Ben Soul

by Richard George

trembling.

  Ben turned back to his filet, almost cold by now. It had lost its savor. So had the fritters; he had let activities in the restaurant distract him from his meal. He thought of asking Harry to have Rosa warm his food again, and Butter’s soulful brown eyes impressed themselves on his inner eye. He knew she would enjoy whatever he chose to share with her, warmed over or cold.

  Harry had disappeared when Ben looked up to ask for a doggy bag. He was about to get up when Harry emerged from the kitchen with dessert, a scoop of green tea ice cream in a sherbet dish. Harry also had a plastic container.

  “Thought you might need this,” he said as he set the container on the table. “Your dog, she’d like what you can’t eat, I’m sure.” He used Ben’s flatware to put the steak and fritters in it.

  “Thanks, Harry,” Ben said. He took a spoonful of the ice cream. It was delicious and cool. “Was that a deputy sheriff, that young man?”

  “Yes. He had business to present for that woman.”

  “Who is she?”

  Harry grimaced. “Local politician and pain in the derriere.” He closed the container; the locking tab squeaked as he pushed it into the foam box. “Don’t like her, around here.”

  Ben was about to ask her name when Harry took up his now empty plate and shuffled away toward the kitchen. “Need more tea?” he asked over his shoulder. Ben shook his head no, picked up the container, stopped at the counter to leave the cost of his meal and a little something for Harry, and went out into the night.

  Dickon Stops By

  Ben and Butter saw Dickon several times to wave to, or say hello to, but didn’t have any chats with him for several days. Ben talked to Butter often every day, talking the hurt, loneliness, and exhaustion out of his spirit. He told her about what Len had meant to him. She, in wise canine fashion, took in all Ben told her, and then put her head on his knee or went to the door to suggest a walk.

  One day Dickon stopped by a little after lunch. Butter and Ben were in the yard, playing ball. Dickon waved, and stopped by the gate. Butter rushed over to greet him as a long lost friend.

  “Hi,” he said, as Ben followed Butter. “How are you today?”

  “Doing well,” Ben said. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Butter, getting settled in. Want to come in for a cup of tea?”

  A little breeze rattled the trees. It had a touch of the summer’s cold in it, as though to encourage Dickon to stop.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, opening the gate. Butter wagged an enthusiastic greeting and jumped up at him. Dickon grabbed her paws gently and eased her to the ground. “Down,” he said firmly to her. To Ben’s surprise, she dipped her head and looked sheepish. “Good dog,” Dickon said, and she circled him, barking joyously.

  They went in and Ben put the water on. He got his caddy of teas out. Ben used Lipton’s by preference, but kept bags of Darjeeling, Earl Grey, and English Breakfast in foil pouches on hand for his guests. Dickon chose Lipton’s, too.

  “Sugar or cream?”

  “No, black is the color of my true cup’s tea.” Ben smiled at the twisted quote. “How are you getting along in the village?” Dickon went on.

  “Well, I’ve talked with Emma Freed next door, the day I moved in. She brought me chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Her cookies have put a lot of pounds on the villagers,” Dickon chuckled, “including quite a few on me. I think the chocolate chips are the best, but the oatmeal and date cookies are a close second. Then, of course, her lemon bars are outstanding, as well.”

  “I’ll continue to cultivate her acquaintance,” Ben said. He put a cup on a saucer with a spoon in front of Dickon. Dickon took out his teabag, held it against the spoon, wrapped the string around it, and squeezed. Ben got himself a spoon; he used his fingers to squeeze his teabag when he was alone, but company required better manners. Ben let his cup go on steeping a while. He liked a very strong tea.

  “I haven’t met anyone else in the village, except you.”

  “Most everyone around here is fair game for gossip, you and me included.”

  Ben nodded. “What about Harry at the Café and Motel?”

  “What about him?”

  “What’s his story? He’s the most taciturn man I’ve met in a lot of years.”

  “He’s a quiet one, for sure.” Dickon scratched behind Butter’s ears. It was obvious to Ben Butter approved of Dickon. He felt a small stab of jealousy. After all, he fed Butter, provided her his bed to sleep on, his chair to sit in, and walked with her every day.

  “Harry and Olive are brother and sister. They wanted to be missionaries from early childhood. They went to some small Bible College run by an obscure evangelical denomination. Graduated with honors, I understand, both of them. Harry learned agricultural skills. Olive learned about domestic improvements possible in primitive conditions. Then they went overseas, to Belize.” Dickon’s cup was nearly empty, and so was Ben’s. Ben put the kettle on again, and took out some store cookies he had bought.

  “Evidently Harry was quite a preacher, full of fire for the Lord, and all that.”

  “Harry the Silent One?” Ben raised his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise.

  “Yes, that Harry.” Dickon smiled. His green eyes invited Ben to plunge into their pools. Ben wrenched his attention back to his words.

  “Olive went into the hinterland for several months, to help some of the remote villages improve sanitation. Did quite well at it, too. She’s got a knack for engineering. She’s completely revamped the village’s septic system since she’s been here. Actually got it up to code, to Vanna’s disgust.”

  “Vanna?”

  “Vanna Dee, the Coastal Commissioner. Also my ex-wife.”

  “Oh?” Ben got up to pour a second cup over their teabags. He put the cookies in front of Dickon, who took one, bit into it, and went on.

  “It’s not a kind story. When Olive came back, she had Hiram with her. He was a newborn. And, she had put on quite a bit of weight. The Missionary Board put two and two together, and came up with five.”

  “Five being they thought it was her child?” Ben let his scorn come through in his voice.

  Dickon frowned. “Yes. Religion breeds narrow minds all too easily. What’s worse, the Board members decided Harry was the father.”

  “Sticky stuff, eh?”

  “Yes, and probably untrue. Hiram was obviously not Caucasian. In his pictures he looks like a Mongolian, which suggests to me he was Mayan. Harry and Olive both run to tall, lean body types. Mayans are among the world’s shorter people, and tend to ovoid body shapes.”

  “This wasn’t obvious, then, when he was a baby?”

  “Not to religious administrators intent on finding a sin in every hut. Harry and Olive went through a church trial, were convicted, and shamed out of the denomination.”

  “And Harry doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He looks on it as a trial of his faith sent upon him by God, sort of like Job’s trial. Olive sees the world differently. She bitterly hates the situation. She has decided no just God would ever damn a faithful believer for a good deed done. She refuses to trust any god, just or unjust.” Dickon shook his head sadly.

  “Olive has a major point,” Ben said.

  “Nonetheless, it’s hard on Harry, for his sister to be so angry with God.”

  “I suppose. You were married to the Coastal Commissioner?”

  Dickon grimaced. “That’s a long story for a gloomy day,” he said. “Maybe some other time.”

  “I saw a man on the beach, dressed in a white linen suit. He was screaming at the gulls.”

  “That was Beau, the Colonel. He lives with Dr. Field.”

  “Emma mentioned him. She suggested there was quite a history there.”

  “There is.” Ben waited. Dickon did not go on. He ostentatiously sipped his tea.

  “Okay,” he said. “I guess it
’s not for me to hear.”

  “Not that,” Dickon said. “It’s just that it’s Dr. Field’s story to tell. It involves more people than the Colonel.” He looked earnestly at Ben. “I should be going, now, I suppose. I’ve got to go up to Pueblo Rio today to transact some business.” He finished his tea and stood. Butter bumped his knee. He scratched her head behind her ears. Ben saw him to the door.

  “Thanks for the tea,” Dickon said.

  “Thanks for the company. Drop by again,” Ben replied, and watched Dickon walk away, admiring how the man’s still firm buttocks filled his jeans.

  Lunch with La Señora

  Several days later La Señora invited Ben to lunch. Emma advised him it was more command than invitation. “La Señora is evaluating you for permanent residence,” she told him. He doubted it; he had been in San Danson only a few weeks, and he suspected it took more than short acquaintance to win La Señora’s approval. On Emma’s advice, he dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting best and met Elke just before noon at the garage in front of the funicular. This time he knew where to sit. Elke said nothing more than good morning to him until they got to the manor.

  When they got out of the funicular she said, “Please, Mr. Soul, remember La Señora is an old woman, and tires easily. If she asks you to leave, don’t take it wrong. It will simply be her weariness talking.”

  “I’ll take no offense,” he said. They entered the house. Elke took him to the second room on the right. This was the dining room. A large hutch held a variety of dishes, most of which looked very old. So did