The Song of Eleusis

by Phil Swann

  Neither Ben nor Donnellson responded.

  “I think this is the first time in God knows how many years the three of us have even been in the same room together.” The president’s smile faded. “That’s too bad.”

  “Yes, sir,” Donnellson replied.

  Ben kept his eyes fixed on his brother but said nothing.

  The president continued, “You know, I remembered something this morning I hadn’t thought of in years. It was that time the three of us heisted that soda machine in front of Hollister’s Gulf station. We put it in your old man’s pickup, didn’t we, Steve?”

  Donnellson smiled.

  “Then we took it out to that shed we’d built in the woods and tried to stock it with beer.”

  “HQ,” Donnellson said, looking down at the floor.

  “That’s what we called it,” the president said over a laugh. “HQ, headquarters. Lord that was funny. We just didn’t figure on the little problem of needing electricity to make it work.”

  “We returned it the next day,” Donnellson added.

  The president smiled. “We did, didn’t we? Old man Hollister never did figure that one out. One day it was gone, next day it was back—soda and all. Some thieves we were, we didn’t even consider taking the money out of it.”

  Ben still didn’t speak, and there was another awkward silence.

  “Mr. President,” Donnellson finally said, “I’ve called for senior staff to come up. We need to look over your remarks on the SEC.”

  President Lambros didn’t take his eyes off of Ben.

  “Mr. President?”

  “Yes, Steve, I understand.”

  “That means you need to be very brief with Mr. Jackson.”

  “Yes,” the president said again. “I’m clear on that. Steve, would you excuse us?”

  “Sir?”

  “Would you excuse us, please?” the president said, looking at Ben.

  Donnellson nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll get Mr. Jackson.”

  “Give Ben and me a few minutes alone first, would you?”

  Donnellson looked at Ben before answering. “Certainly, sir.” As Donnellson turned to leave, he moved close to Ben and whispered, “Five minutes.”

  Ben didn’t respond.

  President Lambros walked back to the desk and sat down. “So how are you, Benjamin?”

  “Fine, thanks,” Ben answered.

  “Writing a lot of songs?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  The president nodded.

  There was another long silence until this time Ben spoke. “How are Sarah and the girls?”

  The president grinned. “They’re great, thanks for asking. They send their best, I told them I might be seeing you.”

  Ben forced a smile and added one nod of the head.

  “So, Ben, why don’t you come up to Camp David this coming Thanksgiving? The girls would love to see you, and we could catch up on things. Bring a friend if you like. I don’t know if you’re seeing anyone seriously or—”

  “I’m not,” Ben answered.

  The president nodded. “So, you think you can make it?”

  Ben started to say “no thanks” and be done with it but decided that it would be better to just leave it hanging. “Yeah, maybe.”

  The president nodded again and leaned back in his chair. “You’re not going to come.”

  “I said maybe.”

  “Yeah, but I know what maybe means.”

  “Of course, you know everything.”

  The president tried to smile. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “No, it’s okay, you’re head honcho now. You know everything, and everybody kisses your ass because of it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the president replied. “Don’t you read the papers? No one’s kissing my ass. Hell, I’ve only been in office a few months, and I have a pathetic forty-two percent approval rating. How does that happen? I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Well, maybe they just have a sixth sense of what’s to come. Tell me, what goes first, Medicare or school lunches?”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” President Lambros responded, rolling his eyes.

  Ben knew this was a bad path to go down and that he should just stop, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know why, he just couldn’t. “No, I know what it’ll be, affirmative action. You always hated that one. Tell me, Mr. President, you still think the worst thing you can be in America right now is a white male?”

  “I'm not going to argue policy with my—”

  “Bleeding-heart-liberal little brother. No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Ben, do we have to—”

  “You know what really cracks me up?” Ben interrupted. “How long have you and Stevie been friends? Since you were both about six? And now he's calling you sir and Mr.—”

  “Steve serves at the pleasure of the president of the United States.”

  “Oh God!” Ben said, laughing a bit too loudly.

  That brought the president out of his chair. “It’s the office, goddamn it! It’s not me, it’s the…he’s respecting the office. It’s called duty. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. You and Dad had that market cornered. Mom and I were just—”

  “Damn you! It’s always this.”

  The knock came as the door was opening. “Sir,” Donnellson said, “Mr. Jackson is here.”

  The president fell back into the chair. “Okay, just a second, Steve.”

  Donnellson nodded and shut the door. The president ran his hands over his face.

  Ben said nothing.

  “Anyway, the offer for Thanksgiving still stands. It’d be nice if you could make it. If you can’t, I understand.”

  “I'm sure you can,” Ben replied, not sure why he was being such a dick. “I guess we should get on with this so you can get back to doing whatever it is you do.”

  The president chuckled, shook his head, and stood. “Yeah, I guess you're right. I should get to doing whatever it is I do. It was good to see you, Ben,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Yeah, you too,” Ben replied, awkwardly shaking it.

  President Lambros nodded and put on his jacket. “Steve,” he called.

  The door opened, and Donnellson appeared.

  “Let’s do this.” President Lambros walked around the desk and stood in front of Ben. “By the way, you’re welcome.”

  “For what?” Ben asked.

  The president chuckled again.

  Ben understood. “Oh, for meeting Jackson, yeah…thanks for doing this.”

  The president nodded.

  Ben forced a smile as Jackson entered. “Hey, D.J., let me introduce you to my brother.”

  Dwayne Jackson remained expressionless as he came toward them. Ben was mildly amused when he saw that his friend was not only carrying a notepad but also a small digital recorder. Audio proof, Ben supposed.

  “Tom, Dwayne Jackson. D.J., this is Tom, a.k.a. President of the United States.”

  “Pleasure, Mr. Jackson,” President Lambros said, extending his hand.

  Everything happened at once, but at the same time in slow motion. Ben couldn’t process what he was seeing, much less react. D.J. dropped the notepad and raised his arm. Three quick spits burst from a small cylinder protruding out of the digital recorder. Ben froze and watched his brother fall backward. He looked at D.J.—his eyes were blank and soulless, no fear, no hate, only dark and completely void of any emotion. Then he heard a crash. He turned and saw his brother crumple to the floor in a sitting position, the lamp from the desk smashed to pieces beside him, his white shirt caked in dark red. Nothing was connected. Everything was out of sync, moving in stop-motion. He heard voices, Blue! Blue! Eagle down! Eagle down! Then shots, too many to count. Next thing he knew he was kneeling next to his brother; blood was gushing from the center of the man’s chest. Then he heard himself say, “Jesus, Tom, it's…it’s going to be okay, bro. Help! Help!”

&nbs
p; He felt his brother grab his hand. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

  “It's okay, Tommy,” Ben muttered. “Don't try to speak. You're going to be fine.”

  His brother squeezed his hand. “Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven.”

  “Tom, don't try to speak. You're going to be okay.”

  The president squeezed Ben's hand harder. “Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven.”

  Later, Ben would say the last thing he remembered was Stephen Donnellson’s voice yelling, “Why?” before being pushed flat onto the ground.

  Chapter Four

  The hill was a steep twenty-yard drop down a narrow dirt path. At the bottom, a three-foot ramp made of plywood had been constructed. If the rider kept up his speed, he would hit the ramp, be hurled into the air, soar over a deep ravine, and be deposited on the other side without harm—provided he landed right. If he wussed out and didn't keep up his speed, the gully below, a sewage drain filled with rocks, weeds, and thorny bushes, awaited.

  “Come on, Ben, stop stalling,” Stevie Donnellson yelled, sitting on a bicycle on the other side of the ravine.

  “You can do this, little bro,” Tommy Lambros added, also perched on a bike across the ravine. “Just keep peddling as fast as you can down the hill.”

  Eleven-year-old Ben Lambros sat on his bike and stared down the hill. His knee was shaking.

  “We're done waiting, Benny,” Stevie said. “You got five seconds, and we're leaving you. Four. Three…”

  “Come on, bro. Don't be a puss.”

  “Two.”

  “Now or never, Ben.”

  “One.”

  Ben started down the hill, peddling as fast as he could, gaining speed with every rotation. He saw the ramp fast approaching and lined up the front wheel for the jump. Then, five feet from lift off, he kicked the pedals back and stood up, locking the brakes and sending the bike into a skid. He shifted his weight, making the rear wheel push out and the bicycle slide sideways. He laid the bike down but couldn’t keep his body from continuing its forward momentum. Ben rolled over the chain guard and tumbled down the rocky path, coming to a stop inches away from the plywood ramp.

  “Oh man! Ben, what the fuck, bro?” Tom said, falling on the ground laughing.

  Stevie could barely breathe. “Benny, you're such a fucking idiot!” He turned to Tom, “I can't believe he did that. You alive, Benny?” yelling back across the ravine.

  “Well, he's moving,” Tom said, sending both into another laughing jag.

  Ben lay on the ground and stared at the sky. Tears welled in his eyes, but everything inside him knew he must not cry. Crying would make everything worse. Crying would be the end. He heard Tom and Stevie across the ravine; they were cackling. Why did I stop? Why didn’t I just keep going? Plunging to my death would have been better than this. He slowly sat up. Nothing’s broken, that’s good, he reckoned. Or was it? No, it wasn't, he immediately concluded. Why couldn't a bone be protruding from my leg? Or an artery slashed open, gushing blood all over the hill? Maybe then I'd get some respect from Stevie and my brother. As it was, all he had to show for his humiliation was a gash on his left shin inflicted by the pedal when he flew over the bike—not nearly enough blood for anything cool. No epic story, nothing but humiliation. He wanted to throw up.

  “We're out of here, bro,” Tom yelled. “Unless you want to try it again?”

  Ben tried to speak, but couldn't.

  “Come on, let's go,” Tom said to Stevie, getting on his bike. “See you back at the house, Ben. You can take the long way home.”

  “Later, puss-face,” Stevie added, getting on his bike and following Tom.

  Ben watched Tom and Stevie ride away. Once they were out of sight, he got up and dusted himself off. Nothing may have been broken, but that didn't mean everything didn't hurt. He looked at his bike and saw that the chain had come off and the rear tire had been shredded off its rim. He picked up the bike and began pushing it up the hill.

  On the walk home, Ben constructed a fantastic lie to tell Tommy and Stevie about how he'd gone back and jumped the ravine after they'd left. Then he decided they wouldn't believe him and would make him prove it the next day with them watching. No, he'd just have to suck it up and deal with the fallout. When he finally made it back to the house, he saw Tom and Stevie in the backyard throwing a football. They, of course, both laughed when they saw him coming up the driveway. He prepared for the name calling to commence and was surprised when it didn't. A glance at the porch told him why.

  “Hey, Ben, glad you could join us,” Tom said, casually throwing the ball to Stevie.

  “I could have done it, I just knew I didn't have enough speed and had to abort.”

  “Abort my ass. You chickened out,” Tom said, catching the ball.

  “Benjamin, Thomas, Steven, get over here,” a man ordered from the porch.

  Ben dropped his bike, and Tom and Stevie stopped their game of catch. All three ran to the porch where Ben and Tom's father, Nikolai Lambros, was sitting. He was a hard, square-jawed man with a close-cropped haircut and bushy black eyebrows. Though his English was perfect, it didn’t disguise the fact that America was not his place of birth. The boys came to attention in front of him.

  “Turn around,” Nikolai ordered Ben.

  Ben turned.

  “What happened here, boy?” pointing to the bloody scrape on the side of Ben's leg.

  “Just a wreck,” Ben answered, making sure he didn't look at Tom or Stevie.

  “Did you ruin the bicycle?”

  “I can fix it.”

  “You're not getting another one.”

  Ben nodded.

  “Men, I dropped by Red Hollister's place today. He said his soda machine went missing a couple of days ago then miraculously showed back up yesterday out of nowhere. Someone's stupid idea for a joke, I presume. You know anything about that?”

  Ben looked at Tom and Stevie, but their faces gave nothing away.

  “No, sir,” Tom answered.

  “Steven?” Nikolai asked, looking hard into Stevie Donnellson’s eyes.

  “No, sir.”

  “Ben?”

  “Nope,” Ben replied before the question was even out of his father's mouth.

  The boys stood completely silent as Nikolai stared all three down. After a moment, Nikolai nodded. “I'm happy to hear that. When that soda machine went missing, Red had to report it to the company. He doesn't own the machine, just leases it. He had to write them a check for the loss of their property and then spend all day on the phone with his insurance company. Even though it was returned, he's not sure he'll get his money back from the cola company—or if they'll allow him to keep the machine.”

  “That really sucks,” Ben said, looking at the other boys, whose eyes never left Nikolai's.

  “Yes, it does,” Nikolai agreed. “Obviously, if any of you hear anything about who committed this cowardly crime, I would expect you to come forth immediately.”

  “Of course, sir,” Tom responded, sincerity dripping from his face.

  “Red Hollister is a good man,” Nikolai continued. “Works hard to provide for his family. He's a veteran, for God's sake. He deserves better.”

  “Red Hollister is a very good man, sir,” Tom said, stiffening his spine. “I promise I will do everything in my power to find out who committed this evil deed.”

  Nikolai nodded. “That's my boy.”

  Tom returned the nod.

  “Benjamin, your mother's waiting for you. It's time for your piano lesson.”

  “But Dad.”

  Nikolai shot Ben a look that said the conversation was over. Ben nodded and headed off into the house. When he looked back, his father had gone back to his newspaper and Tom and Stevie back to their game of catch.

  Antonia Lambros was sitting at the piano playing when Ben entered. Ben came up and sat on the stool next to her. She looked at Ben and smiled as she finished.

  “That was nice, Mom.”

  “T
hank you, kind sir,” Antonia replied with a slight accent as well, though not as thick as her husband’s.

  “Wish I could play like that.”

  “You will, dear. That's why we practice.” She glanced down at Ben's leg. “Benjamin, sweetheart, what happened?”

  “I wrecked.”

  “Oh, sweetie, does it hurt?”

  “A little. I'm a tough guy, though.”

  Antonia got up, left the room, but returned in less than a minute. She carried a cloth, bandages, and a bottle of iodine. She kneeled on the floor in front of the piano stool and moved Ben's leg in front of her. “This is going to sting a bit.” She dabbed some medicine on the cloth and patted it on Ben's knee. He jerked. “Okay?” Antonia asked, looking up at Ben.

  “I'm okay.”

  “That's right, you're my tough guy,” she said, opening a bandage and placing it over the wound. “How does that feel?”

  “Good.”

  Antonia wrapped her arms around Ben and gave him a hug. “Now are you going to tell me what really happened?”

  “I just wrecked,” Ben answered, looking down.

  “Who's your best friend? If you can't tell your best friend things, who can you tell?”

  “Okay, but you have to promise not to tell anybody.”

  “I promise. It's just between us pals.”

  “Well, you see, Tom and Stevie and me were at the old dam out by Bunker's Hollow. Tom thought it'd be fun to jump our bikes over the ditch like they do on that TV show. I didn't think it was such a great idea, but they said it would be cool. Tom went first and then Stevie. Mom, I had to do it.”

  “Oh, Ben.”

  “But I couldn't do it, I chickened out and wrecked. I'm so stupid.”

  Antonia stroked her son's head. “It sounds to me like you were the smart one.”

  “No. I'm a coward. And now everyone's going to know it. Mom, you gotta promise you won't tell Tom I told you. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Swear?”

  “I swear.”

  “Or Dad. You can't tell Dad.”