Ben Soul

by Richard George

hungry now, slower to catch her prey because the extra weight in her womb retarded her speed. She nurtured a large litter. Nine embryos grew in her. Sometimes the careless human left food scraps out where she could find them. She went there now to reconnoiter.

  The smoke smell distressed her. She knew of fire, and its great danger. This smelled like a campfire. She smelled the breeze for meat cooking. She tasted the air for human presence. There was none, except the stale remembrance of people past. Only the fire smell came to her. She topped the ridge with its headdress of cholla cactus and Joshua trees. Flames engulfed the last structure in Cornbread Corners.

  She slunk down the hill. The fire had driven a number of rodents into the open daylight, their burrows under the old building too hot to remain in. She caught several voles and a ground squirrel. She was crunching the last of the voles when the fire ignited the residual gas in the tank under the old pumps. They blew into the sky, rockets headed for Mars. A loud explosion announced the launch. The coyote fled over the ridge, brushing a Teddy Bear cholla as she passed it. Several segments of the plant attached themselves to her fur. Days later her side festered, her throat swelled with infection, and she died, her litter unborn.

  Vanna heard the distant explosion, thought it was simply an engine noise from the Chevrolet, and drove relentlessly toward the promised highway.

  Northbound

  The Hawganee vehicle sputtered to a stop. Vanna sighed. The desert afternoon was hot, she was thirsty, and Maw Hawganee’s castoff dress clung to her flesh. She had soaked the cotton print with her perspiration. She was too tired to curse. She abandoned the broken Chevrolet, left it in the middle of the road, and started to walk. She soon regretted that she hadn’t snared one of Maw Hawganee’s hats to top of the mummy’s ensemble. Zach, of course, hadn’t planned for Vanna to leave the cookhouse.

  The road was going up a hill from the Chevrolet. Vanna bent forward, watching where she put her trudging feet. She didn’t want to turn an ankle on a rut or spin to her knees because a loose patch of gravel slid out from under her feet. It seemed to her the wind was getting louder without providing any cooling. She stopped to rest at the crest of the hill, and took time to look ahead. Relief flooded her. The freeway ran along the hill’s other side, about a quarter mile from where she stood. The way to it was downhill. Her vigor renewed, she walked down to the highway, went up the northbound onramp, and stood with her thumb cocked in the classic hitchhiker’s pose. Many cars passed before one stopped.

  It was an older car, something Japanese, with battered fenders and rusty undercoat showing through. It was running, and the passenger door was open, beckoning her. She hoped it had air conditioning. It must have, she reasoned, because all the windows were rolled up. She ran, with a lurching gait, toward the car, got in, and pulled the door closed.

  “Buckle up,” a male voice told her. She looked at the driver, a scrawny little man with a shock of white hair carefully coiffed in luxurious waves. She buckled up.

  “My name’s Ray,” he said, “Ray Fermi. “What is your name, Sister?”

  Ordinarily Vanna bristled when a man addressed her as Sister. Something in Ray’s tone made it sound less like the usual insult. “I’m Donna,” she said, “Donna D’Schuys.” She was sure no one would connect Donna D’Schuys with Vanna Dee, the escapee from El Serrucho Oxidado. The old car’s air conditioning had begun cooling her almost immediately.

  “How did you come to be wandering around in the desert?” Ray asked.

  “I was visiting some people in the back country,” she said. “They were bringing me to the next town, so I could get a bus home. Their car broke down, so I walked to the freeway.”

  “Do they need help?”

  “No, they know the country. A neighbor’s coming to help them get their car home.” Ray nodded, as if to himself.

  “You look right beat,” he said. “You need a soda, or something, to drink. I’ve got a thermos in the back seat with water. It’s not real cold, but it is wet. Help yourself.”

  Vanna unbuckled her seat belt, turned around, and got the gallon thermos off the back seat. She opened the lid enough to allow air into the container as she lifted its spigot to her mouth.

  “Take it slow,” Ray said. “When you get real dried out, you have to be careful not to get wet too fast. Makes you sick,” he said. Vanna lowered the thermos to rest between her knees.

  “Have you spent a lot of time in the desert?” she asked Ray.

  “I’ve traveled across it almost twenty years.” He smiled at her, and looked back at the road. “I’m a freeway evangelist,” he said. “I drive up and down the freeways, picking up hitchhikers, or sit in diners to talk with the truckers. I tell them about Jesus, and how he died for our sins. Do you know Jesus?”

  “Not personally,” Vanna said, and stared out her side window at the passing rocks and cacti.

  “It’s all in the Book, the Good Book,” Ray went on. Vanna could hear his enthusiasm growing. She shuddered within. Evangelists were not her cup of tea. She shut her mind and ears, and let Ray ramble on with his scriptural quotes and sermonizing. She didn’t respond, not even to murmur “Mhmm,” and yet he kept going. He was self-priming. Evening came down with a gray velvet kind of light. The color dimmed and bled away from the twisted and layered rocks. Lights ahead promised food and shelter. Ray was asking her a question.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking about something. What did you ask me?”

  “Do you want to stop for some supper?” He smiled. “The Dipstick Diner up ahead is pretty decent. Breakfast twenty-four hours around. It’s the only place to eat for a lot of miles.”

  “Yes,” Vanna said. “I should stop and eat. Maybe find a place to wash up a bit.”

  “Coming right up,” Ray said. It took another ten minutes before they reached the off ramp for the Dipstick Diner. When they got to the restaurant, Ray parked under a yellow and pink neon sign. The lights colored his coiffure, making it a sickly thing to look at. Vanna looked away.

  Ray held the door for her as she got out of the car. Then he shut the doors and locked them. Vanna stumbled toward the diner’s entrance. Ray rushed up and supported her under her elbow. Uncharacteristically, she welcomed his support. The noise and lights dizzied Vanna when they walked in. If Ray hadn’t been holding her, she might have swooned and fallen. The hostess, a brassy blonde well past her youth, led them to a booth. The red vinyl looked new. A truck driver of indeterminate gender sat at the counter nearby, alternately scooping up scrambled eggs and guzzling coffee. An elderly waitress, her gray hair styled as carefully as Ray’s hair was, replenished the driver’s coffee before coming to take Ray and Vanna’s order. Vanna ordered breakfast. Ray ordered the fried shrimp.

  Ray continued to talk about his beloved Jesus while they ate. Vanna pretended to listen to him. Now that they were in the diner, it was harder to ignore him. He gesticulated with his fork as he made his points about salvation. Vanna looked up once, caught the truck driver’s eye, and shrugged very slightly. The truck driver winked, and turned back to the coffee cup on the counter.

  Vanna finished her meal first. She hadn’t interrupted Ray’s monologue. She watched the truck driver get up, leave money to cover the check, and walk to an arch where a sign promised restrooms lay beyond it. The gray haired waitress picked up the money and rang up the sale on the cash register. Then she cleared the dirty dishes from the counter. Vanna excused herself, saying she needed to use the bathroom facilities, and left. Ray continued to preach to the shrimp and fries on his plate. Vanna guessed he hadn’t heard her, or realized she had left.

  On the Road Again

  In the Dipstick Diner’s women’s room Vanna went about her business. When she emerged from the stall, she was surprised to see the truck driver standing at one of the sinks carefully combing her very short hair while looking in the mirror. Her body was blocky, and onl
y the closest inspection showed her breasts, which, apparently, she did not confine in a brassiere. She raked Vanna up and down with a penetrating glance.

  “That your husband out there?” the truck driver asked.

  “No, just somebody who picked me up on the freeway when my car broke down,” Vanna said. “Talks a lot.”

  “I guess!” the truck driver said. “Drive me up a wall, having to listen to that Jesus crap.”

  “Not my favorite topic, either,” Vanna said. “It’s a free ride, anyway.”

  “Probably not,” the driver said. “That kind usually uses another body part almost as much as they use their mouth. If he’s anything like one freeway evangelist I’ve heard of, he’ll want something all night to pay for the ride, then sneak out and leave you with a motel bill to pay.”

  “Ray says he’s a freeway evangelist.”

  “Wouldn’t be Ray Fermi, would he?”

  “That’s the name he claims.”

  “He’s got a bad reputation. Preaches your ear off while he’s doing the nasty, according to a couple of working girls I know up toward Dry Bone City. Get shut of him, girl.”

  “How am I going to do that? I don’t have much money, and no way to get away from here until the bus comes by.”

  “No bus here, little lady. You need a plan B. Which way are you headed?”

  “North.”

  “I’m going that way myself. I can give you a lift as far as Dry Bone City.” She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Ann, Ann Droyd. What’s yours?”

  “Donna, Donna D’Schuys.”

  “You got a purse, or coat, or anything back there with the loudmouth?”

  “No. Everything I’ve got with me is here.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll just slip out the back way. Let good old Ray pay for your eats.”

  “That sounds good to me.”

  They left the women’s bathroom. Instead of turning left toward the dining room, they turned right toward a door marked Exit. Ann pushed it open. Her eighteen-wheeler sat behind the diner, idling.

  “Hop in on the other side,” she told Vanna. Vanna went around the truck and climbed up on the running board to open the door. The seat was rather high above the running board. Vanna had to clamber in like a small child. When she had seated herself, breathing rather heavily, Ann showed her where the seat belt was, and how to buckle it. Then Ann put the rig in gear and started up the onramp, gradually building up to freeway speed. The chatter of the diesel engine sped up and turned into a background noise, singing in harmony with tires and the evening winds blowing through the cab. The music of the travel lulled Vanna to sleep. Ann looked over at her from time to time and smiled. Vanna slept on, undisturbed.

  Four hours down the road, Ann pulled into another truck stop. The change in the sounds and the brighter lights woke Vanna. “Dry Bone City?” she asked.

  “Not yet, Donna,” Ann said. “We’re about half way, though. This hole-in-the-desert is the Valve and Gear Diner. We’re at the top of the Juniper Summit. I need to get rid of some stale coffee, and take on fresh. Coming in?”

  “No,” Vanna said. “I’ll just doze here, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine by me. Want me to bring you anything?”

  Vanna dug in her pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. “A donut, if they’ve got one. Chocolate frosted.”

  “I’ll see,” Ann said. She took the dollar and went in. Vanna dozed off again. Loud voices just outside the cab woke her.

  Voice One said, “Heard about a prison break at El Serrucho Oxidado.” This voice sounded young, like a man just past boyhood.

  Voice Two said, “Oh yeah. That’s a prison for broads, ain’t it?” This voice was rougher and older than the other. Vanna slipped down out of sight.

  Voice One: “Yeah, somewhere out beyond nowhere, in the desert. Anyway, this one broad just walked away. Didn’t do her no good, though.

  Voice Two: “How’s that?”

  Voice One: “That desert’s hell on earth. They reckon she died out there. Search helicopter found a few bones, some orange scraps of cloth, and hair. Not much left. Seems the coyotes get hungry.”

  Voice Two: “Bad way to go. Been better she stayed in prison.” Vanna heard footsteps crunch on a patch of gravel, and the two voices were gone. She almost sobbed with relief. Whoever had died in the Páramo Purpúreo had stopped her pursuers. Vanna felt no sorrow for the dead woman. If she didn’t have the strength to survive, that was her problem. Vanna stretched out on the front seat, careful not to bump any of the levers and switches. She didn’t know how to drive a big rig. She was wishing Ann would hurry up when she drifted off to sleep again.

  Ann woke her. “Hey, Donna, wake up,” she said. “I got your donut. I brought you some coffee, too.” Vanna, startled, bumped her head on the steering wheel as she sat up.

  “Damn!” Vanna said. Then, “Sorry, Ann. Just bumped my head.”

  “Okay. Here, take your donut and coffee.” She took them and sat up on her side of the cab. Ann stood on the running board and swung her considerable bulk into the cab with grace and ease. She slammed the door shut, put the tractor in gear, and rolled toward the highway.

  “You know anybody in Dry Bone City?” she asked Vanna.

  “No. I’m going on from there to a place up north called Las Tumbas.”

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s the other side of the City, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got family there?”

  “Yes,” Vanna lied. Ann stopped asking questions. The big rig wore away the miles as it rolled north.

  House in Dry Bone City

  Ann brought her big rig to a stop in an empty shopping mall parking lot. She shut off the engine. The sudden quiet woke Vanna.

  “Where are we?” Vanna asked.

  “Dry Bone City,” Ann said, “at an old mall on the south side of town.”

  “What’s around here? Any place to eat or to stay?”

  “No place to eat until morning. There is a place to stay, but you might not want to go there.”

  “If it’s halfway clean and has a bed, I’m open to it.”

  Ann chuckled. A gleam of the setting moon glanced off her teeth. “It has beds aplenty,” she said. “Most of them occupied.”

  “Is it expensive? I wouldn’t think so, not in this neighborhood.”

  “You don’t have much cash?”

  “Only twenty bucks.”

  “Well, maybe you can work something out with the owner. She’s a friend of mine, Delta Blow. You up for walking a couple of blocks?”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Around here? Oh, yea, it’s really a quiet neighborhood this time of night.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About three in the morning. I can leave the rig here. I can’t unload until seven or so.”

  “Unload? What?”

  “My cargo. Canned tomatoes and peaches. Might be some canned asparagus back there, too. It’s groceries for the discount supermarket in this mall. They sell what other markets can’t sell.” Ann opened her door. Something clanged on the running board, and banged on the asphalt.

  “Damn!” Ann said.

  “What dropped?” Vanna asked as she opened her door too.

  “Well, it wasn’t my earring, honey,” Ann said. She bent over, picked up an object and held it up for Vanna to see. “My iron,” Ann said. “I carry it for protection. Some of the truckers on the road get a mite frisky, and this equalizes things.”

  “Oh, I see,” Vanna said. “Are you taking it with us?”

  “No,” Ann said as she tossed it back in the cab. “We won’t need it.” She took a jacket from behind the seat. “You be warm enough in that flimsy dress?”

  “I think so,” Vanna said, “if we don’t have far to go.”

  “Only a couple of blocks,” Ann said. “Push the button by the armrest down. That locks the door; then
shut it.” Vanna shut the heavy door. Ann walked around the front of the cab. “We go up this street,” Ann said, indicating a dark tunnel across the thoroughfare from the mall. The lights of Dry Bone City lit up the sky in the far distance. Vanna stayed close to Ann as they walked north. Their footsteps echoed off the silent buildings on either side. No streetlights illuminated the building facades. The moon was too low to penetrate the gloom. Vanna got the impression the structures were mainly one or two stories with flat roofs. An occasional lighter shadow suggested a few old Victorian houses remained scattered among the industrial buildings.

  In the third block one building, an old Victorian house three stories high, stood out against the Dry Bone City glow. The porch light had one small red bulb and two white ones that shed a pink patina over the painted wood. Ann turned in at the neat wrought iron gate. Vanna marveled that the gate was so well oiled it whispered as it opened. She followed Ann.

  Ann rapped discreetly on the door. Vanna wondered who would hear such a soft knock at this hour. A large woman opened the door. Vanna could only make out her silhouette against the soft yellow light of the interior. Only after she had entered behind Ann did she realize the woman’s hourglass figure threatened to spill out of a very fitted pink and purple velvet dress topped with a mauve and white boa. A large mound of blond hair sat atop the woman’s head; Vanna suspected it was a wig. Ann made the introductions.

  “Delta, this is Donna, Donna D’Schuys. Donna, this is Delta, Delta Blow.” Delta extended her hand for a shake. Vanna took it. The woman’s grip power surprised Vanna. “Donna needs a place to stay, maybe earn a little money. She’s on her way to see family up north. I thought you might have an opening.”

  “Ann, honey, I’ve got no more openings than any other woman.” Delta tittered; the tiny laugh was all out of proportion to her size. “Come into the parlor,” she said to Vanna. “Nobody else is in there right now.” She led the way toward a side room, where she turned the lights to full brightness. The room was lined with red plush sofas and cushioned chairs. Red velvet drapes covered the windows. An upright piano occupied one short wall next to a staircase that ascended into the gloom upstairs. Vanna wondered what western movie the decorator had used for inspiration.

  “Let me take a look at you, honey,” she said to Vanna. Vanna stood still while Delta studied her face and body in detail. Delta said “Hmm…” two or three times. Vanna hadn’t been so closely scrutinized since she had begun work at the Black and Blue Cowgirl Saloon.

  “Your face is too old,” Delta said, “though your figure held up pretty well. Could wrap that up in leather, give you a whip and some small chains, but you’ve got too many deep lines in your face to carry it off. Gray hair doesn’t help, although we can change that. I don’t think you’ll make a working girl.”

  “I’ve had experience,” Vanna said, “as a dominatrix. In a women’s bar.”

  “Whipping men is about