Ben Soul

being the “bitch” as he put it of a series of boss-cons. He reckoned that’s how Joe got the virus.

  It’s a sad end for the man. I used to hate him. Then I realized I’d never have had my life with Len if Joe hadn’t ruined my life in Denver. I suppose I owe him some gratitude for that. I’ll probably go to his funeral, by way of thanks.

  On a more cheerful note, we’re planning Len’s retirement in a few months. I keep hoping Indigent Aborigine’s early retirement offer comes through for me soon after. Then Len and I can travel, like we’ve wanted to do for so long.

  One more note. Roscoe, our dog, is growing arthritic. He has trouble running, and doesn’t quite understand why it takes him so long to get from place to place. We’re going to take him in to the vet soon.

  Peace and blessings, Minnie.

  Ben

  Minnie wrote back:

  Ben Soul

  87866 Via de la Vista

  Osso del Oso

  August 1, 1991

  Le the past be dead, Ben. This Joe King got his, and who knows why? You don’t, I don’t, and God probably don’t give a damn. Len, retired! Who’d a thought? When are you retiring?

  The news here is all about the corruption in the City government. The mayor and half the council have been caught with their hands in the City’s cookie jar. Every one of them claims the scams they’ve pulled were the work of someone with the initials V. D. Venereal Disease is what that means to me. Anyway, lots of heads are rolling. We the people will make a clean sweep of things, and turn the whole shooting match over to some new bunch of rascals. ‘Twas e’er thus in human affairs.

  I empathize with Roscoe. My joints want to freeze up. I keep them moving, mostly with liniment and aspirin. Write me when you can, Ben.

  Minnie

  What no one knew at the time, except a few federal agents, was that V. D. was Vanna Dee, and the whole scandal had been engineered by her, with the help of those federal agents, to bring down the City’s liberal leaders. The conservative renegades in the Federal system were suitably aggrieved when the people elected an even more liberal set of councilmen and a mayor to replace the old regime. Disappointed in Vanna, the federal agents arranged for her appointment as Coastal Commissioner in Las Tumbas.

  Minor Article

  On the morning Dijee Tully left, trudging up the bluff into the mists that swirled around the highway, Captain Anna Locke started the Half Shell’s engines and put to sea. She sailed along the North Coast until her vessel was over the home of the Codfather. Quietly she prepared herself with meditation and chanting. When she felt her soul had centered, she stripped off her garments and plunged her ebony body into the dark green seawater. Down she went, her lungs bleeding air, arms and legs driving her downward, to the home of the Codfather. He waited for her.

  When the small woman entered his sensory range, he opened his great maw to welcome her. She swam headfirst into his mouth. He closed his mouth. She let her spirit flow into his. Her flesh melded with his. Her bone joined with his bone. Joy flooded from them into the dark waters and lit them, as though a sun had fallen into the sea. In the tidal pools starfish turned cartwheels among the stones. In the depths, the great cuttlefish swirled in the ink they had joyously released from their siphons. Even the plankton danced with the waves.

  In his ecstasy, the Codfather’s tail lashed at the waters, stirring a current that undermined the overhang that had sheltered his nest for the long time of his life. It toppled slowly through the water, creating an undersea temblor, small, local, and scarcely noted by anyone except the seismologists. The Codfather and Anna did not notice it either, in their ecstasy. The landslide buried them. Someday a future paleontologist may wonder at the strange skeleton of a mammal inserted into a great fish.

  Dijee Tully read the article in the City’s newspaper, and shook her head. “She really did it,” she said to herself. “God bless her courage. I hope she found what she wanted.”

  The City, November 28, 1981—The Coast Guard today discovered a small coastal trader, the Half Shell, adrift off the North Coast. No one was on board. There were no obvious signs of struggle. However, there were several neat piles of llama dung in the cargo hold.

  Coast Guard Captain P. G. Keane was at a loss to explain the empty vessel. “Her tanks had plenty of fuel,” he said today. “Her Captain, Captain Anna Locke, was one of the savviest coastal navigators around. I fear, though I have no official proof, that Captain Locke has met foul play. We may never know what happened to her.”

  Captain Keane described as unlikely the possibility that the llama dung in the Half Shell’s hold indicated Captain Locke had any connection to the recent theft of llamas from the City Zoo. “Anna Locke was as honest as the day is long,” he said. “She’d never be involved with anything illegal. Captain Locke’s last cargo was Peruvian sheep. I know; I inspected the Half Shell on her voyage north. I have it on good authority the dung pellets of Peruvian sheep are often mistaken for llama dung.”

  Salvage crews have towed the Half Shell to the City dry docks for refitting, and, if Captain Locke does not surface, sale to the highest bidder.

  Dijee rolled the paper up and stuffed it in a trashcan. She went to the Seaman’s Hall and put her name on the board to ship out on the next available freighter. She took ship for Singapore, and then Calcutta, and drifted into the mysterious lanes of ocean commerce where she lived out her life.

  Dining Out

  Late in 1992, Roscoe had to be put to sleep. What they had presumed was arthritis turned out to be spinal cancer, incurable and inoperable. That was a sad Christmas and New Year for both Ben and Len. Len had said it best, one night when the winter rain was droning on the roof. “We don’t have many ties here, in the Southland. Almost thirteen years here, and our closest friend was Roscoe.”

  “And he’s gone,” Ben said. “We don’t have much to hold us here, except our jobs.”

  Len smiled. “I could take retirement at any time, you know. The County would be glad to get rid of me and get some new blood in.”

  “I can’t retire, yet,” Ben said, “much as I’d like to. Two more years, at least.” Ben found another way. In the new year, as spring was prompting the daffodils to bloom, Ben applied for a job in the north, near the City, with Indigent Aborigine. It was only a lateral move, but Ben knew that he’d not qualify for any more upward movement. Younger management wanted to get rid of older workers for cheaper, and presumably more vigorous, younger workers. Before his application went through, Indigent Aborigine offered an early retirement program Ben could accept.

  He wrote to Minnie Vann.

  Ms. Minnie Vann

  1217 Free Radical Lane

  The City

  April 17, 1994

  Dear Minnie,

  You’ve no doubt heard about the Company’s recent retirement offer. I’m taking it. I’ll get more this way than I would if I stayed two more years under the regular retirement plan. Whoopee!

  Better news on top of this. Len and I have decided to move back north, probably into the eastern suburbs (real estate in the City itself is too pricey for us). But we’ll be back where we both feel like we belong. We’ve never quite blended in down here in the Southland. Sun and sand and surf don’t replace redwoods and fog moving inland nights and mornings.

  I’ll wind things up at the Company in May. Len’s staging our house now for going on the market. As soon as it’s sold, we’re on our way north.

  Think good thoughts for us, Minnie. We’re coming home.

  Ben

  Their home sold more quickly than they had expected. They found a modest house in a suburb east of the City and moved in. Ben spent his first few months redecorating. When they bought it, the interior was carpeted in red, a color Len opined should be restricted to brothels. It was stained with undefined black marks that no cleaning agent could lift without bleaching out the red. In its place Ben chose a soft blue gray that b
lended well with many hues. He repainted the dead white walls a delicate cream color that suggested the villas of Italy or Mexico. Most of their furniture was wood. The various finishes blended well. A few bright pillows for accents made the home comfortable for them both.

  In December Ben wrote to Hardin.

  Hardin Soul

  Box 27

  Rural Route 2

  Berthoud, CO

  December 20, 1994

  Dear Hardin

  You will see by our postmark we have moved. We are in the north now. I have retired (an early retirement package). Len and I plan to travel while we are still able.

  Our new address is:

  11905 Willow Acres Way

  Arroyo del Nueces

  I imagine Lawson is nearly full-grown. It seems strange to think of him as fourteen years old.

  May you have a good Christmas, and a prosperous new year.

  Ben

  It was well into January before the postal system forwarded Hardin’s Christmas card to Ben. Hardin hadn’t written a note on it. Ben felt an old familiar tug of sadness, and put the card away with others he had kept.

  To celebrate their return to the City area, Ben and Len went into the City on the Metro. From the Deepingwell station they caught a bus to the Floundering Flatfish. Ben had urged Len to go, in celebration of their twenty-fourth year together. Len had resisted. He was not fond of sentimental displays, as he called them, such as celebrating anniversaries. Ben privately thought it was because Len didn’t keep dates in his own history straight.

  The ambiance had changed utterly. The Floundering Flatfish was nothing like its former self. Leaded glass and mahogany and the snowy linen were also gone, melted away like the snows of yesteryear. Red plastic, accented with a livid green vinyl trim, all supported on brushed aluminum filled the dining area. Waitresses in very tight bodices stretched to the tearing point over their large breasts pranced throughout the room. Their skirts were high enough to reflect the booming internet market bubble, and barely long enough to cover their panties. Gone were Mario and the bubble-butt busboys. The elegant quiet was gone, too. The new Floundering Flatfish was as noisy as a Bangkok fish market, and smelled almost as heavily of fish.

  “We came all the way over here for this?” Len said.

  “It’s a disappointment,” Ben said. “Some good things shouldn’t change.”

  “Yeah, right. Let’s go somewhere else,” Len said.

  “Anywhere else. I feel like a rejected leftover here,” Ben agreed. He went to the maitre de and cancelled their reservations. The woman, severe in her basic black sheath with a strand of false gray pearls, raised her left eyebrow as if in shock that anyone would reject her trendy eatery. Ben started to feel guilty, and then felt angry.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Len. “At least we’ve still got each other.”

  “Yes. Where will we eat, though?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “I don’t think any of the restaurants we knew are likely to be still here.” He thought a moment. “Let me call Minnie. She’ll know, if anybody does, what’s available in this neighborhood.”

  “Okay.” Ben took out his cell phone, a recent acquisition, and dialed Minnie’s number. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hello, Minnie?” Ben said.

  “Yes. That you, Ben?”

  “Yes. I’m in the City. Len and I came in to celebrate our twenty-fourth anniversary at the Floundering Flatfish.”

  “Yeah, and you found out it should be called the Plastic Catfish, didn’t you.”

  “It was so bad we turned around and walked out.”

  Minnie growled. “Some Texas outfit bought it a few years ago. It’s bad. You’re smart not to eat there. The décor’s way better than the food.”

  “We have a problem, Minnie.”

  “You want to know where to eat. Have to be seafood, or would a steak joint do?”

  Ben put his hand over his phone’s mouthpiece end and spoke to Len. “Do we want to stick with seafood, or would a steak do?”

  Len said, “After smelling that place we were just in, a steak sounds a lot better. Invite Minnie along, if she’s free.”

  “Minnie,” Ben said into his phone, “the steak place.”

  “It’s the Cow and Banger. It’s two blocks over from the Flatfish, on Sequoia Street. They do great steaks, and serve up damn good sausage, too.”

  “Thanks, Minnie. Len and I wonder if you’d join us.”

  “Sweet of you to ask, boys, but I’ve got a hot girl on the griddle. Another time, maybe.”

  “We’ll make a date for it,” Ben said. “Have a good time, Minnie.”

  “I will Ben. Buon appetito to you and Len.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  “Minnie says the Cow and Banger does great steaks and sausages. Shall we go?”

  “Yes. But don’t walk so fast, Ben. I can’t keep up.”

  The Cow and Banger had none of the old Floundering Flatfish’s elegant décor. Chrome and plastic dominated this restaurant, as it did so many of the newer places in the City. This time the colors were a restful green and beige. The clamor was subdued, as well, by the sound absorbent tiles in the ceiling and on the upper walls. It did have a maitre de, who seated Ben and Len in a booth along one wall, and then signaled their waitress to bring them hot tea. Their waitress, thankfully clothed in a decent-length skirt and a blouse whose buttons were not strained, recommended the porterhouse steaks. “They’re real fresh,” she said. “You can have them with mushrooms, or onions, or jalapeños, or all three.”

  “What else does the meal include?” Ben asked.

  “You get your choice of potato, baked, French fried, or mashed, you get green beans with bacon bits, and a salad, with the house dressing. Oh, and dessert.”

  “What is the house dressing like?” Len asked.

  “It’s vinaigrette with dill and caraway. Pretty good, actually.”

  Ben looked at Len. Len nodded. “I’ll have the porterhouse, medium, with all three toppings, French fries, and the house salad. Can we select our dessert later?”

  The waitress wrote down Ben’s order, and then said, “Sure, honey.” She turned to Len. “What for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the porterhouse, medium, too,” Len said, “with mushrooms and onions. No jalapeños, please! Mashed potatoes, and I will select my dessert later, as well.”

  “Certainly, sir.” She winked at Ben. “Your Dad’s real cute,” she said and walked away to place their order. Len looked after her, thunderstruck.

  “I suppose,” Ben said dryly, “that from now on I’ll have to call you Cute Daddy.”

  “You do, and I’ll break something on your body.” Len snorted. “I’m not that much older than you are.”

  “The woman is barely out of girlhood, Len. I don’t think she meant to be unkind.”

  “Well, it should come out of her tip, anyway.” Len turned their talk to where they might go on vacation, now they were both retired. They talked of Bangkok, Angkor Wat, Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh City, Guangzhou, Beijing, Shanghai, Hiroshima, Osaka, and Tokyo.

  The waitress brought their salads. “We’ll just have to plan a long Asian tour to cover all those places,” Ben said. Their salads were limp. The greens had been away from the chill of the refrigerator too long, and had softened more than they liked. The dill and caraway, each present in small amounts, blended well in the vinaigrette base.

  The waitress brought their steaks. “We can, you know,” Len said. “We have the time, and we don’t have responsibilities.” Len tried his mashed potatoes. He closed his eyes and murmured in ecstasy.

  “Let’s think about it,” Ben said. “I’ll go online and see what I can find out.” He cut into his steak. It was cooked perfectly to his specification. The interior was just delicately pink. The outside was seared to hold in the juices. He would have preferred more piquance in his ja
lapeños, but had learned long ago that his taste in peppers was more advanced than the average restaurant dared serve. His French fries were crisp, too, not greasy. The green beans with bacon bits were mercifully firm.

  For dessert Len chose a cheesecake topped with apricots and crystallized ginger. Ben selected a tiramisu infused with a coffee liqueur. They shared bites of each other’s dessert. Ben put down his credit card to pay the bill. When the waitress returned, he calculated the tip, entered it, summed the bill, and signed.

  As they went out, Len said, “I hope you didn’t overdo the tip.”

  “No, Cute Daddy, I didn’t,” Ben said with a grin. Len snorted his disgust again. After they walked about a block in silence, Ben stopped Len in front of a closed leather goods shop.

  “Len,” he said, “after tonight, let’s promise each other we won’t try to relive the past again.”

  “What brought that up?” Len arched his left eyebrow. “I wasn’t trying to relive the past.”

  “Thinking we could go back to the Floundering Flatfish, all that romantic stuff. At least I had that in my head.”

  “I didn’t expect much, except a good meal. I got a good meal at the Cow and Banger.”

  “Okay, so maybe I’m the romantic.”

  “I guess you are. I haven’t got time to moon around over yesterday.” Len began walking again. “I don’t have time for the past. I don’t think I have that many today’s left to me. I’ve got to live each one for all I can get out of it.” Ben looked at Len. Len’s face showed little emotion, at least in profile. Nonetheless, Ben felt a trickle of tension trace his spine.

  He asked Len, “Do you mean anything special by that comment?”

  Len cleared his throat and replied, “When I saw the Doctor a while back he said my heart is wearing out. That’s why I get tired so easy.”

  Ben put his hand on Len’s arm to stop him. “What are you supposed to do for that?”

  “Take things easier, stop worrying, get regular exercise, take his damned pills.” Len shook off Ben’s hand. “Don’t worry about it, Ben. I’ll go on for years.” And, Len did go on, for three more years. He and Ben traveled to Southeast Asia, cruised the Nile, and even toured Macchu Pichu, though the altitude almost did Len in. Then came the year Len declined. First leaving town became difficult. Then leaving the house became difficult. Toward the end, leaving his bed became a major chore for Len.

  The Last Spaghetti Supper

  Len’s face looked old, older than Ben had ever seen it. These past months since the doctor had diagnosed Len’s heart problems Ben had watched Len wrinkle into an old man. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around Len’s disability. Len couldn’t walk across a room without stopping to lean on something and rest while he caught his breath. His face had deep lines worn into it, as if he was collapsing in on himself. His white hair still covered his head with a great mane, but now it only dwarfed the man underneath it. Ben felt tears sting his eyes. He brushed them away. Len called to him from the living room.

  “Yes?” Ben said, coming into the room with its oxbow chairs lined around the walls. “What do