Ben Logan imagined what
the interior of the house would be like before opening the front gate. He knew his mother would have the place neat
and in order. The tattered old carpet in
the living room would be freshly vacuumed.
The kitchen sink might hold the morning coffee cups, but the plates and
silverware would be put away. A search
for dust anywhere would be futile. A scent of cleaning agents would mingle with the smell of the old woman, Ben’s
grandmother, Dorothy.
Grandma Stark would be lodged in front of the
flickering color television, dozing off and on in her favorite chair. From his mother’s letters, he knew Dorothy’s
mind was finally deteriorating along with her hearing and eyesight. She was near the end, and Ben was happy he’d
now have a chance to see her before she died.
He hoped she would recognize him.
The mid-afternoon sun baked everything around
him, and Ben knew the interior of the house would be cool and dark. He looked forward to getting out of the heat
after his long walk across town. He
looked around to see if any nosy neighbors were watching him. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean
they weren’t. In any case, it didn’t
matter. What he had to do wouldn’t take
long at all. He knew he had plenty of
time. He unlatched the wrought-iron gate and pushed
it open, expecting it to catch slightly on the concrete walkway, but it swung
open freely. Someone had repaired it,
which surprised him. Like a would-be
home buyer, he closed the gate and opened it again, testing it for any possible
flaws.
Certain now that it had been
repaired, he wondered if Carl had done the handiwork. It wasn’t like Carl to do any chores around
the house, he thought. From the
time Carl moved in fifteen years prior, Ben couldn't recall him ever doing anything around the house. It seemed all he ever
did was go to work at the plywood mill in the morning before coming home in the
evening half-tanked and smelling like a brewery. On weekends, Carl went straight to the
tavern, Pig’s Place over on Hoyt Street, and stayed there all day.
Maybe old Carl had turned over a new leaf, Ben
thought, but he couldn't take the idea seriously.
The front door
was locked, but Ben knew an extra key was in the mailbox where his mother
always kept one. He pulled a few letters and advertising flyers out of the box and groped for the key. Silly, Ben thought. A thief looks in the mail box second. First he looks under the doormat, but since
his mother didn’t keep a mat in front of her door the choice was easier yet.
Still, as far as
he knew, no one had ever robbed the house.
He considered that a matter of luck.
As he unlocked
the door, Ben saw Mrs. Clemens come out of her house next door and peer toward
him.
“Ben? Is that you?” Mrs. Clemens said.
“Hi, Irma,” Ben
said. He tried to sound pleasant, but he didn't think he pulled it off very well. It appeared to him that Irma had lost a lot of weight since he'd last seen her. She almost looked pretty.
“What are you
doing here?” Irma said, and Ben didn’t like the edge in her voice. It sounded
like fear and disgust rolled up with a lot of disappointment. She was the first person to recognize him
since he’d hopped off the bus an hour earlier, which seemed sort of strange to
him. Walking from the depot, he’d passed
several other people he knew, but they didn't notice him. Or maybe they did, but decided to ignore him. That was fine; he didn't want the attention
anyway.
“I’m visiting,
Irma. Just for a day or two.”
“Does Carl know
about this?”
“No, he doesn’t. Mom doesn’t either. It was a last minute thing.”
Irma was wearing
an apron. She pulled a cigarette out but didn't bother to light it.
“This doesn’t
seem like a good idea, Ben.”
“It’s no big
deal.”
“I don’t think
Carl would agree. I don’t think Alice
would, either.” Alice was his mother’s
name. It had been a long time since he’d
heard anyone other than himself say it. An image of Audrey Meadows and Jackie Gleason flashed in Ben’s
mind like it always did when he was a kid and heard his real father yell at his mother, sometimes playing the joke out for Ben. He chuckled audibly.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Irma.
What do you think of this heat?”
Irma shrugged but didn't say anything. Her gaze was fastened on him again.
Ben decided to
leave the woman standing there on her front porch and went inside the house. She said something else before he closed the door, but he wasn't sure what. He didn't care, either. He dropped the letters and flyers on a small
table next to the telephone. That is
when it occurred to him that he’d have to do something about Irma Clemens.
Note: Maybe I'll try to finish this one.
TS
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