Ben Borden

This is a chronicle of change, at a time when the world was reeling from it, and a glimpse of one man who confronts his masked desperation and deals with it.

In the old days, when the house was young, her tenants were young, and come to think of it, the neighborhood was young. Change was on hold; frozen by catastrophic events. It was as if world affairs had created a climate in which it was too dangerous for major changes to take place at home; too risky. Change was taking place elsewhere; many of us were watching, remaining still, holding our breath. People held on to what they had. They didn’t seem to age. Lives were on hold. We waited to see what the outcome of the war would be. Who would come home; who wouldn’t.2

Of course, people got older, but not so as you could notice. And oddly, no one died in the building during those years. But there were two gold stars on the flag that covered the wall next to the elevator. The two stars indicated two sons of the building who were killed in action overseas. You couldn’t stand by the elevator and not see them. 3

There used to be a pretty little electric fireplace in the lobby that cast a red glow through large, dull chunks of colored glass. Its light had long gone out and it was dark.4

The building had had a canopy. That too was long gone, as was the huge, majestic tapestry that graced the lobby. The telephone booth between stairwells was filled with rolls of rubber mats when the public telephone was removed, and after the war, the manually operated elevator was replaced by a self-service unit, exciting at first but never to compare with the class of the manned car, the sound of her gate opening and closing. 5

But for all of these superficial alterations, hardly anyone moved into the building. No one moved out. The war was on. No one was going anywhere. And, everyone seemed to know everyone else. There were few strangers. It was a comfortable place. 6

Ruth Kruger, a nice, quiet and attractive brunette who was always dressed elegantly liked to hand me a dime occasionally. She would merely stop, rummage in her purse and, handing me the dime, for no reason, say: “here.” She had been engaged to one of the boys who was killed. Years later my father befriended a man, who became his best friend. The man had borne the loss of a son during the war. One day, my father learned quite casually, when his friend asked if we ever knew Ruth Kruger, that it was this man’s son who had been Ruth’s fianceé. It was his gold star we had been looking at all those years. Connections. Invisible threads. 7

The people next door to us were in close enough proximity to sport the titles of uncle and aunt. Otherwise they were Millie and Ben Borden. Millie and Ben lived in a two room apartment like ours but had no children so their place had a different climate. It was neat, tidy, if not sterile. On Millie’s lovely coffee table sat an oval china candy dish with a very delicate pattern. She invariably offered a piece of candy from it, but I found it a decidedly adult assortment. It was not chocolaty; there were no jellies or marmalades or fruit-filled sweets inside the dish. These offerings were more like mints, butterscotch, sugary, dull. It was candy of the worst variety I ever tasted. I never asked for a second piece and was always disappointed when Millie, on subsequent visits, lifted the china lid once again to reveal the same selection. This was the major treat, the only offering, the sole diversion in Millie and Ben’s apartment. 8

Many a pleasant Sunday afternoon would find Millie and Ben strolling in the park or sitting on one of the many park benches. If a chill in the air called for it, Millie wore a fox stole which fascinated me because the fox’s face on it was still intact. It rivaled the candies for amusement. Millie was rarely hatless on these Sunday outings, wearing hats too complicated to describe.9

Ben was always immaculately clad. His three piece suits were perfectly fitted, neatly and sharply pressed and of fine worsted wool. He was never seen outdoors without a hat. His hair was quite thin and he wore a crisply turned down gray Fedora which he tilted at a rakish angle. And he sported a pencil thin mustache. Ben could be described as dapper. 10

The Sunday meetings in the park were light and pleasant with a jovial air, sometimes terminating in a walk to one of our neighborhood bakeries for cakes which we might all later share over coffee (or milk), served on Millie’s delicate china, on her coffee table. These Sunday afternoons were agreeable enough so that I often wished we might repeat the getting together at some future time during the week. Tuesday, however, was out of the question. Tuesday was Ben’s night out with the boys.11

There were many occasions when something or another arose on a Tuesday. My father would ring the Borden’s bell. 12

“No. We’d love to. But it’s Ben’s night out with…the boys.”13

It became somewhat of a joke and we never really knew what transpired during these “nights out.” Nor did we ever get to see any of “the boys.”14

After the war the changes that had been on hold began to take effect. It was like a sleeping giant beginning to stir. Some of the men came home. People purchased cars. Apartment dwellers purchased homes in New Jersey and moved away. New tenants moved into the building. The fireplace remained dark, dormant. Some people died. And Millie, Millie began to change.15

It started with her knocking on the wall. Incessant scales and piano practicing may have played a part in precipitating her response but it escalated. Millie began to rap on the wall at the slightest noises. Every sound became a major disturbance that elicited from her a surge of pounding. And often my mother responded in kind. Soon we stopped talking to one another and glances when passing on the street were averted. 16

At first Ben was apologetic, tried to explain, mollify, mediate. Nothing seemed to work and the situation became worse. Exacerbated by Millie’s encroaching breakdown and perhaps by my conscientious practicing we all avoided one another. Millie buried her head in the folds of her coat collar, took to the stairs if others were in the vicinity of the elevator, and even amiable, genial Ben stopped talking to us and avoided contact.17

There were uncomfortable moments which were spent with Ben while awaiting the arrival of the elevator, riding with him in its enclosed space, or traversing our hallway together. But he was never anywhere to be seen in the building on Tuesday; boys’ night out.18

My father came home one night after a late meeting, downtown, at his office. It was on a Tuesday. He had been passing a Bickford’s Cafeteria on Sixth Avenue when he happened to peer inside. There, he told us, sitting dressed immaculately, over a newspaper and coffee was Ben Borden. It was too late to have been early, too early to have been late. Had his night out been cancelled?19

Only two weeks later, after years of what he had accepted as tradition (albeit wrapped in a light air of mystery) my father had occasion to pass the Bickford’s again, on a Tuesday night. Once more, the hour was late. He stopped at the window and scanned the interior. There in the back, sitting by himself, over a crumbling bran muffin and coffee, legs crossed as he read his paper, was Ben Borden. It was Boy’s Night Out.20
 

Reviews

[Stonewall]

I like the way you develop a sense of place within such a short piece. The lives of adults are very interesting when read through the eyes of a child. How well can we know our neighbours? Are Ben's nights out nothing more than a quest for solitude? Well done.

[Katurian Katurian Katur..]

Wonderful, sad story. The spaces we create between each other. Between neighbors, friends, family, and husband and wife. You painted the picture so well. I enjoyed it. I could have stood for even more painting of the picture. Nice work, my friend.