The guy got out by City Hall. Maybe that’s why he’d been cracking his knuckles so nervously. I stayed on until the Galleria. My plan hadn’t been to go to Rich’s — I hadn’t had a plan — but I felt as if I needed to say something to Ben. I wanted to blame him for something. Rich looked up from his old guys at the counter. It was embarrassing how often I had been in the store recently. Ben was nowhere on the floor. The old guys stopped talking when I went up to the counter. They smelled like cigars. I said, Is Ben working?
Rich said, Oh, you know Benjamin? Nice guy.
I said, Is he here?
Rich said, Couldn’t say, sweetheart. He got rid of his Saturdays a few weeks ago. I think he has his, what’s it called, gardening business going on the weekends.
I said, Landscaping. I said, Thank you, and bought a pack of Trident.
It was one thing to lie to me, or Rich, but to my dad? Who might actually hurt his back spreading wood chips? I hoped he hadn’t given Ben any money yet. I got to the bus stop just as the 15, which crossed the river and went up Morrison, was pulling away. The stop was in front of the central library and I sat on the steps to wait for the next one. The steps were damp. My butt was getting damp from sitting on them. The other people sitting on the steps were, I guessed, homeless. Their shopping carts lined the curb. Homeless people used the library bathroom as if it were their bathroom, which was fine. One of the younger guys in a thick, ripped flannel had a skateboard that he pushed back and forth with his feet while he sat. He might have been looking at me. Ben’s address was on the piece of paper in my pocket.
The bus took me across the river and I got out at 20th and walked two blocks east. The sign above the entryway said The Alderwood. These kinds of old apartment buildings were all over Southeast. A tree — an alder? — was stuck in a muddy parking strip across the street. It provided some cover. The phone book hadn’t listed an apartment number, and the face of The Alderwood told me nothing. One window had bright blue curtains. Three windows had plants on the sill. Ben was interested in plants. Ben’s being interested in plants didn’t mean he had any. A gray cat poked its head out a second-story window. A gray-haired woman walked out of the building, carrying a bicycle. There had been a Plaid Pantry back where the bus had let me off. Inside, my craving veered toward savory, then sweet, from Fritos to a Heath bar to a Slurpee to nothing.
No one was on the pay phone outside. Erika said, Where are you?
I said, Just a pay phone.
Erika asked if I wanted to come over and do homework. A car revved loud down Morrison. Erika said, Where are you?
I said, Downtown. But I’m leaving soon. I’ll call you later. I said, Someone’s waiting for the phone.
There was a bus in the distance that was probably mine. There was no reason for me not to get on it. A huge cemetery spread out on the other side of the street. Ben might have walked home through the cemetery as if it were just another park. I went back to the parking strip across from The Alderwood. There were sixteen windows on the face of the building. Each apartment could have been identical, or different, from the others. My brother, if he had stayed, or if he’d left and come back, might have lived in one of those apartments. He and Ben might have been neighbors who kept their doors unlocked. They could move through the two apartments as if they were one. A tan car, a Datsun, pulled up across the street.
Ben said, Julie! He was smoking a cigarette. He said, What brings you to these parts?
The cigarette surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. I said, I thought you were working.
Ben laughed. He said, Right. Sorry I bailed on your dad today.
I said, So you finished work already? He didn’t sound sorry.
Ben looked at me and squinted. He said, Julie, I can tell you this, right? His voice had a scraped-out quality to it, as if he’d just woken up. He said, The truth is, I had a late night last night and I couldn’t muster for the viburnum this morning. Between us?
He didn’t sound guilty at all. He wasn’t acting as if he suspected that I might rat him out. I said, My dad ended up moving that wheelbarrow himself.
Ben put out his cigarette. He said, If you came over here to give me a guilt trip, I think I’m going to need some Advil with it. Want to come in? He walked into the building and held the door open for me. He took out a key and opened a long, skinny mailbox, and he took out some letters and a magazine.
I said, Then where are you coming from? I didn’t care if the question was a hammer against his hangover.
Ben laughed. He said, That’s a good question. You’re a good questioner. He opened a door on the second floor and scooped up the gray cat as it tried to run out. Ben said, This is Patty. The cat meowed. Ben said, She’s a good questioner, too. He said, Shoes, if you don’t mind, and kicked off his sneakers.
Ben’s apartment was small and very neat. The kitchen linoleum and metal cabinets looked old-fashioned, the refrigerator like something that could be called an icebox. Ben took out a beer. He said, I’m not going to offer you one. He opened the beer and swallowed some pills with it. He said, What would you like? Tea, right?
I said, How about coffee?
Ben said, Right on. I could use some of that, too. He got out a small metal pot and spooned coffee grounds into it.
My raincoat and backpack were still on. My shoes were by the door. I said, I can go. I had just shown up. There was no reason for me to be there.
Ben said, No, stay for a few. I’d be vegging on the couch with Divorce Court if you weren’t here.
Ben’s kitchen chairs had puffy vinyl diner cushions on them. Patty jumped into my lap. Ben said, Cat person?
I said, I don’t know. Patty pressed her head into my chest.
Ben said, She’s a sweetheart. He leaned over and scratched under Patty’s chin. He said, Except when she’s not, right, girl?
Ben moved around the kitchen, sipping from his beer, scooping out cat food, taking out mugs and acting as if there were nobody else in the room. His refrigerator had fliers photocopied on fluorescent-colored paper. They looked as if they’d been made in five minutes with a glue stick and scissors. I said, What’s the Anchor?
Ben brought the two mugs of coffee and a carton of milk and his beer over to the table. He took a sip of his coffee and held it in his mouth before he swallowed. He said, Why, have you heard of it?
It was as if he hadn’t been listening. I said, I just asked you what it was. I would have expected him to listen, after making a point of inviting me in and asking me — telling me — to take my shoes off in his kitchen.
Ben put his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands and leaned in and looked right at me. He said, Did I do something to make you angry? Your dad didn’t sound mad on the phone.
Ben’s hair was greasy and the skin under his eyes was grayish. He wasn’t making it clear whether he was pissed at me for being mad or if he actually cared. The coffee was doing something to me. I said, The other day, did you tell my dad I was at swim practice?
Ben said, What other day? I don’t think so. He said, Why? Do they not know? He said, I get it, it could be heavy to tell them.
My skin moved. My whole body was a heartbeat. Ben must have made the coffee some special hangover strength and not told me.
Ben said, You can feel free to talk to me about it. He said, Or not. No pressure.
My mug had a picture of a four-leaf clover on it and it said Shamrock Run 1987. Ben didn’t strike me as a runner. But he could have been, who knew? I didn’t know anything about him. I said, It doesn’t matter. I’m going to quit.