American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,88

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