THE SOUL ON THE BENCH
by
Margaret Marr
I saw him there again. That man. He sat on the bench in the park across from my apartment building. The rain beat down, plastering his dark locks to his bare head. I feared the wind would blow him away if he sat there much longer. Why on earth was he sitting out there in the rain? Didn't he have any more sense than a dog?
He sat there in his faded suit and worn shoes once a week and read a book. Today he held the book inside his long coat and wrapped his arms around his middle to protect it. What could be so important about that book? My elbow squeaked against the window pane as I tried to clean the fog away. He must have heard or seen my movement, because he looked up at me. I froze. He studied me for a long while, then he looked back down at his feet. I moved away from the window.
I shouldn't have been spying on him, but he was the only thing I'd been interested in since I locked myself away in this room, too scared to leave it, all those years ago. I felt a restlessness whenever he appeared. Did I want to leave here? Did he want me to leave here? I shook my head, not yet.
I slipped between the cool sheets and stared wide eyed at the ceiling. It was seven o'clock in the evening and I was ready for bed. That night I dreamed about the man on the bench. I dreamed about the terrible thing that happened in the park to drive me to my self-made prison. He was a nice looking man. Clean cut. He wanted to know the time. He told me to come closer. His hearing wasn't good. I did. The next thing I knew I was flat on my back with a knife to my throat. He said he would slice me from ear to ear if I screamed. As he violated my body I told him about Jesus. Why? I didn't know.
His face kept changing. First he was Uncle Ted who used to corner me when I was a little girl and touch me in private places, and then he was the rapist again. Once he was the dirty bum in the alley behind Wal-Mart who yelled disgusting things he wanted me to do to him. Then he turned into the man on the bench, a shadowy figure. I couldn't make out his face.
"Shut up, or I'll cut your tongue out," he said.
I started to cry. This wasn't supposed to happen to an old woman.
"How many souls have you won?" he asked.
I awoke with a start. Did he say that? I felt the tears on my cheek and reached up to wipe them away. I got out of bed and walked to the window. For some reason I expected the man to be sitting on the bench. It's three o'clock in the morning, Eve, I told myself. Then again, he'd been sitting out in the rain. I slept fitfully the rest of the night. Every time I would doze off, the rapist would loom before me, dark and menacing. When was this long nightmare going to end?
The next morning I waited on Clara, my elder sister. She'd told me yesterday she was getting too old to climb up and down those stairs to bring my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I waited an hour and she still hadn't come. I felt worry brushing at my stomach. Would I have to go find her? The thought made me panic. I couldn't do it. I waited another thirty minutes and then crept to the door. Before I could get my hand on the door knob, it was twisted open. Clara balanced the tray with one hand and pushed the door all the way open with the other.
"Don't just stand there. Get this tray before I drop it," she snapped.
"Aren't you feeling well?" She didn't look sick. The gray was gone in her hair and her skin glowed. "I had a late night," she answered and sat down on the love seat with a weary sigh. What was Clara doing out late? I wondered.
"I'm getting married next week," she announced. My mouth dropped open. She was doing what? "We decided that we want to spend what's left of our lives together."
"That's ridiculous. There's no need," I spluttered. She couldn't do this to me.
"I love him. He's a good Christian man, and he'll make a good husband." She broke off half of a pancake, tore a smaller piece off and stuffed it into her mouth.
"Somehow I doubt that," I said. I didn't like this one little bit. She was sixty-five years old for heaven's sake. She lashed out at me.
"It's time you stopped this foolishness. Find some way to forgive that man for what he did to you and get out of this stuffy old place, breathe some fresh air."
"Clara, please don't do this to me," I pleaded. I felt the tears burn my eyes.
"When I get married I will no longer live here. You've got a week to get yourself together." Her voice was cold and I knew there would be no changing her mind. She turned and looked at me, one hand on the door. "I'm sorry." For a minute her features softened and then she was gone.
I collapsed in a heap on the floor after she left and cried until my throat was raw. At one time I beat on the floor with my fists and screamed. How could she be so cruel? Didn't she understand the depth of my pain and fear? I left my breakfast and lunch untouched. I sat and did nothing but stare at what was my home for the past year. A pink canopy bed, a white love seat, a bookshelf with a few books on it and a rocking chair made up the room. A door to the right went to a small bathroom. My throat ached. I wasn't ready to leave. Night fell, and I was drawn to the window.
He was there. I had never seen him down there two days in a row. I felt the restlessness again. I was drawn to him. My pulse quickened. Should I dare to go down there? I slipped on a light jacket, raised the window and climbed down the fire escape. My heart was in my throat and my stomach felt like it had a rock in it. Ready or not I was out the window The air was chilly.
A feeling I hadn't felt in a long time. It was a strange sensation, and I had to stop and breathe it in. A dog barked close by, and I grabbed the fire escape and was halfway back up before I caught myself.
"It's a dog, Eve." I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. When I turned around the man was looking at me. I stood still, not daring to breathe. I couldn't see much even with the street lamp shining close by him.
"You the pretty lady that looks out ...?" He pointed to the window, and I looked back at the light that glowed from inside. It looked so safe there. "Nice night ... " He paused and struggled to find the words he wanted to say.
That voice, I thought. He scooted to the edge of the bench and into the light. The world zoomed into one small space, and the ground flew up toward me. I reached out a hand to steady myself. He had been in my nightmares for the past seven years.
"Come sit. I'll read ... from the good book." He patted the spot beside him. It was him except for the scar that ran above his left eye and disappeared into his hair. His manner was different, too. It was like he was a child. I still couldn't move. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.
"I feel drawn ... to this spot. I hurt ... I think I hurt someone here," he said. He looked so sad and sorry for what he couldn't remember doing, my heart went out to him. I tried to remember the horrible thing he had done to me, but the images were blank. I needed to hate him, but I felt only sadness. It looked like he'd suffered enough. I sat beside him and searched his face. There was no hint of recognition in his eyes. I traced the scar on his head with the tips of trembling fingers. An accident from prison? I wondered. He reached out and touched the same spot I'd touched, and a blush crept up his neck.
"I was in prison. Can't remember nothing ... now. I just read the good book to ... those who will listen. Some ... prison." He struggled to say more. "It ... hard ... win souls in prison," he finished.
"I know," I whispered.
"This spot ... where I heard Jesus ... about Jesus. I feel it is," he said. "I win many souls ... since. How many souls you win?" His smile was big and proud.
"Just one." I started to cry. He couldn't see my tears. Part of me wanted to rip him to shreds, tear his eyes out, hurt him while he was defenseless, like he did me. But the other part wanted to forgive him, because he was defenseless. He'd suffered for it, hadn't he? Oh, I didn't know. He couldn't hurt me now. I was sure of it. Maybe, Clara was right. This poison had been allowed to grow for far too long. It was time to purge it from my body.
"I need to go ... now." He stood and walked away.
"You're forgiven," I whispered, not loud enough for him to hear. He turned around with a frown on his face and then he smiled. He clutched the Bible to his chest and disappeared into the night. I saw him again on television while I made my first meal in a kitchen I hadn't stepped foot in, in a long time. He was being interviewed about the impressive number of prisoners he'd witnessed to and brought to salvation. He didn't look like he'd ever been a rapist, but then again he never had. I don't think he knew I was the one who needed to forgive him, but his heart must have known, because he never visited the bench again.