Ben Soul

not to anybody else.” Ben sighed.

  “We need a couple of rooms added on.” Dickon frowned. “I don’t know how, though. We’d never get building permits, not with the Coastal Commission to battle.”

  “It would be expensive, too,” Ben said. “We’d need permission from the Villagers, first.”

  “I’m sure they’d go for it. As long as it doesn’t cost them money.”

  “Let’s float the idea,” Ben said.

  One by one they talked with the Villagers, and with DiConti and Notta. No one objected to an addition to Dickon’s cottage. Ben moved most of his possessions into the garage until they could sort the matter out. Rosa and Elke moved into Ben’s old cottage. DiConti talked with an acquaintance of his in the County Building and Zoning Department. They would have to get several permits, an architect, and a qualified contractor, but they were exempt from Coastal Commission authority.

  Finding an architect was difficult. No one wanted to work on two rooms added to an old cottage by the sea. Most wanted to replace the existing cottage with a palatial edifice that could have housed the whole Village. Ben and Dickon were almost desperate enough to give up on the idea when Mae Ling introduced them to Wren Gell.

  Wren Gell was a newly licensed architect, and planned to specialize in remodeling and additions to existing structures. “It won’t be lucrative,” she told Ben and Dickon, “not like designing shopping malls and office buildings, but there is a niche market for it.” She came to the Village, and immediately understood its charm and remoteness. She made some preliminary sketches, went back to her office, and within a week, for a modest fee, had a design for three rooms to build across the seaward side of the cottage. Ben and Dickon approved her plans. The Villagers did as well. Ben withdrew money from his savings to pay for the construction.

  Ben and Dickon had lived together about two months when they engaged Wren. Adjustment to another’s regular presence was difficult for Ben, and more than difficult for Dickon.

  “Ben,” Dickon said one night, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I need some time away from you.”

  “I can get that,” Ben said. “I need some time away from you, too. Most of the time I lived with Len, one or both of us was working. Here we don’t either one work. How do you think we should arrange time away?”

  Dickon rubbed his forehead. “I’d like one day a week to be by myself here at home,” he began, “but I don’t have any idea what you would do with your time away. And, it’s only fair I should give you a day at home by yourself, but I don’t have any idea where I could go or what I could do with myself.” He gave Ben a pleading look.

  “Do you think we could make it just by going into separate rooms, once we get the addition built on?”

  “Maybe. What do we do until then?”

  “I think,” Ben said, “I can spend a half day at the manor house working in the office on Village matters. I’ll talk with DiConti and Notta. I’ll have to leave Butter here, though.”

  Dickon smiled. “Butter’s no problem. She’s easy to be with. What I don’t see is how I can give you time to yourself.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Ben said. “By the way, while we’re talking, what about the cooking? Do you want to cook sometimes?”

  “I’d rather do laundry. You’re a much better cook than I am.”

  “As long as you don’t feel like I’ve pushed you out of your kitchen,” Ben said, “I’m happy to cook. And I hate to do laundry.”

  “That’s easy to settle, then.”

  About midsummer, Wren found a contractor for Dickon and Ben. Her brother, Dan Gell, had two workers to spare for the construction. When they came to work both Dickon and Ben were thrilled. They were muscular young men, one blonde, the other brunette, and preferred to work in very short cutoff jeans and boots, eschewing encumbering garments such as shirts. Several times a day Ben and Dickon came to oversee the work. At other times they surveyed it from a distance. The young men, Bill and Bob (Ben and Dickon never got their last names—Ben dubbed them “Bill y Bob”) were very efficient, and completed the work in less than three weeks. Ben and Dickon walked the pair to their truck at San Danson Station, ostensibly to help them carry their tools, but actually to enjoy one last view of their butts.

  Ben and Dickon painted the new rooms. Emma sewed curtains for the new windows. The Swami laid floor tiles (he had apprenticed to a flooring contractor in his youth). When the rooms were ready, Ben and Dickon agreed to use the center room as their bedroom. Each of them took one of the other rooms for a private study. By agreement each study was off limits to the other. Butter, of course, could go anywhere she pleased.

  The two older rooms became a joint library and a sitting room. Dickon and Ben began to settle into the comfortable routines of an old married couple.

  Child’s Play

  Hyacinth had learned to walk. Immediately Notta’s daily workload had tripled. Hyacinth was a curious child, eager to touch, see, smell, taste, and hear, everything under the sun. The child had inherited her father’s darker hair and soulful brown eyes. Her short body promised, to Emma’s practiced eye, to carry on the Freed family tradition. Hyacinth was just a little bit shorter than average for her age, and her stocky frame was evident even through the baby fat. Most obviously all her own was her smile. It carried, Dickon said, the light of the universe.

  She-Who-Shuns-Males, on the other hand, was now able to relax a little. She-Who-Smells-Like-Flowers, her unicorn offspring, was of an age to graze safely with the llama herd. She-Who-Shuns-Males had weaned the cría at her earliest opportunity. She did not like motherhood, and vowed to shun males more fiercely in future.

  One warm day Notta had the door open to let the fresh air blow stale smells out of the manor. Hyacinth found the open door almost immediately, and walked through it. The patio intrigued her for a half hour. She saw butterflies and bugs she hadn’t seen before. Ermentrude woke from a nap and discovered the child was not in the playroom. The cat set out to find the babe she considered her personal responsibility. She tracked Hyacinth onto the patio, and off its edge toward the pasture fence that kept the llamas from the manor house yard.

  Ermentrude caught up with Hyacinth at that fence. Hyacinth was clinging to the woven wire barrier, her face pressed tightly to it, her nose extended through one of the openings. She was crooning a low, sad sound. Far off in the distance beyond Ermentrude’s vision, the llamas grazed on brown grasses. One cría broke from the herd and loped toward Hyacinth. It was She-Who-Smells-Like-Flowers, and she heard Hyacinth’s call. At the fence, she touched her moist nose to Hyacinth’s nose. Hyacinth sneezed, and the startled cría drew back. Alarm faded from Ermentrude’s mind. She-Who-Smells-Like-Flowers was the unicorn in llama disguise, and she soothed the cat’s fears for Hyacinth’s safety.

  The threesome stood at the fence for several minutes in wordless communication. Hyacinth reached through the fence to touch the cría. Ermentrude arched her back with pleasure. Then She-Who-Shuns-Males trotted over to scold her cría, and bring her back to the grazing herd. Ermentrude mewled loudly. Hyacinth sat down to stroke the cat. She sat on a thistle. Only the thickness of her diaper prevented her filling her buttocks with prickles. Once down, Hyacinth couldn’t get up again. Although the fence was in reach, she didn’t think to grasp it and haul herself up. At home she had various low tables and stools that she could lean on until she established her precarious balance.

  Frustration brought her to tears. Her tears soon became wails of anger. Ermentrude wanted to cover her ears with her paws, but looked for a means to get Hyacinth to her feet instead. She did not succeed. Willy Waugh was working in the llama shelter and heard Hyacinth. He came running, and picked the child up. Hyacinth rested her bottom on Willy’s arm. This promptly filled his forearm with thistle prickles. Willy was tough, and accustomed to the slings and arrows of outrageous nature, but the thistle prickles driven into h
is arm by Hyacinth’s weight made him grimace with pain. He hurried toward the house with Hyacinth. Ermentrude made haste to follow.

  At the door Willy knocked on the frame. Notta came at once. “Why are you carrying Hyacinth?” she asked.

  “Kid escaped,” Willy said, “with only Ermentrude to guard her. She sat on a thistle,” he went on as Notta reached out for Hyacinth, “so watch out for her diaper. It stings.” Notta carefully lifted Hyacinth and put her on her feet on the floor. Hyacinth grabbed Notta’s trouser leg and held on.

  “Thank you, Willy,” Notta said. “Can I help?” she asked as he pulled thistle thorns from his arm.

  “No, thanks,” Willy said. “Unless you’ve got some scotch tape?”

  “Yes, I have,” Notta said. “Let me get it for you.” She took her trouser leg from Hyacinth’s grasp and went to the office. Hyacinth tried an end run around Willy. He put out an arm to stop her. When Notta came back with the scotch tape, Willy used several lengths of it to lift the stickers from his arm. He gave the rest of the roll to Notta.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Best get a gate to keep the kid in. She’s a wild one.” He turned and went back to his work in the llama shed. Later that afternoon, when his arm still stung from the thistle, he soothed it with