Free Meeks by Julia Holmes Page B

of his dark jacket and strode up the slope of the bachelors’ hill, his heart beating fast, he felt faint with excitement. There were the hard black lines of the tree branches veining the pale blue sky; the streetlamps sentinel and straight beside the path. The green leaves shuddering in the occasional breeze. A perfect scene, a green globe of healthy activity, something of which he could simply elect to be a part. Ben made it across the bachelors’ hill without incident, and he continued on to the park cafe, digging in his coat pocket for the few coins he had left.
    At the cafe counter, a father lifted his young daughter so she could see the pastries on display, and the mother pointed to this one, then that one, calling each by name. The girl looked over at Ben, and then the father looked, too. Ben smiled and stepped back slightly, mindful of the unpleasant smell of his suit. The cafe owner stood by, his musty, eternally damp rag in hand. The girl pointed to a slice of cake on a small white plate.
    Ben looked longingly at the sugar-powdered ring cookies and the slices of white cake, trying to choose. He thought of Independence Day: the autumnal chill, the blazing leaves, when he would lie beside his wife beneath the great tree.
    The girl and her parents settled at one of the marble-topped tables. The father dug through the sugar bowl with his spoon, plowing beneath the surface, digging for virgin layers; he sugared his tea, then dropped the spoon noisily on the tabletop. He reached over and pinched a bite of cake from his daughter's plate.
    The woman behind the counter watched Ben expectantly; the cafe owner shifted the musty rag from one hand to the other. Ben decided: cake. His last coins converted (effortlessly!) into an old, respectable pleasure.
    Ben stacked his coins on the top of the glass case. “White cake, please."
    The woman glanced at the cafe owner; the cafe owner tightened his grip on the musty rag.
    "Been away?"
    "Pardon me?"
    "Because that,” she said, pointing to the stack of coins, “won't buy you a slice of white cake. Not since olden days."
    Ben noticed the postcards leaning against the counter—sentimental photos of boys in short pants running hoops down the street.
    Ben's face was hot. “A cookie then."
    "Have a mint,” she said, and slid the bland bowl across the counter. Ben took a fistful of the mints—the city mints he hated.
    He retreated to a park bench and threw the handful of mints into the grass. He looked down at his suit: the pink flowers in his buttonholes were ridiculous, he was a fool. He plucked the flowers out and threw them down. At this rate, he might as well grieve forever—his sadness cauliflowering into a mind that split into florets under
    he slightest pressure.
    He watched bachelors walking between the trees hand in hand with young women. He saw Selfridge intercepting women easily on the path. A young woman approached. Selfridge stood in her way. Perhaps they were friends; they clearly knew one another, but maybe he had also befriended her? Ben pressed his palms against his eyes and pretended to massage them. He couldn't even get his body into the most basic pale suit. He imagined clinging to the young woman, her warm, clean form, her mind disconcertingly alert to hidden things. God, please don't leave me here!
    On the other side of the bachelors’ hill, families were enjoying the day. Children swung between their parents’ hands. Fathers were decked out in kind and modest sweaters. Men on the other side of the great divide, men who had made it, men who had seen the beacon and plunged, and who had made it. And now they idled justly in their summer sweaters, and there were children who worried about them and women who worried about them and who, behind closed doors, comforted them as if they were boys.
    That evening, Ben sat in the green chair in Finton's room, his shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows; his suit jacket hung in the dark of his own room across the hall. He