American Elsewhere

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE




It’s Tuesday night, so Mrs. Benjamin starts off on her weekly tour of her backyard, swinging her compost pail, which is redolent of the tea and coffee she consumes by the gallon. She totters out, hits the floodlights, and is about to sprinkle a cupful around the base of her yucca when she notices a figure standing in the corner of her yard, beyond the reach of the light.

Whereas most people in Wink would immediately retreat back inside, eyes averted, Mrs. Benjamin does nothing of the sort. She straightens up, looking directly at the intruder, and crosses her arms.

“Well?” she says. “What are you waiting for? Come into the light at least, and let me have a look at you.”

The figure steps forward slowly, feet rustling in the grass. When it enters the light she sees it is a tall, thin, waxy-skinned young man in a brown suit two sizes too big for him. His eyes are large and eager, and he stands with his hands clasped at his waist and watches Mrs. Benjamin with a faint smile.

“Hm,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “I assume you’re here for a reason?”

“Meeting,” says the young man softly. His eyes gleam wetly, as if he is so pleased to have delivered his message that he is on the verge of tears.

“What’s that?” she says. “Meeting?”

He nods.

“Oh, I can already tell you’re one of the young ones,” she says. “You can’t just walk into someone’s yard in the dead of night and say meeting and assume they know what you mean. What meeting? What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Macey’s,” says the young man. “It’s tonight. They would like you to come.”

“Mr. Macey is dead, dear thing. Did you not know?”

He nods, still smiling, eyes still shining.

“Then what do I care about his meeting?”

“You’re the next eldest, after Macey,” explains the young man.

Her mouth drops open as she realizes his meaning. “Oh, no,” she says. “You want me to lead his meeting?”

He nods.

“I couldn’t possibly… I’ve always said I supported you all, whatever it is you chose to do, but I did not want to get involved. Why don’t you go and get Parson? He’s older than me.”

“Parson does not want to get involved, like you,” says the young man. “But he also does not support us. That he has made clear.”

She groans and sets the compost tin down on the windowsill. “He always has been adept at making his most unpopular opinions clear, yes. I suppose I would be very rude to turn you all down, wouldn’t I?”

The young man does not respond.

“Fine,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “I can get some better shoes, at least, can’t I? You’re not about to make an old woman go running off in the night in some wicker sandals, are you?”

The young man shrugs, his face still placid and eager.

“Thank you,” says Mrs. Benjamin acidly. “You’re a corker for conversation, by the way.”

Once she’s changed footwear the young man offers her an elbow and leads her out into the streets of Wink, waiting as she slowly and uncertainly mounts each curb. “I can’t imagine what they’re going to say,” she says. “I mean, I doubt if they know anything more now than they did before. If Mr. Weringer didn’t see it coming—whatever it was—and Mr. Macey didn’t either, then what chance do they have? I expect it’s all a formality, really. We have to do something, so we might as well get together and admit we don’t know what to do.”

If this means anything to the young man, he does not show it. He simply guides Mrs. Benjamin through the shadowy streets with a serenity usually seen only in lobotomy patients.

She peers at him. “I don’t recognize you,” she says. “What’s your name, child?”

“Murphy,” he says.

“Would that be a first or last name?”

For the first time his expression changes, his smile fading and his brow creasing in puzzlement.

“You don’t know, do you?” asks Mrs. Benjamin. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. What’s your real name, child?”

“Murphy,” he says again, confused.

“No. Your old name.”

He stops. She turns to look at him, expectant. He stares at her, eyes huge, and then from somewhere on his person—perhaps at the neck, near the base of his skull—there comes a reedy, whining, buzzing noise, filled with many harsh clicks. Though his mouth does not move at all, the sound rises to a painful crescendo, then abruptly halts.

“Ah,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “Well, I’m sorry, I don’t know you. But we do have such a large and illustrious family, don’t we.”

They continue down the street to Macey’s store on the corner. The young man opens the door and leads her through the maze of coatracks and shelves. The store is mostly dark, but some track lighting is on along the wall, catching the silhouettes of many mannequins that stand on display like dancers frozen in mid-step.

“How is this done, exactly?” asks Mrs. Benjamin.

The young man crooks a finger but says nothing, and with an irritated sigh she follows on.

He takes her to one of the dressing rooms, pulls aside the red velvet curtain, and gestures in. A pendant light is on at the top, bathing the tiny room in dim light. Frowning, she steps into the dressing room. He closes the curtain behind her and waits on the other side.

There is a chair placed before the angled mirrors. “Ah,” she says. “I see we still stick to the same tools.”

She sits down and waits. Nothing happens.

“Is there anything I need to do?” she asks.

A muffled, almost erotic sigh comes from the other side of the velvet curtain: “Light switch.”

Mrs. Benjamin looks around. There is indeed a light switch on the wall. She leans out, her old bones creaking, and hits it.

One light goes out in the dressing room, and another comes on. It is a yellowish, filmy light, one that has the strange effect of seeming to seep into every crack and corner of the room, like spilled oil. And it also seems to seep into the mirror, for its surface has changed: it is as if it is a two-way mirror, but behind the mirror is another set of mirrors, and behind each of these is yet another set, and they are all reflecting one another. It would be a powerfully confusing sight for any casual onlooker, like an endless reflection of many other rooms, dozens and dozens of them, a jumble of shards of light from many disparate places.

And in each shard of light, there is a face. Sometimes it is very well lit—such as the face of what looks like an eager housewife, skin like alabaster and red hair perfectly coiffed, sitting in her kitchen at home—but frequently the faces are shadowy and veiled, their owners sitting in secret rooms or dark corners.

Some are even vaguer. They do not quite look like faces at all. There is a suggestion of movement in their dark reflections, like a school of fish flitting through a black sea, but it is impossible to distinguish any normal human features in them.

“Mrs. Benjamin,” says the housewife, and though she is in the mirror her voice resonates softly throughout the dressing room, coming from everywhere and nowhere. It is cool and low and earnest, as if she is used to calming upset children. “It’s so good of you to come.”

“Yes, it is,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “Though I can’t imagine why you wanted me to come. There’s nothing for me to say.”

“It’s a matter of propriety,” says one of the shadowy faces. It appears to be that of a ten-year-old boy. A pink Band-Aid is stuck to one brow, and he peers at her with a queerly solemn expression for a child.

“Oh, propriety,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “We’re always so concerned with propriety. Even in total madness, we still stick to our hierarchies and chains of command.”

“We have to,” says the housewife, a bit sternly. “We must. Especially in times of such distress. Are you not distressed, Mrs. Benjamin, by what’s happened?”

The contempt in Mrs. Benjamin’s face decreases very slightly. “I am. Of course I am.”

“Everyone is,” says another of the shadowy faces. This one looks like a rather handsome man with cleanly parted hair. He could almost be a model. “But you should be, especially.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re the next eldest, are you not?” asks the housewife. “First Weringer, and then after him came Macey…”

“Mr. First and Parson are both older than either of them,” says Mrs. Benjamin sharply. “And last I checked, they’re both fine.”

There’s an awkward pause. Some of the faces glance around, as if seeing all the reflections in their own mirrors.

“Mr. Parson is,” says the housewife. “He remains in his motel, like always. But as for Mr. First… well, that’s why this meeting was called.”

For the first time, Mrs. Benjamin looks worried. “Why? Has something happened to him? I haven’t heard anything. And we would all know if he were hurt, wouldn’t we?”

“We can’t confirm,” says the model. “Because we can’t find him. We went to his dwelling place, but… he has changed it. The canyon does not lead to him anymore.”

“Then where does it lead?” asks Mrs. Benjamin.

“It twists and twists, but never goes anywhere,” says a shadowy face. “It is like a maze. He may be within, but if so we cannot contact him.”

“It’s a security measure, then,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “He’s worried like all the rest of us. I can’t blame him. But what do you expect me to do about it?”

Another awkward pause. The model glances about, as if he’s searching through all the faces in his own mirror. He says, “Haven’t you noticed, Mrs. Benjamin, that the turnout for this meeting appears a little… low?”

Mrs. Benjamin frowns and searches through the many reflections in the mirror. “I see all of us who live in town…” Her eye touches on a few of the vaguer reflections, those that do not resemble human faces in any way. A few of them buzz to her, and the twitches of motion increase. “But where are the children? Where are the young sleepers from the hills and forests? I only see a few here.”

“That is what we’re worried about,” says the housewife. “When Mr. Macey went to speak to everyone, he found many of the young ones were gone, Mrs. Benjamin. He thinks—thought, I should say—that maybe they did not answer him. But we don’t believe so. We looked again, and found nothing. We think they’ve left. They’ve gone somewhere else. Without telling us. But where, we don’t know.”

“Could they be in danger?” asked Mrs. Benjamin. “What happened to Macey and Weringer cannot have happened to them as well, because we’d all know…”

“We searched their homes,” says the housewife. “The canyons, the caves, the glens. There was no sign of a struggle.”

“And they can certainly fend for themselves,” says the model.

“We don’t know what happened to them,” says the young boy. “We hoped you would.”

“I don’t speak to them any more than I speak to any of you. I’ve no idea. What about the natives of Wink?”

“The people of Wink, of course, know nothing,” says the young boy.

“But one native was the last to have contact with those who dwell in the mountains,” says the model. “Mr. Macey talked one of the young ones into attacking the native. It placed its kiss upon him, set its many eyes dancing in his skin. We believe it was Macey’s idea of frightening the native off. Macey was convinced this man had somehow injured Weringer. But how, he did not say. He kept his counsel to himself in his last days.”

“Perhaps that was wise,” says Mrs. Benjamin. She picks something green and pink out from between her incisors, flicks it away. “Perhaps I ought to do the same. Yes, I think so. Everyone who tries to help you people winds up dying, one way or another. It’s the only intelligent thing to do. So, I will choose to excuse myself now.” With a grunt she begins to get to her feet.

“But you can’t!” says the young boy.

“And why not?” asks Mrs. Benjamin.

“Because if you don’t find those in the mountains, who will?” he cries.

Mrs. Benjamin pauses. All the faces are watching her. She sits back down. “This is why you wanted me here, isn’t it?” she asks. “You want me to find all our missing brethren.” Her face curdles at the revelation. “For God’s sake, you come calling on an old woman in the dead of night for this… I can’t go running around the countryside, willy-nilly.”

“You are famous for your strength,” says the housewife.

“I am an old woman, thank you,” Mrs. Benjamin says angrily. “And that’s not the point! I don’t know what happened any more than you do. I can’t help.”

“But you must know something,” says another of the shadowy faces. “You are older and more powerful than any of us. You have talents that we do not.”

“Oh, goodness,” sighs Mrs. Benjamin. “I haven’t used any of them in years.”

“I am sure you can remember,” says the housewife.

“But I don’t want to. For so long I didn’t need to. I was happy where I was.”

“So were we all,” says the housewife.

“We were happy being people,” says the model.

“Happy being small,” says one of the shadowy faces.

“Happy being happy,” says the young boy.

“And we can lose all that, if we don’t correct things,” says the housewife. “We must fix this, Mrs. Benjamin. We need your assistance.”

Mrs. Benjamin eyes each one of them. It is clear, though nearly all of them appear over thirty, that each and every one is in essence a child. Sometimes she forgets that.

She grumbles a little, and shifts forward in her chair. “Well,” she says. “I suppose I can see what I can do.”

“You agree, then?” asks the model.

“Yes, yes, I agree. I’m not going to lead your damn meetings, but I will try and find where the youngest ones have gone.”

“We are so grateful for your help,” says the housewife.

“Save it until I get some results,” snaps Mrs. Benjamin. “What I find might be very unpleasant. I expect it will be, honestly, considering everything that’s been going on.”

All the faces in the mirror grow a little sober at that.

Mrs. Benjamin sits up and coughs politely. “Now,” she says. “I am going to need someone to bring me coffee while I go to work. A lot of it. So which of you is it going to be?”