321

He was in Arden again; the chorus of the birds made that quite obvious. A wide paddock lined with a white picket fence was on his right, and up ahead in the distance was a house. Its structure was uncoordinated and seemed to sway and lurch in random directions, as if about to topple over. Was it haunted, perhaps? It certainly looked it, but not by ordinary ghosts. Not the ones with rattling chains and skull smiles. This house was haunted with a ghost called memory.

The days leading up to the inevitable arrival of 321 were shrouded in the typical mid-
March overcast that seemed to stretch to the tip of the highest mountain in Elbridge. Each
dark cloud that hung off the sky seemed plump and swollen, desperate to burst their shards of rain over the suburban town houses and the empty granite streets on Earth.

The small drizzle that gently rapped on Mitchell Benson’s window had almost stopped by the time his alarm bell split the dull silence in his room, waking him with such a violent jerk he almost fell out of his bed and onto the floor. The faded residue of a dream still lingered on the surface of his mind but was to faint to grasp in detail.

Mitchell squeezed his eyelids shut and rubbed the corners of his eyes until the final flakes of sleep were gone, then focused his blurred vision on the alarm clock that sat atop his bed side table, still piercing the air and his brain with its shrill sound.

“Eleven o’clock.” he muttered through half closed lips, and then gave a weak shrug. “It gets late so early in towns like this.” That was one of his mother’s favorite sayings, one which Mitchell never fully understood.

He outstretched his arm and fumbled with the alarm clock until his fingers found the silent button then collapsed back into his original position of sleep, folded his hands behind his head and gave the ceiling a vacant stare. The fan that paddled through the soupy air swept a breeze across his body and made him realize he was sweating.

In the room next to his he could just make out the whisper shuffle of his mother’s slippers scuffing along the wooden floor boards of the kitchen. It was sleep in kind of weather, he thought, perhaps she might be fixing him some breakfast. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth, enough to feel the crusts of saliva that had caked around his lips over night.
Mitchell groped his blanket that covered his chest and threw it off with force, slightly aware that both his hands had fallen asleep under his head and now prickled with pins and needles. He swung both his legs over the mattress and stood up so quickly that black and green dots appeared before his eyes blinding him for a while, then lost his balance and sat down, sliding his hands to the small of his back which pinched with resisting tendons. He drew a couple of long deep breaths until the sensation passed, then shifted his eyes to the two suitcases neatly resting against each other on the far side of the room.

A gush of wind that shook the trees outside his window made the leaves talk in soft discussion. Gray light that filtered through his curtains created shadows that danced around his room making peculiar shapes, but he took no notice. A strange feeling tickled inside his midsection, just above his stomach but below his chest, a feeling of nervous uncertainty, a feeling he realized was quite familiar with.
It was indeed the 21st. He had to glance at the alarm clock date to confirm this.

Time had caught up with him as it always did, and it was this day that he made his departure. Or maybe escape was the word he was looking for.
Escape from what? The thought jabbed his consciousness. From this house? From your mother? You’ll be at your father’s by late this afternoon, and it’ll be the same game again. Don’t fool yourself.

Mitchell pushed this thought out of his mind and attempted to stand up again, this time slowly. He wasn’t going to fool himself; he knew that the situation would be no different at his father’s house on the outskirts of Elbridge, yet there was the period of nothingness where Mitchell had time to himself. The luggage symbolized the time from point A to B, like the brief feeling of euphoric freedom when you take the leap from saucepan to fire. This thought amused Mitchell and a chuckle escaped his throat louder than he expected.


In the kitchen, Tiffany Benson sat wearily and tired eyed at the tobacco brown table, the plate of soggy eggs that dribbled yolk over her bacon was hardly touched. Her shoulders were slumped and locks of golden red hair rested just below her eyebrows. The curls of hair seemed to pinch and irritate her eyes but she didn’t bother to brush them aside.
That was the sort of attitude that had swamped her lately, ever since the arrangements of property entitlements and all the other wonderful assortments that go with the procedure of divorce had been finalized.

The care free attitude seemed to engulf her actually; she didn’t bother with the garden anymore (the grass outside brushed her shins every time she went to check the empty letter box) and the once vibrant red roses that sprung out of the soil in the pot plants that decorated the window sill now hung drearily over, the pedals wrinkling and turning a muddy brown. The same brown was also the color of Tiffany’s now dull, damp eyes, staring outside the window into the vast infinite of the sky which grew veins of egg white lines that spread through the thickening cloud.
She exhaled a long watery sigh and had to rest her elbow on the table top to stop her from sliding all the way across it.
Her palm sank into her cheek creating a weird snarl, reveling pinkish red gums and frothy bubbles of spit in between her lips.
What seemed to be a distant universe she could hear a voice, just crossing the border of audibleness, yet her stare remained fixed to the window, now sprinkled with crystal rain drops that sometimes slid down the glass like tears down cheeks.

“Slept in again” he said. His tone was soft and sounded as if a clump of mucus was stuck to the top of his throat. “I’m going today. Back to Dad’s, you know that, right?”

She was wearing her dark velvet night gown which swum loosely around her body; the V neck sunk off to her left side revealing a freckle covered shoulder blade.
Her hair was a tangled mess; it reminded Mitchell of one of the hay barns at his father’s farm. A dank smell of red wine and dust hung in the air which made him wince and robbed his hunger.

“My bus leaves in a few hours Mum.” His voice sounded slightly more confident but
Still wavered. She turned her head towards him but kept her eyes glaring outside.

“Are you all packed up?”

“Yeah, didn’t take too long. Some of the stuff I’ll just leave here until next time I come over. No point in taking the whole lot over.”

“You probably should throw a jumper on.” She paused. Silent periods in conversation had been appearing more and more often lately. “I made breakfast, get some feed into yourself before you get rolling” She offered him a humorless grin, then faced the window completely again.

“Not hungry.” He said, picking at the inside of his ear. A habit his mother hated, but she wasn’t looking. “Feel kind of feverish.”

“It’s that kind of weather I guess. You want a lift? The guy on the radio was saying how it was going to be pouring cats and geezers before it hits half noon.”

Cats and Geezers? He thought, where does she pull these weird ass statements from?

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll have a shower and fix up my room. We’ll head out around 2:30.”

“Not a prob, Bob.” She replied, half turning her head. The colour of the sky had now warped into alien colours, it seemed as if white, green, and a dark shade of yellow had been splashed on a canvas and pinned up on the sky. Hail, maybe.


The milk white sedan that Mitchell dubbed "The Benson Mobile" takes half and hour to get from it’s garage in Belford Street to the 321 bus station at the corner of Melton Avenue and Tumpwad Road. However, on the 21st of March, Mitchell Benson insisted that his stomach’s rumbling would almost equal the rumbling of thunder that was creeping in from the west if not properly satisfied by the foods of his choice.
As expected, Tiffany’s reaction consisted of the full dice lecture of saving money and junk food is bad for the skin, bla bla bla, complete with the palm of her hand smacking the rim of the car wheel in anger and shaking her head vigorously which made her hair look like a crawling tangle of spider legs.
After making a brief stop at the bakery, Mitchell slouched in the passenger seat with his head leaning against the window and crossed his arms firmly as the road unfolded before them.
The car was clogged with silence as he let his mind wander, staring at the expanding mist of his breath on the glass.

He remembered the fights. Snippets of memory flooded his conciseness like ice water when he least expected. The arguments that seeped in through doors that had been slammed shut were muffled but still audible.
He remembered seeing his father one night in the hall, a man who looked every day of his age, hurling twisted insults towards his mother who slouched against the wall with her head tilted towards her shoulder and hand raised like a traffic officer. He yelled so hard that a vain stuck out of his forehead like a purple worm. He had bitten his tongue or lip in raw frustration, and a rope of blood and saliva dangled of his chin. His voice had expired to cracked howl, too exhausted to shout.


“You’re going to have to go.” Tiffany said, snapping him back to reality. She sounded insincerely sympathetic as the car pulled into a gutter and stuttered to a halt “I have to get back before the hail hits, it’ll wreck the car for sure and you know I don’t need that. You can walk the rest of the way. If you hurry you’ll make it by 3:15.”

He raised his left eyebrow in a questionable expression, then both in acceptance and said “I’ll see you in a few weeks.” His sinuses throbbed as she tapped her cheek twice with her index finger, inviting a kiss. He obliged quickly, and then hauled his gear out of the back seat and onto the footpath.

Tiffany flashed him a quick thumbs up sign before spinning the Benson Mobile into a sharp U turn, spraying splinters of water and grit onto the front of his shirt. He stood there for a moment observing the newly decorated shirt, then returned the sign to the car that was now lumbering out of sight.

Tiffany’s predictions were mostly correct. After scampering as quickly as possible with the grind of his suitcase wheels trailing behind him, Mitchell made it to the small tin roof bus stop a minute before 3:15. Before he reached his destination it did indeed rain cats and geezers, transforming his already damp red Nirvana shirt into a soaked black cloth that appeared at least three sizes to big; the rim flopping side to side in his desperate dash for shelter. His breath rattled through his rib cage and his eyes stung from sweat and the grease from his forehead, but he was sheltered.

The 321 that snaked through Elbridge was due to arrive at 3:21pm, and Mitchell new it was never late. Or early.
Raindrops trickled down the nape of his neck and found their way to his spine like tadpoles as his wrist flicked over reviling a watch that read 3:16.

“It does get late early in towns like these” he mused.
Or perhaps in situations like these.

The feeling in his midsection flared again, it felt like tiny fish swimming through his intestine. He didn’t want to go to his father’s farm, but he didn’t particularly want to stay here in Elbridge either.
The meat in the divorce sandwich he thought, and chuckled loudly again. He wondered what his mother would think of that saying. He listened to the rain drum down on the roof and surveyed the bus shelter, looking at the orange cigarette filters that were scattered on the ground, and the bizarre yet often amusing graffiti scribbled on the seat and walls.

An idea suddenly occurred to him, and his tongue whipped across his lips as he rummaged through his bag. He found the pen knife in one of the pocket zips and yanked its blade open with his thumb nail, then dropped to his keens in front on the wooden bench and began to carve words into the damp timber.

The slow murmur of a bus engine was lurking around the corner of Tumpwad Road as he flicked the blade back into place and studied his work.
SEE YOU SOON was engraved into one of the wooden planks, roughly printed but deep enough to last.
Last for how long? He asked himself. He didn’t bother to answer that though as he thumbed the driver and collected his luggage. He wanted to close an iron gate on all thoughts connected with his meat-in-the-sandwich home life. He would enjoy the short detachment for now.

After all, the 321 at 3:21 made perfect sense, more sense than anything else anyway. His chuckle morphed into a full blown laugh at this thought,
and he was still laughing when he walked through the bus door.