The Man on the Park Bench

Ben O'Malley shifted into second gear, and the 1992 Ford truck whined down to a crawl. He leaned out the window and searched for numbers on the houses that set back on manicured lawns. A large Chrysler honked and squealed around him and up the street.

  Damn. Why couldn't they have mailboxes with names on them like back home? He pulled a wrinkled Christmas card envelope from his bib overalls and reread its return address. The Arthur Tremonts, Eleven Forty Two Morning Glory Lane, Birmingham. A cutesy street name in a ritzy neighborhood, and for all he knew his sister didn't even live here anymore. She'd sent exactly three Christmas cards since storming off the farm fifteen years ago, each from a different city. No notes, just a one size fits all card with "Carole" scrawled inside.

  Eleven thirty eight, eleven forty—Ben turned into the next drive and stopped behind three late model cars. "Eleven forty two" was written out on the puke blue split level house, stuck under live oaks among shrubs almost trimmed to death. He slammed the truck door shut and wiped his shoes on the grass and walked slowly along a narrow concrete walk toward the house. He passed a small "Caution: Chipmunk Crossing" sign, went up two steps to the front door, and pressed the doorbell. Nothing. He banged the flying eagle door knocker, and the door opened.

  "Hello?"

  A teenage girl stood there, smiling. There was no question. This was Jennifer, the niece he'd never seen. She had the O'Malley nose, the same blue eyes and red hair his dad had in the old pictures.

  "Your mama home?"

  "Just a minute. Mom!"

  She smiled again and left, and a stranger came to the door. No, it was Carole, fifteen years older and maybe thirty pounds heavier than he'd remembered. Of course he was only fourteen then, and she only eighteen. Maybe he didn't remember right. He did remember she was always cheerful until she got out of high school and got weird. Now she was a grown woman with hard features and frown lines and a full face and body that came with getting old.

  She didn't recognize him, at least until she glanced at his truck where "O'Malley Farm" was painted on its dented door.

  "Oh, my God," she said. She looked at him. "Oh, my God."

  "Hi, Carole."

  "Ben? Is that you? What on earth are you doing here?"

  Her nose wrinkled up, and she looked back at the truck and down at his shoes.

  "I just took some hogs to market and drove on up," he said. He followed her glance down and saw pig dung still on his shoes and wiped their edges on the grass.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Well—"

  "I'll take them off." He did so, and set them on the steps. "Carole, I’ve got to talk to you."

  "No, I—"

  He pushed the door wide and stepped in. Through an archway opening he saw a dozen women sitting in cushy chairs, all dressed like they were going to church. They were surrounded by tissue paper and open boxes. They stared at him.

  "I'm having a baby shower," Carole said. Then louder, "Let's discuss the new room addition in the kitchen."

  He followed her down the hall. He didn't exactly come dressed for a party and understood her lie. But if she had a listed telephone number, she'd have known about his visit days before. She sat at the large oak table and motioned for him to do the same. Neither spoke for several seconds.

  "Want some coffee?" She jumped up. "I just made some."

  "Sure."

  She poured him a cup and sat again with her own. "How—how have you been?"

  "Carole, Dad's dying. The doctor says the cancer's all inside him, and he doesn't give him more than a week."

  She set her cup on the table and stared at the wall.

  "I know you got my letters or they'd have come back. How come you didn't answer?"

  She shrugged. "I'm surprised he didn't die a long time ago, of cirrhosis of the liver."

  "Carole!"

  “I'm sorry he's dying. But he's not in my world anymore."

  She bowed her head into her hands, and her long hair fell off her shoulders and hid her face.

  "Are you serious? We're a family. He's your daddy, for God's sake. And you're telling me we're not in your world?"

  "It nothing to do with you, Ben. It's just him. I never want to see him again."

  He tried to make sense of what she was saying. "You married that Fremont guy, had Jennifer—and you didn't even let us know. It wasn't right to hear about it from the neighbors."

  She still said nothing. She'd run away from home, broken her father's heart, and possibly now was hurrying his death. She was saying to hell with people who farm, who raise hogs, who work with their hands. They were not—quote, unquote—"in her world" anymore. Her world was this fluffy nothing that had tea parties, and carpeted yards and big cars and signs for chipmunks and God knows what all. And none of it was worth a damn. Thank God he wasn't in her world, because it was all make believe.

  He realized he was squeezing his coffee cup. He slowly set it down and stood. And he got an idea.

  "I can see there's nothing more to say. But I brought you something from home. It's out in the truck."

  "What is it?"

  "Well, come and see."

  He led the way to the front door. As he put his shoes on his niece smiled from the living room, probably wondering about the room addition. A whole new person, who was part of him. But he would never see her again.

  He led Carole to his truck and opened the tailgate and jumped up onto the bed and reached out for her. "It's in that tool box behind the cab,” he said. “You can't see it from down there."

  "Can't you take it out?" She rested her hand on the truck bed and squinted toward the box.

  "No, you have to come see it. You'll see why."

  She put her foot on the bumper, and he pulled her up onto the bed. She walked forward, stepping carefully to avoid the animal waste. He slammed the tailgate shut and she whirled around.

  "Ben! What are you doing?"

  "You're comin' home. By God, you'll at least say goodbye to him!"

  "Ben! Open that tailgate. Right now!"

  He climbed into the cab. She screamed as he clashed the gears and backed down the driveway. Her daughter and two guests came out of the house in time to see the truck bounce into the street, stop, then lurch forward. Through his rearview mirror he saw them run inside, probably to call the police. Carole fell, stood, and fell again. She rolled in the animal waste, pulled herself up on the side railing, and screamed again.

  Ben sped up. He dodged cars on his way out of the haughty taughty neighborhood toward the highway that led home. The truck bounced at each crossroad, keeping his sister off balance.

  "Don't take me there, Ben, please don't!"

  She pulled herself along the side rails to the front corner, behind Ben, and peered between the slats like trapped animal.

  "You're coming home!" he yelled. "You think you're too good for us? We'll see about that!"

  "I can't go back, Ben. I can't!"

  The truck dipped at a cross street, and she fell and scraped her knees on the rough wood floor. Blood ran down her legs as she tried to get up. Ben crammed the brake pedal down at the highway intersection, and she flew forward, smashing against the front wall.

  "Ben, please!" She stared at him through the slats. "I just couldn't get along with him. You know how he drank. And he dressed like a hobo, and—"

  He gunned the motor and screeched onto the highway, but swerved suddenly back onto the shoulder. A new Chevrolet skidded past, honking. She fell once more, this time hitting her head on the tool box. He gunned the engine and drove along the rough shoulder, looking for another opening in the traffic.

  "Oh, God in heaven, Ben! Dad raped me! Oh, God. He raped me, and raped me…"

  She dropped into the pig dung and cried unearthly sobs. He heard her words, but they had no meaning. His father raped his own daughter? No. No, that didn't make sense. That—

  But suddenly he knew it did.

  Something twisted his stomach inside. He braked the truck and parked on the shoulder. An approach
ing siren wailed as he jumped from the cab and ran to the tailgate, threw it open, and climbed up. She lay in pig dung next to the cab, blood streaming from her knees and face. He ran to her, slipped and fell, then knelt and pulled her head to his chest. He stroked her hair.

  "Carole, I didn't know. Carole… Carole…"

  "Oh, God, it was so horrible! Ben, I'm so ashamed."

  "Carole…" He hugged her, and wiped blood from her cheek.

  "I haven't told a soul about it, not even Art. He thinks Jennifer is—is his child, that she was born prematurely."

  "You mean—Dad—Dad's her father?"

  She nodded. "He got drunk one night and came in and raped me. He—Oh, God. No, Dad! Stay away! Get off!"

  "Carole! Snap out of it. Carole!"

  "I love them both, Ben. I love Jennifer and Art so much it hurts. Oh, God, I'm so ashamed."

  The police cruiser's flashing red and blue lights glinted off the steel sidewall uprights. The siren wound down and two policemen jumped from the car, one with his gun drawn. Ben stood and pulled his sister up. He hugged her, and she wrapped her arms around him tightly. She shook with sobs.

  "Go on, Carole, cry," he whispered. They walked slowly back to the truck's gate. "You deserve it, baby. You had to leave in order to survive. You had to."

  He wiped her matted hair away from her face. "I won't tell Dad I found you. But later on, let's get back together again, okay? We are family, you know. Would you think about it, at least?"

  She looked up at him and nodded. He hugged her again and handed her down the back of the truck into the policemen's waiting arms.

  The CLOSET Apprentice

  Where do old sayings come from?

  This retiring “old sayings” professional is ready

  to explain it all to his new apprentice.