Ben Soul

by Richard George

bruise in the morning,” he said. His examining touch was almost a caress on Ben’s face. “Did you see the car?”

  “Not the one that flipped the stone, not for sure. I remember DiConti’s sheriff’s car. DiConti pulled up just as I was coming to.” Ben wrinkled his face in thought. “There was another car on the road, before that, a red sports car of some kind. Maybe that’s the one that flipped the rock at me.”

  “Vanna drives a red Jaguar,” Dickon said, “and the Coastal Commission is meeting on the mountain behind the village this afternoon. Something about murrelet habitat.” Dickon glared at the room. “I’ll bet that flying rock was no accident,” he said. “I’ll bet Vanna threw that at you on her way to her meeting.”

  “Now, Dickon,” Ben said, we’ve no way to prove such a thing.”

  Ben sat in his chair. Dickon took the chair across the room. “It’s the vicious kind of thing she’d do,” Dickon continued. “I can suspect her of anything.”

  “She sure hurt you, I can tell.”

  “Yes.” A long silence stretched between them. Dickon stared at a small seascape on the wall across from him. Ben, at right angles to him, stared at the darkening window obscured with shrubbery. The soft light of the lamp built a pool of bright yellow against the darkness. The shadow of Kokopelli danced in it. Nothing rippled the silence, yet it was not oppressive. Dickon shook himself gently and broke it. “Yes, she did, but she won’t go on hurting me. I’ve decided.” Dickon stared at his hands. Butter came to his feet, turned around three times, and lay down.

  Ben waited for Dickon to explain. Dickon took a deep breath, began to speak, but then frowned, puzzled at how to say what he wanted to say. Ben waited, not daring to breathe heavily, for fear of disturbing Dickon’s concentration. “I don’t know how to say what I want to say,” Dickon finally said in a strangled voice.

  “Just say it,” Ben said. “You don’t have to be eloquent.”

  Dickon shrugged some emotional weight off his shoulders, and took a deep breath again. “I’ve been thinking, examining myself, ever since I left here the other day. I’ve had to admit to myself I haven’t let go of Vanna, even after all these years. I’ve been nursing the hurt, twisting the thorn in my flesh. Apologies to St. Paul; that makes me sound quite the drama queen.” Dickon smiled a rueful smile. Ben smiled back.

  “We’re all queens in our own dramas,” Ben said, and cursed himself for a platitudinous fool.

  “I’d like another chance with you,” Dickon said, and looked up into Ben’s face. Under the manly lineaments of Dickon’s face Ben saw the frightened boy taking a big, daring step.

  “You’ve got it,” Ben said. They both sat awkwardly, waiting for the other to move.

  “What now?” Dickon said.

  “Either I come over there, or you come over here,” Ben said. “Or we can have a cup of tea and talk.”

  “Or we can get right to the sex.” They both laughed.

  “That will come in its own time,” Ben acknowledged. “Maybe pretty soon.” They both stood, and moved toward each other for a long kiss. Butter thumped her tail on the carpet as Dickon stepped over her, knowing something right had just happened. When they loosed their embrace, Ben smiled at Dickon.

  “How about some tea? I’ve got some of Rosa’s beef stew I can share.”

  “Well, I haven’t eaten,” Dickon said. “Tea’s the proper beverage, of course, for every occasion.”

  “Well, most,” Ben said, moving toward the kitchen. Butter, of course, followed him. She preferred the kitchen to all other rooms in the house. Ben switched on the kitchen light and put on the kettle. When he took out the stew, he realized he had been quite generous with Butter, and what remained wouldn’t feed two hungry men very fully. Ben put the kettle on, glanced through his bare refrigerator. Then he thought of cans he had in his cupboard. Quickly he crossed, opened the cupboard door, and took down a can of pork and beans and a jar of sauerkraut. These he apportioned, with the stew, onto two plates, which he heated serially, Dickon’s first, and then his. Dickon got out a fork and a spoon for each of them. The kettle boiled, and Ben made tea.

  “Don’t have anything for dessert,” Ben said, as he sat down opposite Dickon. “Sorry the meal’s not fancier.”

  “I haven’t had pork ‘n beans with sauerkraut since I was a kid,” Dickon said. “It was a lunchtime favorite in our house.”

  “I haven’t had it for years, either,” Ben said. They began to eat. Neither spoke until they had finished their meal. Ben suggested they take their tea into the front room.

  Dickon stared into the brown liquid in his cup. Ben wondered if there were stray tealeaves for Dickon to read. Or, was it the bubbles? Some people believed they also predicted the future.

  “Ben,” Dickon said, “please understand. I’m groping my way forward.”

  “Grope me, Dickon,” Ben smiled.

  “Puns aside,” Dickon went on, with a wry twist to his mouth, “I don’t know if I know how to be part of a partnership. Somehow, you matter very much to me, and I don’t want to blow it. The relationship that is,” he said, grinning.

  “Now who’s punning?” Ben considered. “We have to work things out step by step,” he said. “Tell me if I’m going too fast for you, or too slow. I’ll tell you, too.”

  “What if we aren’t ready to go at the same speed?”

  “Like I said, we’ll have to work it out, step by step. I remember reading once, a quote: ‘We meet. If we get together, great; if we don’t, sometimes things just happen that way.’ I don’t think you can do more than ten or fifteen percent of making relationships happen; the rest of them just have to evolve.”

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I’m groping too.”

  “You had a long, good relationship, with Len.”

  “It was good. It was long. It wasn’t perfect. And, it changed over the years as we changed. Len taught me to listen, and to express my side. He blessed me with that, among other things.”

  “I haven’t been very good at relationships,” Dickon said.

  “You mean Vanna?”

  “For one. You can see how bad that was. She twists and torments everything, somehow.” Dickon sighed. “Then there was Vin. I thought I was so in love with him. Then Vanna used him to turn the church against me. That’s another love affair gone sour.”

  “Vin?”

  “And the church.”

  “And the church? I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Dickon.”

  “Vin testified against me at the Presbytery Commission that recommended my expulsion. Vanna put him up to it.”

  “Oh.” Ben searched for words.

  “I’m not sure I’m a good risk for a partner, Ben.”

  “I’ll take my chances. It’s always a matter of taking chances. It’d be worse if I’d never taken a chance.”

  “I think I can fall in love with you, if I can get over being afraid.”

  “One small step after the other. Do you want more tea?”

  “Yes, another cup.” Ben went to put the kettle on. Dickon followed him, and, when he had set the kettle on the stove, put his arms around him and held him close. Ben turned and kissed Dickon’s cheek. Dickon nuzzled Ben’s ear.

  “Still want tea?” Ben asked.

  “Later, maybe.” Ben turned off the stove, and moved slowly, Dickon’s arm wound around his waist, toward the bedroom. Butter bounded before them. They began to explore each other’s body in intimate ways. Butter wanted to participate. Eventually Ben put Butter out of the bedroom and closed the door. Butter whined accompaniment to Ben and Dickon’s exploration of each other.

  When they were through, they opened the door and went to the kitchen for their delayed tea. The night was cooling, rapidly, so they put on robes (Ben had a spare in the closet) and talked, mostly with their eyes and touches, while they drank the tea.

  “Stay the night?” Ben as
ked.

  “Yes,” Dickon said. In due course Ben and Dickon finished their tea, and went to bed. This time Butter slept on the outside edge of the bed, as there was no space between Ben and Dickon.

  The Lost Resort

  “What kind of place is this resort?” Ben asked as he drove up the river toward Pueblo Rio. He carefully kept his gray eyes alert for traffic from the frequent shops and bistros that were scattered along the river road like mushrooms in a forest glade.

  “It’s a men’s resort,” Dickon said. “It has a bar, and restaurant, and a swimming pool. And rooms, of course. An old acquaintance of mine, Harry Kerry, runs it for the owner.”

  “Should we have made reservations?”

  “Not in mid-week in October,” Dickon said. “They’ve usually got rooms to let this time of year. Out of season for the City guys.”

  Pueblo Rio was a small town, wedged between the mountains and the river. It was about a mile long, and four blocks wide. The Lost Resort lay near the middle of the town’s mile, hard against the mountains. It was in a little cul-de-sac nature had carved out of the mountain’s toes. Great redwoods, second growth, but awesome in their height and girth, framed the gouge in the mountain. A brash neon sign identified it as “The Lost Resort.”

  The resort’s buildings were modest plywood roofed with inexpensive composition. Lavender and purple paint, with white trim covered every surface. Flowers rioted around a fountain at the gate. Ben could see the cement scars of repairs underway on the fountain. No water danced in it.

  The office