Ben Soul

by Richard George

him?”

  “No. She used her knee, full force. Punched him in the stomach, too.” Ben heard his voice shake. A clinical, detached, part of him wondered at how stirred up his feelings were—fear of and anger at Vanna, fear and tenderness for Dickon. “I wasn’t close enough to stop her.”

  “That woman is a menace to humankind.” Dr. Field probed gingerly at Dickon’s chin. His voice grated with anger. “Dickon’s lucky his jaw isn’t broken.” Dr. Field palpated Dickon’s stomach.

  Dickon groaned. Butter went to him at once, and licked his face. Dickon’s eyes fluttered. Ben noticed how long and lovely the red lashes were.

  “Is she gone?” Dickon asked.

  “You mean Vanna?” Dr. Field said.

  “Yes, I mean Vanna.”

  “She’s gone,” Ben said, kneeling beside Dickon. Butter continued licking Dickon’s face. “How are you?”

  “Wet.”

  “Wet?”

  “From doggy-love. That’s enough, Butter.” Dickon raised a hand and rubbed Butter’s ears. “Vanna kneed me, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Ben said.

  “Dickon,” Dr. Field asked, “do you know where you are?”

  “Yes, at Ben’s place.” Dickon raised his hand to touch his chin. “Ow,” he said. “Hurts.” He dropped his hand.

  Dr. Field nodded. “You need some ice on that chin. Who is the president?”

  “The wrong man.” This was Dickon’s standard response to this question.

  “You seem to be okay. Ben, can you take Dickon in for tonight, and keep an eye on him? Are you okay with that?”

  Dickon started to smile, but then he groaned again. “Okay,” he said. “Get up?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Field said. “Take it slow; you might be dizzy.” Dickon slowly levered himself into a sitting position.

  “Dizzy?” Dr. Field asked.

  “A little.”

  “Sit still for a minute. Breathe.”

  Butter sat beside Dickon, to shield him from the breeze blowing in from the sea. Dickon put his arm around her and held her close. “You’re a good dog,” he murmured to her. “Thank you for protecting me from that vicious woman.” Butter’s tail thumped the ground. “I’ve never known Vanna to be so violent before,” Dickon said. “She’s been angry with me for years, and I don’t know why.”

  “Projection of her own dark evil onto you,” Dr. Field said. “Classic Freudian behavior.”

  “God forgive her. I can’t.”

  “Nor can I,” Ben said, “for what she just did to you.”

  “That’s far from the worst of it,” Dickon said. “I’ll have to fill you in on the details some time.” He bent forward, as if to push himself to his knees. He groaned as the muscles contracted over the knot of soreness in the pit of his stomach.

  “I’ll try standing now,” Dickon said, “but I may need some help.” Dr. Field and Ben each got up and extended Dickon a hand. He shakily got to his feet, and stood, swaying. “God, my chin hurts,” he said.

  “I’ve got some ice in the house. Put your arm around my shoulder,” Ben said. “I’ll help you in.”

  Dickon tried to smile, groaned as the pain hit him. Dr. Field shouldered Dickon’s other arm, and slowly the three stumbled up the steps and into the living room. Dickon collapsed on Ben’s sofa. Butter jumped up beside him.

  “Must have bumped something else,” Dickon muttered. “My backside is sore, too.”

  “Probably happened when you fell,” Ben said. “Vanna packs a hell of a punch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it near your tailbone?” Dr. Field asked.

  “No, more all over.”

  “If it still bothers you after a couple of days, better get to the hospital and get X-rayed for a cracked coccyx.”

  “Can I have something for the pain?”

  “Aspirin, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, nothing stronger. No booze. We can’t completely rule out the possibility of concussion. Sorry.”

  “I’ll start for home as soon as I get my legs under me.”

  “No you won’t!” Ben and Dr. Field said simultaneously. Dickon stared at them in surprise. Their vehemence startled even Butter.

  “You need to be with someone for the next twenty-four hours,” Dr. Field went on to explain. “Just in case you have hidden damage that takes a while to surface.”

  “Oh. I could get Emma or Elke to come in, I suppose.”

  “Or you can stay right here,” Ben said. “I’ve got the room, and I’ve got the time.” He glared at Dickon. “No arguments.” Ben surprised himself at the urgency he felt.

  “Yes, sir!” Dickon said. “I’ll be a good boy, sir!”

  Ben started laughing. Dickon tried to laugh, but his chin stopped him.

  Ben stopped laughing. “I’ll get the ice,” he said, and went to the kitchen. Dr. Field instructed Dickon to stretch out on the couch. Dr. Field lifted Dickon’s shirt. When Ben came back to the living room with the ice in a towel, Dr. Field was palpating Dickon’s stomach. Ben felt a stab of jealousy. Quickly he assured himself Dr. Field had a medical purpose, not the romantic one Ben might have had.

  “I forgot to check his stomach for damage,” Dr. Field said. “Nothing feels out of place, but it’s sore. If you eat anything in the next several hours, eat a light meal. Soup or something like that.”

  “And I was going to fix a five course meal,” Ben said, smiling at Dickon.

  “Another day,” Dickon said. “Tea for now okay, Doc?”

  “Yes, a cup will be okay for you. No signs of internal injury that I can find. Not too likely from a single fist blow, anyway.”

  Ben offered to make tea for the three of them, but Dr. Field declined. “I’ve got to get back. Juan was waning when I left, and Beau gets into so much trouble if I don’t watch him. Come by if you need me.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Dickon called after him.

  “Good man, Dr. Field,” Ben said. “I didn’t know there were three people in his cottage.”

  “There are four. I’ll explain sometime. I’d like that tea now, if you’re still offering.”

  “Coming up, right away.” Ben went to put the kettle on. When he came back with the tea, Dickon was dozing. Ben put Dickon’s tea beside him on a table and sat in a chair across the room. Ben dozed a while, too, dreaming about Dickon and himself romping on the hillside with the llamas. Butter also treated the situation as a napping opportunity.

  Dickon must have wakened some time, because when Ben woke up, Dickon’s tea was gone. Butter did not drink tea. Ben watched Dickon through half-closed lids. Dickon appeared to be sleeping. Ben yearned to reach out and stroke Dickon, anywhere and everywhere. He took joy in having Dickon here on his couch. Ben got out of his chair as quietly as he could, but Dickon heard him.

  “Good morning, or evening, as the case may be,” Dickon said. His words were careful, almost slurred, as though his tongue had thickened. Perhaps it had, Ben thought; Vanna’s knees had big knobs.

  “I’ll fix us some supper,” Ben said.

  “Something easy to chew,” Dickon suggested.

  “Soup okay? And do you like flan, for dessert? I’ve got some in the refrigerator.”

  “Soup’s okay. I love flan. Sorry I sound so funny.”

  “Just rest. I’ll bring you a tray.”

  “No,” Dickon said. “I can get up and walk. I already have. I hurt like the fury of a scorned woman, but I’m not dizzy anymore.” He stood. Ben watched him for swaying, but Dickon didn’t sway. He made his way to the kitchen and sat at the table while Ben rooted through the cupboard for broth and noodles to make a soft soup. Ben took the angel hair pasta he found, and broke it into short pieces. Angel hair cooked quickly, and was good in soup. Ben added onion powder, garlic powder, and powdered ginger. “It would be better with real onion, garlic, and ginger root,” he said to Dickon. “Don’t have those on hand, sorry to say, so
you get what I call Government Issue chicken soup.”

  “Smells good. Easy to swallow,” Dickon said.

  When the pasta had cooked for four minutes, Ben ladled the soup into two soup cups. He took down crackers and put them on the table. Then he set the cups of soup on the table for himself and for Dickon. “Would you rather have a straw?” he asked.

  “No, I can manage the spoon better, I think.” Ben got them spoons. They began to eat. Dickon slurped his soup, and looked apologetically at Ben.

  “Don’t worry. Doesn’t bother me, doesn’t bother Butter. Make all the noise you want.” Dickon started to grin, and then thought better of it. He nodded delicately. They finished the soup in slurping harmony.

  “I heard what you said to Vanna,” Dickon said as he finished the last of the soup. “We need to talk. I’ve got a lot of history to share.”

  Ben cleared away the soup things. His hands were steady but his internal state was shaking. “Ready for flan?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Ben could tell Dickon’s chin was swelling. It had a nasty bruise on its underside.

  “How did a nice guy like you ever get tied up with a villainous villainess like Vanna?”

  “Naiveté. Hers and mine.” Dickon savored the spoonful of flan he had maneuvered onto his swollen tongue. “She was church-raised, very sheltered, or so I thought, when I met her. I didn’t want to get married, but I knew a preacher had to have a wife to succeed. She knew church things, I thought, and how to survive and be happy as a pastor’s wife. Survive, she could. Be happy? Not Vanna. Not then, not ever.” Dickon scooped up another spoonful of flan and carefully put it in his mouth. He let it melt.

  “I think she