he wanted to shop for a new house again already? “Is that what this walk is about? Seeing how far you can go?”
Ben nodded hesitantly. “Until recently, the only time I’ve ever been outside was when the soldier took the globe away. But if I can walk around outside without you having the globe right next to me . . .” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Don’t get me wrong. I love being with you. But it’d give me a bit of independence I haven’t had before, you know?”
Jason nodded. “I understand completely.” He held up the globe. “I should leave this here then?”
Ben nodded. Jason placed the globe on the back patio and they started walking. Of course, leaving the music box behind meant he could only hear Ben for the first couple of minutes. After that, they walked in silence, the weak autumn sunlight dancing through the trees. They spotted squirrels and birds and once, a fox, who watched them with wide eyes as they passed. Could she see Ben, Jason wondered. He wished he knew.
Finally, they reached the fence line at the edge of his property. Jason regretted not taking Ben to the east where his property abutted the National Forest. Instead, they were faced with private property to the south. They stared for a moment at the strings of barbed wire, then at each other.
Ben pointed past the fence. I want to keep going.
“I can’t go with you.”
I know.
“You’ll be okay?”
Ben laughed silently. Jason couldn’t quite read his lips, but the mirth on his face said it all. What do you think could happen?
Still, Jason was hesitant to let him go. What if Ben managed to keep on walking? “You’ll come back, right?”
Ben’s laughter turned to an expression of surprise. Of course.
That made him feel better. “Do you want me to wait here, or meet you back at the house?”
Ben waved toward the house.
“Okay. You’ll be able to find it, right? You won’t get lost?”
Ben gave him that same mocking smile. He spoke slowly so Jason could read his lips. I can always find the globe.
“Okay.” Jason nodded, unable to explain his hesitance to be parted from Ben. It defied all logic, so he forced a smile. “Don’t take any candy from strangers and be back before dark, all right?”
Ben cocked his head in confusion.
“Never mind. Just . . .” Just what? Be careful? Don’t disappear? Don’t decide you like the neighbors better? Don’t find some new magical snow globe to occupy, because I’d miss you more than I can say? He’d feel like a fool saying any of those things. “Have fun,” he finished lamely.
Ben nodded and said something that might have been See you later, and then he turned away. Jason watched in silence as he stepped easily through the barbed wire fence. He watched as Ben hiked effortlessly up the hill, his spectral form slowly disappearing into the trees.
And finally, Jason knew what he’d meant to say.
“Be home soon.”
Jason left the snow globe on the back porch, although it went against every instinct in his body. He wanted to keep Ben close. But taking the globe inside now would probably break Ben’s connection to his spectral form as it roved over the hillside, so Jason went past it into the warmth of the house. It was only another ten minutes before Ben appeared again—not walking down the hill, but suddenly popping into existence next to the globe—but he quickly waved Jason to stay inside.
I’m going to try again.
And off he went.
Jason made himself a cup of coffee and some dinner, eventually pulling one of his dining room chairs into the kitchen so he could watch out the back door. Ben came back twice, but both times he turned and started off again, walking different directions each trip, his lips moving silently.
He was counting his steps.
The next time he appeared, Jason poked his head out the door. It was still early in the evening, but being so late in the year, darkness had fallen. The temperature had dropped a good ten degrees, and without the light, Jason cold barely make out the trees at the edge of his property. “Are you ready to come in?”
Ben held up a finger. One more time.
He’d just disappeared into the darkness when Jason’s phone rang, startling him out of his thoughts. There were only a handful of people who might be calling him, Natalie and Dylan being on the top of the list. For the first time ever, he was glad to see his agent’s name rather than Dylan’s.
“Hey, Jason,” she
said when he answered, and he could tell by her tone he wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation. “I’m sorry to call on Thanksgiving. Are you busy?”
“Not at all.”
“Have you been online yet today?”
His heart sank. “No. Why?”
“Well, there’s a weird story circulating. Something about you going to a movie theater and then wandering through a Best Buy?”
Jason closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. “Okay.”
“It started out with one girl tweeting, and then another person jumped in, and then somebody posted a photo of you in Best Buy. And then StarWatch got ahold of it and bought the picture—”
“What does it matter if I was in Best Buy?”
“They say you were acting crazy. Talking to yourself and threatening people?”
“What?” The first thing he understood. But the second? “Who says I threatened them?”
“Well, that’s part of what StarWatch is saying on their webpage. They attribute it to ‘witnesses who asked not to be identified.’”
“In other words, they made it up.”
“Probably. The original tweeters have openly said they saw no hostility, but you know how these things go. The good news is, I think it’s already peaked and is on its way back out. I mean, we also have a professional baseball player who got arrested yesterday for domestic violence, and another Hollywood couple who eloped to Vegas three days ago and are already filing for divorce. And there was a ‘wardrobe malfunction’ at the AMAs that makes Janet Jackson’s original Super Bowl booby-shot look like child’s play, so you’re actually only generating a tiny amount of buzz right now. It isn’t even worth worrying about, in my opinion, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“I appreciate that.” Although it was partially a lie. If she hadn’t called, he never would have known about it at all, and he was beginning to think that ignorance really was bliss when it came to the media. “Anything else?”