Bella

  Bella

  A Love Story with Books and Bullets

  C.M. Blackwood

  “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy —

  It is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make

  Some people acquainted with each other, and

  Seven days are more than enough for others.”

  – Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 C.M. Blackwood.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

  1

  Brother & Sister Benoit

  We’re often unaware of what things hurt us most. We’re often wrongly convinced that those things do us good; and so we’re often subsequently inflicted with the additional pain of such mistaken thinking.

  As with every story, then, the first line shall serve to illustrate an important point. We settle on a morning in midsummer; and we paint the scene.

  The sky shone clear and blue above the dry earth, looking like a cool and perfect haven past the thick, hazy air that swirled below it. The day was hot, hotter than most; and the two occupants of a diminutive and dreadful car, which raced along beneath that same blue sky, were squeezed together in such a fashion as made the first occupant rather irritable, and the second occupant rather anxious. Drenched with sticky sweat as they were, and adhered so completely to their imitation-leather seats as they were, what useless air lay between them served only to press like a solid object – increasing both the first occupant’s irritation, and the second occupant’s anxiety.

  The first occupant, positioned just as he always was behind the wheel of the car, was called Robert Benoit. Many over the length of his thirty-two years had attempted to call him Rob, or perhaps even Bobby. But he was having none of that. His parents, lying now dead in their graves, had named him Robert; had stamped it, for heaven’s sake, on his birth certificate. And so, he assured everyone, there would be absolutely no tossing about of either of those aforementioned nicknames. What was the point of a nickname, anyway? Robert always did wonder. Didn’t it take some of the power away from the given name? Well, surely it did. And so, he assured everyone – there would be no shortening of that name which his parents, lying now dead in their graves, had bestowed upon him. If anyone wanted to, they might perhaps lengthen that name, by adding the appellation of “Ernest” to its end; but there was to be no shortening of it whatsoever; no way, no how.

  And yet, aside from this particular preference concerning his name (the severity of which, when coupled with so trivial a concept, may offer you a certain foresight into the gentleman’s demeanor), Robert Benoit was indeed quite the handsome devil. But really one thing couldn’t be said to have anything to do with the other; for experience informs us without the smallest sliver of doubt, that handsomeness is neither connected to nor caused by good humor and manners; and oftentimes possessors of the former are actually found to be more severely lacking in the latter.

  Looking at the most about twenty-five, Robert Benoit measured a strapping six feet tall when standing at his full height. Lean in the manner of body fat, he possessed on the other hand a great quantity of muscle, which paired very effectively with his tallness, to make him somewhat formidable. His face was an admirable one, seemingly flawless in its chiseled composition; and chiseled, at that, of the finest marble one might find, anywhere at all in the world. His eyes were blue, and cold. His hair was dark, and rolled in short, neat waves atop his head. He was in the habit of wearing rather fancy clothes, and had a great affinity for shoes, for which he harbored no shame at all.

  As an example: even as he drove through the sweltering heat of southern Texas, he wore a pair of good-fitting slacks, and a freshly-starched, neatly-pressed shirt, with the sleeves rolled carefully up to his elbows. His foot on the accelerator (and the other one, too, if it must be said) was shod in a shiny black shoe, polished just that morning with a tiny tin of blacking that he carried just for the purpose. He always wore the same grey bowler hat, anytime he went out of the car, perching it jauntily over his well-oiled hair. He looked much the private investigator from some seven decades prior; or even, if we might go a little farther, like the casually-dressed but ever-proper fellow from well over a century past.

  Beside him sat his sister, Lucie Benoit. He often made it clear that he had no respect at all for her name, though it had been granted by the father whom he had so revered. Given his hatred and lack of comprehension towards shortened names, so he had the same for names which, to him, seemed to serve no purpose. Now, Robert Ernest, there was a good strong name. But Lucie? Why hadn’t they put the middle name of Antoinette to the front, and the name of Lucie, if they so insisted on having it, to the middle – where it wouldn’t be seen by regular acquaintances?

  Lucie had tried several times to defend herself from this disparagement of the name once so dear to her own beloved mother; and had gone so far as to point out, that the name of Lucie was one which had had a considerable place in the mind of Charles Dickens, in the creation of one Lucie Manette.

  But Robert saw nothing in this. “What about her?” he said. “What use did she ever have? She brought her father out of his insanity, only to try and drive him back into it with her marriage to that rascal! And what did she do, once that rascal was taken to be beheaded? She cried! Day and night she cried, all to the use of nobody! Really, I never even understood what Carton saw in her. I suppose he was just as foolish as everyone else in that stupid book.”

  At this, of course, Lucie found that she could by no means leave all these good people without representation. “How can you say that?” she asked. “Charles Darnay was no rascal! His uncle, well, yes – but not him! Lucie had every right to love him. It was noble, what he did: even if it did bring him so near to the guillotine! And Mr. Sydney Carton was an honorable man. To give his life for the one he loved most!” Here she couldn’t keep from sniffling a bit, as she added, “Even if she never was able to love him just as much.”

  Robert only shook his head at this, and looked at his sister in disbelief. “You see, now,” he said, “this is what I don’t understand. Again, you’ve taken it too far! All this over a silly story! You – oh, you, and all of your silly stories!”

  But now, as it seems that we must say something to the greater good of Miss Benoit, we will say: if ever there was one person who could rival Robert Benoit’s particular brand of human beauty, it was that one, Miss Benoit. In many ways, she looked much like her brother; but it seemed that each characteristic was softened, and enhanced by a certain kindness of spirit which Robert didn’t possess. Her hair was quite as dark and shining as his, and her skin was quite as perfect and white as his. But her blue eyes were infused with a sort of warmth that his lacked. Her well-shaped countenance lent a kind of infectious glow, where in his there was only frigidity.

  And then there was the discrepancy between sister and brother, which concerned their attire. Well-dressed Robert usually took it upon himself to spend any extra money he had, on the best sort of clothes for himself, and left Lucie in what items she had worn for several years past. He would only acquiesce some small part of his funds (always his funds, and never their funds, though a portion of them had come from their father’s will) when she began to complain of small holes forming in her clothes – the kind that have the unbelievably ungratefu
l and inconceivable tendency of snagging on things, and growing larger.

  This habit was, in two ways, due to Robert’s excessive vanity. In the first way, he wanted to spend all of the money on himself, so as to make himself all that much more worthy of his own conceit. In the second way, however, one might venture to say that he wished to keep his sister clothed in such inferior materials, in an effort to decrease the effect of her radiant beauty. In a perfect world, he would be the only one radiating anything of the sort. All others would be plain, and drab, and painted exactly the pattern of whatever wallpaper they happened to be standing beside.

  But now, as we have already referred to Mr. and Mrs. Benoit, lying dead in their graves, we should note (and thus further explain the obligation of Lucie to submit to all of her brother’s wishes, fiscal or otherwise) that their children had always dwelt together, with the one ever abusing the other under the guise of caring for her. For, you see, Lucie Benoit did prove herself wholly unable, on several occasions, to live independently. This wasn’t for any want of ability, or intelligence; for in both areas she maintained a surplus. Yet she was affected, shall we say, by something of a mental imbalance, where she was perhaps deficient in the one thing (whatever this thing might be), and overabundant in the other (whatever that thing might be); and in this case, such overabundance of the one only served to increase the deficiency of the other.

  It was a malady with which she had been afflicted since she was a small girl (and afflicted for quite a number of years, as she had passed by the time of our story a whole twenty-eight of them). She sometimes became greatly anxious, or greatly confused; and indeed often forgot where she was altogether. It wasn’t uncommon for her to begin to scream at such times, and to sob rather loudly. This was much to the embarrassment of her brother, whenever he happened to be about. But when he did not happen to be so, she usually only managed to draw a great deal of attention to herself – though all in the line of the bad sort, and never the kind which might persuade a person to offer her assistance. And so she most always simply wandered away from wherever it was that she happened to be, till the sight of something or other brought to mind her location or course; and then, in the merest instant, all was right again.

  It can also be said that she suffered from occasional “fits of temper,” so named and despised by Robert, and so feared by their exhibitor. These were most likely to occur when Lucie experienced a thing much like forgetting where she was; but, in this instance, forgetting who she was. Her episodes of rage at these moments may even, perhaps, have dwarfed her brother’s everyday shows of the same – though certainly we can’t hold her equally accountable, seeing as she did have for excuse the greatest provocation. She had been given several sorts of medication in the past, and had been admitted to the hospital more than once. But anything that anyone ever tried to do for her, only seemed to destroy her memory, even while it prevented serious visitations of restlessness and disquiet; or perhaps it kept her from forgetting, but made her all the more paranoid for her clarity of mind. And so treatment was abandoned, so long – the doctors said – as Robert felt he could continue as a sort of guardian for her.

  But if he was a guardian angel – well, we could probably do without an example of a demon.

  Now, Lucie, whose pride could sometimes be trampled effectively underfoot by her brother, did possess a certain amount of that substance, which was outmatched only by its trampler’s. Yet it was of a different sort than his own, relating not at all to those physical attributes shared by brother and sister, which were prized to such a greater extent by the brother. Rather, she was prouder than anything of her ability to manage together, the occasionally debilitating effects of her malady, as well as the often unbearable meanness and cruelty of Robert. Certainly she was in dire need of this ability; for without it, she would never have made it through the entirety of those twenty-eight years.

  And yet it would be prudent to mention, before we have gone too far, that Lucie never did hate her brother, in the way that he hated her. Possibly it was his resemblance to their father, who, though he certainly didn’t understand her, never once showed the slightest hint of disliking her. He had even been known to insist that he loved her; albeit not, perhaps (though he didn’t say so), so much as he loved his son. Possibly it was that Robert frequently seemed to forget that he did hate her, and treated her in so near a way to something he actually valued, that she sometimes became confused as to the way he truly felt, and disregarded whatever terrible and hateful things he may have said the day before. Or possibly it was only the fact that she had no one else.

  In any case, she sat with him presently in that small, hot car, traveling steadily nearer to the Mexican border. When setting out from their adjoining apartments in El Paso the night before, he had said nothing at all pertaining to their destination. It was very common for him to leave home, and remain absent for anywhere between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. He ordered her at such times to keep to her apartment, with the door locked, so disinclined was he to have to search for her when he returned. But this time it seemed that his business (whatever in the world it could be) would take at least one week; and even he knew full well that he couldn’t leave Lucie to herself for so long. “Who knows where I’ll find you when I come back!” he exclaimed. “Asleep in a dumpster, no doubt, or dead in a ditch.” Here he frowned, and rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Though I’ll admit,” he added, “that that sort of thing’s been known to happen many, many times – where we’re going.”

  “And where are we going?” she asked in alarm.

  He said nothing; but only continued to stroke his chin, as if deep in thought. Lucie had the displeasure, then, of suspecting that he seemed very fond of the notion of finding her, dead in a ditch.

  2

  Mexico

  They arrived just before noon at the border. Robert drove slowly into one of the narrow lanes, and Lucie was reminded of a turnpike, with much more serious-looking employees, and a much longer waiting period.

  Apparently familiar with the process, Robert had his paperwork ready, and he offered it to the lane-officer with a flashing smile. That smile worked wonders on loads of people, but it seemed it didn’t work on the lane-officer. It was a lucky thing Robert’s paperwork was in order, or the officer might very well have pulled him out of the car by his hair.

  He frowned at Robert, and Robert glared at him. He hated it when his charms didn’t work.

  Finally, the officer waved them through, and Robert sped on into Mexico, passing the sign which welcomed them to Juárez, with the speedometer needle very nearly touching eighty.

  They hadn’t gone on very long at all, before Lucie forgot about her earlier fear, and asked again, “Where are we going, Robert?”

  “That’s no business of yours,” he snapped, reaching over to swat at her inquisitive hand, which had just popped open the glove compartment in search of she didn’t know what. “Just follow me when I tell you, and stay put when you ought to.”

  “But where am I going?” she persisted, looking out of the window into the glaring sunlight. Then she shielded her eyes, and glanced back at her brother. “Are you going to tell me, Robert?”

  “No.”

  “But why?”

  “If you don’t hush up,” Robert said through clenched teeth, “you’ll find that ditch ahead of schedule.”

  Lucie crossed her arms, and threw herself back in her seat. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.

  “So are you.”

  They said nothing more to each other. Lucie might have held her tongue all day long, if she hadn’t suddenly realized that she was hungry.

  Robert had only just pulled into the steaming lot of a rather shabby-looking motel. Lucie peered around nervously, searching for potential signs of danger – but when her stomach growled, she forgot about what she was doing, and asked, “Will we have supper soon?”

  “It’s not even one o’clock, you fool,” her brother returned.

  �
��Then will we have lunch?”

  “After I’ve seen to some business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “None that concerns you!”

  Lucie pursed her lips, and turned her eyes to the second story of the motel, down the narrow, railed walk of which there was creeping a suspicious-looking man. He halted at the door of room 6B, and began to pound on it.

  “Lorena!” he cried, stamping both his feet as he continued to smash his fist against the door. “Lorena! Abre la puerta!”

  Lucie swiveled her eyes downward, and glared at her brother. “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “You’ll have to wait,” Robert told her. He fished for a moment in his pocket, and came up with a key. He handed it to Lucie, and said, “Here. Go and lie down for a while.”

  “How did you get that key? You didn’t even check in yet.”

  “I have an understanding with the manager,” he said impatiently. “This is the room I always use. Now go!”

  Lucie narrowed her eyes. “But you didn’t pay.”

  “I’ve already paid, Lucie, for Christ’s sake! Just get!”

  “Well, fine,” she said, with a barely discernible sniffle. “I don’t see why you have to shout.”

  She took the key, and stepped out into the heat of the lot. Scarcely had her feet even touched the asphalt, when Robert snatched the door out of her hand, and nearly drove over her toes.

  “When will you be back?” she called.

  He didn’t answer.

  So she looked down at the key, and saw that it belonged to room 12A. She crossed to the first-story walk, and made her way down to the end, where she found the door that matched her key. This door was painted blue, while its neighbor number eleven was painted green.

  She shook her head with a sigh, and pushed her way into the room. The man upstairs was still hollering for Lorena, and she wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible, just in case he suddenly decided to dash down the steps.