Ben Soul

her eyes.

  Ermentrude intruded into her lap. She sat, thinking, wondering where her burning anger came from. Ermentrude purred as Notta compulsively rubbed her everywhere the cat most liked, under her chin, behind her ears, and smooth soothing strokes along her back. Notta’s tears spilled over, and splashed Ermentrude. The cat stopped purring, and leaped from Notta’s arms. She hit the floor with a thunk. Notta buried her face in her hands, and let her torrential tears flow. In her mind, she repeated over and over how angry she was never to have had a father, and how ashamed she was at how she had treated Haakon.

  Prime Pussy howled at the door. The rain had begun again. Notta let the old cat in. Ermentrude snarled at Prime Pussy by way of greeting. Prime Pussy snarled back. Then each cat went to a distant corner of the living room.

  Notta went out on the cottage porch to watch the rain fling silver knives at the sodden ground. The sudden squall soon ended. A ray of sun pierced the cloud cover and illuminated the yard. Notta sighed, and let her shoulders slump. She let the darkness drain from her body into the light in the yard. The yard darkened as the sun went down below the break in the clouds.

  Notta went into the afternoon shadows spreading across the living room. She sat down in a recliner and began to compose an apology. She fell asleep.

  Haakon found her there when he woke up. He walked as quietly as he could, but his movement eventually woke Notta. Emma came out and went into the kitchen without speaking to either of them. Notta looked at the door and longed for DiConti’s knock.

  Seasoning the Witch

  A Letter from a Stranger

  The mail came to San Danson Station about the same time every morning. The Villagers often gathered to visit while Rosa distributed the incoming post to individual boxes. This morning Ben and Dickon were the earliest patrons to show.

  “Morning,” Dickon said as he came in.

  “Morning, yourself,” Ben replied.

  “Expecting anything special in the mail?”

  “No, not really. I just happened to be up and about, so I came on over to check the mail.”

  “Where’s Butter?”

  “I left her home. I promised her a walk, later.”

  Rosa called out from behind the boxes. “Mail’s all out,” she said. She always ended her delivery with this phrase, just in case folks were waiting in the lobby.

  Dickon took his mail; he had three catalogs and four mortgage offers. He trashed all of them without hesitation.

  Ben had a couple of mortgage offers, too. It was a rare day that didn’t bring at least one offer of “lowest interest rates” or “easy qualification” to every postal patron. He also got an envelope that promised to be a real letter. Ben did not recognize the return addressee or address. “Cori Ander, 1217 Free Radical Lane, The City” it read. He looked at the stamp. It was a full-cost first class stamp. He opened the envelope and withdrew a sheet of notepaper embossed with calla lilies, folded in half. He unfolded it.

  Cori Ander

  1217 Free Radical Lane

  The City

  November 10, 2004

  Mr. Ben Soul

  The Village

  San Danson

  Dear Mr. Soul:

  I am writing you on behalf of my client, Ms. Minnie Vann, who is too ill to write for herself. She requests you come visit her at the address on this envelope as soon as you can arrange to do so.

  From me: Ms. Vann is terminally ill. Regrettably, she has contracted a cancer of the brain, which has interfered with her motor functions, though she is yet lucid. I urge you to come soon; her prognosis is short.

  Sincerely,

  Cori Ander, Registered Nurse

  Ben’s hands trembled. He hadn’t thought about Minnie Vann for several years. Now she lay dying. Specters of Len struggling for breath on a hospital bed, linked to life only by tubes and wires, rose before his mind’s eye. A great heaviness fell on him, one he had shed, and forgotten. The weariness of loss slumped his shoulders and drooped the corners of his mouth. Dickon came in just in time to see Ben’s slumping moment.

  “Bad news, Ben?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ben said. “An old friend is dying. She wants me to come visit her.” He sighed, and leaned against the wall. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Why not? Do you need someone to look after Butter? I can do that; she gets along with me pretty well.” Dickon studied Ben’s face. Whoever this friend was, her imminent death dragged his face into a mask twenty years older than usual. Dickon started to reach for him to comfort him with a hug, but stopped. They had too much to work out for such an intimate comfort to be appropriate.

  Ben looked up at Dickon and saw the concern on Dickon’s face. Ben attempted a smile. “Thanks, Dickon. I’ve got to go to the City to see Minnie. If you can take care of Butter for tonight, and maybe tomorrow, I’ll appreciate it. I think I should go by my house, too.” Ben straightened. “Len’s cousin moved out a month ago, and I should check on the place. Make sure everything’s okay. Can you take Butter that long?”

  “Sure,” Dickon said. “It gives me a chance to spoil her a little. I haven’t seen her for several days.”

  “I know,” Ben said. He looked at Dickon. “We’ll have to talk, some time, Dickon.”

  “Yeah, we’ve both got things to say and to hear.” Dickon smiled a rueful smile. “La Señora told me some things, too, and I’ve got to figure those out.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I’m due to go to lunch at the big house day after tomorrow. I’ll have to be sure to be back.”

  “Drive friendly, Ben.”

  “I will. I’ll bring Butter by in a little while.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Ben went out the door, leaving the pile of unsaid words between himself and Dickon. Dickon carried their weight home with him.

  Ben explained to Butter about Minnie Vann while he put a few clothes and his grooming essentials in a small bag. Butter whined. She wasn’t sure this Minnie was worth so much of Ben’s time. Ben gathered her leash, food, and a couple of toys she especially liked, and took her over to Dickon’s. Dickon assured him Butter would be fine, and reminded him again to drive carefully. “You’re not used to driving in the City traffic any more,” he said. Ben promised to be cautious.

  The Coast Road was damp with drizzle for several miles before Ben’s car broke into the sun just before the bridge into the City. The low western sun lit the towers in the City with rose and gold, beautifying them beyond any ordinary works of humans. Ben stopped in the view area to watch the light slowly crawl up the walls and leap from the tops of the buildings. As the lights began to come on he drove to the motel where he had made reservations for the night.

  The room was a clean, nondescript motel room like a million others in the world. It had a bed, a lamp, a generic television, a telephone, and bathroom facilities in a small separate room. Ben felt swallowed up by the anonymity. There was something restful in it. Beige and brown rooms had their spiritual uses.

  Ben took the telephone book and looked up a number for Minnie Vann. The address matched the one on the envelope he’d gotten. He dialed. The young-sounding woman who answered gave him directions, and suggested he come in the late morning.

  “I’m so glad you came so quickly,” she said. “We don’t know how long Minnie can last.”

  Ben hung up the phone, the heaviness of loss on him. He turned on the television and lost himself in its flickering unreality.

  A Last Visit to Minnie

  When Ben found it, 1217 Free Radical Lane proved to be one of those neo-Victorian houses so many City architects had designed near the end of the last century. It’s “gingerbread” was simplified as to angle and curve in what the designers thought of as “modernized” gingerbread. Ben thought this three-story edifice, painted a gentle cream yellow with white trim, was a better-than-average specimen of the style. Ben parked his car on the steep sl
ope, carefully angling the wheels against the curb to prevent a rollaway, got out, and locked the car. He was slow and deliberate in his movements. He recognized in himself his reluctance to confront another terminally ill friend.

  He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked up the stairs to the front door with the bouquet of mixed flowers in his hand. Three names showed under three mailboxes. Evidently, each floor belonged to a different tenant. He rang the bell under Minnie’s name. An unrecognizable voice scratched out “Identify yourself, please,” from the tinny speaker next to the door.

  “Ben Soul here to see Minnie Vann,” he said, vaguely aiming at the speaker.

  “Come in,” the scratchy voice said. Somewhere inside a buzzer rasped, and Ben heard the bolt on the door click. He thumbed the lever down and pushed on the handle. The door opened into a small foyer with faded blue carpeting. A staircase led up on the left into the darkness above. Minnie’s apartment was on the first floor. There was only one door beside the stairway. Ben walked the two steps across to it and knocked. It opened to reveal a tall woman with iron-gray hair and an angular body incongruously endowed with a large and either firm or firmly constrained bosom.

  “Mr. Soul?” the woman inquired in a melodious voice that Ben recognized from the telephone contact he had had.

  “Yes,” he said. “Are you Ms. Ander?”

  “Cori, please,” the woman said, and drew the door wide open to allow Ben to enter. “Come in,” she went on. Ms. Vann is looking forward to your visit.”