Gilbert Morris (8 page)

“You did a good thing tonight, Ben, an unselfish thing. I knew you would hate being Santa Claus, but it was good.”

“It wasn't bad. As a matter of fact, it was good for me. Good night.”

Ben left then quickly, and as he walked toward his car, the stars above were cold and glittering. He looked up and they seemed somehow lonely, which was strange. Suddenly he realized that he was the one who was lonely, and the loneliness closed about him as he got into his car and drove away.

Los Angeles spread out beneath them, and Ben remarked,
“Look at the smog. I think you could walk on it.”

“I'd rather not try.”

“Is it always this busy?”

“This is Orange County Airport,” Charlene said. “Used to be called John Wayne Airport. Be glad we're not going into Los Angeles International Airport. That one really
is
crowded.”

Charlene brought the plane in for a perfect landing. As she taxied toward the hanger, she turned to smile at Ben. “You're getting a little more comfortable. Are you learning to trust my flying a bit more?”

“I think I am. You're a wonderful pilot, Charlene.”

Charlene taxied the plane up to the hangar and shut the engine off. The two got out, and Ben stood over to one side while she made the usual arrangements for having the plane refueled and rechecked. When she came over to him, he said, “Let's don't rent a car. I've heard about Los Angeles traffic.”

“Yes, a cab would be better.”

They took no luggage, for their plan was to visit Pete
Maxwell, then fly home that night. “Lots warmer here than in Chicago,” Ben remarked.

“Yes. I thought about moving to California just for the weather, but then someone told me that everything loose rolls to California so I decided not to.”

A row of cabs in front of the airport awaited them, and when they got into the first in line, a battered Crown Victoria, Ben gave the address to the driver, a small dark-skinned man. “We'd like to go to 1230 Maple Avenue.”

“Yes.”

The driver pulled out, and Ben saw that Charlene was trying to raise the window on her side. The cold wind was blowing her hair. “The window won't go up,” Ben said.

“Is broken.”

“It's pretty cold back here. Would you turn the heater up, please?”

“No heater. Is out of order.”

Ben glared at the man and was on the verge of telling him they'd get a cab with working windows and heaters, but when he glanced at Charlene he saw that she was grinning at him. “What?” he demanded.

“Tribulation worketh patience,” she said.

“I don't want patience; I want to get warm.”

“Think about your ancestors,” Charlene said. “They didn't even have windows in the Mayflower. And no heaters, either.”

Ben suddenly laughed. “The Raines folk missed that boat. I think they came over on a cattle boat or something.”

“Cattle boats don't have heaters either.”

Ben threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “OK, you win.”

Charlene studied the traffic as the driver changed lanes with absolutely no use of the turn signals. “Don't you ever signal, driver?”

“Is not working.”

“Figures,” Ben laughed. He settled back and looked out the window. “I don't know much about Pete Maxwell. Dad told me his wife passed away and that he was living with his daughter and her husband.”

“He's retired, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. Worked for the sanitation department.”

“The unsung heroes.”

“What?”

Charlene smiled at him. “The workers of the sanitation department went on strike in Evanston three years ago. It was frightful! The garbage piled up like mountains in the streets. The smell would knock you down.”

“That happened in Chicago too. You never think about things like that until they happen,

“Maybe you could write a story—‘The Unsung Heroes of Chicago.'”

“Maybe I could.” Ben suddenly laughed. “The sanitation workers are a lot more noble than the politicians in Chicago.”

The two ignored the cold blasts of air, and finally the cab pulled up in front of a house and the cabbie said, “Twelve dollars and thirty cents.” He didn't bother to get out but reached back and took the money that Ben extended. “Keep the change.”

“Want me to wait?”

“No. Don't think so.”

“Here's my card. Give me a call if you need to go back to the airport.”

“All right. We'll do that.”

The two of them walked toward the house, and Ben said, “I should have called before we came.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because I'm a careless, slovenly person. I did call last week, and Mrs. Taylor said to come anytime.”

“That's his daughter?”

“Yes. Hope he's here.”

Ben rang the doorbell, and almost at once it opened and a middle-aged woman greeted them. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Taylor?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I'm Ben Raines, and this is Dr. Delaughter. I called last week about your father.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Come in, both of you.” As soon as the two were inside, she said “Dad isn't home right now. He goes to the nursing home every Tuesday and Saturday.”

“I should have called.”

Mrs. Taylor said, “If you'd like to wait here, that would be fine—or maybe you'd like to catch him at Fair Haven.”

“Is it far?”

“Not at all—no more than ten blocks. I'll be glad to take you.”

“Oh, we can walk if you'll give us directions.” The two listened as Mrs. Taylor gave them directions. “You can't miss
it. Dad has his car, so after he's finished there, why don't you come and have dinner with us.”

“Oh, that would be an imposition,” Ben protested.

“Dad's been looking forward to visiting with you. He stays busy at the nursing home, but if you come here, there'll be plenty of time to talk.”

Neither Ben nor Charlene were inclined to accept the invitation, but Mrs. Taylor insisted so strongly that they agreed. “Dinner will be ready by the time you get back,” she said firmly, and practically shoved them out the door.

“I guess we've got a free meal at least,” Ben said. “I hate to barge in.”

“So do I, but it's a good chance to speak with him. Come on, race you to the nursing home!” She started off at a brisk pace, and Ben had to hurry to keep up with her.

By the time they reached the nursing home, Ben was panting. “I miss that beautiful cab!” he gasped.

“You need fresh air and exercise,” Charlene grinned. She was not even breathing hard, and said, “We'll double-time it back to the house.”

The nursing home was a two-story building of red brick. The lawn in front was carefully manicured, but the building itself was old. As they walked inside, Charlene noted that there was a feeling of age about it. “I guess all nursing homes smell alike,” she said as they approached the desk.

“We're looking for Peter Maxwell,” Ben said to the woman behind the desk.

“You'll have to run him down.” The speaker was a powerfully built woman with dyed red hair and far too much
makeup. “Pete's hard to catch. He goes from one room to another. You'll just have to hunt for him.”

Ben hesitated. “We don't actually know him.”

The nurse laughed. “You'll know Pete when you see him.”

“How will we do that?” Charlene asked.

“Because he's the only person you'll see wearing a clown outfit.”

“How's that?” Ben asked, confused by the description.

“Pete likes to dress up in different rigs for his visits here. It'd make a dog laugh to see what he comes up with. Last week he got a Charlie Chaplin outfit. Looked just like Chaplin—cane, little moustache, and all!”

“What other outfits has he worn?”

“Law, I can't tell you! Once he came as a sailor—and one time he dressed up like a fat woman!” The nurse laughed out loud. “He was a sight that day!”

“Has he been doing this a long time?” Charlene asked.

“For years! I've worked here for twelve years, and he'd been coming a long time before I got here.” The nurse nodded and said, “The patients all look forward to his visits like he was the president. He knows them every one—better than some of the help, I'd have to say.”

“Well, I guess we can find a clown,” Ben smiled. “Thanks, Nurse.”

“You're welcome.”

The two walked on down the hallway, and, as always, it gave Ben a feeling of depression. But then he heard the sound of laughter coming from a room, and he said, “My guess is that's Pete.”

The two of them came to an open door and saw Pete Maxwell, looking for all the world like a Ringling Brothers clown, juggling three balls. Two extremely aged men were watching. They stood there as Maxwell told jokes and juggled, then when he turned and saw them, Ben said quickly, “Mr. Maxwell?”

He nodded and said, “That's me. I'm Pete. Who are you?”

Ben walked in and said, “I'm Ben Raines, and this is Dr. Charlene Delaughter.”

Maxwell was somewhere in his late seventies, Ben guessed, but his eyes were bright. “I know you, do I?”

“You were in my dad's squad in the war. He was—”

“Raines! Why, Willie Raines! You're his son, I take it.”

“Yes, I am. Maxwell's thin face lit up. He put out his hand, and when Ben took it he found that the old man's bones were fragile as the bones of a bird. “Willie Raines. I hear from Willie pretty often. He calls me on my birthday. How is Willie? He's OK, ain't he?”

“Yes. He's fine.”

“Well, let's go get something to drink.”

“Oh, I'm not thirsty,” Ben protested.

“I am. Clowning is hard work. Come on, the kitchen is down here.”

Maxwell led them to the kitchen, where he greeted two workers with smiles and they quickly provided soft drinks for Maxwell and his guests. Maxwell led them toward the tables and waved toward a chair and said, “You take that one, Doctor.” He got them seated, then said, “I've been looking forward to your visit. Now, tell me about this story you're going to write.”

Pete listened as Ben explained the idea of the story, and when he had finished, Pete exclaimed, “You know, that's a great idea. I'm glad I thought of it!” He laughed at Ben's expression. “I always thought somebody would have done something like that. Willie's awful proud of you. Talks about you all the time in his letters.”

Ben had gotten his notebook out and said, “I would like to hear your side of the story about the action at Bastogne. Your sister has invited us to dinner, so we can talk there, but I'd like to hear about it from your point of view.”

“Well, it wasn't no picnic,” Pete shrugged. “We knew it wouldn't be. We just got out of Market Garden and that was bad enough, and then fightin' around hedgerows all over France. By the time we got to Bastogne we was whittled down. Wasn't but six of us left, but I guess you know all that.”

“Yes. Charlene's dad was one of the squad.”

“Delaughter! Why, sure. Charlie Delaughter. A fine fellow! How is he?”

“Dad passed away a few years ago, Pete.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that. He was a good guy. Always up, no matter how bad things were. The rest of us would gripe and complain, but old Charlie always found something good to say. Say you're a doctor?”

“A baby doctor.”

“Well, that's fine. The world needs more baby doctors.”

Ben took lots of notes, for Pete liked to talk. His eyes were the liveliest thing about him, and he seemed to be tiring.
Finally Ben said, “Well, we don't want to wear you out, Pete. We'll be going.”

“Nothin' doin'. You're just in time to help with the Bible study. What time is it?”

Ben looked at his watch. “It's four o'clock.”

“Just right. They'll be waitin' down in the rec room. Some of them will be watchin' soap operas or game shows, but we have our Bible study every Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock. They'll either have to sit and listen or go. Either of you two play a pianer?”

“I play a little,” Charlene said. “It's been a long time.”

“You know any hymns?”

“Yes. That's about all I do know.”

“Good. You'll play the pianer, and Ben, you're the tune heister.”

“Wait a minute,” Ben said, “I'm no singer.”

“Come on now, Ben.” A smile brightened Pete Maxwell's face. “Your dad, he never backed out of nothin' that I ever found out about. How about it?”

Ben glanced at Charlene and saw she was waiting to hear his answer. He hesitated only a moment and shrugged. “Well, I probably don't remember most of the songs, but I'll do the best I can.”

“Now you're talkin'! Come on, let's get this show on the road!” Pete was talking all the time. “You know, I've been thinking about organizing the Bed Pan Olympics around here. What do you think?”

He kept them entertained all the way down the hall and around the corner. When they entered a large room, they
found a small group there. The television was blaring, but Pete called out, “Hey, Bertha, turn that sin box off. It's time to study the Word of God. We're gonna have a holy hootenanny today!”

All of the members of the Bible study were elderly, of course. Two or three of them looked like they were completely out of it, but Pete went at it as if he were addressing ninety thousand people in a coliseum. “We got some guests today. Sister Charlene here is going to play the piano, and Brother Ben, he's gonna do the singing. OK, brother and sister, let it rip!”

Charlene went over to the old upright, made a face as she ran her fingers over the keys, for it was sadly out of tune. Nevertheless, she began playing “The Old Rugged Cross.” Ben found himself able to get through that one. They were using tattered paperback hymn books called
Heavenly
Highways
that looked like they had come over on the ark. As Ben lead the singing as best he could, he was thinking about his early days when his parents had taken him to the little church every Sunday. He had not thought about that in a long time, but now he could see himself as a youngster sitting between his parents, sometimes listening to the preaching, sometimes filling in the round letters, such as
e
's and
o
's, in the hymnbook with a pencil.