Terminal House

by Sean Costello

  Ben said, “You’re not making any sense,” and turned away, ready to leave.

  “Ben—”

  “No, Ely. This is bullshit and I won’t hear another word of it.” At the door he said, “And if you bring it up again, you and I are done.”

  Then he was gone.

  Ely sighed and repositioned the easel. After a quick inspection of her work, she dug out her palette and oils. She didn’t like the way the sun was flaring off the wall behind Ben’s head.

  * * *

  Roxanne said, “Ely, this is so beautiful.”

  The artist smiled, angling the painting a few degrees to better catch the ceiling lights. “Ain’t it, though?”

  “Has Ben seen it yet?”

  Ely nodded. “Yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “He hates it. I told him why I did it and he walked out on me.”

  Roxanne’s pleased smile vanished. “Then you know what, Ely? Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe if we give it more time, it’ll just…”

  “Go away?”

  Roxanne nodded.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I guess not. If anything, it’s gotten worse.” She sank into a squat beside Ely’s chair. “Do you think I should stop spending time with him?”

  Ely took the girl’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Much as I hate to say it, kiddo, it may come to that. But I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s pretty radical. If you’re not up for it, I’ll understand.”

  “Ely, at this point I’m willing to try anything.”

  “All right. Here’s what I think you should do.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Saturday, July 8

  HUNCHED OVER HIS iPAD on Ben’s couch, Quinn said, “So Benji, what are you guys going to see?” Wilder was in the kitchen, scouting up a beer chaser for the brownie he’d just eaten. Quinn had wolfed one too, and was just beginning to catch a buzz.

  Ben came out of the bathroom adjusting his tie. “That new Tarantino film. I forget what it’s called.”

  Quinn made a few brisk finger-strokes across the iPad screen. “I Love You, Charlie Bronson? The zombie flick? Should you really be taking a minor to an R-rated bloodbath?”

  She’s almost nineteen, you moron, and she loves Tarantino. I do, too. The guy’s a weird genius. Anyway, it was her idea.”

  Quinn shook his head. “You should be arrested.”

  “Kiss my ass. Is my tie on straight?”

  “You should be more concerned whether your head’s on straight.”

  “Prick.”

  “Jesus, no, Ben, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant taking a kid to a—”

  Ben grinned. “Gotcha.”

  “You can kiss my ass.”

  Ben said, “The tie?”

  “The tie’s fine.” Quinn flipped the iPad around to show Ben. “What about this one? More suitable, don’t you think?”

  Ben leaned in to view the glowing screen: movie listings for the Center’s three-theater Cineplex. Seeing the one Quinn had highlighted, he snorted. “A Pixar film? Really? You trying to make a point here, Quinn? Because there’s a perfectly good one on top of your head.”

  Laughing, Quinn closed the iPad. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to rob the cradle, you should probably consider a more age-appropriate film.”

  Wilder came into the room now, chugging a beer. He sat next to Quinn on the couch, burped prodigiously, and slammed the empty onto the coffee table. Looking at Ben, he said, “You’re out of beer. Want a brownie?”

  “No thank you. I don’t want Roxanne seeing me half out of my head on pot.” He checked his watch. “Now I need you two to bugger off. I’m meeting her in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  Wilder leaned closer to Quinn to say, “She’s already seen him all the way out his head,” and Quinn couldn’t help himself. He laughed. The sativa always made him giddy.

  Ben shot them a dirty look and Quinn immediately felt guilty. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t stop laughing, and when Wilder started snickering, he lost it completely.

  Ben was holding the apartment door open now, no sign of amusement on his face. When they skulked past him into the hallway, still laughing, Ben said, “Cruel bastards,” so softly Quinn almost didn’t hear him.

  But he did.

  He turned now, trying to compose himself enough to apologize. But the door was already closed, the deadbolt running home with a deliberate snap.

  Feeling like a fool, Quinn started down the hall, Wilder still chuckling behind him. In the elevator on the way down, Quinn said, “That was really shitty of us.”

  Grinning, Wilder said, “Maybe. But that’s what we do. We mock. It’s what we’ve always done. That old crybaby does it too, when it suits him.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes…”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Sometimes a line gets crossed. You know what I mean?”

  Wilder said, “Maybe. But on the bright side, I haven’t seen the man that clear-headed in days.”

  “There’s that,” Quinn said, poking the button for the lobby. They were headed for the rec center now to shoot some pool. Grudge match. Last time they played, Wilder had fleeced him for thirty bucks.

  Quinn heard the familiar crinkle of tinfoil, and turned to see Wilder unwrapping the last of the brownies. Holding them out on his palm, Wilder said, “One more for the road?”

  Quinn scooped one up. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  * * *

  Ben spotted her right away, standing by the entrance with a casually-dressed boy of about her age. For an eyeblink, he thought he recognized the kid, but as he closed the distance he changed his mind. Just a trick of the light.

  Roxanne smiled when she saw him—a little apprehensively, Ben thought—and as she turned to face him, he realized she was holding hands with her companion. He returned her smile, thinking, Oh, my, what have we here? She hadn’t told him she was seeing someone.

  Still smiling, Ben offered his hand to the young man and thought he saw an expectant tension drop out of Roxanne’s shoulders, her previously guarded smile more genuine now. He said, “Hi, there,” and shook the kid’s hand. “I’m Ben Hunter, and that’s my date you’re holding hands with.”

  The kid dropped Roxanne’s hand like it was a dead rat and Ben laughed, saying, “I’m kidding. For God’s sake, son, I’m only kidding.”

  The kid laughed now too, taking Roxanne’s hand again, saying, “Oh, okay. Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Russ.”

  Ben thought, Russ, and felt that spark of familiarity again. He said, “Have we met?” and Roxanne jumped in.

  “Uh, Ben, we should probably get going. The movie starts in fifteen minutes.”

  Ben said, “Don’t worry, hon. The theater’s only a five-minute walk from here.” Smiling again, he said, “So I take it the two of you are an item?” and watched Roxanne’s face turn flame red. He loved that about her. Wore her heart right out there on her sleeve.

  Blushing himself, Russ glanced at Roxanne and said, “I hope so, sir.”

  Mock stern now, Ben said, “Well, fair warning, chum. Break her heart, you’ll have me to answer to.”

  The kid just nodded.

  Ben said, “So what’s up? Are you joining us this evening, Russ?”

  “No, sir, I’m just dropping her, Roxanne…I’m just dropping her off. Her grandmother needed the car tonight, and I didn’t want her taking the bus. I’ll be back at ten-thirty to pick her up.”

  “That’s very nice of you, son. But listen, why don’t you join us?”

  “I’d love to, sir, but—”

  Ben said, “Please, Russ, enough with the sir. I feel old enough as it is. Just call me Ben.”

  “Okay, Ben.” He grinned. “I’d love to join you guys, but I’ve got a band practice tonight.”

  Ben put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “A fellow musician.” He grinned at Roxanne, saying, “I’m liking this cat mo
re by the minute.” And to Russ, “What instrument do you play?”

  “Drums.”

  “Drums. A man after my own heart.”

  “You play, sir—uh, Ben?”

  “Bought my first kit with paper-route money when I was twelve years old. Ludwigs. Four-piece red-sparkle with a ‘Squeak’ King kick pedal. Who’s your favorite drummer?”

  “John Bonham. Hands down the best that ever lived.”

  Laughing, Ben said, “Roxanne, you have my permission to marry this boy.” And to Russ, “What’s the name of your band?”

  “Behavior Unbecoming. We were Inflatable Amusements for a while, but too many people took it the wrong way. We’re a three-piece: bass, guitar, drums.”

  “That’s always been my favorite configuration. Love the name, by the way. Both of them, actually. What kind of stuff do you play?”

  “Classic Rock. Hardcore.”

  “Excellent.”

  Checking her watch, Roxanne said, “Okay, boys, I can see you’d like to stand here all night talking music, but it’s time to go. The lineups are going to be brutal, and I need time to pee and buy Twizzlers.”

  Ben told her they were going to a theater tailored to old folks, so he didn’t think there’d be much of a turnout for a movie about dead people. Russ laughed, gave Roxanne a peck on the lips and said he had to run too, he’d see her back here at ten-thirty. Then he was gone.

  Ben stuck out his elbow. “Shall we?”

  Picking up on the emerging ritual, Roxanne said, “We most certainly shall,” and took his arm.

  * * *

  Roxanne couldn’t be happier. Part of Ely’s strategy for making Ben see her for who she really was included keeping Russ as far out of the picture as possible. But when Russ offered to drive her to the Center tonight, she decided to take a chance, reasoning that if Ben saw them together, really saw them, it might be enough to snap him out of his fantasy world for good. And so far, it appeared to be working like a charm.

  As they walked to the Cineplex in lavender dusk light, Roxanne told him a little more about Russ—carefully avoiding how they met—saying she’d attended a band practice the evening before (“They’re great, but they’re really loud.”), and that by sheer coincidence, Russ would be going to school in Nova Scotia too, taking the undergrad music program at Acadia University, which was only an hour’s drive from Halifax. The whole band was going.

  It was at this point she feared she was losing Ben, the man sporting that dazed expression again as they entered the shopping concourse.

  But now he looked her in the eyes and said how romantic he thought it was, the two of them ending up so close to each other for school, like it was meant to be. He said, “I’m happy for you, Roxanne. You deserve a nice boy like Russ.” And for the first time ever, he touched her, resting his hand on her shoulder for as long as it took him to say, “I was just thinking how much I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”

  Roxanne wanted to tell him she’d Skype him every week, and spend time with him during her visits home. But they’d reached the Cineplex now and she’d been right. The place was packed.

  Seeming distressed, Ben told her to take care of her ablutions, he’d grab the tickets and Twizzlers and meet her in front of the theater. By the time she got there, the opening credits were already rolling.

  The movie was great, in places so terrifying Roxanne actually cried out. At one point, a morbidly obese zombie burst through a stage floor to sink its teeth into the ankle of an exotic dancer, using its massive weight to pluck her off the stripper pole and drag her kicking and screaming into the space beneath the stage. The attack was so sudden, Roxanne shrieked and seized Ben’s hand, clutching it as hard as she could until the scene cut to daylight, offering a brief respite from the action.

  She tried to take her hand back then—recalling what Ely had told her about physical contact—but Ben tightened his grip. Not uncomfortably; just enough to let her know he didn’t want to break the connection. She considered insisting, but it seemed harmless enough—and now an elderly zombie in a gore-drenched nightgown dropped out of a tree onto the heroine’s back, cocking its jaws to savage the girl’s neck. The audience gasped, unable to believe the main character was about to join the ranks of the living dead. Then the camera cut to the zombie’s mouth, toothlessly gumming the girl’s skin, and everyone laughed. The heroine flipped the dead thing off her back, stomped its brains into the tarmac, and jacked a round into her assault rifle.

  It wasn’t long before Roxanne had to pee again, and she tugged her hand free, telling Ben she’d be right back. Excitement went straight to her bladder, a fact Russ had already picked up on, necking with her in the front seat of his Tesla.

  On her way back, she spotted Ben sitting on a bench in the lobby, staring at a panel of flashing lights over the concession booth. Concerned, she sat next to him and said his name. When he didn’t respond, she touched his arm and now he turned to look at her. Smiling, he said, “Roxanne. Hi, sweetie.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I decided to hit the bathroom too, but on the way out I got short of breath. Happens sometimes. Figured I’d sit here a minute.”

  Relieved—seeing him sitting there alone with that vacant look on his face had shaken her—Roxanne said, “Want to just head home?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “And miss seeing how Fiona ‘Remington’ Faraday takes out the head ghoul?” He grinned. “I really don’t think so.”

  He stood, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

  Roxanne laughed. “We most certainly shall.”

  * * *

  For the balance of the film, Ben sat staring at the seat in front of him, trying to puzzle out how he’d ended up in the lobby. He knew he’d lost touch for a while; his last recollection before Roxanne spotted him out there was of a zombie dropping out of a tree. And he wasn’t kidding himself; he knew he had Alzheimer’s disease. But he was still a physician, and while the condition terrified him, it was also fascinating. And what better way to study a disease than to have it oneself? Except the very organ required to understand it—to understand anything—was the one most critically affected. He’d tried to connect the dots before, many times, wracking his brain for the details of those lost seconds or minutes or hours, but he’d always come up short. And the bits he did remember were just…there, and often startling in their clarity.

  It made him think of a train ride he’d taken in Europe in the eighties, on his way to a conference in Bern. The lights had gone out as they entered a series of tunnels, raising murmurs of alarm—then they were in daylight again, the contrast shocking to the senses. That pattern of light and dark had repeated several times before they broke out onto open terrain and the lights came on to stay.

  Searching his memory after his spells was a lot like that, extended periods of blackness intercut by almost blinding moments of clarity.

  Pondering it awakened an ache at the base of his skull, and as he left the mall, he was startled to find a beautiful girl walking next to him. At first he thought she was trying to pass him on the lockstone path, and he slowed to let her by. Then she said, “Ben, are you okay?” and he knew right away who she was. He smiled and said he was fine. Strangely, it felt as if he hadn’t seen the girl in eons. Which was nonsense, of course. They’d just seen a movie together, the premiere of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

  She smiled now and took his arm, and they walked together under an indigo sky in a place he’d never seen before.

  * * *

  At the elevators in the lobby, Roxanne said, “Russ won’t be here for another forty minutes, but you should go ahead up anyway, Ben. You look tired. I’ve got my reader, I’ll be fine down here.”

  “Wait down here alone for forty minutes? Nonsense.” Ben pressed the UP button. “That gives us just enough time to catch an episode of South Park, which starts in exactly…” He checked his watch. “Nine-and-a-half minutes.”

  “Sounds fun.”


  The elevator arrived and Roxanne followed him into the vacant car. He stared at the control panel for a long beat, then Roxanne pressed 9 and the doors slid shut. Ben said, “Nine, right.” Then: “Who’s Russ?”

  Oh, no. “He’s my ride.”

  Ben nodded. “So what did you think of the movie?”

  “Pretty wild,” Roxanne said, hoping he was kidding about Russ.

  “My favorite part was the knife fight.”

  “Knife fight?” At least a hundred zombies had been slain with everything from chopsticks to machetes, but none had fought back with a knife.

  “Yeah. Remember? When Butch Cassidy says, ‘Not until me and Harvey get the rules straightened out.’”

  Butch Cassidy?

  The doors opened on the ninth floor and Ben turned left into the hallway. Roxanne said, “Ben, it’s this way,” and knew he was gone. Knew she’d have to go through with Ely’s plan, even though the prospect scared the hell out of her. And she knew if it didn’t work, she’d never be able to see Ben Hunter again. It was just too painful, for both of them.

  Which made it worth a try.

  She felt a fresh glimmer of hope when they got to Ben’s door and he stopped without being told, punching in the key code with practiced confidence.

  But that hope was shattered a moment later in the foyer.

  Ben hung his jacket on a hook by the entryway mirror and turned to face her, a distant, almost dreamy glaze in his eyes. Grinning, he said, “Know what I was thinking about this morning?”

  “No.”

  “I was thinking about the day I asked you to go steady. I was so afraid you’d say no, I could hardly breathe. I had my grandfather’s ring. Remember what you said?”

  Crestfallen, Roxanne said, “Tell me,” and moved closer. Kissing close.

  Ben said, “Uh,” and shuffled back a step, hands pressed to his temples now, as if to prevent them from splitting. “Uh, you said…”

  Closing the distance again, Roxanne undid the top button of her blouse, her eyes never leaving Ben’s. By the third button, he’d begun to tremble, but not with excitement. It was like watching a man shake himself apart from the inside, a convulsion of opposing forces.