The House on Olive Street by Robyn Carr Page A

no Donna Karan herself. He was thick around the middle and short—about five-six and one-eighty. And although he liked to read, he wasn’t at all book-smart. He’d finished high school but had never gone to college. He was a funny-looking, odd-dressing little old farmer who wasn’t very bright.
    But he was kind, tolerant and compassionate. Eleanor was accustomed to hearing even intelligent men in her age bracket make insensitive, bigoted remarks, but Ben was completely innocent and unprejudiced. Sweet. Gentle. Patient. The most guileless man she’d ever known.
    He was probably rich. And for some reason he was very fond of Elly.
    She had finally agreed to have dinner with him and they went to some family-style place near Davis. He had a healthy appetite and ate his meal quickly and seriously. But when he was finished eating, he talked. And asked questions. She learned all about each one of the five children and all his grandchildren. He asked her questions about the courses she taught—question after question after question—until he finally thought he understood. And then he would say his favorite saying, “Well, Elly, I think you’re the most interesting woman I’ve ever in my life known.”
    They had started spending Wednesday and Saturday evenings together at her house about a year and a half ago. Since they had discovered they didn’t like the same kind of restaurants, movies, books or sports, they found that what they did like to do together was talk. They watched television together, ate some ice cream, drank a little coffee, talked about their respective days andweeks and went to bed together where they enjoyed satisfying, if Victorian, sex. In the bedroom, lights off, under the covers. It was not imaginative or creative sex, just standard stuff—missionary position. For Elly it was, well, fabulous. Ben was obviously not an experienced lover, which she didn’t mind, but he was efficient. He had no trouble maintaining an erection at the age of sixty-five. Somewhere along the line someone, probably his wife, had informed him about foreplay, at which he was both adept and unhurried. Then they would get up, Ben would dress and Elly would put on her robe, they would have a final cup of coffee together, finishing the pot, and Ben would drive home. Seven to 11:00 p.m., twice a week. If Elly had other plans, they wouldn’t reschedule. If Ben had something come up, which happened less often, he would invite her along and she would decline.
    There was only one hitch in their relationship. Elly had told no one about Ben, and although Ben had told his kids he was seeing a woman named Elly, she had never met any of them. Ben made it clear, in his sweet, innocent way, that he didn’t understand this and it hurt his feelings. “I hope you’re not ashamed of me, Elly.”
    To which she had replied, “Certainly not! I’m simply private, and would like our relationship to be.” But that was only an excuse.
    Elly changed into clean underwear, a knee-length cotton housedress and slip-on flats. When Ben was coming over she would usually shower after school and put on a housedress in lieu of her skirts, hose and blouses or sweaters. Today, having forgotten him entirely, she hadn’t primped at all. She was too tired to remember things, so wrung out she was off her schedule.
    He was staring at the coffeepot, watching it brew.“There you are,” he said as she walked into the kitchen. He put his arms around her and gave her a little squeeze. “Still having a hard time of it, Elly girl?”
    “It’s not even the sadness that’s so hard,” she said. “It’s the confusion. I’m senile.”
    “That will get better with time, you’ll see. Are you eating and sleeping?” He pulled the dress away from her waist, testing the give of it to see if she’d lost weight.
    “I don’t have much appetite, but it’s more that I forget to eat. And I sleep in short naps all through the night.” She chuckled. “Sometimes in class.