Eleven-thirty PM. The words appeared dully in the forefront of Elaine's skull. She scribbled her pen across the last pages of her report hurriedly, the day having gone slowly by and her work as tedious as ever. The last of the officers made their way home and the midnight shift had signed in at the front desk and piled into the bullpen. Her head began to hurt because of fatigue. She rubbed it absent-mindedly and hurried on with her work not even concentrating on what it was. The last stroke was etched and Elaine threw down her pen with a weary finality. She leaned back in her chair, screwing her eyes shut. She turned up the radio on her desk. Scratchy notes of nineteen-thirties's swing music crept into the quiet squad room. Glen Miller, she thought, I've Got a Girl in Kalamazoo. She moved her feet animatedly with the time, tapped her fingers on the files completed hours ago, lulled herself into a relaxed mood. Just half-an-hour left. Benton Fraser had tiptoed in. His hair dripped with fallen rain. He shook off the raindrops that formed minute puddles on his jacket. He cast his gaze over to Ray's desk. He was not there. Perhaps he has the night off, he thought. The squad room was empty. Just Elaine, mysteriously tapping her fingers and moving her feet to the catchy rhythm of the swing music. Leaning his head against the doorway, he smiled.
"You know, things would work much more smoothly if you got up and moved," he said referring to her stirring feet.
Elaine, startled, fumbled for the pen on her desk and tried to make out she was working. Benton, feeling bad that he had disturbed her reverie, shook his head.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I never meant to scare you."
"No, that's okay," she muttered, "I was just working."
He smiled again. She was not working but her attempt at deception was cute.
"When did you come back?" she asked.
"Just an hour ago."
Elaine nodded. She paused for a moment.
"How's Harry?"
Benton bowed his head.
"Harry's fine," he replied.
Elaine understood.
"Were you close to him?"
Benton thought for a minute.
"When you've travelled as much as I have, close does not mean so much," he explained.
"You're lying."
His face went pale. She was right. Elaine had an uncanny ability to root out his lies.
"I suppose I was," he said softly, "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again."
Elaine was satisfied with what she heard. Benton had to be brutally honest with her. She would have it no other way. She resumed her work.
Benton strained to hear the music on the radio. He heard a familiar note. He turned up the volume and pulled Elaine from her seat.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm dancing with you. You seemed like you wanted to."
"No," she denied, trying to hide her laughter.
Benton twirled Elaine and flung her from his person only to reel her back. Elaine fell into the rhythm of the one-step. He was a good dancer and she loved it when he did something spontaneous, like this. They swayed vivaciously to I've Got a Girl in Kalamazoo. Glen Miller's trombone was coming to its last vivacious notes. Benton twirled her again and flung her. The trombone ended its lively crescendo and when Elaine was pulled back her arms nearly found their way around Benton's waist. She stepped back nervously trying not to look into his eyes. But she couldn't help it. A great strain to focus on everything else but him was put on her. He could feel it too.
"I have to go now," Benton confessed, "Ray will want to see me."
A question struggled to rise in her throat. She quivered in apprehension.
"How's Anna?"
Benton nodded.
"Fine."
Benton turned away and walked downstairs to the street. Elaine slumped into the chair and slapped her leg forcefully. She could not lie to herself. He doesn't love me, she thought to herself. I'm only fooling myself. It was midnight.
Rain poured down intermittedly. Benton ran up the front steps and knocked on the door of the Vecchio home once and then turned to leave. It is too late to be bothering Ray, he thought. The front door opened. Benton looked at the light emitting from the house. It luminated Ray, making him look like an angel.
"Hey, Benny! Come on in."
Benton came into the lobby joyously. Ray smiled in return. Benton could see that he was happy to see him again. Ray pivoted back and landed a punch on Benton's face.
"Where the hell have you been?!" Ray growled.
Benton rubbed his face and looked surprised at Ray.
"I went to Fort Nelson for Harry's funeral."
Ray's features softened and became sympathetic.
"Oh- that's okay then. Come on in."
Benton shook his head in an ounce of disbelief and joined Ray at the kitchen table.
"Grappa, whiskey, tea, coffee?"
"Just apple juice."
Ray poured some apple juice for him.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Ray said, "I thought you dropped off the face of the earth."
"Sorry, Ray," Benton apologized swigging down his apple juice, "I just didn't want to talk to anyone."
Ray poured apple juice for himself.
"You talked to Elaine."
Benton was caught in a point.
"I didn't talk to her much."
Lull. An interval of silence that always fell between Benton and anyone he was connected to. Some lulls lasted for years. Others, like this one, fell at awkward moments providing momentum for something else.
"Did Harry suffer?" Ray asked.
"I don't know," Benton replied not phased by the sudden question, "Perhaps he did not."
"Where did you bury him?"
"There wasn't much of him left to bury," Benton admitted, "Forbes...Alexander interred him."
Ray was flabbergasted. Of all things fate could do to you, why have the blood of Alexander J. Forbes run in your veins? He could see how difficult even now mentioning the name of the man was.
"He promised to write to Anna. I had asked him to."
Ray's brow furrowed.
"Is that an effort to humanize the man?"
Benton simply looked at him.
"He is family, Ray."
Ray smiled. What family meant to him began to seep into Benton's life as well.
Mrs. Vecchio walked into the kitchen. Her face lit up when she saw Benton.
"Benito!" she cried and pulled the Mountie to her great matronly form embracing him warmly. She pushed him away and slapped him.
"Where were you?!"
Benton rubbed the stinging red mark on his cheek.
"A funeral, Mrs. Vecchio," Benton tried to explain, "my uncle..."
Her face, as Ray's had done before her, softened.
"Oh. I see." She stroked Benton's face. "That's all right then."
She turned to Ray, embraced him and planted kisses on either sides of his face.
"Good night, mio figlio."
As Mrs. Vecchio retired upstairs, Benton pushed his glass away and made his way to the door.
"I'm going to leave now, Ray."
Ray followed him, staring at him intensely.
"You can stay here. I'll make up a bed for you."
"No thank you," Benton refused, "I'll just go home."
Francesca came down the stairs.
"Ben, I didn't know you were here."
"He was trying to leave us, Frannie," Ray explained in a monotone voice, "we can't allow him to leave."
Benton pushed himself out the door. Ray and Francesca's eyes never left him.
"We love you, Benton," Francesca uttered.
Benton walked backward into the falling rain. He was frightened by their strange onset of eeriness. The blows to the face, the looks of sympathy, the strange affection, the invitation of a bed, the tormenting of the muskox, the constant eye contact that could be construed as profuse staring as seen in those who stalk the innocent. Benton turned away from the Vecchio home and walked back to his apartment in the enveloping rain. September. The month had such a resonance to it. Time was flying. Benton sat up in his bed. Anna sat at the foot of it. She curled up on his lap and looked at the sunrise through the rusted iron fire escapes and the decrepid brown buildings scratching the surface of the horizon. Benton ran his hand through his daughter's jet hair. In twenty-five more days it would be her birthday. Five years for the daughter of Mac Shimi. He hugged her heartily. He held the girl in his arms for so long. The alarm clock next to his bed gave him the time. Seven-thirty. He nudged Anna away gently.
"Time to get on with living," he said and made the girl breakfast.
Elizabeth MacLeod folded the pale blue sweater she had knit and placed it neatly in the tiny white dresser. Anais would come in twenty minutes and look after things for her. She went to her kitchen and gazed once more at the calender. The last few days of the month would be an ideal time to see Benton. She circled them in red.
"No perfect time then soon," she uttered. The days ticked by slowly. The only thing Benton had truly anticipated was Anna's birthday. He filled the tedious recesses between that date with work. Constantly compounded with work. Thatcher had warmed to him. She still gave him loads of work to do but she seemed humane about it, letting him work at his own pace, asking him about Anna, offering rare looks of sympathy. Was she truly sorry about Harry? Everyone had to be. Harry wasn't just an uncle but a phenomenon. He offered absolution to her when punishment would be swift and brutal. But Harry was dead. Thatcher's kindness was unwarranted, Benton thought. He folded the pages of a report and shoved them in his desk. It was midday. He left the consulate for lunch in the dying September sun.
No more waiting. Elaine would no longer wait for love to come to her. The man she truly desired barely acknowledged her. If she wanted to be attached to someone, anyone, then she would have to move on her own. She slid in the fitted red dress she had purchased just for this evening. She tied her hair back. She twirled around the full-length mirror. She thought she looked sexy, sexy enough for Allan. She needed a finishing touch. Elaine snapped on the diamond earrings and made her way to Allan Blatchford's place.
Eight o'clock. Benton had been burning the midnight oil for the past twenty-two days. Enough was enough. He put on his leather jacket and signed out. As he hurried from the consulate, the familiar notes of swing music blared again in his ears.
It was eight-thirty. Benton received no answer when he telephoned Elaine's apartment. He walked calmly trying to think of where she might be. He had all night. He smiled quietly to himself. He was hurtling over an obstacle. Everything would fall into place naturally, like the one-step and Glen Miller...