She clomped up to the screen door and found it open, giving access to the solid front door. She pounded with the flat of her hand, an echoless whack-whack-whack. A muffled roar came in response and then words she couldn’t make out.
“Ben,” she called, “it’s me, Marisa. You okay in there? Open up. Say hello.”
Another roar and a few thumps. Finally the door flew open, almost knocking her
backward, and Ben filled the doorway. He looked awful enough with his greasy gray hair and days of whisker growth, but worse than his appearance was his sour odor. He wore the same clothing he had been wearing when she saw him two days back and he smelled to high heaven.
“Marisssa,” he slurred.
“Hey, I was worried about you. Can I come in?”
“Ahhh...the place ain’t fit”—-he belched—“ferrr comp’ny.”
“That’s okay. It’s just me.” She stepped forward and he stepped back, allowing her to lenter. The stench of close quarters, stale cigarette smoke and bourbon made her catch a quick breath. “You need some air in here,” she said and left the door standing open.
She couldn’t recall the last time she had been inside Ben’s trailer. Letting her sight adjust to the dim light, she glanced around. A small living room lay to the right. Its brown-paneled walls encompassed a short blue-and-tan plaid sofa and a beat-up Naugahyde recliner. It hunkered in front of a small TV resting on a leggy stand. On a side table beside the brown recliner sat an ashtray heaped with cigarette butts. An empty fifth lay on its side on the sofa seat, along with a guitar. Two more guitars stood against the wall, neatly lined up beside an assortment of speakers and stereo equipment and a cabinet holding more CDs than any one individual could possibly listen to in a lifetime.
“Want a li’l drink?” Ben asked, running a leathery-looking hand through his thinning hair and leaving tufts standing upright. A worn Masonic ring encircled his left ring finger. Marisa had often wondered where and at what point in his life he had been a Mason.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said and shuffled barefooted to the tiny shotgun kitchen. He picked up a quart-sized tumbler from the cluttered counter beside the sink.
Marisa saw no sign of food, confirming her suspicion that he hadn’t been eating. But he had certainly been drinking if two empty fifths and a half-empty gallon jug of Jack Daniel’s sitting on the Formica counter were any indication. At least he didn’t drink rotgut whiskey. He turned to the refrigerator and pulled out an ice tray. For the shape he was in he was amazingly adept at cracking out the ice cubes. He methodically dropped three into the tumbler, which boasted a Golden Nugget casino logo.
Clink...clink...clink
.
His true condition revealed itself when he tried to heft the gallon jug by its glass loop and it slipped off his finger.
“Here, let me,” Marisa said, fearing he would spill whiskey all over the counter or drop the jug on the floor. She took it from him and poured what she estimated to be a shot over the ice cubes.
“More,” he said and listed backward.
She grabbed his elbow with one hand and steadied him. “Come over to the café and let me fix you something to eat.” She set the jug on the counter. “Some scrambled eggs, maybe.”
He scrunched up his face and squinted one eye, then dug a pack of Camels and a plastic lighter from his T-shirt pocket.
“No kidding,” she said, “you’ll feel better if you eat.”
“I always liked you, Marisssa,” he said. “Do you ‘member... when you were li’l?” He plugged a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lit up with a shaky hand.
She smiled, tucking back her chin to avoid the cigarette smoke. “I do. Now come on.
Let’s get some food.”
He shook his head.
“I could cook something and bring it over here.”
He shook his head again.
“Look, that’s what I’m going to do. You get cleaned up a little. Wash some of the stink off. You’ll feel better. And I’ll be able to stand being around you.” She plucked the cigarette from his hand. Another full ashtray sat in the center of his small round dining table. She laid the cigarette on the edge of it, then turned him and pointed him toward the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom. “I’m gonna go over to the café and make you some eggs and toast. I’ll bring it back in a few minutes, so get ready.”
She started for the door, but remembered what Bob had said last night about weaning Ben off whiskey with beer. As water began to run in the bathroom, she walked over to the kitchen counter, dumped the contents of the tumbler into the sink and secreted the whiskey jug in the cabinet underneath. Opening the refrigerator door, she saw a case of Lone Star beer taking up one wire shelf. She pulled out a can and popped it open, took it to the bathroom and tapped on the door.
“Whaaat?” he bellowed and yanked open the door. He was still dressed, thank God.
She handed him the can of beer. “Here, drink this while I cook breakfast, okay?”
He took the beer, lifted the can to his lips and gurgled half of it in one long swig.
Unable to keep from staring as his throat muscles flexed, she muttered, “Lord, Ben, you’re killing yourself.” She turned away as he began to undress. “Look, stay on the beer ‘til I get back, okay?” She shut the bathroom door.
Making her way back through the kitchen, she saw a trail of smoke rising from the ashtray on the dining table where she had put his cigarette. She stopped and snubbed out the cigarette before it set the whole ashtray on fire.
Alongside the ashtray lay a couple of pencils and some scattered pages of paper—notebook paper like the kids used in school. She couldn’t keep from looking at the lines of words, some scratched out or marked through and replaced by others. Poetry. Had Ben been writing song lyrics?
“And I’m warning you,” she called out as she sank into one of the four chairs that snugged up close to the table. She picked up the top page. “I won’t be gone long,” she said loudly. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
It’s not you, it’s me, you said.
As the words filled my head
Tears filled my eyes.
Was this our last good-bye?
It was a love song. A ballad. The words without music didn’t mean much to Marisa, but if it had Ben’s name on it and if a famous artist recorded it, it was sure to be a hit. She was prying, but she couldn’t make herself stop.
You said I was too attached
You weren’t ready for that
Should I have gave only half?
Would that have made it last?
What I thought we could have was perfect
The future I dreamed
Would have brought me everything
But it wasn’t what it seemed.
Now here I stand
My head in my hands
On the outside looking in
He has everything I wanted us to be.
The house on the hill
The cat on the windowsill
The picket fence
And he has you.
Half the remaining words were scratched out, some so violently the paper was torn. Even through the roughness of the composition, she cold tell the song would be a tearjerker, the kind that always had caught her ear and the ears of most country music fans. In her head she could hear the whine of a lonesome fiddle, the twang of a steel guitar, the voice of a singer like Alan Jackson or George Strait or Travis Tritt.
Was this a song about the mysterious Rachel? And what did it mean? “Damn,” she mumbled under her breath, attempting to put the pages back the way she had found them. Ben was an intelligent, talented man. But he was a mess. A tragic alcoholic mess. She cared about him. Not only did she not want to lose him, she didn’t want the world to lose him.
Mumbling to herself, she stepped out onto his rickety porch, then had a second thought. She marched back into the trailer, yanked the half-empty gallon jug of Jack Daniel’s from where she had put it under the sink and took it with her.
Outside, she could see the new owner’s mobile home at the back of the park. No time like the present to approach him with Bob’s and Mr. Patel’s latest concerns. She detoured from her trek to Pecos Belle’s. Ben’s breakfast would be a few minutes late.
Chapter 11
That jitter returned to Marisa’s insides as she neared the back corner of the RV park where the new owner had taken up residence. His small doublewide mobile home was just that—a mobile home, whereas Ben’s abode was a trailer. Terry Ledger’s place was years newer than Ben’s and looked neat and clean, with tan siding that simulated painted wood and matching skirting, powder blue shutters neatly framing the windows and a redwood deck out front. The solid front door was open and through the screen door’s haze, she saw a silhouette moving inside. As she climbed the three steps onto the deck, a roadrunner sitting on the rail watched her and she smiled. She liked the roadrunners that hopped and darted everywhere.
The form inside turned her way before she knocked, came to the door and opened it, a pencil in one hand. “Morning,” he said. If he harbored anger or antipathy about the way they had parted yesterday, she didn’t hear it in his voice.
Freshly shaved, wearing Levi’s and a black OC Choppers T-shirt, Lord, he was sex personified. She sneaked a glance at ropy forearms showing below long sleeves pushed up and almost forgot why she had come. “Uh, hi....” She nodded toward the roadrunner. “Uh, I see you’ve got a guard out front.”
He chuckled, well shaped lips turning up at the corners. “I named him Hercules.”
“Hecules? I hope you left it up to your wife to name your kids.”
“I don’t have any kids. Or a wife. It was just a name that came to mind.”
Hearing that he was unmarried sent another little frisson through her. She had suspected he might be single the very first day she saw him, but she hadn’t been certain.
The roadrunner cocked its head as if it knew it was being discussed and Marisa smiled again. “They’re so funny. Sometimes they act like they’re tame.”
“I swatted a beetle yesterday and gave it to him. He’s been hanging out ever since. Now, he’s my buddy.”
“Naturally. Uh, may I come in?”
“Sure.” He stood back, holding the door open. As she passed in front of him, she caught a whiff of his cologne. Safari, that was it. Hmm. Nothing smelled quite as luscious as an all-male man wearing Safari. And if she had ever seen an all-male man, Terry Ledger filled the bill. The anxiety that had retreated briefly with the roadrunner talk returned.
His eyes targeted her left hand. “I hope that’s not breakfast you’re delivering.”
She drew a blank at first, then remembered she was carrying a half-empty gallon jug of Jack Daniel’s. “Oh, my gosh,” she said, looking down at the bottle hooked onto her finger and feeling her cheeks warm. “No, I just—well, I don’t know. I just took it away from someone.” She gave a breathy heh-heh and brushed back a sheaf of hair. “If you were hungry, you should’ve come to the café. I made biscuits this morning, and cream gravy.”
“Heck. Wish I’d known. But that’s okay. I usually eat light after I run.” He pointed his pencil at the whiskey jug in her hand. “You want to set that on the counter or would you like a glass?” He laughed.
She laughed, too. “No, uh, no. But yeah, sure. Just let me set it down.” She did that, glad to get rid of it.
As she stepped back from the counter, she saw maps and drawings spread over the dining table. They were the only clutter in the place. Everything else was just as spotlessly clean as it had been the first day she came here, a blessing after the few minutes she had spent in Ben’s trailer.
He laid his pencil on the table and carried his cup to the kitchen, picked up the coffeepot and gestured toward her. “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” While he poured some for himself, she crossed her wrists behind her back and from the corner of her eye, tried to peek at the maps and drawings. “You run, huh?”
“Cross-country. I try to do five miles if I have the time.”
Without an ounce of body fat, he looked like a runner, and she envisioned him in full stride, not even breathing hard, while she panted and staggered at two miles. “I ran this morning, too. I didn’t see you, but then, I usually stick to Lanny Winegardner’s road. Not as many snakes.”
His head cocked to the side and his eyes widened. “You know Winegardner?”