The candle flickered in the dark room. Ben sat, staring at it, nearly hypnotized by its sway. He had no electricity; he forgot to pay the bill. The water was still running, but not for long because soon he would forget to pay that too. In an hour or so, the candle would be a sticky pool of wax, like taffy. His mouth watered as thoughts of sweet gooeyness blurred his concentration. Focus — he needed to focus. Duty called, and he must finish his work. He needed to write before the flame died. So he wrote.
The telephone began clamoring throughout the hollow apartment. Startled, Ben jerked out his chair and flung his pen across the room. The ringing intensified like a distressed fire alarm screaming at the top of its lungs. While reaching for the shrilling creature, he caught a glimpse of the moon through the window and noted how calm it was in the midst of the cacophony.
"Hello?" he said.
"I need your help, now."
"Who is this?"
"I don't have time to explain. I need you to come get me. I'm on Third and Crescent Street."
"Who are you? What is this about?"
"Please. I —"
"Why don't you call the police?"
"No! No, please. I can't have the police involved, Ben." The voice knew his name. "I have to hang up. Please come now. We don't have much time."
In the car, the steering wheel felt chilly under his grip while Chuck Berry belted Johnny B. Goode on the radio. Ben felt nervous and brave, foolish yet heroic. The voice could have been a man or woman — it was hard to tell. He once knew a woman who smoked cigars like babies drink milk. Her voice was husky and deep, and she always sounded like death. Ben sighed. The cool wind stroked his face, reassuring him — preparing him.
He saw a figure in the distance — a man, a slightly older man — pacing the corner. He slowed down and almost stopped. There was something alarming about this stranger that triggered a sensation so deep within Ben’s subconscious that he almost fainted. He considered turning around and driving back home, but it was too late. It appeared the man had already spotted him. He stopped pacing and waved his arms as though he were shipwrecked. Ben drove forward.
"What took you so long?" the man asked. He snatched the car door open and collapsed into the passenger's seat. The car suddenly reeked of Winston cigarettes, the brand Ben's grandfather had smoked after meals when conversation grew dull and satisfied bellies coaxed eyelids to fold.
"Who are you? How do you know me?"
"I knew your father. I knew you too, when you were a young boy. But we don't have time to play catch up. I need you to listen and follow directions very carefully. Drive to 1530 Laurel Lane. Uh, uh. No questions. Just drive."
Fats Waller crooned Blueberry Hill. The steering wheel felt a little warmer in Ben’s grasp. "God, I love this song," said the man. "I could listen to Fats sing all day. He's just got that voice that can lull you to sleep, you know?" Ben didn't respond. He kept driving and listening.
The man reached in his coat pocket and took out a box of cigarettes and a pack of matches. He swiped the match and glared at the flame before cupping it to his mouth. "There comes a time in a man's life when he's got to make a quick decision. It's funny how life just happens sometimes. How it vomits all over us and says, 'Fuck you.' And what can you do besides wipe off the mess and keep moving forward? Oh, I suppose you could drown in it. Yes, I've known plenty of people who have drowned in the filth of their lives. That's a sad thing to watch. A sad thing. But your father -- that was a man who knew how to make lemonade out of rotten tomatoes. The sweetest lemonade you ever tasted. I'm borrowing his recipe. I've got to wipe off the shit and move forward."
They pulled in front of the address.
"Park on the next block."
Ben obeyed. Although he couldn't explain it, he felt a peculiar allegiance to this stranger as if he were a type of master teacher, a sensei who would teach him the mysteries of life.
"Here," the man handed him an envelope. "Go knock on the front door and say that you have a message for Marianne. Then give her this. Don't say a word. Just hand it to her and walk away."
A young woman with tired eyes and rosy cheeks answered answered the door.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"I have a message. Are you Marianne?"
"Yes."
He handed her the letter. She looked at it, then at Ben. "Where is he? Have you seen him?"
He didn't answer.
"He's not coming back, is he?"
He was silent.
She opened the letter. He knew he was supposed to walk away, but his legs wouldn't move. He knew what was coming — a train wreck — and he needed to see all the gory details.
Marianne opened the envelope like a distressed mother yearning to hear from her absent child. Her slender fingers trembled as she unfolded its contents: a letter scribbled on a cheap napkin. Her delicate features wilted with each word she read. She yelled and cussed and beat upon Ben's chest with her fists. He grabbed her arms as she melted to her knees and sobbed. The neighbors peeped behind the warm glow of their windows; those who were more concerned or nosey or both stepped out on their porches to watch.
"I'm sorry," Ben whispered in her ear. "Is there anything I can do — "
"Just leave. Please, just go."
The napkin lay abandoned on the porch, peppered with tears. He picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket. Gently, he kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like the sun and felt like corn silk against his lips. He walked away. After twenty feet or so, Ben looked back and was relieved to see that a neighbor — a little old lady — was helping Marianne into the house.
Walking toward the car, he saw the back of the stranger sitting upright. Ghostly wafts of smoke escaped through the cracked window. There was something about his silhouette, austere yet casual, that was unsettling.
"Who was that?"
"No questions, remember."
"This isn't a game."
"I never said it was."
"I don't want to be a part of this anymore. I'll drop you off at the nearest bus station. This doesn't feel right. It just isn't right. You're running from something. I don't know what, but I know you're running. This isn't brave or noble — this is cowardice. And I don't want no part of it. My dad wasn't a coward. I don't know who you are, but you couldn't be my father's friend."
"I never said I was your father's friend. I said I knew your father. We were never close. But I knew him. You can drop me off at the bus station; that will do me just fine."
When Ben arrived back home, the candle was still burning. He dug the letter from his pocket and sat down.
Dear Marianne,
I did a terrible thing tonight. I robbed a man. Held him up at gunpoint. Then I shot him dead. The most terrible part about it is that he didn't even have any money on him. Not a dime. I searched his pockets and wallet. Nothing. I've got to get out of here. Got to get a move on.
Things haven't been good between us lately. I know I've done some things to hurt you, things I'm not proud of. I'm sorry for hurting you, and I hope that you can forgive me.
The man who delivered this letter to you is my brother, Ben, only he doesn't know it. If you need anything, you can count on him. He's a good man, like our dad was. Please don't tell him who I am. It's best that he doesn't know. I love you.
Elliot
He blew out the candle and sat in the darkness.
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