Some Other Town (29 page)

And then I tell him how just this past Thursday, Celeste came back up from the lunch hour, panting. “Emmaline, again,” she wheezed, before collapsing in the solarium. And when we ran out to her, asked what had happened, she just whispered the words “steam tunnel.” But because we had no idea what she meant, Celeste sat up then and collected herself.

“Emmaline was down in the steam tunnel again,” she explained. “The one that runs under the cafeteria. One of the workers there told me the tunnel had been broken into last night. And when this morning the workers checked for their gurneys, they found them all upside down by the cellar doors.

“That's no ordinary steam tunnel,” Celeste reminded us all. “It's the death chute, you'll remember,” she said. “Emmaline knows it's the death chute. She knows what those gurneys were used for. The girl has no respect for the history here. No respect for the poor souls before her.”

Then, I tell Ben, Celeste shook her head and continued. “It's Emmaline all right. She's been riding around on those gurneys, I just know it. Freewheeling it down that tunnel, legs stretched out wide. To Emmaline it's just one big party.”

I think this is a pretty good story. And “My lord, Margaret,” Ben would normally say here. “Celeste must be out of her mind. Tell me more.” Ben is an extremely good listener. He would usually say something like that here.

But tonight Ben just sits, looking down.

To get his attention, to let him know that is it, the story has ended, I let out a sigh. I make it sound like I have had it with Celeste and her ghost. I say, “Well but of course I am not a believer. I know it was not Emmaline in that tunnel. It was not Emmaline either who fooled with those chairs.” And I am going to tell him then just who it was.

But Ben looks up here and smiles just a little, to let me know he's been listening after all. “A ghost at the Project?” he says. “Is that right?” And then he says well the thing is, he's beginning to believe in ghosts more and more. “Or I would like to,” he says. He just likes the idea that the dead might get to come back. Might get some kind of second chance, to hang on for a little while more. To remember and be remembered.

“Oh Ben,” I say. “You can't be serious.” But I give it some thought, the part about a second chance. And I decide I should
probably clarify. “I mean,” I say, “I'd like to believe in second chances too.” That is, in the end, why I've come tonight. “But ghosts, Ben?” I give him a little pat. “Sometimes, you know, Ben, it's too late.”

He stops me. “Margaret,” he says, “I am leaving.”

I look at Ben, surprised. As I said, he is a good listener. It is not like him to interrupt. But he looks serious now, and I know that he means it.

“Leaving?” I say.

And I realize what we are talking about here. What this dinner is for. Ben is saying good-bye. It is spring, end of semester, Ben is going away. So it's true. Well he never pretended it was otherwise.

Ben looks at me to make sure he's been clear. I meet his stare and although I try not to, I think of that cold winter day I last saw him, how he told me then too he was leaving. I know Ben must be thinking of it as well. And for a moment I cannot move, afraid it will all start again.

But Ben only just sits at the table. And when he does not say anything more, he does not tell me he loves me, he does not ask me again to leave with him, I find I myself sit silent. I have to give this some thought.

But I have no more thoughts, there is only the fact Ben is leaving. So after still a while more, I reach for my wineglass, raise it high. I have my own toast to offer. “Then this is to you, Ben. Here's to you.” And I smile very big and say I am happy, so happy for him. And I think yes, I probably am.

Ben takes my hand, lowers the glass. “Margaret,” he says. “Please listen. It's already been decided. I am leaving, I have my own reasons to go.”

Ben lets go of my hand. He looks tired. He turns his head, sits and just stares. And when finally he speaks, he does not look like he is even talking to me.

“The time here is over,” he says slowly. “This town is used up, all the spaces, all the lives here are taken.”

I watch Ben. Used up? He is not making sense. Something has called him away.

Ben turns back. “It's over here, Margaret.” For a moment more he stares. Then abruptly he shifts in his chair, leans forward. He is talking now only to me. “It's over here, Margaret. For you too. Don't you see it? You have to get out.”

He looks at me close, takes me by both my shoulders. “It is no good what you're doing here. Dreaming your dreams. Riding around on your buses.” Then sitting back, tired and quiet again, “You do not have forever.”

He looks at me, for a long time he just looks. And after some time more, addressing the air, “What are you waiting for?”

I do not know what to do. I have not seen Ben like this before. I think I am losing him. “Ben?” I say, “Ben?” I reach for him.

As though stepping back into the sun again, squinting into its glare, Ben shakes his head hard. He smiles. “My god what was that?”

I smile too. And I look at his face, I touch his cheek. I want to know he's all right. And I wish then with all of my heart that we could just both be all right. This is our last time together, Ben. I wish we could have just one last good night.

And I guess Ben is feeling the same. Or maybe it is just for old times' sake, but he says then, “Well here's an idea. Would
you like to go look at the stars, Margaret? Would you like to go lie in the grass?”

He walks out to the farmyard ahead of her. Lays out the blanket on the front bank, smooths the sleeping bag on top. Waits then for her to join him.

Leaning back, he searches the sky. The night is clear, there are more stars than he will remember. And out of the corner of his eye, he sees for the first time this spring a streak of faint light in the sky. A meteor, then below it another. And another. Splashes of stardust in the night. Margaret must see this. “Hurry,” he calls.

Hurry, Margaret. Oh hurry. There is so much he would like now to tell her. How he still loves her, will love her still. That he does not want to be leaving.

But the pull is too strong, each day it grows stronger. Already he is turning from her world. Now soon he will see it, the light that before he had only just glimpsed. There—sunlight on snow, suspended, glistening, a snowbank of stars, all there. The painting he had in his mind, at last he will finally see it. The way out is the way in. He must tell her.

And oh how he longs now to hold her, say do not forget me. Do not forget about us. Do not forget the sweet time here together, our nights here in the grass.

He hears her footsteps. She calls out his name. He aches at the softness in her voice. How faraway already she sounds.

“Ben,” I call. “Ben, where are you?”

“Hurry,” he calls. “Shooting stars.”

He is lying halfway back on the front bank, looking up and pointing above him.

“Margaret,” Ben calls. “Quick, look at that one.”

I hurry over to him. But because it's so dark in Ben's yard, it is not easy running while looking up. It is like coming in late on a movie you're watching while stepping over feet you can't see.

“Here I am,” I say, feeling for the edge of Ben's blanket. I sit down and look up. For a long while I look. We both look, Ben and I. But we do not see one more shooting star. The display is already over. “Wouldn't you know, Ben?” I say.

He nods and without saying anything more stands and walks back toward the house. And then, as I watch, hundreds and hundreds of small brilliant lights flash on over our heads. Christmas lights, strings and strings of them—high up, exultant, and shimmering. They hang suspended over Ben's starry sky and through the branches of Ben's stand of pines.

“Oh my, oh my,” I say. And when Ben is back on the blanket next to me, I point at the pines. “Look, Ben. Look. Lights in the trees.”

Ben leans back, peers. “So you see it, too.” We both smile and know what we mean.

And for a while then we just lie on our backs, side by side. And after a while more I tell Ben how all those lights just now make me think of some big high school dance, a spring prom at an old country club with paper lanterns strung out over the pool. And girls there are dancing, I say, they are all in full skirts, flowered chiffon dresses with petticoats underneath you can see whenever they twirl.

“A prom?” Ben says. “Sure. That's OK.” Although it isn't what he was going for. He just thought the lights would look nice, that's all.

“The lights look nice, Ben,” I say. “That's what I mean.”

Then we lie for a while more and it is true, it's a fine thing, on a spring night, to be lying outside on your back in the grass and to gaze up then and see Christmas lights. It is a night now of quiet, soft breezes, the lights rock gently over our heads and as we watch, we both of us start to grow sleepy.

The lights sway and sway and I tell Ben how I was wrong about the spring prom. How it is more now like being at sea, like we are on some great ocean liner. And I say how there has been a party on board, and someone has strung up lights, but now the party is over and all the passengers have returned to their berths. Except Ben and I are still out on deck, and in fact here we are lying back in our chairs, our feet up on the rails, watching the lights swing with the waves.

“That's good,” Ben says, yawning. He likes this idea better, he likes that we are out riding waves. Although lately, he says, he's preferred more to sail, but yes, an ocean liner is OK too.

Ben rolls onto his side then to face me. He puts one hand out and touches my ribs, he starts stroking along my side. And when
he moves his hand up over my ribs again, I reach out to touch him as well.

It is the sort of thing we used to expect, when we had been lying in the dark in the grass. After we talked for a while like this about whatever had come along, when we had both talked enough, then it was likely we would start touching each other. One thing would lead to another.

And oh, see now how Ben works his way out of his jeans. How I reach out my hand for his hip and feel the smooth, cool skin there. It always surprises me a little, his skin, that someone as large as Ben is should have such lovely fine skin. I begin moving my hand from Ben's hip to his thigh, now toward the inside of his thigh, and Ben says out of the dark in a sleepy voice, “So, Margaret, do you feel it?”

This surprises me too, we do not generally talk at this point. Once we start touching, no one says anything much, it is not really the time for discussion. I had thought we both agreed on this. But as Ben has asked and I'm not sure just what he is asking, “Feel what?” I say.

“The scar,” Ben says. “My scar. Can you feel it?” He puts his hand on mine and moves it a little lower. I can feel underneath my fingers then a ridge beginning under the skin. It is ropey and thick and before I can ask, Ben moves my hand up to his chest. A thick scar rises there as well. How strange, I think, I do not remember that scar.

And I am about to ask Ben about it. What happened? Tell me the story. But I stop because now Ben is moving his hand along the side of my neck and down under my shirt at the shoulder. Lower, below the blanket we've just pulled over us, I can feel his
other hand start to stroke. And now we are neither of us much interested in stories. We just lie in the dark running our hands over our lovely smooth skins and rolling together on the blanket, sometimes whispering oh my oh my oh my.

Much later then, as the sky turns first gray and then pink, and Ben lies asleep still holding me, I turn my head and look up. Ben's lights are still on, we have not thought to get up to unplug them. They cross and loop high overhead, and as I watch them, still swaying a little, I think well yes, this is it. This must be all anyone could want. This night, on the other side, we have felt the fingertips touch.

It is only just dawn Monday morning. He opens his eyes and stares at the landlord's ceiling, at the gentle beige and bubbled paint above. He thinks: Something is happening here.

Slowly, he slides his foot down across the bed. He feels a cool breeze from the window. Then stretching, reaching with his hands, his feet for the corners, he lies spread-eagle, bare-chested and exposed to the day.

His eyes close. He lies still listening to the morning sounds, to birds mostly, the individual, insistent trillings.

Cool mornings in spring, sparse ones like this with no blanket—these are the best, he is thinking. When he can feel his skin so perfectly, to the cell, here in the farmer's bed. He will have to remember this morning.

And he knows then. It is time. This is the day he is leaving.

There are moments of being in one's life, I have read. Pivotal, numinous moments when at last it all becomes clear. You understand, you know, you just know. And then for all of your life that comes after, you are never again the same.

I have not had such moments. But this morning while boarding the bus for the Project, on this our fateful pink-slip day, I think I may have come close.

I waited as usual for the bus at town center. And as it's still spring, I had on my light blue sweater. Mornings in this town have a chill, and when I wait for the bus I am generally glad for a wrap. But my blue sweater does not have buttons, it was made just to hang open in front, so to keep out the cold I have always to clutch the front edges in a wad at my chest.

It was how I was standing when the bus pulled up. And without warning it started right then, my moment of knowing, just as the bus opened its doors. I reached out for the railing to board, which, because I used both my hands, meant I had to let go of the sweater. At that same point a strong spring breeze begun out in the country swept in over the bus and caught me dead in the sternum.