Benton's Row

by Frank Yerby

  “Mono! You old son of a penguin! Lord God, Athene—it’s Mono!”

  “Had the damnedest time finding this place,” Quentin grinned. “People seemed to think I was crazy or something because I didn’t already know where it was. ‘Th’ Benton place? Oh, I reckon you mean Broad Acres—Miz Sarah’s place. Right down the road a piece, young feller.’ Only trouble was I didn’t know ‘a piece’ meant ten miles!”

  Athene came down the stairs and kissed him on both cheeks, and the two of them helped him up the stairs, where the others waited.

  “Grandma,” Roland said, “this is Mono—I mean Quentin Longwood. He was my wing-man—”

  “Howdy, son,” Sarah said. “Mighty pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure. But I have to admit I ain’t got the faintest notion what a wingding is.”

  “That,” Roland laughed, “is the best description of Mono I ever heard. A wingding is exactly what he is. This, Mono—is Hank’s—wife, Grace.”

  Quentin sobered instantly.

  “Your husband, Mrs. Dupré,” he said quietly, “was the best—absolutely the best in the world. A fine flyer—an officer and a gentleman. I’m going to be proud all my life that I knew him—even for a little while.”

  “Thank you,” Grace whispered. Then she put her face against the sleeve of Harvey’s coat and started to cry.

  “Oh, I am sorry—” Mono began; but Sarah cut him off.

  “It’s all right, son,” she said; “that kind of a cry never did a body any harm. Who’s that feller out in the truck? Kind of cold to leave him sitting there.”

  “Lord!” Mono said, “I forgot all about Otto! You know Otto, Roland. Von Beltcher, from Udet’s Staffel, the one who—”

  “A German?” Athene said, bristling.

  “Yes,” Roland said; “but a hell of a fine fellow, Athene. I fought him the day before the Armistice from twenty thousand feet down to the ground. And he beat me, had me dead to rights under the muzzles of his guns like a sitting duck—and didn’t shoot. He told me afterwards that he’d long ago found that any further slaughter was useless.”

  “Then,” Athene said, “I will even forgive him for being a Boche. Go bring him in, mon. cher.”

  Otto von Beltcher climbed down from the truck. He was fat and very red, and his sparse blond hair was cut Prussian fashion.

  “I cannot English very well yet speak,” he said in his heavy Bavarian accent; “but I am very glad to see you, Herr Benton.”

  “Likewise,” Roland laughed. “I never expected to see you again, Otto. By Jove, this is a mystery! I remember I gave Mono your address—but I certainly never dreamed . . .”

  “A common interest, Herr Benton. Quentin came to Germany to learn something of our methods of aircraft construction. He could not have come to a worse place. Under the Treaty of Versailles we are forbidden the building of any machines above a certain power; but since he is from a sehr rich family, he managed to get me out of Germany. We have spent the last six months in the Fokker plant in Holland. I think I may say now we have gained a sufficiency of knowledge for our plans.”

  “If they’ve got anything to do with aircraft, count me out,” Roland said. “But come and meet my folks.”

  He led Otto up the steps.

  “Everybody,” he said, “this is Otto von Beltcher, the damn fine fighter pilot who—” and again he told the tale. When he was done, Sarah put out her thin, spidery hand.

  “I want to thank you, Mister von Beltcher,” she said, “from the bottom of my heart. Roland’s the last Benton left. And—” she shot a sidewise glance at Athene, “looks like there ain’t a-going to be no more. You staying in this country long?”

  “Oh, Otto’s taken out his first papers,” Quentin said. “He’s going to be an American citizen, Mrs. Benton.”

  “Good,” Sarah said. “Finest country in the world—‘specially since you Yankees have started to get civilised. A war is a war, I reckon; and we have managed to settle down and live real peaceable with the Northerners, even though they sure Lord tore up the country-side hereabouts right smart. Lot of ex-carpet-baggers have stayed down here and developed into proper Southerners—take Harvey’s folks, for instance.”

  “Why, Grandma!” Grace said sharply; “you shouldn’t—”

  “Ah, leave her be,” Harvey grinned. “It’s the Bible truth, so why shouldn’t she say it? My grandpa came down here and stole everything that wasn’t nailed down—bless him. Wasn’t for him, I couldn’t even afford to think about marrying you, hon.”

  “So I don’t see,” Sarah went on with the blandness of the partially deaf, “why we can’t get along with the German people. Done a lot of good in the world, music and medicine and such-like; and I reckon they’ve got the fighting and killing out of their systems for a while.”

  “Gottseidanke,” Otto said. “That is one thing I have never had, gnädige frau. I joined the flieger staffel because I wished to learn at first hand of the problems confronting the pilot himself. We engineers exist too much in the realm of theory. We have many ideas which we wish now to try if we your support can gain.”

  Athene was on her feet at once, facing him.

  “I,” she said, “had three brothers, m’sieur. Before the end of 1917 they were all dead, and also a very nice husband, whom I loved. This is a thing I cannot hold against you personally, you comprehend, because you seem bien civilisé. But if you lead my Roland back to this stupidity of flying, which serves only to kill people, and adds nothing to the dignity and the beauty of living, I shall hate you!”

  “Then,” Otto said in perfect French, “I shall be desolate, madame. I should much prefer that we be friends.”

  Athene smiled and put out her hand.

  “We are friends” she said, “because you did not kill my Roland when you could have. But if he ever flies again and is killed I shall search the world over for you, and I shall kill you. I swear it.”

  “How about me?” Mono grinned. “I’m in on this, too—”

  “And also you,” Athene declared. “There is nothing in life more precious to me than mon Roland. I have yet a million, million kisses to give him—and aussi toutes les nuits d’amour de toute la reste de ma vie—which is a thing I can say only in French because I have no wish to shock Grandmere and Grace as terribly as I would if they could comprehend the meaning of that phrase. They are very sweet, but they are Américaines, with that kind of prudery which is very charming, but also completely inutile. But I am a Française, and when we love, we love totally with a jealousy immense that not only does not support other women, but also anything that will separate the object of our desire from us—including avions. You see, Quentin? You have well understood this which I have said?”

  “Perfectly,” Mono grinned.

  Under the cover of the general laughter, Mono caught Roland’s arm and whispered:

  “C’mon, boy—I want you to see what we’ve got out in that truck.”

  Roland stood up.

  “You’ll excuse us, everybody?” he said.

  “No,” Athene said tartly, “I shall not excuse you, my love. If you must go look at the detached pieces of avions that Mono has probably in that camion, I shall go with you.”

  “You’re perfectly welcome to come along,” Quentin said, and took her arm.

  There were in the truck many steel tubes, several propellers, and a crated aircraft engine. There were other boxes containing instruments, fabric, wire, wheels, copper tubing—all the hundreds of things that go into the construction of a plane.

  Athene saw Roland’s eyes kindle. Oh no! she wept inside her mind, oh, Roland—no.

  “Look, Athene,” Quentin said; “I want you to help us. You say that aircraft kill people—that, unfortunately, is true. But for better or for worse, we’ve got them—so the thing to do is to make them stop killing people—right?”

  “I will not listen!” Athene said furiously. “You will attack me with logic, and in the end I will be forced to agree, for one cannot underst
and logic. Yet dying is not something of logic, but entirely of feeling, and if you get my Roland once more to fly aeroplanes that is what he will do—die I You cannot ask that of me, Quentin, you cannot.”

  “No more flying, Mono,” Roland said gravely, “I promised her.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Quentin said, “who said anything about flying? Otto can test it once we get it built. He’s a better pilot than you, anyhow; he beat you, didn’t he?”

  “Nor that tactic either, Quentin!” Athene said.

  “Oh, all right,” Quentin laughed. “I guess I was slipping him the old needle. But really, Athene, we lugged all these things down here because mainly we wanted the benefit of Roland’s experience in the first place. They’re having a competition at Dayton next autumn and all the big manufacturers are going to submit pursuit planes—the winner to become the official fighter plane of these United States. I’ll wager there’ll be three thinly disguised Spads and one or two modifications of the S.E.5—and maybe, if we’re lucky, a fair imitation of the Fokker D-7. And more kids are going to be killed in aircraft whose wings won’t stay on, which are tricky to fly, a beast to land and—”

  “And you, of course, have the answer to all these problems?” Athene said.

  “No,” Mono said honestly, “but I’ve at least the answer to more of them than the average crate builder. Roland, listen to me—I talked to your Uncle Jeb in New York. Told him what I planned to do, and why I planned to do it. For Hank, Roland. We owe him that much—him and Bertie.

  Damn it all, I think it’ll please them up there where they are to know that three guys who don’t need the money, don’t even want it—hell, boy, we’ll give this little sweetheart of a plane we’re going to build to the Government!—are working like blazes to see that the next batch of crate jockeys have machines whose windmills don’t conk out, whose wings don’t come off, which don’t spin when you turn left, and can be landed without stalling at a nice, slow speed. When I got through, your uncle said: ‘Count me in on it, Quentin. I want to be part of this. I’d be very happy if you’d let me supply the financial backing.’ Money is the one thing I don’t need, but I cut him in because I could see how much it meant to him.”

  He turned to Athene.

  “You don’t mind his building an aircraft, do you? Especially if I promise you I won’t even let him put his hand inside the cockpit?”

  Athene looked at Roland.

  “You wish to do this, my heart?” she said quietly.

  “Yes,” Roland said; “if we can give the next group of pilots a plane that won’t kill them before the enemy does, it’ll be a good work, Athene.”

  “Then do it, mon cceur. And I will help. I will sew the fabric on to the wings. It will be very pretty. I shall put lace around all the edges—”

  “Good God!” Quentin Longwood said.

  It proved to be, for Roland, what physicians in a few more years would be calling occupational therapy. He slept soundly and he did not dream. His behaviour towards Athene remained, to her intense delight, that of a normal young husband. Life, for both of them, that spring of 1920, became a thing of enchantment, with almost nothing to darken it.

  By the end of August they had the little monoplane finished. It had cost Quentin a fortune in tools and parts, and all of them hundreds of hours of labour. It was a very beautiful little craft, having a strong family resemblance to the Fokkers.

  Athene came out to the field and watched Otto make the first flight. He put on a masterly exhibition of aerobatics, and landed with his fat red face split in an enormous grin.

  But Athene was looking at Roland. She could read the deep longing in his eyes.

  “You wish to fly it, mon cher?” she whispered. “Then do so, for I cannot stand to see you suffer so from wanting to. But give me time to go home, get into bed, and put three big pillows over my head. Then fly it, but carefully, my heart. Don’t do these wild sillinesses like Otto—”

  “You really don’t mind?” Roland said.

  “Mind? I shall die a million deaths until you are out of it again. But my so foolish heart cannot deny you anything you really want. So fly it, my Roland, and the good God save you while you do!”

  She turned then and fled wildly towards the house.

  And nothing happened. Roland and Otto continued to fly the little fighter for three weeks. During that time they continually made improvements in the streamlining, going to fantastic lengths to cut down parasitic resistance, smoothing everything, fairing everything into the shark-like contours of the body, until, except for those struts, she looked like a winged projectile. They talked about nothing else, thought about nothing else, so, that morning of September 25, Roland failed to even guess at the significance of the attack of violent nausea that Athene had.

  He gave her some bicarbonate of soda and went out to the airfield. But when Athene failed to pay her morning call upon Sarah, the old woman came to her room, and studied her greenish tint with undisguised joy.

  “You better go see Doc Meyers,” she cackled. “How long has this been going on?”

  “About two weeks, but never before so dûr,” Athene said. “Oh, Grandmère, is it perhaps that I have now a bébé?”

  “Yep. Think so. Get up and get dressed, child. I’ll have one of the niggers drive you in.”

  Athene bounced out of bed and hugged her fiercely. She skipped around the room in her night-dress, singing. She wouldn’t let anyone drive her into town. She drove herself, sending the little Chevy roaring through the gates.

  Sarah sat on the veranda, humming to herself. She was very weak and very tired. But she was completely content. It’s been a good life, she thought peacefully, a mite too long and a heap too strenuous; but mighty good for all that. Make it a boy, Lord. Maybe You’re tired of dealing with Bentons; I’m tired, too; but You shouldn’t of tangled ‘em around my heart like this. I couldn’t come home to You in peace if there wasn’t none of them left.

  Out on the field they had finally taken the struts off the little monoplane. It stood there, the high parasol wing held to the fuselage only by two sets of short, thick, enormously strong N braces, just ahead of the wind-screen. Except for the landing gear, she was utterly clean. Roland stood there with the others looking at it. Then he picked up his helmet and goggles and started walking towards the wickedly beautiful little machine, moving very slowly.

  It’s been such a long time, Sarah thought, so blamed long since Tom came riding down that little rise and stopped just about right over yonder. Wasn’t no veranda to set on then. I just stood in the doorway and looked at him, with old Jonas standing behind me with the gun.

  So long ago—hard to remember how it felt now. A body changes, getting old. I was hard on my children, trying to keep them from sinning the way I sinned. Now I can’t even call to mind how it felt, all the burning and the aching and the freezing—the old devil inside a body powerful enough to make me drive a good man away from his religion and his God and send him down to death alone. Funny, I can remember my babies, how they looked, how fat they were, how they cried, and was sick and needed tending, nights. But I can’t call ‘em to mind, growing—I don’t even know that old woman over there in France looking nigh on to as old as I do, who is my daughter. Wade, now—I can picture him ‘cause he died young—poor snivelling weakling that he was. Funny I can call to mind Clint, Tom’s yard-child, because he lived long enough for that to be almost now. Clint was a nice boy, for all that he took Wade’s wife. But I was took, too—only that ain’t the right way to put it. Nobody ever took a woman from anybody else till long after she’s been drove away by meanness, by neglect, by not getting what she was born for.

  Almost happened twice with me, but that Randy was such a gentleman. No trouble remembering him. Strange—him and Tom are the only two what just pops into my mind clear as one of them moving pictures down at the Nickelodium the minute that I think about ‘em. Poor Randy. Poor, sweet, kind, good Randy. That was one good thing the Lord God gave me�
��the life I had with him. Reckon living with Tom was a kind of punishment for all my sins—but it was good, too; more’n half the time it was good.

  The twins, now. Can’t rightly call them to mind, except I know they had that Benton look. Don’t even remember what Roland’s ma looked like, that cold Yankee woman. Poor thing, she had a hard row to hoe, being married to Stone. Never no luck in this family. Stone dead underneath that buggy, killed by that awful creature he got mixed up with—wonder what did become of her? Reckon nobody’ll ever know—and Nat dying of fever in Cuba in that Spanish war.

  So many wars, all with Bentons in ‘em. Tom going down to Mexico in ‘forty-five with Randy; and Randy and Wade in ‘sixty-five, and Nat in ‘ninety-eight along with our nigger boy, Fred. Lord God, even our niggers caught that bad Benton habit of getting themselves killed off. Buford and Cindy in the school-house fire, and Fred on top of San Juan Hill. Then this last war, the worst war of them all ‘cause they thought up so many devilish mean ways of killing folks: poison gas, and submarines to blow the bottom out of ships, and aeroplanes to drop bombs on cities full of women and old folks and babies.

  Reckon I done lived too long. That last one made four wars I’ve seen—no, five, if you count the Philippines as a separate one. I’ve lived to bury two husbands, a son and his wife, two grandsons of my own and the wife of one of them, and a son of Tom’s what wasn’t mine. Spent my life raising orphans ‘cause Bentons always was too reckless to live long enough to see their own children grow up. The Dupré side didn’t do much better, though—none of them left except Jeb—and he’s grieving himself to death over poor little Hank. ‘Cept for that boy, mostly they died in bed, though; not with knives in them and under buggies and having heart attacks in pig-pens—Lord God, what a family!

  Wouldn’t of missed it for anything, though. The Bentons was always kind of special. Maybe they could never live peaceable, but they sure Lord kept things moving. A body got plumb wore out living with them, but they warn’t dull—them nor the Duprés neither. Funny, for all them being full-blooded Bentons, too, they always was quieter. Reckon that there Lolette must of been a softer kind of woman than I was. Don’t recall I ever saw her. Must of, though—seems to me she and her pa came to the house-building; but I don’t remember her, nor that sister of her’n that got Tom kilt. Don’t hold it against her, though; way I heard tell, it wasn’t rightly her fault. That Louis Dupré was a mite crossed up on account of Wade’s lies. ‘Sides, if it hadn’t of been her, it would of been some other woman. . . .