Respite

 

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Benjamin Lowell Bledsoe

It's the quiet that's different.

Brooklyn was never quiet. Even in those days before his neighborhood had been modernized, the city was filled with sound. He remembers being sent to the store by his mother; walking the bustling streets and being greeted by the buzz of a city that didn't know the meaning of the word idle. Even when he was confined to the apartment on those days when he had hours of homework to do, the sounds of the city still crept in: sirens, horns, the neighbor who apparently took delight in screaming at her husband over the most trivial things. Falling asleep to the sounds of the city was normal; silence was not. 

His time in the Middle East was filled with more noise. Gunshots, explosions, the screams of men dying on the battlefield - it was all a different kind of world without silence. And then came the years after the war, when he traveled the world in search of something he never found, when he learned the noises of a thousand different places and cultures. He was searching, he knows now, for an internal quietude, and running from the scene that would greet him at home: thousands of voices raised in protest, all ready to call him to account for the horrible things that had been done on his watch during the war. Ben could not face himself in the mirror; how could he face reporters who wanted to know why he'd made the decisions he had? Worse yet, how could he face the widows and children of the men he'd had to leave behind?

He could not, and so he'd stayed away. Not long enough for people to forget, but long enough for the sharpness of the pain to dull a bit. 

In France, he'd found a brief period of quiet: two wonderful years of a short-lived marriage. Her name was Aurelia, and they'd met in the most beautifully cliched way, at a sidewalk patisserie. She was an American expat, living out a lifelong dream of making Nice her home. He fell head over heels for her the day they met and proposed on their second date. They were married a month later. Their wedded bliss lasted until Aurelia's life was cut short by a brain aneurysm. 

It was the end of his stint abroad.

The years since he came back home have been noisy, too: filled with the sounds of the young men he's now in charge of training to follow in his footsteps. The overwhelming sense of duty that comes with knowing these men's lives are in his hands screams at him every day. If he does not train them properly, they will die. It is enough to keep him awake most nights. Even when the lack of external quiet gives him respite for a while, the noise inside of Ben's head refuses to let him rest. 

The woods, however, are different. The quiet is strange and unfamiliar. It's peaceful in a way he has never known anything to be, and he knows that it will take some getting used to. 

He can't say that he minds. 

 

*

 

"You should go," Greg tells him. 

Ben gives his friend a dubious look. "I don't know..." 

Greg laughs, motioning to the room around them. "Look, Ben... I may be your doctor, but I was your friend way before I even thought about a degree in psychology. And whether you realize it or not, I still know you better than anybody else does." He pauses, his eyes serious. "It's the least you can do if you're gonna keep skipping out on therapy."

"I don't need therapy, Greg." 

"You keep telling yourself that," Greg scoffs, but his eyes are still serious. "And when all that stuff you keep bottled inside of you finally pops its cork and you have a breakdown, you'll remember that I told you it was gonna happen."

All he gets in return is a glare.

"Seriously, Ben," Greg goes on. "You should go. It'll be good for you. You've been dealing with all this... noise, for so long... I think you've forgotten what it's like to just be." His friend smiles at him. "Go get away from it for a while. Get away from the noise. Be still for a while, and take care of yourself the way you should've a long time ago."

Even after he's gotten in his car and driven away from his friend's office, Greg's words still resonate with Ben. 

Get away from it all for a while.

He would be lying if he said that the thought doesn't appeal to him. 

"He's right, you know," Samantha tells him later, surrounded by cracked red vinyl in a diner booth. "As much as I hate to admit it, Greg's right. You need some time away."

Ben rolls his eyes. "I had plenty of time away. Did you forget that I traveled abroad for three years? And before that, I hadn't lived in the States in almost five?"

His sister doesn't say anything, but the look on her face tells him everything she's thinking. 

"So, what," Ben scoffs. "You gonna tell me I need therapy, too?"

"I've been telling you that for a long time now," Samantha cracks, "and my stance on that hasn't changed."

"Some sister you are."

"What about your cabin?" She asks, changing the subject. "You always used to enjoy going out there."

"In Colorado?" Ben shakes his head. "I haven't been there in years." He considers the thought. "Hm. I haven't been there in years," he repeats.

"Sounds like you're due for a visit, then."

"And what exactly am I supposed to do there?"

"Look, Ben," she starts with a sigh. "I've given up on trying to get you to talk about what happened over there in Afghanistan. If Greg - who spent six whole years learning how to get people to talk about what's on their minds - can't get you to discuss your feelings, what hope do I have? But I worry about you," she goes on. "Whatever's happening inside your head is crowding out any peace you might have. Don't you think it's time you put everything aside for a little while and just... take care of yourself?" 

Ben looks at her a bit incredulously. 

"What?" His sister takes a sip of her coffee. "What's the matter with your face?"

"Nothing," he murmurs. "It's just... Greg said pretty much the same thing." 

Sam shrugs again. "Well, I told you he was right."

 

*

He thinks about his friend's words now, as he stares out of the window into the beautiful landscape outside. He wasn't lying when he told Samantha that he hadn't been to the cabin in years; the time away has made him forget how much he loves it here.

He's still getting used to the quiet, but it isn't necessarily a bad thing. Colorado in autumn is a beautiful place, especially when a person is lucky enough to be close to the mountains, the way he is. His cabin sits at the foot of one of the smaller ones in the range and is isolated enough for him not to worry about intruders or disturbances. If his memory serves him correctly, his nearest neighbor is at least a mile away, and he's not likely to run into them on a regular basis unless he seeks them out. 

It is late October, and already the first snow of the season has come and gone. It sits on top of the earth in a blanket, making everything even more still and silent than normal. It's peaceful, and not for the first time since he arrived, Ben is grateful that he decided to take Sam's advice and come here. There is no limit on his time here; no one will call him to tell him that he's needed (he's seen to that - the only phone he has is the landline in the cabin, and only his sister and best friend have that number), and thanks to a leave of absence that's been granted to him, he has no obligations, no schedules to adhere to. His days belong to him and him alone, to do with them what he chooses. 

The thought makes him smile, and it is the first genuine one he's been able to summon in as long as he can remember.

 

*

 

He's trying valiantly to ignore the way the teenager restocking the produce is staring at him. It's not easy; she hasn't exactly been inconspicuous about the way her eyes follow him wherever he goes. She doesn't look away whenever he makes eye contact with her, and that makes him feel even more uncomfortable. 

"Don't let the staring unnerve you," a voice behind him says.

He turns with a start and comes face-to-face with a woman who is at least a head shorter and three decades older than himself. She's peering up at him through thick glasses, her eyes twinkling in amusement and the frizziness of her silvery hair giving her the appearance of a mad scientist. 

"Unnerve me?" He repeats, raising his eyebrows. 

"Yes," the woman replies. "She stares at all of the young men that way." 

He's partly disturbed by this tiny stranger's admission and partly relieved that they girl working in produce isn't staring at him because she recognizes him. And why would she recognize me? He thinks. It's been years since our unit came back to that nightmare of a press release, and even longer since I visited here. His relief must show in his facial expression, because the woman chuckles.

"Madison McDaniel is her name," the woman goes on, leaning close and whispering conspiratorially. "My daughter went to high school with her mother, and I'm here to tell you that the apple - pun intended - doesn't fall far from the tree." She motions to the display of apples in front of him. "Mind if I cut in?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, moving slightly to the side. "Sorry." He watches, half-amused, as she picks nearly three dozen apples and puts them in her cart. "A fan of the Granny Smith, huh?"

Hand halfway to the display, she pauses and looks at him. A full five seconds pass before his words sink in and she laughs. It's a nice laugh, Ben thinks, and it reminds him a little of his mother's laugh. He decides he wouldn't mind hearing that laugh again. "I'm aware," she starts, "that I probably look like a crazy person with an apple obsession. And part of me wants to say nothing and let you continue to believe that about me," she goes on, the corners of her mouth still lifted in amusement. "But it's apple pie season, and I'm planning on making a couple of them, just in case my neighbor wants one." 

Ben nods in understanding. "That's very nice of you." 

She picks one last apple. "I must say, I make a mean apple pie." 

"Your neighbor must be very lucky then," he laughs. 

"Ah, but there's the thing," she says. "I haven't had a chance to bestow this gift of pie upon him yet. Seems he was away for a long time, and now that he's back, he tends to keep to himself." 

He's still processing her statement as she wheels her cart away. Just before she rounds the corner to the next aisle, she turns back to him with a smile. "Welcome back to Colorado, Lieutenant Bledsoe."

Before he can reply, she's gone.

 

*

 

 

The days pass at a leisurely pace, and slowly but surely Ben begins to settle into a comfortable routine. No amount of leisure time can cure him of being an early riser, and this has enabled him to witness nearly every sunrise that has happened in the months since he came to Colorado. There is something about watching the day greet the night that calms his troubled thoughts. It reminds him of the awe-inspiring beauty of nature and makes him wish his mother were still alive to see them. 

But his mother isn't there; she's long gone. So Ben photographs the sunrises, and the photos are set aside to be printed and framed when he returns to New York. 

He's re-learning the simple pleasure of a good cup of coffee and a delicious, home-cooked breakfast eaten at his own pace. The books in his library that have watched like sentinels over the house in the years that he was away have suddenly piqued his interest, and Ben spends hours upon hours in that quiet room, indulging his imagination.

What Ben enjoys most, however, is being outdoors. Winter has always been his favorite season, and the cold doesn't bother him. He gets his exercise in the form of the long walks he takes every day: meandering strolls that sometimes require him to do more climbing than walking. 

He's on one such walk when his path takes him by a driveway that he's never been up before. He can't see the house that they driveway leads to, as it's long and winds its way through a thicket of trees. Ben pauses at the foot of the drive, the realization dawning on him that this is where his nearest neighbor lives. The mailbox is bright red, and in pretty script the name Fulton is painted in black. 

He thinks back to the woman he met at the supermarket in town nearly two months ago. The small, bespectacled older woman with laughter that reminded him of his mother. The woman with a fondness for baking Granny Smith apples into pies and sharing them with her neighbors when so inclined. The woman who knew exactly who he was and yet made no issue of it. 

Ben smiles and walks on.

 

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Aurelia Langley

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