Ben Soul

by Richard George

another’s soul, and we are powerless to prevent its disturbances.”

  “Hmph!” Reverend Hughes snorted. She glared at Reverend Phil E. Buster.

  “Other times,” he went on smoothly, “we do not recognize our own cooperation with the stirring, until it is too late to reverse an occurrence. That is why we pray for mercy.” The commissioners nodded piously, even Shea Mauna Hughes.

  “Reverend Shayne, have you anything else to say about your divorce?”

  “Only that I wish it weren’t happening.” Dickon stared down at the table willing his eyes to stay dry.

  Reverend Buster waved his hand at the door. “Then we will dismiss you to the other room. When we have deliberated, we will advise you of our decision.” Dickon got up and left, closing the door behind him.

  In the outer room he sat quietly, hands folded and head bowed in an attitude of prayer. Inwardly he was fuming. No condolences, no words of consolation. More implied condemnation than compassion. And where could he go? How could he earn a living?

  After what seemed an hour, but was only ten minutes, Reverend Bobbo Link came and got Dickon. He ushered him into the examination room. Dickon took his former chair.

  “We have decided that the most prudent course to follow, for you and for the congregation,” Phil E. Buster said, “is for you to take up other employment in a decent and orderly fashion. Elder Tenor has a suggestion.”

  “A good woman I know, Sister Salvación Mandor, operates a mission in the City. She has need for a one-quarter-time assistant in her work of feeding the poor. This Commission will recommend this as an approved position. It will pay you enough to live on, while you sort through your life and the direction of your future ministry.”

  “And we can arrange for you to do graduate study at the City College,” Bobbo Link said, “tuition free.”

  Dickon felt a rush of gratitude; the Church had not entirely abandoned him!

  “In one year,” Phil E. Buster went on, “we will meet again with you to assess the future path of your ministry.”

  “I accept,” Dickon said. “Do I need to write a letter resigning from Two Tree?”

  “No,” Reverend Buster said. “We will deal with this as a call from one position to another.”

  “Then my record remains clear,” Dickon said. “When will this all happen?”

  “Within the month. Do you have any questions?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then let us pray. Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, bless this Commission, and bless Dickon Shayne, that we may serve Thy plan, and not the false desires of our own hearts. Shed Thy Grace upon us, and bless us. We pray this in the name of Jesus, Amen.”

  Poached Halibut at the Floundering Flatfish

  The Floundering Flatfish was busy, as usual, on Saturday night. Len came in through its elegant mahogany and leaded glass doors. The headwaiter greeted him with a smile. “Do you have reservations, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Len said. “In the name of Len DeLys. For a party of two at six.” Len pointed to his name on the headwaiter’s list. He showed just the right amount of linen below the cuff of his blue blazer.

  “You are Mr. DeLys?”

  “Yes, I am. Has my guest arrived yet?”

  “No one has requested a seating in that name. I could seat you, sir, and bring your party to you when she comes.”

  Len shook his head. “My party is a man,” he said. “I’d rather wait here for him. He should be along soon.”

  “Do you care for a drink from the bar?”

  “No, thank you, not until I’m seated. I only drink standing up at cocktail parties where there are too few chairs and I have no excuse to leave.”

  “Just as you please.” The headwaiter turned to the next party and, after verifying their reservations, briskly walked before them to seat them. Len admired the man’s butt as he strode with the pomp only headwaiters and pallbearers seem to muster easily.

  Ben rushed in. He was breathing heavily, as if he had run. His tie was slightly askew, and Len thrilled as he straightened it. Ben’s rushed demeanor brought out his boyish traits. He smiled apologetically at Len. “I’m sorry to be late. I miscalculated the bus schedules. They run less often on the weekend.”

  Len looked around. They were alone in the reception area. He leaned over and kissed Ben on the cheek. Ben blushed. “No harm done,” Len said. “You’re here, and the night is young. That’s good enough for me.”

  The headwaiter returned. His swift, knowing, glance took in Ben’s fading blush. A brief smile crossed his face. “Is this your party?” he asked Len.

  Len said, “Yes, it is. We’re ready, sir.”

  “Right this way, gentlemen. Your server tonight will be Mario.” He led them to a table near the center of the room. It was set with two goblets for each of them, one smaller than the other. The small round table was swamped with a mound of linen tablecloth and napkins. A bus boy, whose dark good looks and youthful figure gleamed in tight trousers and a white shirt surely tailored for his torso poured water for them as the headwaiter seated them.

  Ben said, “This is a beautiful place,” as he tried to watch both the headwaiter and the busboy hurry away in opposite directions.

  Len replied, “It’s one of my favorites. The food is good, and the waiters are nice to look at.”

  “I noticed. What do you recommend?”

  “To eat or to watch?”

  “To eat. I’ll keep an eye out for what to watch.”

  “The halibut poached in orange juice is excellent. So is the Blue Cheese Halibut. If you prefer salmon, I can recommend the Cilantro Salmon. Even the Sole Florentine is good here.”

  “The halibut poached in orange juice sounds good.”

  Mario came to the table, his pad and pen at the ready. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

  Len replied. “Yes. For my companion, the Halibut Orange, and for me, the Sole Florentine. A bottle of Leaping Lizards Gewurztraminer to go with the fish.”

  “Which dressing would you like on your salad?”

  “The house vinaigrette for me,” Len said. “For you, Ben?”

  “The house vinaigrette for me, also.”

  “Thank you gentlemen. I will return with your salads.”

  Len and Ben watched Mario walk away. His buttocks moved with the fluid grace of the young under the tight black fabric of his uniform.

  “Lovely sight,” Len said, smiling at Ben.

  “Yes, yes indeed,” Ben said. Mario brought their salads. He flashed them a smile that hinted at conspiracy. The salad plates were deliciously chilled. The vinaigrette was neither too sweet nor too sour, with just the right hint of lime to give it an unexpected piquance. Ben watched Len to see which fork to use for the salad. Len noticed that Ben waited to follow his lead. Ben’s naivete charmed Len.

  Mario returned with sourdough bread and a spread of sun-dried tomatoes, garlic, and basil pureed in extra virgin olive oil. Mario swished his hips ever so slightly. Ben and Len grinned at each other. Again, Ben watched Len break off a slice of the bread and dip it in the olive oil puree.

  “You said you came from Colorado,” Len said. “Why did you leave it? There’s supposed to be an active gay scene in Denver.”

  “I connected with it, but it cost me my job. I grew up on a farm, near a town called Berthoud. I worked in Denver, after college, but I didn’t make many connections. Too shy, I guess.”

  “You? Shy?”

  “Yes. Me. Shy. At least in college. My philosophy professor, John Dilbert Doe, brought me out. One day he stopped me after class, and called me into his office. He confronted me with my sexuality. Scared the hell out of me, actually. I couldn’t deny it, especially after he came out to me.”

  “That is pretty direct, I guess.”

  “He invited me to a party, at his place. A gay party. I went, terrified, that first night. It was the grandest part
y I ever went to. For the first time in my life, I knew I was like some other men. It set me free.”

  “Pretty bold of your Professor Dill, to make you an offer like that. He could have lost his job.”

  “I think he was pretty sure of his target. More sure than his target was of himself.”

  Mario brought their entrees. Ben’s halibut was garnished with a flower made of orange slices. Len’s sole rested in a bed of lightly sautéed spinach.

  Len asked Ben, “Did you have an affair with this professor?”

  “Not really. A one-night stand. He was already falling in love with Hy Ewall, his partner, and didn’t really want a complication on the side. There were others, nearer my age. We all experimented.” Ben took a mouthful of his halibut. He savored its tart sweetness on his tongue.

  “Young men are full of juice, and it must come out,” Len observed.

  “Over, and over. Have you always lived in the City?”

  “No. I’ve lived a lot of places. I started out in Minnesota. I got out of there as soon as I could.”

  “Why?”

  “Too damn cold. Ever scraped frozen chicken crap off a coop’s floor at twenty below?”

  “No, never moved it under those conditions. I’ve shoveled a lot of chicken crap, though. Not my favorite chore.”

  “Yeah, it’s a rock in the winter and a slushy river in the summer. I ran away when I was sixteen. I couldn’t take any more of the cold, and the chickens, and my so-called uncle sodomizing me every night.”

  “Oh. That’s heavy.”

  “That’s the past,” Len said. Ben didn’t know quite what else to say. Len steadily ate his sole.

  “There’s a