Ben Soul

places you’ve never been, forbidden love you’ve never sampled?” Vanna watched his face; he caught her clue; she saw it in his eyes. Now to reel him in.

  “All of that. Maybe more, like enjoying the sun, watching the moon with somebody romantic. Even reading books you’d never got around to,” he said. He grinned at her. “Maybe not books, not on my list. Too much life to live to spend time reading about it.”

  “I’ve always held close to the rules,” Vanna said. “My upbringing was in the church, very strict.”

  “Catholic?” There was a slight tremor. Everyone in the bar looked up at the hanging lights. They scarcely swayed.

  “No, Presbyterian. Different clothes, similar rules.”

  “I’ve avoided religion, myself.”

  “I should have.”

  An aftershock rattled the glassware behind the bar. The man dived under his table. So did Vanna. Even though the aftershock didn’t last long, or do much damage, before it was over Vanna was in the man’s arms.

  “Hi,” he said. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Clarence, Clarence Sayles.” He wore spicy cologne. Vanna breathed it in.

  “Hello yourself,” Vanna said. “I’m Vanna…Vanna Dee.” She chose her maiden name. Let Dickon keep his, for tonight, for forever.

  Clarence helped Vanna to her feet. She picked up her drink from her table and drained the glass. Clarence did the same. His strong arm supported her around her waist. She did not shrug him off, though she was quite able to stand by herself.

  “Let me buy you another,” Clarence said to her. She could smell the brown drink on his breath mingling with the cologne.

  “Well—I don’t know. I’ve got to find a place to stay tonight. Do you live near here?”

  “Yes. I manage the Penn du Luz Arms hotel next door. It’s really an apartment house; most of our tenants are long-term.”

  “Do you have a room I could rent for the night?” Vanna tried batting her eyelashes for Clarence. Fortunately, he had looked away just then to get the bartender’s attention. Vanna had not practiced batting her eyelashes, and her performance was more comic than alluring.

  “I can arrange a bed for you,” Clarence said. Vanna looked into his green eyes. His invitation was plain. It should be a warm bed. For one brief instant she thought of Dickon, and dismissed him. She imagined his portrait in her mind fading like Banquo’s ghost.

  “Well, maybe one more,” she said. “Just to relax me. My table or yours?”

  “We’ll use mine. Morrie, two more please, doubles?” he looked at her; she nodded.

  “What kind of work do you do?” Clarence asked her.

  “Secretarial. For a private eye.”

  “A private eye? Really? Sounds romantic.”

  “It’s typing and filing and answering the phones, and doesn’t pay much. I’m just trying to get a grubstake together, so I can work on an exciting job.”

  “What’s an exciting job, for you?”

  “I’m still working on that.” Vanna yawned; she heard Clarence slur his words a little. She didn’t want him too drunk to perform. Now or never, she had to break with her past, with prayer mumbling Dickon and all the rest of that church stuff. What a little pond that was to play in!

  “I’m going to have to get some sleep soon,” she said. “I started my day before daylight this morning, and it’s been an exciting one. How much is the room you’ve got to rent.”

  “I’ll show it to you,” Clarence said, standing. He swayed a little. Vanna guessed he’d been drinking before he came to the bar.

  At the door to his apartment, Clarence looked at her and smiled. His teeth were very white in his dark face, and seemed to sparkle in the dim light of the hall. All the rules she had grown up with dissolved in that smile. She went into Clarence’s apartment a liberated woman.

  In the wee small hours the telephone rang. When Dickon answered it, Vanna spoke to him. “Dickon, I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve got a place to stay. I’m at the Penn de Luz Arms. The manager’s taken in several stranded people.” She neglected to tell him that Clarence Sayles, the apartment manager, was on the bed with her, or that she had discarded almost all her clothing, or that Clarence had no clothing at all.

  “I’ve been worried, Vanna,” Dickon said. “It’s been almost sixteen hours since the temblor hit.”

  Vanna let impatience color her tone. “I know. I’m sorry you’ve had to worry. It’s pretty chaotic over here. The television stations all say it’s going to be a couple of days before anybody can leave the City for the northern suburbs.”

  Dickon gulped. “A couple of days? Because of the bridges, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Just don’t worry about me. I’m in a safe, dry, place,” Vanna said. She used the hand not holding the phone to stroke Clarence’s penis.

  “If you hadn’t gotten that job, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. Do you have enough money?”

  “I’m not going to argue with you about the job, now, Dickon. And, yes, I have enough money.”

  “Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  “No, not one I can give you tonight. When I see the manager in the morning, I’ll ask. Okay?”

  “Okay. Call me when you can. I love you.”

  “Yes. I’ll call when I know about coming home. Goodbye, Dickon. Other people want to use this phone.” She hung up the phone before Dickon could say his goodbyes.

  Clarence asked her, “Everything okay there?”

  “Yes. I’m sure the quake didn’t damage much that far out. A couple of upset plants, perhaps. No buildings hurt.”

  “You giving your man the brush off?”

  Vanna leaned over and kissed Clarence. “Don’t worry about him, right now. Now is for you and me. We’ll let tomorrow be tomorrow, tomorrow.”

  Clarence drew Vanna to him. “Come here, you white whirlwind.” They shoved the sheets down to the foot of the bed again, and coupled. Dickon put the receiver back on the hook, scratched an itch in his groin, contemplated getting a glass of water, and dozed off waiting for daybreak.

  On Sunday Dickon preached on how one must go on trusting God even in the face of disasters like the recent temblor. Vanna had not come home, yet, though she promised to try this afternoon. The congregation was a little larger than usual, which cheered Deacon Sincaine. “Good message this morning, Pastor Shayne,” he said. He only occasionally expressed approval of Dickon’s sermons.

  Dickon replied, “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be around this week to fix the faucets,” the Deacon said.

  “Yes. I don’t know if I’ll be around to help. I’ve got several things to do for the Presbytery.”

  “No matter. I’m used to doing plumbing alone. When’s Mrs. Shayne getting home?”

  “She called me again today. She expects to catch an afternoon bus.”

  “You’ll be glad to have her back, I reckon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk to her about giving up that job.”

  “According to the paper, her employer died when a piece of a freeway fell on him.” Dickon had seen the item just this morning.

  Deacon Sincaine smiled with satisfaction. “It’s the Lord’s will, no doubt. If she really feels the need to work, maybe she can find something closer to home.’

  “We’ll see. For now I’m glad she’s coming home.”

  In the City, Vanna took her leave of Clarence just about the time Dickon was closing the church after services. “I don’t know just when I’ll get back into the City” she told Clarence. “I have things to work out before I can get away from Dickon. And I have to find a job, too, since Quigley Drye’s dead.”

  “A job in the City will help. Check with Hank O’Hara, my boss. He knows which desks are vacant in City Hall.”

  “It should be better than typing for that fat moron private eye.”

  “It should pay better, too. You’ve got my number, i
f you want to get hold of me.”

  “Yes. I’ve had a great vacation in your bed, Clarence.”

  “God bless the earthquake,” Clarence said with a grin.

  “Yes. It shook me loose.” She kissed him on the cheek and walked away.

  “You’ve been useful, Mr. Sayles, in your fashion,” she said softly to herself. “You may see me again, and you may not. It depends on whether I need something from you.” She felt in her purse for Quigley’s money. It was still there. She walked happily along the street. “I’ll be free, soon. I’ll never let a man own me again,” she promised no one in particular.

  Making Connections

  The hospital tent was dim and quiet. Almost all the patients had gone, the seriously wounded to major hospital facilities, and the less injured back to their lives. Dr. Chester Field came out and sat on a bench. He rubbed his temples and forehead. His ginger red eyebrows tangled as he rubbed. Len DeLys came out and sat beside him. He towered over the Doctor, even seated next to him. Len’s face was as lined and tired as Dr. Field’s. For a little while the two men sat in companionable silence. Then Dr. Field spoke.

  “Well, that’s been quite an experience,” he said.

  “Where were you when the quake hit?” Len asked him.

  “At the street fair, where you recruited me.”

  “I’m glad you were there. You’re a competent doctor, Chester. Where’s your practice?”

  “I don’t have a medical practice, actually.” He smiled into the night. “I’m a psychiatrist. I’ve had medical training, but this shakeup was the first time I’ve really used it to splint bones and bandage cuts.”

  “You’re good at