Benedict Hall

by Cate Campbell

  Frank stood awkwardly at the edge of the porch, looking down on the colorful scene of women in silky long dresses and men in dinner jackets and bow ties. He didn’t know anyone except the Benedicts, and they were scattered among the guests. Edith stood near a woman who looked very much like her, and with them was a nice-looking young girl in a white dress and long white gloves who Frank guessed to be the honoree.

  “Oh, you’re here. What a relief.”

  Frank turned just as Margot came up the porch steps and walked toward him, her hand outstretched. He thought, if he had not known her voice, and recognized her purposeful stride, he might not have recognized her. He knew nothing of clothes, but the narrow, flowing dress she wore suited her perfectly, and the tiny crystal beads in it glittered subtly in the slanting sunshine. She had a narrow shawl of embroidered Chinese silk, sprinkled with butterflies and cherry blossoms, draped around her shoulders, and she wore a strip of beaded fabric around her forehead. It rather neatly contained her shining dark hair, and somehow fitted her strong features. He couldn’t find the words to tell her, but he saw by her smile, and the confident way she reached up to kiss his cheek, that she knew. He said, finally, inadequately, “You look so beautiful, Margot.”

  She laughed. “Ramona’s doing. She has a real talent.” She came around to his right side so she could take his arm with her gloved hand. She led him down the steps and through the chattering crowd to a linen-covered table where cups and glasses were laid out. “We don’t really have cocktails, I’m afraid. Not out here in the open. Lemonade, some root beer, and tea, if you prefer it.”

  “Nothing, thanks. I’d just have to put the thing down if anyone wants to shake hands.”

  “Maybe later, then, Frank. Thanks so much for coming to stand by me.”

  He smiled at her, resisting an urge to kiss her in front of everyone, settling for pressing her hand close under his arm. She took him to meet the debutante, who was shaking hands with a line of well-wishers.

  Allison Benedict still had a girlish plumpness, and had fair, fine hair that curled around her face. Her eyebrows were painted in thin arches, and her features were as delicate as those of a porcelain doll. Her expression was one of pure boredom. Frank wondered, as he waited his turn to be presented, if that was a fashion among young people, or if she really found the party enervating.

  Edith was standing beside her niece. When they approached, she said, “Oh, Major Parrish! You’re in your dress uniform! How handsome you look. Allison, this is Margot’s friend, Major Frank Parrish. Major, Miss Benedict.”

  The debutante took in Frank’s uniform, his major’s insignia, his flattened sleeve folded into his pocket, and her blue eyes brightened, banishing the impatience in her expression. “How do you do, Major?” she said. As she shook his hand she leaned forward to add in an undertone, “I’ll bet you have something more fascinating to talk about than the weather!”

  Margot said, “Allison, behave yourself.”

  The girl pressed her cheek to Margot’s. “Oh, Margot,” she whispered, just loud enough for Frank to hear, “you’re the only interesting one in the family. Trust you to bring the best-looking man!”

  Margot laughed, and with a gentle tug, urged Frank away. “That girl will cause everyone trouble one of these days, I can promise you.”

  Frank thought that was a reasonable prediction, but he grinned over his shoulder at the youngest Benedict before he followed Margot to a spot where they could stand out of the swirl of people. He saw Preston wandering here and there, a glass in his hand, a notebook and pencil prominently displayed in his jacket pocket. He looked stylish and self-possessed in his white linen dinner jacket, but he avoided the spot where Frank and Margot stood.

  Dickson Benedict found them, though, and shook Frank’s hand with a firm grip. “Thanks again for your help with the car, Major.”

  “A pleasure, sir. Anything I can do.”

  “Good man. Glad you could come tonight. Damned foolishness, this coming-out nonsense!” Frank thought his best recourse was to let this remark go unanswered.

  Dickson disappeared into the crowd, but Frank found himself shaking hands with several other people, men in dinner jackets and women in dresses festooned with long necklaces and chiffon scarves. He would never remember who they were, but he did his best to appear polite.

  As the sun set, the music grew louder. The hired butler came out to light the Chinese lanterns that had been hung from tree branches and from the latticework above the porch. A dance floor of polished boards was set up to one side. The strains of “Where the Lanterns Glow” filled the garden, and in the fragrant dusk, couples began to dance.

  Frank leaned close to Margot and murmured in her ear, “I don’t dance, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, thank God, Frank! I always feel like an idiot when I try to dance. Let’s just go up on the porch and sit down.”

  Together they forded the crowd, and went up the steps, where Margot leaned against a pillar, and Frank braced one hip against the porch railing. “How’s Blake?” he asked.

  “He’s getting better,” she said. “It’s slow, but that’s to be expected. You remember Sarah Church?” He nodded. “Father hired her to care for Blake in the convalescent home. He’s walking a bit, with her help.”

  “Good.” They were quiet for a moment. It was probably, Frank thought, a good time to tell her he had to leave Seattle, but she seemed to be enjoying the evening, and he didn’t want to spoil it. Instead, he said, “What’s your father going to do about the car?”

  “It’s still in the garage. I don’t think he can bear to look at it.”

  “I could drive it to a mechanic for him. Get it repaired. Then he can sell it, or do whatever he wants. Has anyone started the engine recently?”

  “No.” She put out her hand to him, and when he took it, she pulled him up. “Let’s go try it. We’ve made enough of an appearance, I think.”

  He followed her off the porch and across the close-cut grass toward the garage. The circle of light cast by the Chinese lanterns didn’t reach past the middle of the lawn. Warm darkness enveloped them, and Frank liked the feeling that they were suddenly alone, though the music still rang behind them, and chatter and laughter filled the garden. Margot fumbled in the dimness for the door latch. When she found it, she pulled the door back, and they walked into an even deeper darkness smelling of gasoline and rubber. Frank could just make out the gleam of the Essex’s headlamps and the shape of its crumpled fender. He said, “Is there an electric light?”

  Margot, from the side wall, said, “I’m trying to find the switch.”

  She was several steps away from him, feeling along the wall with her hand, when they heard Preston’s drawl. “What do you two think you’re doing?”

  Frank spun to face the open garage door. Preston lounged there, his white jacket making a languid silhouette against the yellow lantern light. He said, lightly but coldly, “Hardly the moment, do you think, old man?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Frank said. Margot started toward her brother. With each stride, the beads of her dress cast tiny prisms of light in the gloom. Frank said, “What are you talking about, Benedict? The moment for what?”

  “Shall we say—an assignation? Or is it something nastier?”

  Margot said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Preston.”

  “Ridiculous? Come on, doc. It’s pretty clear you’re no better than you should be.”

  Frank’s jaw tightened, and his arm began to burn. He made his voice as even and expressionless as possible. “Watch what you say to your sister, Benedict.” He walked toward the door. The best thing, he thought, was to take Margot’s arm, lead her back to the party, and deal with the car another time.

  Preston took one step to the side, right into Frank’s path. “You know, Cowboy,” he said. “You should really go home to Montana. You don’t fit in here, do you? Why not go back to your cows?”

  Frank stopped, an arm’s length from Preston. “Whatever your trouble is,
Benedict, this isn’t the time or the place for us to have it out.”

  Preston’s chuckle held no humor. “We’re not having it out, old man. I’m merely making a suggestion.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take it.” Frank took a step to his right, to go around Preston, but his adversary matched his movement.

  Preston raised his head and sniffed. “Is that cow manure I smell?”

  Margot said, “Preston, for God’s sake.”

  Frank gritted, “Look, Benedict. I’m ready anytime if you’re itching for a fight. Right now I’m going to take your sister back to the party. I’m only here to support her.”

  “Support her? With what?” Preston lifted his two hands, palms out. “This is what a man has, Cowboy. Two strong ones.”

  “I don’t see that,” Frank snapped. “You have two hands, don’t you? They don’t stop you from acting like a spoiled boy.” Preston’s angry breath hissed in his throat. Frank took a long step forward, shoving him to one side with his left shoulder. He put out his hand to Margot and she reached to take it.

  At that moment Preston seized his arm—his left arm, the stump—and yanked at it.

  Pain blazed from the damaged nerves. Frank’s vision blurred under its onslaught, and a gasp of agony escaped him. He stumbled, and had to fight to keep his balance. Through a haze of pain, he heard Margot’s voice.

  “Back off, Preston,” she snapped. Frank felt her hand on his arm and another on his back, steadying him, supporting him as he had meant to support her.

  “Better keep your voice down, doc,” Preston said. “You’ll upset the mater.”

  Frank blinked to clear his vision. Fury burned in him, hotter even than the fire in his arm. “What the hell do you want, Benedict?” he demanded. He sensed the eyes turned to them, and he realized the music had stopped some moments before, but the agony in his arm and the humiliation of having to lean on Margot inflamed his temper. “You’ve cost me my job, cost Margot her hospital privileges. Isn’t that enough? What’s left?”

  Preston grinned, his teeth shining white in the reflected lamplight. He said, almost gaily, “Just trying to preserve the dignity of the Benedict name, old man.”

  “By causing a scene at a party?”

  “I don’t like seeing my sister keep company with a cripple,” Preston answered. He made a negligent gesture with one hand, a flick of the fingers as if he were brushing away cobwebs, as if the cruelty of his words was hardly worth noticing. “It’s bad enough she puts her hands all over whores and drunks and God-knows-who-else, but you . . .”

  Frank said, “You’re a head case, Benedict.”

  The insult struck home. Preston made a guttural sound, as if he were a dog that had been kicked. He raised his hand, hissing, “I want you to stay away from my family!”

  A flood of light suddenly glared on them, light from a single unshaded bulb hanging from the garage ceiling. Dickson Benedict was there, his hand on the light switch, his thick eyebrows raised in question. The light caught Frank with his fist cocked, ready to defend himself.

  Preston cast a sidelong glance at his father, and he pressed the flat of his palm against his shirtfront, beneath his dinner jacket and his striped silk tie.

  Dickson said, “Preston, what—”

  Frank exclaimed, “I’ll be damned! You’re still wearing that stone—the one you murdered for.”

  Preston balanced on the balls of his feet, like a boxer. Two spots of color flamed high on his cheekbones, and he hissed, “Back away from me, Parrish, or you’ll regret it.”

  Frank’s belly tightened, and his nostrils flared at the scent of rage surrounding Preston. It was sour and strong, like the scorch of a flatiron on wet linen. Frank grated, “Let’s have it out now, then, Benedict. Get it out in the open. I know about you. I know you’re a murderer and you’re a liar.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Preston said.

  Dickson demanded, “What’s going on?”

  Margot said something to him in an urgent tone. Frank was barely aware of them, or of the faces turned toward them from the garden. Everything in him focused on Preston, on his fingers spread wide on his shirtfront, on the glitter in his eyes, the cruelty in his handsome face. “I know enough, Benedict. I know what you are.”

  Dickson said, “Just a moment, Major—Preston—”

  Preston leaned toward Frank, whispering, “What? What am I, Cowboy?”

  “You’re not right. Not normal. There’s something rotten inside you.”

  Dickson tried to take his son’s arm, to step in between the two men. Preston shook him off, never loosening his grasp on what he held.

  Frank said, “You think it’s a magic amulet, Benedict? Arabian Nights? That’s insane!”

  Preston’s eyelids flickered, a brief look of doubt that vanished a heartbeat later. He began to pant, for all the world like a maddened dog. His eyes glittered with the sort of craziness Frank had seen all too often in the East, when bloodlust seized a man and drove all reason away.

  Frank straightened his shoulders, wresting control of his own temper. He stepped back, out of Preston’s reach. “Look, Benedict. You and I can talk this out at a better time—”

  But Preston lunged at him. He caught Frank’s amputated arm with both his hands, and with a vicious, deliberate movement, he twisted it. He seemed to know precisely where his fingers would hurt the most. His manicured nails dug into the sensitive nerves until Frank felt, sickeningly, as if his arm had been severed a second time.

  His world tilted. North became south. East and west reversed. A cloud of blackness swallowed him. From a distance, he heard Margot say, “Preston, stop it!” and Dickson cry some wordless protest. Frank tried to grapple with Preston, to free his arm from that relentless grip, but he groped into darkness. Something struck his shoulder and the side of his head. He wanted to call out to Margot, to apologize, but he had no breath. He rolled onto his back, away from the pain, but it rolled with him, a searing agony that turned his muscles to water. He lay uselessly on the grass, the harsh light of the exposed bulb shining full on his face, illuminating his weakness.

  His humiliation was complete.

  Margot took a long step forward and snatched at Preston’s hand, pulling it away from Frank. She thrust him backward with all her strength. “Bastard!” He stumbled slightly, but he was grinning now as if it were all a great joke, holding both palms up in mock surrender.

  “Don’t get excited, doc!” he said. “It was just a little pinch!”

  Dickson growled, “Preston, for shame! Get control of yourself!”

  “Keep him away, Father!” Margot fell to her knees in the grass beside Frank. She reached across him for his right hand, and chafed the wrist in both of her palms. His eyes were closed, his lips pulled back from gritted teeth. His breathing was shallow, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “Hold on, Frank,” she said. “It should be better in a moment. I’ll try to find you some—”

  She broke off. A hand extended in front of her face, holding a silver hip flask with a cork stopper. Margot, startled, looked up to find her father bending over her.

  He pulled the cork out of the neck of the flask. “Give him a jolt of this,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That must hurt like the devil.”

  “Help me lift him first, Father,” she said. “Careful—careful of that side.”

  Cautiously, Dickson Benedict got an arm under Frank’s shoulders and lifted him out of the dirt. Margot cupped his jaw with her left hand, and held the flask to his lips. “Can you swallow, Frank? This will help.”

  His eyelids fluttered open, but his eyes were unfocused, and she doubted he could see her. She touched the cool metal to his mouth, and tipped up the flask.

  Frank swallowed one mouthful, then another. He took a shaky breath, and swallowed again. His cheeks pinked up almost immediately, and his breathing slowed and deepened. He blinked, hard, and his eyes focused on her face. “Goddamn it,” he muttered.

 
; “Just take a moment,” she said.

  Dickson steadied Frank with his arm. Frank struggled to sit up, to take control of himself. He said, “Sir, I’m—sorry about the scene. Christ, I’m—sorry.”

  Margot’s eyes were on her father at that moment, and she saw steel in his gaze, and anger in the flush on his neck. He rumbled, “Not your fault, Major.”

  Dickson released Frank, who had steadied enough to sit on his own. Grunting, Dickson came to his feet, and glowered over his shoulder at Preston, who had faded back into the crowd of people. “I apologize for my son. I don’t know what your disagreement was, but that was a damn lousy thing to do.”

  Margot said, “Frank, surely now you’ll let me have a look at your arm. It doesn’t need to be like—”

  The desperate plea in his eyes made her stop speaking.

  Frank refused more whisky, though his arm still blazed with pain. Margot, her face pale and her jaw set, helped him to his feet, then slipped the hip flask into his left pocket, beneath his folded sleeve.

  “Come into the house,” she said quietly. “We can have our supper in the kitchen with Hattie.”

  “I couldn’t eat anything, Margot. The whole evening is—Lord, what a mess.”

  “It was hardly your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have come.”

  Her hand suddenly trembled beneath his arm. Her shoulders slumped, hunching so that the pretty silk scarf slipped down to her elbows. She said bleakly, “Are we going to let Preston rule our lives, then?”

  “He’ll write another column about me,” Frank said.

  “He wouldn’t dare. Father won’t allow it.”

  “Well.” Frank tried to laugh, but succeeded only in a gulp of misery. “It’s not as if I have anything left to lose.”

  Margot dropped her hand from his arm. She didn’t know, of course, that he had no choice but to leave Seattle. That he was about to lose her in any case. He cast about for some way to explain to her, to say that he hadn’t meant—