Ben Soul

followed this with the first three verses from the third chapter of John’s First Epistle. The organist keyed Beyond the Sunset underneath his words. Then he introduced Dr. Field, to speak the eulogy. The organist backed this up with In the Garden.

  “I’ve known Colonel Beauregard LeSieupe for over thirty years,” Dr. Field began in a strong voice. His short stature meant that, from the congregation, his head appeared to be resting on the podium, talking as a disembodied entity. No one in the congregation thought that particularly odd; they were accustomed to experimental television advertisements and other media playing games with talking heads. Dr. Field cleared his throat and went on.

  “Beau was born in Texas. He could not remember the year, but it was quite some time ago, now. He grew up in Texas, and left it as a boy becoming a man. His peregrinations took him all over the South, before he came to the City in its wilder days.” Dr. Field coughed.

  “That’s where I first got to know him. Then his life was less than exemplary, as he would tell you himself if he were here today, and he eventually fell afoul of the authorities.” Dr. Field took out his handkerchief and mopped his eyes. Sara Moníz allowed the music to swell while Dr. Field composed himself. Dr. Field went on in a hoarse voice.

  “The probation court assigned Beau to my care as a therapist. Unfortunately, his treatment was only partially successful.” Dr. Field coughed, nearly strangling, as though a fish bone had lodged in his throat. Sara skillfully increased the organ’s volume until Dr. Field had recovered himself.

  “That was why I took him into my household, to watch over him. It was I who benefited most.” Here Dr. Field took a deep breath, and raised his voice as Sara began to increase the volume again. “Beauregard LeSieupe gave me joy to rise in the morning, and joy to lie down at night, hope to greet the rising day, and a purpose to rest in the evening. He was my friend, my companion, and my frequent care for nearly thirty years. He has blessed me. May he sleep through eternity in the blessed arms of the Lord!” Abruptly Dr. Field returned to his pew and sat down with a thud that even the rousing climax of In the Garden could not stifle.

  Sara, leaning over her keyboard, peered around to be sure Dr. Field was through, before she launched into What a Friend We Have in Jesus, in her reedy soprano. She sang all four known verses, and closed with a quiet organ reprise with the melody in the tenor line. Dickon managed to keep his face straightforwardly stiff, and stared at the floor. As the last notes died away, Dickon rose for the homily. He re-read I John 3:1-3, stood looking quietly at the crowd for a moment, before inviting them to pray with him.

  His words were simple, a prayer for Beau’s peace and his being enabled to receive God’s forgiveness, followed by sentences of thanksgiving for Beau’s life. All this to the accompaniment of Jesus I Come. Dickon segued into the benediction, and announced to the assembled company that a reception had been prepared for their refreshment in the dining room next door. Then he walked down the center aisle while Sara began her postlude medley of triumph, complete with trumpet and horn stops on the organ opened wide. She began with There is Power in the Blood, followed that with Throw Out the Life-Line, and ended with a crashing version of When the Roll is Called up Yonder. Her pedal work on this last in the chorus was truly inspired.

  Dickon fled with the crowd, many of whom had never been in a religious funeral before, to the coffee, sticky sweet cake, and salted peanuts of the reception. Dr. Field had luckily arranged the event with a caterer who had a bargain sale on leftovers from a wedding that had not quite happened. Judiciously, the caterer had left the tiered wedding cake, with its plastic bride and groom in her shop. She did bring, however, the little paper cups of mints, which she scattered everywhere among the tables. No one commented, if anyone noticed, the embossed phrase on the white napkins, “Blessed be your journey through life together.”

  Night Swats

  Noah Count fingered the mist on his beer mug in Roger’s Gin Jar, a beverage dispensary of ill repute in the tumbledown section of Las Tumbas’ old downtown. Outside the rain fell in soft misty drops on the scarred concrete and broken asphalt of the street. Winter was wearing thin as spring trembled on the horizon.

  Noah wore a black leotard with a black tee shirt. The garments clung to his bony frame like a mummy’s dried skin. He wore a black beret on his head. He looked like a cynical poet in a dark French movie.

  Noah was not happy. His patroness, Vanna Dee, was angry with him. He had not harmed the llamas, nor had he obtained any information that Vanna could use to move La Señora and her brood out. Vanna’s anger had moved her to cut off all funds to Noah, until “you can return me something valuable,” as she had put it. Noah’s disability pittance did not stretch to cover the drugs that he thought it his right to have. He sighed at the unfairness of life, and sipped at his beer. It was a watery American brew, not the hearty Chinese or German labels Noah preferred.

  Noah ate a peanut from the dish on the table. Hastily he washed it down with more beer. “Older than Methuselah,” he muttered. The taste the peanut left in his mouth soured the low-hops concoction the bartender had drawn for him. Noah sighed again, and got up, leaving the half-full mug on the table. He wound his way through the maze of dark and greasy tables to the men’s room in the back.

  He held his breath against the stench of the place as he added his waters to the swirling pool in the rusty urinal. As he stood there warding off the miasmic atmosphere, a sudden idea occurred to him. He would dispatch the old lady herself. If she were gone, none of the others would have the heart to stay. When he came out of the men’s room, the smoke and dust of the barroom’s air seemed almost clean.

  He walked out of the bar into the warm spring drizzle. Tonight he would satisfy the Dee woman, and reinstate himself in her good graces. He whistled a monotonous series of notes as he went toward the bus station. The company had recently initiated a coastal route that would bring him within two miles of San Danson station. It was time to try it out.

  The bus was an old and noisy relic pressed into the new coastal service to minimize costs until the company could build loyalty on the route. Despite the noise it made, and the hard discomfort of the worn seats, Noah slept soundly during the ride from Las Tumbas to Pueblo Rio. When the bus stopped he woke. Realizing where he was, he forced himself to stay awake, so he didn’t miss his stop. The afternoon was old when the bus left him off at the coastal stop. The drizzle had quit. In the late afternoon light Noah could have observed spring flowers blooming in the woods on the landward side of the road had he looked. He didn’t bother. At the road to the Coastal Commission lands, he turned seaward and climbed the hill. When he got to the gate, he clambered over it, and angled his way to the fence between Commission lands and La Señora’s holdings. He found a comfortably dry spot under a cypress tree and sat down to wait. While he waited, he smoked the last of his weed, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs and holding it there. Noah’s world mellowed.

  It was well into the night before he left the cover of the cypress tree. In the meantime, the clouds associated with the spring drizzle had run away before a western breeze, revealing stars uncommon to the coastal sky. Noah blessed them. Their light made it possible for him to cover the distance to the manor house without losing his way.

  At the manor house he loitered in the shrubbery to reconnoiter the building. He watched the one remaining light go out, guessing that to be the old lady’s bedroom. This should be a cinch. She was tiny and frail. A pillow over her face in the night, and she was gone.

  Noah crept from window to window, trying each, until he found one that he could open. He raised the sash. It protested with a noise that grated on Noah’s ears. He held his breath and waited. No one came to investigate. He climbed up on the sill and crouched like a vulture on a barren tree branch, listening. No sound came from inside. He sat on the sill and let his right leg gently down toward the floor. There was no furniture in the way.
He put his other leg down on the floor and slithered into the room.

  He stood for a moment. All he could hear was his own beating heart. Smiling grimly, he let his eyes adjust to the dim starlight entering the room, and went forward to the door. He took a tiny flashlight from his pocket and snapped it on. He played its pencil-thin beam around the room. He had entered a pantry, it seemed, with cans and boxes stored on shelves. He opened the door, and found himself in the kitchen. Correctly guessing the general location of the bedrooms, he crept along the hall and opened the first door he came to. It was empty, evidently a spare.

  The second door opened onto a sleeping woman. Noah could hear her gentle snoring. He went as silently as he could, hoping no floorboards creaked under his weight, toward the sleeping figure on the bed.

  One pillow held the woman’s head; the other was under her out-flung arm. Noah took minutes to ease it out of her bed, and then raised it to smash it down on her. She cursed him, sat bolt upright, and knocked him off balance. She rolled out of bed with surprising agility and felled him to the floor with a body blow to his knees. Noah fell with a thump on his tailbone, and