Some Other Town Read Online Free Page A

madness, these shifting personae, we on this block all expect it. I myself brace for the show.
    That is to say, Mrs. Eberline is an actress, or was, of some local renown. She once studied at a famous drama school. She was a starlet in Hollywood in the thirties, it was rumored she was groomed to play Scarlett. But when a dark horse Brit was cast instead, she left film and turned to theater. She played off-Broadway, she played summer stock. She turned to the regional stage. And eventually, though no one in town agrees why, she ended up here with her mother.
    Where still there was drama to pursue. For years Mrs. E played character roles in our local community theater or sometimes in university shows. If not great, she was a good actor, reviews said. Certainly she emoted well. Certainly she took theater seriously. Until at some point no longer clear, she took it entirely to heart. So that now, with the madness fully descended, always Mrs. E is in character. Always she is trying out for new parts.
    Which means that rarely can we here on Mott in a day predictjust who Mrs. E will be. Although sometimes we can guess by wardrobe, by what shows under the ubiquitous red coat. Two personae in particular she favors, and we know both their costumes well. Some days, for example, she dons a silky blue caftan. A sign Mrs. Eberline is having a Belva White day, a role she embraced long ago, a kind of diva à la Vivian Pickles. On Belva White days, Mrs. E throws her arms open wide and lavishes others with Darlings, and But dearest, you-simply-cannot-imagines.
    Other days, rolled-up men’s trousers appear under Mrs. E’s coat and her accent takes a dramatic turn south. She removes her false teeth, drops the endings from words, and believes herself back on Tobacco Road. I check and indeed Mrs. Eberline is in trousers today. I am right. Today Mrs. E is in sharecropper mode.
    I take a seat on the other end of the couch. “Ben Adams?” I say to Mrs. E. I smile, I am pleasant. I sound as though I am just making clear which Ben feller she might have in mind.
    Mrs. Eberline scowls. “Don’t be gittin’ smart with me, missy,” she says. She sits back in the couch, crosses her arms, holds her line. “I seen him take off. And I ain’t seen no truck out here since.”
    She tucks in her chin, lets out a loud sigh. Mrs. E is disgusted or possibly just pining for Ben. With that parka hood up and hiding her head, it is difficult telling which.
    Ben Adams was a favorite of Mrs. Eberline. Ben Adams is good-looking, I should mention, tall with lovely deep-sea green eyes, and whenever he was around, Mrs. E arranged always to be too, out in her yard, available. Ben favored Mrs. Eberline as well. And sometimes when I would call him to the window to watch, to seewhat now Mrs. E was up to, what new scavenged thing she had dragged onto her lawn, the latest pedestal sink she had managed to upend at her door, he would just smile and look knowing. “She means no harm, Margaret,” he would say. “You should not be so hard on the woman.”
    Mrs. Eberline shifts impatiently on my couch, and I decide to come clean. “You have me there, Mrs. Eberline,” I say. “Ben Adams is gone.”
    Mrs. E looks up. “Gone?”
    â€œRight,” I say.
    She cocks her little head inside its red hood.
    â€œWell, that is, missing,” I say. “Ben Adams has gone missing. Disappeared.” And lifting both shoulders, I shrug. For her sake I try to make light of it.
    Mrs. Eberline only stares.
    I think how to be more clear. “Ben Adams has left, Mrs. Eberline,” I say, “and I do not know if he is coming back.”
    This last part startles me a little. And before I can think what else I can say, a funny thing starts to happen. I feel something inside me beginning to rise just as I do lately when waking. This time it feels like a sob.
    I look off, clear my throat, go no further.
    Mrs. Eberline