*****
Beth sat in the hospital room surrounded by the drone of heavy, expensive machinery beeping at regular intervals. She was reading an article about some new fashion trend or other, but she couldn’t really concentrate. Ben had been sleeping for seven hours now. He kept saying strange things in his sleep, things that didn’t make sense, but it still shook her up to hear them. She gave the magazine another shot:
Want to get that chic wet-boot look for less money? Buying a pair of those groovy wet-look shoes and a pair of same colored wet-look socks will give you the look you want, with less money, and more clothes in your closet!
She looked up from her magazine and saw Ben staring at the ceiling with his eyelids peeled back into his skull. She rushed over to him, and put a hand on his. Ben jerked his hand back and let out a scream that almost knocked her back. She stood dumb for a moment before returning to her husband’s side.
“Hey honey, everything’s fine,” she said in the most soothing voice she could muster. Ben’s gaze didn’t alter.
“You’re ok, honey. We’re at the Hospital. The doctor said you’re going to be just fine. You’re ok, you passed out, that’s all.” Beth had talked to the doctor, and Ben was not okay. He had had a massive seizure, but from what Beth didn’t know. He had never had one before, and the doctors were stumped as well. They chalked it up to “acute emotional distress” or “shell shock,” but Beth saw on their faces that they were unsure too. Ben’s eyes closed and his breathing became more regular. Before he succumbed to sleep, he uttered one word that Beth didn’t quite catch.
Ben came home from the hospital the next day, and seemed to be in better spirits than he had been in for quite a while. Beth helped him up to bed, and helped him undress. She turned to go, but Ben grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go. He gently pulled her towards him and into the bed. She, with mild puzzlement lay down beside him and rested her head on his chest.
She woke a few hours later and Ben was not next to her. She panicked momentarily and looked round the room feverishly, but couldn’t find Ben. She ran down the carpeted stairs, but her heel slipped on the edge of one of the steps and she slid the rest of the way down. At the bottom of the steps she looked up and saw her son Jordan looking at her quizzically.
“Did you fall, mommy?” asked
“Where’s
“He’s outside, we were playing swordfight!” exclaimed Jordan, who having forgot his mother’s fall, used his previously occupied finger as a sword to excitedly illustrate the finer points of the game.
“Oh,” she replied as she picked herself off of the floor. She heard the back door shut and Ben walked into the room moments later.
“How are you?” tested Beth-Anne.
“Like you said, Dear, I’m fine.”
*****
It had been four weeks since the seizure, and Ben was making good on his prognosis. He no longer spent sleepless nights downstairs and was even beginning to show signs of affection again. One morning, when Beth had overslept, she was shocked to find Ben in the kitchen making breakfast for
Ben didn’t really have any marketable skills, but he managed to secure a job as a security guard at a department store. He seemed to really enjoy it. He would come home from work and peel himself out of his little VW Rabbit. He would scoop Beth up in one arm and kiss her. Sometimes he would hand her a little plastic bag filled with perfume and make-up samples the ladies at the counter had given him. Ben no longer slumped, or looked broken, but walked with assurance. Ben’s recovery was so complete that Beth never bothered to finish their previous conversation. Things were solved as far as she was concerned; Ben was better now. Besides, whenever she mentioned anything having to do with the war, he simply gave her a look like she was speaking another language altogether.
It was early December. It had been several months since the seizure, and Beth was enjoying the normalcy of their life again. One Friday afternoon, Beth was cooking before Ben came home. She spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen preparing dinner; Ben had insisted the family eat all meals together. She stood over the steaming pan of Hamburger Helper, thinking about nothing in particular (which was a nice change from constant worrying). The doorbell rang, and Beth-Anne’s heart jumped slightly. Maybe it was Ben. She knew she was being silly, a grown woman shouldn’t feel like that anymore, but she did. She briefly stopped to look in the mirror to check her appearance, and then answered the door with a sultry “hello?”
“Mrs. Beth Olson?” was the unexpected response. It wasn’t Ben, but rather a tall gaunt stranger with salt and pepper stubble over his tired face.
“Oh…uh, yes. Yes, I’m Mrs. Olson,” she said.
“My name is detective Kieslowski; I work for the Cook County Police Department.”
“Oh, good afternoon officer, can I help you?” Beth-Anne feared the worst.
“Detective,” corrected Kieslowski, “Mrs. Olson, we need to ask you a few routine questions.”
“Why, is something wrong?” That was a stupid question, she thought.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more right now, other than there was a robbery at your husband’s place of work,” said Kieslowski, hinting that the situation was far from routine.
“Is Ben all right?” Beth nearly jumped down his throat.
“Please, just come with us to the station,” Kieslowski uttered with a plastic smile.
“Just let me, um. Sorry, I was in the middle of cooking dinner, just let me grab my son.”
“I’ll wait. Please, take your time.”
Beth took the food off the burner, and grabbed her keys and purse. She found
“Come on, sweetie,” she said as she peeled the stick from his muddy fingers.
*****
Beth was surprised how efficiently she was issued through the labyrinthine passageways of the police station. Someone had taken
She was brought into a room by Lieutenant Kieslowski and offered a seat.
“I’d prefer to stand, thank you,” she said, having reached the last reservoirs of her patience.
“Fine, whatever you wish,” said Kieslowski in another feeble attempt to appear personable. He sat down at his desk and rummaged through a mountain of manila folders scattered on his otherwise well-kept desk.
“Can I see my husband now?” Beth asked with a barb of reproach at his pre-occupation.
“Not at this moment…,” Lieutenant Kieslowski started.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me what in the Hell is going on with Ben?” She had too many questions that needed answering, and if lieutenant what’s-his-face couldn’t keep up, that was his problem. “Is he under arrest?”
“Not at this time,” Kieslowski managed to blurt out.
“What do you mean ‘not at this time?’ Is he under arrest or isn’t he?” Beth nearly threatened.
“He isn’t currently under arrest, no,” finished Kieslowski.
“So, he’s not going to be arrested,” she said still annoyed that Kieslowski was not keeping up with her.
“But he is being held in a containment cell,” said Kieslowski stoically.
“Then what am I doing here, what is he still doing here? What happened, is he okay?”
“Your husband subdued a man who tried to rob the Dillard’s in the Town Centre shopping complex,” Kieslowski said without any color.
“And?!” Beth bludgeoned.
“Well, Mrs. Olson, the amount of force your husband used to subdue the criminal might be deemed excessive in some circles,” Kieslowski replied diplomatically.
“He didn’t kill him, did he?” Beth’s demeanor changed considerably.
“Mrs. Olson,” Kieslowski’s brows furrowed significantly, “your husband will most likely be investigated because of the severity of force he used in the altercation. The man succumbed to his injuries at the hospital.”
Beth just stared. She had no words, she didn’t feel anything; she thought she should, but nothing came. Ben couldn’t have done that; he was too gentle. She hadn’t even thought he would have made a very good soldier. No, he couldn’t have done that.
“What?” she responded vacantly.
“Yes, I’m afraid the man sustained heavy brain trauma from the beating…”
“Beating?” Beth-Anne seized the word.
“Mrs. Olson, on top of the excessive force your husband used, he said some…um.”
“He said what?” she said in exhausted exasperation.
“Well, just some things that we were unclear about, some things that just seemed odd for the context of the situation. This really isn’t my place, but I was wondering if your husband had any...”
The phone rang and Kieslowski took the call. After a few pregnant “Uh-huh’s” and “I see’s,” he excused himself momentarily.
Beth perched precariously on her chair. She sat in stunned silence. If she felt anything at all, it was indignation at Kieslowski’s indifferent treatment. She needed answers. Looking around to see if anybody was watching, she opened up the file with her husband’s name on it and was assaulted with a single image. It was a man lying on the ground with a face swollen-up like he had plunged his face into a beehive. Several of his teeth were missing, and blood came from a tremendous gash in his forehead. His arm was bent at the forearm. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She stared for several moments in morbid shock, before having to look away. She flipped the page and saw the attached report of the incident. The report was in simple calculated phraseology that lacked any emotional coloring:
On the afternoon of December 12th, 2:00 P.M. one, John Roberts, walked into the Dillard’s department store in the Town Centre Shopping Plaza in Chicago, Il…walked up to a cashier, produced a .45 caliber handgun…fired several shots in the air and yelled for the cashier to, “Hurry up.” At approximately 2:05 P.M., Benjamin Olson, a security guard employed at the store attacked Roberts.… Medical reports indicate that the blow shattered Robert’s forearm. According to eyewitnesses, Olson began shouting at Roberts…Olson proceeded to thrust Robert’s head into the counter multiple times before dropping him onto the floor. Roberts was airlifted to Sacred Heart after police and paramedics arrived, where he later succumbed to his injuries due to significant brain trauma. Questions about Mr. Olson’s mental stability should be…
She read the last phrase twice trying to understand it when she heard the door click, and Kieslowski muttering something to another officer outside the door. Beth hastily shut the file and shoved it back into the pile.
“I’m sorry, where were we?” said Kieslowski.
Beth sat in the chair and listened to Kieslowski drone on, but her mind was already working through its own conundrum. Surely Ben couldn’t have done this. No, no he did his job. This man was threatening people, and Ben was doing his job. He could have killed Ben! He could have killed Ben. It had never dawned on Beth before that her husband might have been killed. She was afraid during the war, but that fear was more abstract. Other people’s husbands died, but Ben wouldn’t; he couldn’t. The concept had never solidified in her head. Sure the thoughts came in the cold and empty hours of the early morning when she lay there alone, but they never stayed long. Not until he came home after being in an Army hospital for a year did the thought first take root. He got better, physically at least, and she stifled the fear. He was too strong for something as common as death, she thought.
She had a dream once while Ben was away. Ben was fighting something dark with fiery eyes, and she was helpless to look on as Ben was burned over and over until she hardly recognized him. She screamed and thrashed, but Ben just stood there letting the fire burn him away. She had woken up, and after a moment or two went back to sleep and just disregarded it as one does with unpleasant dreams. Only now, as she stood looking at the report did that image come back, and she was afraid for Ben. He was not okay.
“Well, do you have anything to add?” Kieslowski said with a bite of annoyance at her unresponsiveness.
Beth sat in the chair, under the oppressive hum of fluorescent lighting. The whole room looked sickly, drained, and sterile.
“No, Officer. I mean, Ben has been incredibly stressed recently. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and we’ve been having some financial trouble,” she said on the verge of eruption.
“So, nothing out of the ordinary, no odd mannerisms, no unnatural displays of aggression, or no signs of mental instability that you have witnessed?”
“Well, he…” Beth recovered, “he, um, has been kind of moody, but I think that’s understandable.”
“Mrs. Olson, is your husband a reader?”
The question caught Beth-Anne off guard.
“A reader?”
“Does he like to read?”
“Oh! Um, not really, he’s more of an action flick guy.”
“Does the word “Beowulf” mean something to you, Mrs. Olson?”
Beth thought back to the night Ben had the seizure. He had muttered all kinds of strange things in his sleep, but she had explained it away as just a bad dream. He had said some things that were downright bizarre. Maybe she should tell Kieslowski? No, she couldn’t do that, she had to protect Ben. He was sick; she couldn’t help him if he was in prison. He could get worse! He wasn’t dangerous, she knew that.
“Oh!” Beth burst out, and tried to reign herself in, “That was his nickname in the army, he kind of looks like a Viking, I suppose.” Her thumb began to quiver involuntarily.
There was a long, dreadful silence, but Beth’s mind was screaming.
“Mrs. Olson, are you worried about your husband?” asked Kieslowski after several weighted seconds.
“Yes! I’m worried about my husband!” She exploded, “He stopped a man from robbing and possibly killing a whole bunch of innocent people!” she had to protect Ben from Kieslwoski, “He could have been killed, he’s a hero! And you want to arrest him for doing his duty?” If they found out how sick Ben was, they would lock him away from her forever. “I’m sorry that man died, but as far as I am concerned Ben is healthy!” She ended her tirade feverishly.
“Healthy?” inquired Kieslowski
“Alive, I mean. He could have been shot! You people don’t seem to appreciate that; I could have lost my husband today! I don’t know what I would do if I lost Ben, and now you want to take him away from me? How dare you.”
“Ok, ok Mrs. Olson,” Kieslowski tried to placate her, “Don’t get hysterical. Please. You’re right, this has probably come as a big shock to you, and no charges have been pressed yet. I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”
Frankly, Kieslowski was tired of dealing with hysterical wives, daughters, and mothers. He had had his fill today, and besides, he did slightly agree with this lady. This Roberts guy was probably just trying to get quick cash for his next drug fix, and now there was one less junkie to waste tax money on.
“Can I see him now?” Beth asked with a hint of exhaustion.
“Of course, I’ll send for someone to take you.”
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