Ben Soul

by Richard George

thought I was on my way someplace, Clerk of General Assembly, or pastor of Riverside Presbyterian, New York. I was a sad disappointment to her. I wanted to work in farm towns and dying churches. Dead end parishes. She never forgave me for being so lacking in ambition.”

  “Did you take a wife just for the church?”

  “I had counselors suggesting it was the only available cure for my sexuality. Gay preachers bug churches, probably because we’re too spiritual.”

  “Poor Dickon.” Ben looked at him. Dickon stared at his flan. Ben saw the pain in them, anyway.

  “In the end, the church betrayed me as much as Vanna did.” Dickon’s voice rasped, as though the flan stuck in his throat.

  “Some of us are better off without women,” Ben said.

  “Yes. Ben? Do you mind if I have some aspirin, and go to bed now? I’m tired. I can sleep on the couch.”

  “No, you’ll sleep in the bed. I’ll crawl in beside you when I get sleepy.” Dickon stared at Ben. Ben thought he saw fright in Dickon’s eyes. Ben felt confused.

  “I’m not ready for anything, Ben. I’ve got to think about things before I commit myself.”

  Ben’s inner disappointment felt like lead in his stomach. “That’s fine, Dickon. We’ve got a lot of time to think about things.” He gazed at Dickon. “I shocked myself with what I said to Vanna. I didn’t know it was in me.” He realized as he spoke it was true. He’d gotten way beyond his comfort zone. “It’s just the bed’s a lot more comfortable than the couch, and you need to rest as comfortably as possible.”

  “Thanks, Ben, for understanding.” Dickon used the table to push himself to his feet.

  “Need any help getting ready? I’m sorry I don’t have pajamas to offer. I never use them.”

  “I never do, either.” Dickon waved and went toward the bedroom. Ben followed him.

  “The sheets are clean, if that matters to you. Butter usually shares the bed, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. It’s big enough for three of us. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night, then.” Ben left the room, closing the door. He yearned to peer through the keyhole to watch Dickon get ready. That, he knew, would be a breach of faith. Dickon needed space, room, time, whatever, to sort things out. Well, he, Ben, needed it, too. If it were meant to be, it would be. If not, something else would happen. Later, when Ben went to bed, he slipped under the covers and waited for the bed to warm. Butter leaped onto the bed, did her three circles, and slept virtuously between Ben and Dickon, insuring their chastity and her warmth.

  Dream a Little Dream with Butter

  Butter twitched her paws as though she were running the mountainside. She dreamed she was chasing a pink rabbit through the sagebrush. The rabbit stayed just ahead of her quivering nose. When Butter lay down, panting, to rest, the rabbit stopped, just out of reach, and danced a jig.

  Feigning indifference, Butter glanced out over the moonlit cove. When she deemed the pink bunny wasn’t watching her, she leaped, like a cat, ready to pounce. The rabbit flashed ahead, just out of reach, still jigging in the moonlight. Butter howled, and gave chase. The rabbit stayed ahead of her, always just out of reach. Butter moaned in her sleep. Ben stroked her ears in his sleep. Butter calmed.

  Suddenly, she was sitting side by side with the rabbit in the presence of the unicorn with the unique horn. The thrilling scent of sheep with violets filled her nostrils again. Ferrets, lizards, murrelets, and llamas were there also. They were all attuned to the unicorn in their minds. The horned beast warned them and reassured them in the same message. They all lay a long time warming themselves in the glow from its horn.

  The pink rabbit popped out of existence with a curious noise. Butter’s dream took her to her kitchen. She ate a large bowl of fried rice and ham, her all-time people food favorite. Dickon moaned in his sleep. Ben murmured an unconscious reply. They woke Butter. She licked her lips, stretched, turned around three times, put her nose to her tail, and went back to sleep. Now she dreamed of naps in warm laps.

  Dickon Equivocates

  When Butter woke Ben the next morning, she leaped lightly off the bed. Ben got up as gently as he could. They didn’t want to wake Dickon. Ben pulled on his trousers and opened the back door for Butter. She slipped out into the yard to take care of her business. Ben stood on the small back porch looking out over the cove. Gray skies and steel gray water this morning, as most mornings. A light breeze blew from landward, promising to disperse the fog and low cloud early in the day. It carried the spice of redwoods on its breath. When she had completed her business, Butter came back in. She wagged her tail. Then she sat staring at the cupboard where Ben kept the doggy treats. Butter got one every morning. Ben got it down for her and she took it off into the living room.

  Ben opened the refrigerator. He’d need to go to Wong’s again, soon. He had eggs, but dessert and meat and vegetables were scant. He took the eggs out to let them come to room temperature. Ben would make Dickon scrambled eggs. Easy to chew. Ben’s torso was chilled; he returned to the bedroom to get his shirt. Dickon was awake. Butter lay beside him.

  “Hi, Stud,” he said to Ben.

  “Ready to have breakfast, or do you want to sleep in a little longer?”

  “I can manage breakfast, if it’s not too hard to chew. Chin’s sore.”

  “I should think so.” Ben stooped to pick up his shirt. He put it on and began to button it. Dickon sat up, reached for his shirt, and buttoned it. He modestly kept the covers over his lap. Ben kept him under observation out of the corner of his eye. Dickon reached over and put his feet in his jeans. Then he stood swiftly and pulled them up. Ben got only a very brief glimpse of Dickon’s buttocks; the shirt had a long tail. Ben reminded himself to back off, leave space, etc.

  Dickon sat down again on the bed. He must have sat harder than he expected. He grunted. He looked up at Ben and said, “Tailbone’s still a little sore, too.”

  “Scrambled eggs okay?”

  “Sounds chewable. No toast, not yet.”

  “I usually have tea for breakfast.”

  “Tea’s fine.”

  “Come when you’re ready,” Ben said, and went to the kitchen.

  Dickon took time to tie his shoes. He didn’t know how to start explaining to Ben. He wasn’t quite sure what he needed to explain to Ben, or why he was so hesitant about committing to anyone. Raw places still lingered on his psyche under the scabs he had grown over them.

  Ben was stirring the eggs when Dickon got to the kitchen. Water had begun to steam in the teakettle, though it hadn’t come to the boil yet. “Hi, again,” Ben said, not looking up from the bowl he was stirring the eggs in. “Food and drink in a few minutes.”

  Dickon sat down carefully. Butter came up to him and laid her head on his knee. He stroked her head and ears. She half-closed her eyes in bliss. Dickon could smell the bacon fat Ben was pouring the eggs into, and mingled with it the smell of the teabags.

  “Like your eggs dry, or wet, or in between?”

  “In between.” Dickon sensed a tension in Ben he couldn’t quite place.

  “Ben,” he began, and stopped. He didn’t know where to take the sentence.

  “Yes?” Ben asked, turning his head partway to glance at Dickon without neglecting the eggs.

  “After breakfast,” Dickon said. The kettle began to whistle. “I’ll make the tea.” Dickon carefully looped the strings and tags around the mug handles. He got up, unplugged the kettle, and poured boiling water over the bags. He carried the mugs to the table.

  “Eggs look right?”

  “Just fine,” Dickon said.

  Ben portioned out half onto each plate. He got forks from the drawer, put one on each plate also, and brought the plates to the table. “Ketchup?”

  “No thanks. Just the eggs, today.” They ate silently, each staring at his plate. Only the clinking of forks against stoneware
stirred in the room. The tea steeped and gave off its scent, perfuming the morning. When they had both finished, Ben took their plates and rinsed them in the sink.

  “Tea on the veranda?” he said. Maybe he could talk to Dickon easier if he sat beside him staring out at the cove, instead of staring at him across the table.

  “Yes,” Dickon said. Where could he find the words to say to this man who wanted him?

  Ben spoke as they settled themselves on the veranda. “I didn’t mean to push you, yesterday. As I said, I surprised myself. I’ll take it back, if you want me to.”

  “No, don’t take it back, unless you thought about it and decided you didn’t mean it.”

  Ben shifted his weight. The cold damp that lay over the wood in the morning was penetrating his pants. The redwood spice of earlier had been replaced by the salt tang and fresh fish smells of the cove. The wind had turned again. The fog might not leave very quickly.

  “I have thought about it, Dickon, and yes, I meant it. I still mean it. I guess I’m proposing.”

  “You need to know a lot more about me, Ben.” Dickon shifted carefully. He swallowed a mouthful of tea. A gull wheeled over the beach before them, crying an arcane call that only gulls could interpret.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “I’m bruised merchandise, Ben. Bruised and scarred.”

  “Who isn’t, by our age?”

  Dickon looked down at his bare feet. Their chill was just short of uncomfortable. “I have trouble trusting people, Ben. Dogs I