His Name was Ben

by Paulette Mahurin

  Waiting for her to look up, “You were the one who said we could learn to trust each other if we open up and communicate.” Seeing the anguish on her face pained him. “Okay, here’s my answer. I’m ready. Talk.”

  “I know you’re right, but…” she stopped herself.

  “It wasn’t easy for me to open to you at your place about my cancer. But when I did, I felt better.” He reached a hand over to her. “Talk to me.”

  He’s right. The weight of the memories pressing in on her broke loose. “When I was diagnosed with cancer I started to have nightmares.”

  Ben watched her words steam up the windshield and condense into beads of water.

  “I’m still trying to make sense out of the impressions. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s just a bad dream and what actually happened, but I think my brother came into my room,” she wept.

  Ben’s hand on her leg, he felt the heat in her body intensifying. “Go on.”

  “I’m so ashamed to say this.”

  “Get it out, honey.”

  Turning her cheek away, her focus on the hazy outline of a tree outside of the car, she continued, “The same scene repeated, over and over. There’s a baby in a crying frenzy. A man comes into the room and pulls the covers off—he touches the baby’s private parts.” Like in her nightmares, the blur from the foggy window lent an uncertainty to what she saw. Running her hand across its cooling, moist glass surface, the image of her dream faded.

  “For the longest time the face was a stranger, a freak. Then it changed into my brother’s. And I wondered if I was the baby and Jack did something to me.” Sara’s body shook. “At first it only happened in sleep, then flashes came to me in the daytime.” She wiped the moisture off her hand onto her sweater. “Just a few minutes ago as we passed the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, I remembered something that happened.” She told him about the incident that had been triggered.

  Listening to her meek tone speaking those horribly difficult words, Ben saw red. “Oh my God, Sara, no one should ever have to go through that! What a bastard!”

  Guilt from the conjecture, and that she’d spoken it out loud, insinuating that Jack had molested her, gripped her. “I shouldn’t have said anything about the dreams. It was wrong of me.”

  “It wasn’t wrong of you. You obviously needed to get it off your chest.”

  “How do I know I’m not associating an imagined fat and scary person with him just because Jack’s overweight? I just can’t be sure anything actually happened.”

  “It did that time with your friends!”

  “Yes,” she whispered, “even so, he’s ill.”

  Ben didn’t realize that what she told him had stirred up his own issues; for one, the unresolved anger he had over his relationship with his father. “So what…Jesus!” Choking back his exasperation, he clutched the steering wheel. “This doesn’t piss you off?”

  Drained, she slumped back in the seat. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s inside me, Ben. I’m not sure what’s real.” She repeated, “I shouldn’t have said…”

  “You still want to go to your parents?”

  The disgusted edge in his delivery made her stomach quiver. “Yes.” She sat silently for several more minutes, looking around to regain her composure. Cars drove by, a red light changed to green, people crossed the street, and she was ready to move on. Noticing that Ben was still watching her and hadn’t shown signs of retreating or rejecting her, she said, “I’ll be okay, let’s go.”

  Clenching the wheel so tightly, that it could cut off circulation to his fingers, Ben started the engine and continued driving. What kind of assholes live in this world? By the time they made their way to an early thirties Mediterranean home on a palm-lined road, Ben had calmed down. He looked at Sara and said, “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Before they made it to the front door, it opened and an older couple stood side by side, she with dyed-blond hair bouffant style, and he balding in front with strands of comb-over. Well-preserved, good-looking, short and slim for their ages, the man smiled and the woman frowned. Rosalie’s hands were on her hips, shoulders held back, and Sara knew the mood her mother was in the minute she saw her.

  “How’s my girl?” Irving stepped out to greet them.

  “Dad.” They hugged and he met Ben with a handshake.

  Staying put, Rosalie snarled, “We’ve been waiting over an hour. What happened to you?”

  Sara, followed by her father and Ben, walked the brief distance to her mother’s corrosive glare. The beam Rosalie shot coiled Sara’s stomach. I can see our last phone conversation didn’t sink in.

  “You’ve been crying.” Rosalie swiped a rough hand across Sara’s cheek. “Go clean yourself up.”

  Ben wanted to grab Sara and turn around until he saw Irving motion for Rosalie to leave it alone.

  Sara, wanting to jump down her mother’s throat, instead ignored the gesture. “Mom, this is Ben.”

  “Mrs. Phillips,” he held out a hand, which she grazed with hers.

  “Come sit down and eat.”

  Sara went to the bathroom to freshen up. One look in the mirror, seeing the eyeliner smeared down her cheeks, What a mess! A few splashes of water on her face and she was ready to brave the meal.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The inside of the Phillips’ place instantly made Ben feel welcome. It had a calm inviting ambiance that oddly relaxed some of the edge from the bitter attitude Rosalie had generated outside. Still on guard, he mulled over the paradox of the harmonious environment Sara’s mother created in contrast to her cold personality. This is a surprise. He wondered if Rosalie provided an aesthetic home to balance her mental turmoil while Sara was growing up, and speculated if this had played into Sara’s easygoing demeanor and the facile way she worked through her issues.

  Ben eyed the spacious kitchen that adjoined an open dining room with Spanish Mission red terracotta tiles, giving a cozy appearance. The table had comfortable bamboo chairs and was set with multicolored plates. Adorning the walls were original Matisse and Kahlo paintings in vivid colors, giving Ben the distinct impression that somewhere in this family there was money. “Nice.” He admired the two women in the Matisse, their bodies disproportionate to their heads. “It goes great with the room.”

  Sara looked at the Matisse. Studying the black circles around the women’s breasts, she felt a soft flow of energy that had been moving into her body since making love with Ben. “I like the portraits he did after he left Paris and moved to the French Riviera.”

  “How come?”

  “They’re more laid-back and revealing, compared with his earlier work.”

  Giving her a knowing look, his hand brushed against her backside. “Well, that makes sense.”

  A blush came over her cheeks. “My aunt Beth gave these paintings to my mom.”

  Rosalie brought Hawaiian chicken and rice with green beans to the table and flashed Sara a look that told her to keep her mouth shut. The artwork came from her sister, the one she was self-conscious about, the lesbian Beth, with a wealthy girlfriend. When Beth’s partner died, sending her into a tailspin, Sara’s mother was the only one in the family to visit her. Upset with everyone else, Beth changed her will, giving everything she’d inherited to Rosalie; along with the art, the small fortune that afforded the Phillips the purchase of their house.

  Glaring at her daughter, “Sit down and put some food on your plate,” she contorted into a mass of aged wrinkles. Her full-red grotesque lips, taut from anger, set in her ghostly powdered face sent a chill through Ben’s bones. As they sat, flailing a finger at Sara’s bandaged ribs, Rosalie hissed, “When does that come off your arm so you can drive?”

  Cringing on seeing her mother’s ready-to-attack dilated pupils, “My ribs,” Sara corrected her.

  “Ribs, arms,” Rosalie shook her head. Motioning to Ben, “Go ahead and start eating. Don’t let it get cold.” Eyeing Sara, daggers sprang from her dark brown eyes. “When?”

 
“I can remove the bandage any time. It’s just to control the pain, not for the fracture.”

  Ben’s blood boiled as he flashbacked to the hostility his father flung around, the discomfort he grew up in, and was pissed with the crap Sara’s mother was slinging at her. After all he’d just listened to on the car ride over, once more he wanted to grab Sara and get the hell out of there. Why’s your father just sitting there and doing nothing? It was similar to his own mother’s condoning behavior, enabling Ben’s father to destroy their family.

  Rosalie, a pressure cooker ready to burst, stuck a fork into a piece of chicken. “So when?”

  Ben shifted uncomfortably, while Irving ate.

  “Probably a couple of days, Mom.”

  Nodding satisfaction, Rosalie put the food in her mouth. “Eat. You’re too thin.”

  Irving looked over to Ben, his face soft with relief. With this Ben understood that diplomatic silence was his effort to avoid an escalation.

  Sara, following her father’s example, ate without saying another word.

  “So Ben,” Rosalie took a mouthful of rice, “Sara tells us she met you at Dr. Zimmerman’s office?”

  Shoulders tensed, Ben sat up straight. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do you care to tell us?” Rosalie coldly prodded.

  Seeing Ben’s face go stiff, his neck flush stress, Sara swallowed the vegetables she was chewing. “Mom, I don’t think this is the right time.”

  “Let the man speak for himself!” Rosalie slammed back.

  What a bitch! Ben, digging his foot into the tile floor, knew he had to step cautiously and give the woman what she wanted. The message was clear; this was Rosalie’s lair. “It’s okay,” he spoke slowly, modulating his tone to hide his reaction. “I have cancer also, Mrs. Phillips. I went to see Dr. Zimmerman for a second opinion.”

  “Who’s your regular physician?”

  “I was being seen up in Palo Alto by a Stanford team.”

  Rosalie’s ears perked up at the mention of Stanford, a prestigious private university for the rich. “They have good doctors there.” Making eye contact, “Why’d you need to come all the way down here?”

  Sensing that he might be getting somewhere with her, Ben settled back into his chair. “My brother roomed with him in medical school and told me he’s involved in some studies that are unique only to him. Zimmerman is touted as the best. He’s the cavalier that heralds the new and untried in oncology research.”

  “That’s some language you use, Ben,” she laughed, breaking the tension in the room. “And your brother is a doctor?”

  Sara’s next bite of food went down easier, now that Ben had managed to lay the first stone with her mother. Way to go, Ben!

  Hearing a lilt go into her words as she leaned in closer, Ben saw Rosalie was impressed. “Yes, he’s a surgeon.” He’d broken the ice and decided to squeeze it for what it’s worth. “On faculty at Stanford.”

  Wanting to applaud his aplomb and hug him, Sara knew Ben had found her mother’s Achilles heel—status, the loftier the better, was winning points for him. “Ben went to Stanford also. So did his parents.”

  Ignoring Sara, “You a physician, Ben?”

  “No, Mrs. Phillips, I’m a lawyer. I work at NASA.”

  Sara suppressed a laugh.

  The rest of the meal continued uneventfully. They spent it in light banter with Ben catering to Rosalie’s lead about movies, celebrities, charitable events, and mahjong. When it was time for them to leave, Rosalie turned to Ben. “How long will you be down here?”

  “Maybe two months. But I’m not sure.”

  Poking Sara’s right arm, “Bring him again.”

  On the ride back Ben broke the silence. “I don’t think your father said two words the whole night.”

  “He’s no dummy. Once you put it out there you never know what’s going to happen, and worse, you can never take it back.”

  “Good point.” He watched the red taillights of the car in front gain distance as it picked up speed. A police van with flashing lights came out of the blue and pulled it over.

  “Not smart to speed in Beverly Hills.” Seeing the driver slow, “They’ll ticket you for going a mile over the limit.”

  “Palo Alto is the same.” He thought back to the conversation with Rosalie. “Your mother is some piece of work. How do you put up with it?”

  “I don’t know,” she cracked the window. “What choice do I have?”

  Hearing the resigned exhaustion in her voice, “Have you tried to have a sit-down talk with her?”

  “Too many times to remember.” She shifted her position to get more comfortable. “You saw how she communicates. You heard me try last night. How long did that last? The minute we arrived over there tonight her attitude was back, heavy as ever.”

  Annoyed with Rosalie’s audacity, Ben said, “She’s got a mean streak in her. How could that stress not be making you come apart at the seams?” Intent on the road, “I doubt I’d put up with it.”

  “It’s complicated, Ben. I want to have a different relationship with her. I’ve wanted that all my life.” Feeling a draft, she rolled the window back up and noticed the lit storefronts featuring costly displays—the abundance of stuff that people use to substitute for what they lack inside.

  “I’ve thought of walking away from trying to get through to her, from her caustic remarks, how she puts me down, but it pains me more to think of having nothing to do with her. Then there’s my father to consider. He’s tried to get us together through the years, before his heart attacks. After that, we just settled into learning how to be with each other.” A black dog in the back seat of a car passing by, ears waggling in the wind, made her smile. “It’s not all bad.”

  “Really?”

  “We used to go out for lunch every once in a while. Find neutral things to talk about?”

  “Like what?”

  “Her charity work, shopping, movies—mindless things.”

  “It doesn’t get to you?”

  “It gets to me, all right. But how many tears can someone cry over what isn’t going to change? It’s how she is. I don’t know—you get used to it, and then just occupy yourself with other things. It’s been hard to avoid her since I got ill.”

  “Families!”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh nothing.” He looked at the white icicle lights on trees, as he swung into the parking area where he was staying.

  “The stores are still open.” He got out and walked around to help Sara. “Want to go for a walk? Get some fresh air?” Get our attention off family bullshit!

  “That sounds nice. We can both use some extroversion after that meal,” she laughed.

  “I’m glad to see you can laugh about it.”

  “It’s a stress reaction. None of it is funny—but enough of that for now.” What she didn’t say was what being with him, their intimacy, was doing to help her transition through these flare-ups with Rosalie.

  Taking their time, they came to Jerry’s Famous Deli on Weyburn Avenue. “I used to go there a lot when it was a Hamburger Hamlet,” said Sara, gazing in the window at people eating. “Best hamburgers in Los Angeles. This one and Sunset were my favorite hang-out places.”

  “I was at the one on Sunset years ago.” Noticing her flinch, “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Turning to face her, his forehead wrinkled. “You sure?”

  “I have a high threshold for pain and don’t want to let it stop me,” she winced again.

  “Seriously, if you need to go back…”

  “My ribs are sore. Sure, every once in a while they hurt. Going back to the room isn’t going to change that.” Moving in closer, she felt the heat of his body. “Plus, there’s probably less activity outside than in the bedroom with you.”

  He planted a kiss on her lips. “Sara…”

  “Yes.”

  “I never anticipated meeting anyone like you.”

  Thinking back to their lovemaking, and how
considerate he was, taking his time to find positions that wouldn’t hurt, thrilled her. “I hope the intense feelings we’re having aren’t just because we’re ill. Do you think that’s what’s happening with us?”

  Without hesitation, “I’m sure that plays a part but even if we weren’t…no,” he shook his head, reaffirming his words. “There’s so much about you, the way you look and talk, the little things you do, and how you are with your mother with all she dishes out. You cope so well with the hand you’ve been dealt. And that smile of yours is a killer.”

  “I think I need another kiss.”

  Continuing on, hand in hand, they walked past the Westwood Village Theater where she’d seen movies and stood in queues outside for premieres. They rounded back up toward UCLA and turned right on Le Conte Avenue to stop and admire the Geffen Playhouse.

  “That’s a nice looking building.”

  “One of my favorites. Lot of memories here.” She went on to explain, “It’s one of the first structures in Westwood Village that was built in the late nineteen-twenties and restored in the seventies, including the beautiful courtyard with a tile fountain.” Appreciating the architecture, “This place is a class act. Come on, let’s have a look.” She grabbed his hand and walked him up to the glass front doors to have a peek inside.

  “Very nice brick work. And I like the tile roof.”

  “Me too. Last play I saw here was Steve Martin’s Picasso at the Lapin Agile. Ever see that?”

  “I didn’t know Steve Martin wrote a play.”

  “Oh yes, he’s a genius playwright. I think he’s written several. This one was incredible.” Motioning for him to sit next to her on a brick tree planter, “There are two protagonists, Picasso and Einstein.”

  “That’s a combo.” Watching her so animated, eyes sparkling, reminiscing about a good time made his body feel lighter.

  “Yes, and they’re in a bar, the Lapin Agile in Paris. It’s hilarious. The whole play is one long conversation. Einstein is on the verge of the theory of relativity and he gets into this dialogue with Pablo Picasso about talent and intelligence. All sorts of other characters who interact with them walk in and out with agendas they’re communicating from. There’s this one guy who has prostate problems and won’t listen to anything unless it’s about sex or booze. You have to see it. I laughed myself silly. Saw it several times.”