American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,36

catch her breath as the bell rings again. She wonders if it could be the doorbell, but it is not.

She walks downstairs to the aquamarine phone sitting in the corner beside the wooden chair, the one that looks like it’s been sitting there for years, and stares as it rings again and again. Finally she answers it.

“Hello?”

There is the hiss of static, as if the call is coming from a very long way away. But there is no voice in it, no greeting back.

“Hello?” she says again.

Still nothing. But somewhere in the static she hears something: someone is breathing, lowly and slowly.

“Hello?” she says. “I can hear you. Did you get the wrong number?”

She expects the caller to hang up, but he or she does not. There is just the breathing, the whine of the static rising and falling like a theremin.

“I think there’s something wrong with the phones, whoever this is,” she says. “You can’t hear a damn thing I say, can you?”

No answer.

“I’m hanging up now,” she says. “Goodbye.”

She drops the receiver onto the cradle and stares at it. She almost expects the phone to start ringing again, but it does not.

Mona will be damned if she’s come all this way and done so much work just to sleep on a wooden floor, so she cruises around for a department store to put together something resembling livable conditions. She finds Macey’s, a sort of general store, though like so many shops here at first it seems totally abandoned. She isn’t worried, however: she knows many stores in small towns keep wildly irregular hours, often opening whenever the owners feel.

It is not abandoned. She is walking by the lines of mannequins in dresses when she hears the sound of someone weeping. Curious, she turns around and sees the door to a back room is open, and seated within are two women with their faces in their hands. She can see a pair of feet wearing men’s shoes just before them, like someone is standing or leaning against the front of a desk. She can hear a man’s voice talking quietly, as if giving comfort or condolences. Then the feet shift, and a small, bald head wearing Coke-bottle glasses pokes past the side of the door frame. The man looks at her and says, “With you in a minute.”

He wraps up the discussion with the two crying women pretty quick. It is a little bizarre to see them having such an emotional moment in what appears to be no more than a closet. The two women shuffle out, still dabbing at their eyes, and the storekeeper follows.

He is an elderly gnome of a man, dressed in a button-up white shirt, red bow tie, and suspenders. He smiles wearily at Mona as he approaches, and says, “Sorry about that. They were a bit distraught.”

“What was wrong? If it’s not too rude to ask.”

“Oh, nothing. Well. Not nothing. We had someone pass away just recently, you see.”

“Oh, right,” says Mona. “The funeral. I’m sorry, I should have known.”

“Yes,” he says. He looks Mona over and smiles. “I suppose you’d be the new arrival in town.”

Mona coughs. “That’s right. I’m Mona.”

“And I’m Mr. Macey,” he says, and shakes her hand. “I must say, no one ever told me you were so pretty. Were I but a younger man… I’m sure I’d make a pest of myself. I might still, you know.” He smiles crookedly. Mona is not offended: she can tell he is the sort to innocently flirt with every woman, regardless of age or beauty. He might have been waiting to get old just so he could have such a freedom. “What can I do for you, Miss…?”

“You can just call me Mona,” she says. “I’m looking for a mattress and a set of sheets.”

“Ah. Moving in, are we?” He gestures and leads her through the aisles. It is a rather schizophrenic store: shelves of cheap novelty gags segue into imitation jewelry, which stands beside a case of knockoff watches and sunglasses.

“Maybe. I inherited a house around here. I guess I’ll be bedding down there for a while. I just went to see the lady at the courthouse about it, in fact.”

“Mrs. Benjamin,” he says, and groans a little. “I can’t imagine what sort of impression she made. Don’t worry, we’re not all as batty as that around here. Did she offer you any tea?”

“Uh…”

“Do not drink any,” he tells her, and laughs. “You’ll be drunker than a boiled owl for hours,