Ben Soul

by Richard George

haunches thumbing through the man’s wallet. The man was still breathing noisily, and Dr. Field went to him and began a swift examination. Dickon stood without bracing himself against the floor; Ben admired his limber movements.

  “He has a high fever,” Dr. Field said. “We need to get him to a hospital, so he can have an IV to re-hydrate him.”

  “How can we get him to the hospital?” Ben asked. “Carry him to the highway, and drive him in?”

  “No, I’ve got a radio,” Dr. Field said. “I’ll radio the sheriff’s department to send a med-evac helicopter. Stay with him, in case he comes to, and needs reassurance.” Dr. Field moved quickly out of the chapel.

  Dickon smiled at Ben. “Romantic breakfast this isn’t,” he said.

  “I hope whatever this man has isn’t contagious,” Ben said. “I’m not ready to be sick. I’ve got other things to do.” Dickon grinned outright.

  “Yes, we both do. I am hungry, though.”

  “So am I. We’ll survive, I’m sure.” Ben looked around the chapel. “This is quite a place. It really glitters. Not what I expect in a chapel.”

  “It hasn’t always been a chapel,” Dickon said. “Go look at the mosaics more closely.”

  Ben got up and went to the nearest mosaic. As he got closer, the glitter blinded him until he was very close, and most of the glare was striking the empty air behind him. Then he could see that the mirrored tiles were subtly shaded different colors. He could just make out the scene the tesserae outlined. A nude lady, rather abstractly rendered, aroused a nude man, also abstractly rendered. The effect was almost comic.

  “I call that one Adam and Eve in the Garden,” Dickon said, coming up behind Ben. Dickon turned and glanced sideways into Dickon’s green eyes that were sparkling with mischief. “You can see Eve is trying to turn Adam on.”

  “Without much success,” Ben said, tracing Adam’s organ with his finger. “Needs Steve, I reckon.”

  “Probably so,” Dickon responded. “The next one along,” he murmured, “I call The Nativity.” He caressed Ben’s chest. Ben held his hands and led him along to the next mosaic. It showed a cat with a litter of kittens, surrounded by three children. Ben thought the children were rather ugly. Then he noticed a fourth kitten emerging from the mother cat.

  “What on earth did they use this room for in the old days?” he asked Dickon.

  “This was originally the recreation room and cafeteria for the resort La Señora’s grandfather built. He had an artist friend who designed these mosaics. Not quite family fare, but it really wasn’t a family resort.”

  The man on the floor groaned and coughed. Dickon let go of Ben and they turned and went to him. The man smelled of sickness, a sort of sour and musty smell. Ben breathed carefully through his mouth.

  “Let’s lift him up,” Dickon said, “I think he needs to cough up some phlegm.” Ben helped Dickon support the stranger, who by now was semi-conscious. Dickon offered him a handkerchief. The man coughed, cleared his throat, and coughed again.

  “Thanks,” he said, “down, lie down.” They eased him back to the floor.

  “Medical help is coming,” Dickon said. The man seemed unconscious again. Ben glanced up at Dickon. Dickon had his head cocked, listening. “I think I hear the helicopter now.” Ben listened, but it was two or three minutes before he heard the aircraft. Butter cowered next to Ben and whimpered as the noise grew louder. Something in its beat terrified her.

  Chester Field came in. “The ‘copter’s almost here,” he said. “I’ll ride with this man to the hospital. If I’m not back by lunch, could you see to it Beau gets something to eat?”

  “Yes, no problem,” Dickon said. Two paramedics waved Dickon and Ben aside as they came through the door with a stretcher. One inserted a needle and started an IV right away. The other checked the man’s blood pressure and other vital signs. Then they carefully loaded the man on the stretcher, and carried him to the helicopter. Dr. Field climbed aboard with them, and the ambulance rose into the sky. Ben and Dickon watched it disappear. Butter growled at it until it was out of earshot. Ben rubbed her ears. She barked and wagged her tail, and broke from Ben’s petting to race around the flat area in front of the chapel.

  “Had your breakfast yet?” Dickon asked.

  “No,” Ben said. “We haven’t.”

  “You and Butter are invited,” Dickon said. “Will you have breakfast with me?”

  “Yes,” Ben said. “I’m more than ready to eat. Can I bring anything?”

  “No,” Dickon said. “You and Butter are enough.”

  Breakfast at Dickon’s

  Dickon opened the door of his cottage and held it for Ben. The interior was dim after the bright light outside reflecting off the high clouds and cove waters. Ben blinked two or three times, willing his eyes to adjust quickly. Butter went immediately to the hearthrug and claimed it for her own.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” Dickon said. “Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll rummage up breakfast.” Bookshelves onto which books crowded in layers and heaps lined Dickon’s living room. Ben began perusing titles. Children’s stories stood cover to cover with dense looking theological tomes and sword and sorcery trilogies. Along with the Narnia Chronicles and the Harry Potter books, the stacks contained The Joy of Gay Sex, Tillich’s Systematic Theology, The Annotated Mother Goose, Iguana with the Wind, a Tale of a Bean-Eating Lizard, and The Complete Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

  “Browsing my bookshelves, eh?” Dickon called from the kitchen.

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw your eyes light up when you saw my library. I’ve poked through your titles. It’s the natural thing for book lovers to do.”

  “Guilty as charged, your honor.”

  Dickon stuck his head around the kitchen door. “Come on out. You can watch me cook.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Ben went into the kitchen. Butter followed him and sat beside him. Ben observed the appliances in the kitchen were twins of the ones in his own kitchen. Modest cost models, serviceable, but not elegant, in basic white. The linoleum on the floor was alternating red and yellow squares, the colors rather muted. Ben’s floor was alternating black and white squares. Ben’s table was a square one, but Dickon’s table was round, with only two chairs.

  He watched Dickon move around the kitchen, marveling again at how trim his body was for a man in his fifties. He drank in Dickon’s smooth, almost too-young face and thick red hair speckled with gray. From time to time Dickon glanced at Ben with his green eyes sparkling with mischief. Ben suspected Dickon knew he was admiring him. Dickon seemed to enjoy it.

  “Bacon or ham?”

  “Bacon, I think.”

  “Good. Fries quick.” Dickon laid out the bacon in the pan. Then he took out a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. He broke six eggs into a measuring cup he took from the cupboard by the sink. He got a whisk from a drawer. He took several spice bottles from a rack next to the stove and, measuring by eye, seasoned the eggs. Then he began whisking the eggs, gyrating his hips in synch with the strokes of the whisk. Ben wondered if this was a special performance, or an unconscious habit. He was about to ask when Butter raced, barking, to the front door. Ben got up to quiet her.

  “See who it is,” Dickon said.

  When Ben opened the door, his fingers hooked in Butter’s collar, Willy Waugh stood on the porch.

  “Dickon here?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course. Come in.” Ben stood back and opened the door, trying not to stare at Willy’s briefs. Willy seemed oblivious to Ben’s sidelong glances.

  “No. La Señora wants to see Dickon, and you too, Mr. Soul. Come up the trail when you’re through eating.” Willy turned and went down the steps. Ben admired the view openly. Willy turned and said, “Don’t lollygag. She’s waiting.” Then he marched off toward the chapel and disappeared toward its back. Dickon closed the door and
released Butter’s collar. She whined after Willy a moment. Then she trotted to the kitchen to see what Dickon was cooking.

  “Who was it?” Dickon called from the kitchen.

  “Willy Waugh. He says La Señora wants to see us as soon as we’ve eaten. He said something about using the trail?” Ben went toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, the funicular must be down. There’s a trail goes up the mountain behind the chapel. We can go that way.” Dickon turned the heat up under the bacon pan and the omelet pan. “Let me concentrate,” he said, “so I don’t burn the eggs. Can you make the toast? The bread’s in the refrigerator. Make a couple of extra slices for Beau.”

  “Sure.” Ben took out the bread and butter, popped four slices into the double toaster, and waited. When the bread popped up, Ben buttered the toast. Dickon declared the omelet ready and the bacon cooked. They ate swiftly; if La Señora wanted them, something must be up. He put half of each on a plate for Ben and the rest on another plate for himself.

  While he ate, he scrambled three more eggs. He put these on a plate with the extra toast Ben had made. Ben wished for ketchup for his omelet, to complement the delicate balance of herbs and spices Dickon had included in it, but he hadn’t seen any in the refrigerator, and suspected Dickon was one of those rare souls who didn’t keep the condiment around.

  “We’ll let the dishes soak,” Dickon said, and plunged them into the sink, running water to fill it half way.