Into This River I Drown

I snatch my hand away as if she’ll set it on fire. “Eloise, you are sixty years old. And I’m gay.”

She sighs as she pulls back. “Yes, there is that,” she says. “And if I had a specimen like that man, I wouldn’t be looking for any on the side either.”

I blush furiously. This is not something I talk about openly. Ever. “I’m not… we’re… he’s not… I don’t know what you mean.”

She arches an eyebrow at me. “Well, at least one of you is sure. He told me that you belong to him and that he came because you needed him here.”

I groan again, laying my head on my hands. She laughs and runs her hand over the back of my head. “Love is so hard, isn’t it?” she asks.

“We’re not—”

“Anyway, I just wanted to stop in and say you have impeccable taste, my dear. Who knew you had it in you?” She turns and leaves.

I’ve just about made up my mind to close the store to hunt the bastard down when Mrs. Taylor Clark, of Clark’s, the medium-sized grocery down at the other end of Poplar, comes into the station. It would seem she’s met a certain large individual outside her store, opening and closing the door to the freezer that holds ice out on the sidewalk. When she asked what this gentleman was doing, he pointed out that he was just experiencing the difference between the warm spring air and the sudden burst of cold from the freezer. He pulled her next to him with his rather large arms and made her experience the same blast of air. He laughed, and she couldn’t not laugh with him, so she did. It would seem this gentleman was off to buy clothing, as Benji had ordered, but just between him and her, he thought he was just going to hate shopping. But, he said, it was what Benji wanted, and he would do anything for Benji, so off he went, if she could just point him in the right direction of the pants store?

“I wanted to climb him like a tree,” she tells me, blushing furiously, undoubtedly thinking of Mr. Clark, back at the store.

Ten minutes later, Jimmy Lotem from the hardware store stops in, telling me he just helped a peculiar fellow pick out a pair of boots. Apparently this fellow had told Jimmy that he needed a good pair of boots because he was going to work with his friend Benji, and if he needed to help others in town, he would, especially when he was called to. Oh, and how was Jimmy’s mother? the fellow asked. Jimmy, a bit surprised, had asked how this fellow knew about his mother. The fellow was quiet for a moment, then said that Benji had told him. Jimmy, unable to stop himself (and, admittedly, touched like he hadn’t been in a very long time), told him that his mother wasn’t doing so well, that the cancer had returned and his mother was no longer well enough to handle any more rounds of chemo. This peculiar fellow had stood and taken Jimmy’s hand in his own and said, “You will mourn when she passes, but just know that when she does, she will be taken to a place where she will be celebrated and revered for the life she led. And you will be with her again, one day.”

“It was like he knew, Benji,” Jimmy says, fighting back tears. “It was like he knew how scared I am. He was gone before I could say anything. You’ll thank him for me, won’t you? Or maybe he’ll be around?”

I nod, speechless.

But that’s not the end of it.

More come. Some in pairs, some in small groups. But most individually. The majority of the people who come in are here for curiosity’s sake, wondering where the redheaded man had come from. He had just introduced himself on the street, letting people know he was with me now. Many took that to mean more than it did, and I struggled to clarify our relationship over the way they grinned at me, watching me with knowing eyes that knew not of what they spoke. He was sweet, they said. He was kind. A bit odd, sure. But happy. And bright. Oh, he was so bright.

A few others say he spoke with them longer. He told John Strickland that he was sure his crisis of faith would pass, and that God would be there waiting for him. John tells me that, for the life of him, he can’t remember how the topic came up but he’s glad it did, because the few words Cal has spoken to him make more sense than anything he’s heard in years. “I think I want to pray on it,” he tells me, looking astonished at his own words.

Then there’s Margaret Sims, a young slip of a woman who works as a secretary for old Doc Heward. Cal spoke with her as she sat out in the spring sunshine, taking a break. He told her that he sure was happy that he wasn’t alone anymore, that it had been a long time since he’d had anyone to talk to. “But then Benji found me,” he supposedly said, even before he’d told her his name. “Or I found him. I’m not quite sure yet. Maybe we found each other at the same time. I don’t know that it matters.” He sat with her, in the sun, and told her that he didn’t want anyone to be alone again. She confessed to him that she missed her grandmother since she’d passed away last year, and that she felt alone too. “She wouldn’t want you to feel that way, I don’t think,” Cal had told her. “Life is for the living. It’s time for you to live.” He’d then kissed her on the forehead and stood and waved as he walked away.

Life is for the living.

And others:

Terry Moore, who says she could see kindness in his eyes, but that they looked sad.

Larry Roberts, who says Cal shook his hand and told him about the sunrise he’d seen this morning, and how the colors had been so alive.

Janice Evans, who is at a loss to explain what he’d said to her, just that she’s been able to see through a fog of despair for the first time since her daughter died last year.

Rosie Duncan, of Rosie’s Diner fame, calls to tell me Cal stopped in and asked for a bowl of the green things from Lucky Charms. When she told him she didn’t have any, he smiled at her and told her that was okay. She was so taken by him that she’d sent one of her waiters down to Clark’s to buy a box and then Cal sat at the counter while he picked out the green clovers.

And still more. So many more, in all a total of forty-three people I count over the space of four hours. But it’s the last one that almost causes me to break.

My mother walks into the store.

“Hey,” I say, glancing out the front windows for the tenth time in a minute, trying to see if Cal is on his way back.

“Benji,” she says in greeting. She makes her way back to the cooler and grabs a bottle of water before coming back to stand in front of the counter. She studies me, though I’m not sure what she’s hoping to find. “So,” she says.

“So,” I say, playing her game, hoping it isn’t going to be what I think it is.

“I was in town making a delivery to Rosie’s,” she says. “Also picked up an order for the Jump Into Summer Fest.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”