Title: Sunday Mornings
Summary: Benny knew that it would turn out this way, but that doesn't stop him from still having to deal with it.
Notes: About four or five months Post-RENT. This installment is different from the rest in that it isn't crafted around only facts; I made an assumption about Benny and Mimi's relationship and then based the entire story around that.
On Sunday mornings, Benny always feels sorry for having loved anyone.
It makes sense, because Monday through Friday, he's busy being Mr. Benjamin Coffin, or "The Most Motivated Young Man You'll Ever Meet," as his boss/father-in-law boasts (every single day) when he claps him heartily on the back. On Saturdays, he's Ben, Alison's charming husband.
On Mondays through Saturdays, Benny likes himself.
On Sunday mornings, Alison goes to church with her mother and Benny is left in the house, surrounded by all the things that he is and all the things he is not, and always, always, confronted by the fact that he doesn't know which things are worse.
On Sunday mornings, Benny lies in bed with his eyes closed to block out the light that sneaks through the blinds. On Sunday mornings, Benny thinks about life and how he never trusted anyone, so it's no wonder that he doesn't trust himself, and how perhaps that should be the other way around.
On Sunday mornings, Benny is faced with the overwhelming reality of just who he is and the even more overwhelming question of why.
This Sunday morning, Benny's thoughts are interrupted by the steady ringing of the telephone.
Benny doesn't pick up (he never picks up during his designated time of self-examination/reproach). He waits and waits, and the phone rings and rings, and finally it beeps and Mark's voice drops into the air, a careful monotone that doesn't quite make the tension in the air resonate.
Benny strains his ears to listen to the message. Mark clears his throat from miles away, and finally speaks.
"Benny…it's Mark. Just calling to say that…the funeral. It's next Sunday. 10 AM. Same place as usual." His voice cracks on the last word.
One week. Sunday morning.
It's fitting, Benny supposes.
The problem is not just one problem, the problem is several problems that bind together to form one huge problem that points at Benny and snickers at him when it thinks that he's not looking.
The problem is that Benny is a writer. The problem is that when Benny writes—no, when Benny used to write—he would feel okay. He would feel open, and almost-truthful, and inspired, and creative, and okay.
The problem is that in the clichéd novel of his life, Mimi takes up about half of the book. Not in time, of course—she swung into his life for seven months, just long enough to scribble her name on every line in his metaphorical guestbook, laughing, of course, as she did—but in presence, in the way that she made him feel like every moment lasted longer than it normally did, like every sight was clearer than usual, like every kiss was more than what it ever had been before.
In short, she made him feel alive.
It wasn't love, it couldn't be. He loved looking at her, holding her, laughing with her, seeing her smile, watching her dance. Loved her lips, her teeth, her eyes, her hair. Loved being with her, loved talking to her. Loved everything about her but her, even though he knew what and who she loved.
The problem is that he even loved the way she looked at him the day she left, when the sky was white and it was drizzling. And she had stood there, clutching her bag with her leopard-spotted gloves that were cut off at the fingertips, eyes wide and angry and cheerful, all at onceAnd he had been so occupied with the fact that the air smelled cleaner than it ever had before that he'd almost missed the way that she waved good-bye briskly, as if they hadn't just yelled at each other, as if they were good friends and she was just leaving to go down the block to the grocery store.
He'd wanted to write a book about her right then and there. He even would have left out the little details like smack, if she'd wanted him to. She probably wouldn't have wanted him to.
She left on a Wednesday. He remembered, because he went back inside and wrote it in his planner, in small block letters, black ink, all caps: SHE LEFT
On Wednesday, Collins calls him. He calls him on his work phone, during lunch hour, which only shows just how aware Collins really is. There was a reason why Benny only gave his work number to Collins, and this reminds him of it.
He picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Benny," Collins says, and sighs.
"Collins."
"Mimi's—"
"I know," Benny interrupts. He adjusts his tie, scoots his chair up closer, and picks up his pen. Ball-point, black ink, even has the meager rewards of his meager life inscribed on it: Benjamin Coffin III, Associate District Manager of Grey Real Estate Operations.
"No," Collins sighs again. "It was pneumonia," He says.
Benny's breath catches; he swallows and forces himself to breathe again. He used to tell her, warn her, about walking in the rain, even if her grandmother had said that it was good luck.
"That's…that's too bad," He says, because he can't think of anything else to say.
"Just thought you should know."
"Thanks," Benny tells him, and he knows that Collins knows that he means it. "Thanks."
From across the office, a door opens, and Benny can hear the loud voice of his employer and the footsteps of potential contractors behind him. "-And I've got to introduce you to my son-in-law. He's a fine man, believe me. The Most Motivated Young Man You'll Ever Meet, and don't I know that there are a lot of young men in New York."
"Look, I gotta go—"
"Yeah," Collins says, sounding anything but regretful.
"I'll see you Sunday," Benny says assuredly, though Collins doesn't need any assurance. "Um, hey. Tell Roger and Mark that I'll, you know, pay for the funeral. Just bill everything to me."
"Yeah," Collins sighs once more, and Benny can practically picture him crossing one arm and raising the other to his chin thoughtfully. "Bye." He hangs up without waiting for Benny to say the same.
Benny may not be very honest, but at least he knows the truth (even if he's the only person he can ever admit it to). He works with people, so he has to know something about people in general, and especially about himself.
He knew from the beginning that she wasn't perfect for him. He knew from the beginning that she wasn't perfect at all. Too wild, really. Too young, too stubborn. Too confident, too independent. Too much of everything.
On the way home from work on Friday, he thinks about Collins, and the phone call from two days ago. He remembers the way that he and Collins used to sit on the roof every other Friday, back when he lived at the loft. He remembers the night that Collins had told him that, "There's nothing wrong with being a doctor, or a lawyer, or a suit. There's nothing wrong with any job you choose, as long as you don't lose your soul in the process."
Collins hadn't known that losing your soul was actually a slow process, something that took place over days and nights and weeks and months and years. Piece by piece fell away without your knowing, until you were left clutching the last precious chunk, searching uselessly everywhere for the pieces that had disappeared forevers ago.
Benny would know.
On his way home from work on Friday, Benny decides that repetition can make things truer, and that love can be determined by how much a person changes your life. He punctuates every correct thought with a step on the sidewalk. His life has changed immeasurably since he met Alison. Step. He went from the loft to a near-mansion, from poor to rich, all because of Alison. Step. With Mimi, nothing had changed. Step. Nothing tangible, and maybe that was all that had counted. Step.
Repetition makes things truer. Step. He never loved her. He never loved her.
Benny stops walking, lets the people on the street brush by him, all huddled over and eager to return to their homes, to their lives, to their stories.
He's not going to the funeral on Sunday.
Benny resumes walking home.
Sometimes, he really hadn't liked her too much. He knew that for a fact. There was something about her personality that jarred with his, something about the way she smiled that both intrigued and annoyed him. He knew that she had felt the same way about him. She had wanted him to be perfect, wanted things to be perfect, and for her, anything could be perfect given the right amount of persistence. Benny hadn't believed that. He'd always been too realistic for his own good.
He tells all this "to" Alison on Saturday night, (he needs to say it out loud) when she's watching her favorite show and he knows she's not listening to him at all. Falling in love with Alison was the smartest decision that he ever made. He's content knowing that he and Alison will never divorce. They're both too complacent for that, and both aware of just how good they have it with each other. They'll both treat each other right, most of the time.
Disagreements with Alison are rare and trivial. The last one had been two months ago, when he had wanted to go out for dinner on a Saturday night and she had wanted to stay in. They had argued softly; he had cupped her face in his palms and she had stroked his cheek with her hand, her wedding ring cool against his face. He had shaken his head; she had kissed him gently on the mouth, soft lips against his. They had stayed in and watched a movie, and gone out to eat the next night.
In short, Alison is the perfect solution.
During their seven months of hell and bliss, Mimi fought with him. She obstinately irritated and yelled at him, angry that he never understood, like the time that she had slapped him across the face after he quietly insinuated that maybe it was her own fault, and that maybe she was addicted.
Benny hasn't yet figured out why Mimi's imperfections can be compared to the things that remind him that Alison is perfect.
"Alison," He finally says, in a tone that prompts her to switch her gaze from the television to his eyes.
"Mmm?"
"Mind if I go to church with you tomorrow?"
She is slightly puzzled, and is torn between asking for more information and turning back to the TV. "Of course not. You know that."
"Yeah. Just checking."
She looks at him again, decides that she will ask him about it later, and her eyes slide back to greet the television screen.
Benny sits at the table and stares out the window. He notes distantly that he doesn't feel anything at all.
On Sunday morning, Benny sits next to Alison in the pew. Behind him, a child is whimpering. Rows and rows of heads stretch on in front of him, becoming smaller with each successive line. Beside him, Alison hums along to the hymn, and reaches her hand over to cover his. The church feels dark, but the stained glass windows seem to glow, made beautiful by filtering strands of light.
He is here but not there, where he should be. He has tried to atone for his failure by coming here, but he knows that being here does not erase the fact that he should be there, at the funeral. Her funeral.
Monday evening, after work, Benny goes to her grave.
He wishes that he could say that it wasn't fair that she died so young and so alive, but what kills him is the knowledge that it is fair. She did this to herself—the smack, the smoking, the love of danger and risks and the way she poured herself into everything. She paid for the mistakes she made.
What kills him, as he walks towards it (he knows it will be next to Angel's), eyes fixed carefully on the grass below his feet, is that he's not just going to a grave, or the grave—it's her grave. It makes it sound as if it's been ominously waiting, beckoning with hands stretched out, for her to lie in it.
He's managed to stay under control, to keep his emotions at bay for the past week. But when he finally looks up, he is confronted with truth.
Roger has his back to him, and all Benny can see are the tips of two roses—one red, one white—in his hands. His shoulders shake every few seconds. It's the perfect set-up, Benny knows—her grave, Roger in front of it, and Benny behind him, separated from her, as he should be.
It occurs to him, then, that if he ever were to write a book about Mimi, he would have to include Roger in it. Roger would probably take up half of Mimi's book, and it wouldn't matter anyway, because right now it feels as if everything Benny wrote would disintegrate into nothing but words, minus meaning. This is the way it's felt since the day she left.
This is why he doesn't like loving people, truly loving them. He is addicted to perfection, even when it means pain for him. Perfection for Mimi was never Benny, and they both always knew it.
It hurts to stand like this. It hurts to love. It hurts to have known her, it hurts to know that he never truly knew her. It hurts that he missed her funeral because he couldn't stand to hear other people reveal how much more she loved them than she loved him. It hurts to stand here, knowing that they missed perfection by a mile and that it's too late, it was always too late.
He loved her. He had loved her so much, and it wasn't enough.
It hurts so much that Benny has to turn and walk away, and it hurts to smile so as he leaves her grave, he cries.