American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,173

“Who are you?”

Silence.

“Come out.”

“But if you do come outside,” says the voice, “out to the wilderness, it would be tolerated only if you ventured out with purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” says the voice, “with us. Help us. You are with us, whether you know it or not.”

“Who is us?” says Mrs. Benjamin. “Who are you?”

The man steps out of the shadows. He wears a pale blue suit, but his face is decidedly nondescript, clean-shaven and unassuming, the face of a father, criminal, brother, son.

Yet Mrs. Benjamin recognizes him. “Mr. Deirdry?” she says. “From… the doughnut shop? What are you doing here? You aren’t… you aren’t involved in this. I should know. Who told you to say this to me?”

He smiles wider.

“But, Mr. Deirdry… listen, you’ve nothing to do with these affairs. Whoever told you to do this or is making you do this, I can help you, I can protect you against—”

“Mr. Deirdry,” says the man, “is dead.”

This stops her short. He smiles wide enough for her to see his teeth. And as he smiles, there comes a sound like a particularly vicious cicada buzzing from somewhere around the man, like it is hanging on his back.

Mrs. Benjamin’s mouth opens in shock. “What? Where did you… did you come from the other side?”

The man just smiles.

“We are all accounted for… everyone who came here is still here. There is no one new. Who are you?”

“All accounted for,” says the man, “except two. They have been laid low. Because they forgot.”

“What are you talking about?”

He does not answer.

“You?” asks Mrs. Benjamin, shocked. “Do you mean you are behind Weringer and Macey’s deaths?”

“They forgot who they were,” he says. “Willfully.”

“But who are—”

“They chose complacence over truth, comfort over reality. I tried to wake them from their slumber. But still they slept, so I made them sleep deeper, sleep forever.” He walks to the front path and stands before her porch. “Do you betray us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She said to wait,” says the man. “To wait for Her. But She never said not to look. None of you old ones have looked for Her. You sat, and waited. You grew soft. I had to be the one. Me. And She was here. Waiting. All around us.”

“What do you—”

“All of us younger ones, we knew. We knew we had to look for Her. I went to where they sat or slept in their prisons, be it in the hills or under stones, and they joined me gladly. They were eager. They had been waiting for their chance. They knew that anything would be better than living like this.”

“You are why the younger ones are missing? What have you done with th—”

“Help me,” says the man. He opens his arm like a long-departed relative returning from overseas. “Help us. We cannot go home. But we can bring home here. She can bring home here. If only we bring Her back.”

“Who are you?” asks Mrs. Benjamin angrily.

“If you do not join us,” says the man, “then you must stay here, waiting for Her judgment. And it will come. Do you think you can bear it?”

“You cannot tell me what to do. I do not know who you are, but I am far older than you no matter.”

The man moves forward until he stands on the front step of her porch. “Tell me to leave. Make me leave.”

“I do not want you to leave,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “After what you have said to me? You must answer for everything you’ve done, if you have really done anything.”

“I have done so much,” says the man softly. He reaches into his blue coat and takes out a pearl-handled straight razor. He unfolds it with soft, delicate hands. “Make me answer. Make me.” He begins to move toward her.

“You cannot hurt me,” says Mrs. Benjamin. “It is not allowed for us to hurt one another.”

“Hurt me,” says the man. “Kill me. Crush me with your hands, O mighty one.”

The straight razor flashes out, and Mrs. Benjamin cries in the dark.

She grasps her forearm. Red-black blood leaps from between her fingers to spatter on the porch.

She falls back, shocked. “You are not allowed to hurt me!”

“And is this you?” asks the man. “Is this you, in that dress, in that body? Who are you? Where are you?”

He darts forward again, a bit awkwardly, for he is obviously untrained in physical assault. This strike is less precise, and he winds up nicking her shoulder.

“Stop!” she cries.

He grabs her