Winter Oranges by Marie Sexton Page B

held Ben prisoner, but it was a topic Ben adamantly refused to discuss.
    “I’ve spent a hundred and fifty years in there,” he said at last. “I don’t want to spend the time I have with you talking about it.”
    “But there must be a way to get you out.”
    “If there was, I would have found it by now.”
    “Maybe there’s something we’ve missed,” Jason insisted. “Maybe she left a clue somewhere.”
    Ben’s expression bordered on disdain. “A clue? Like what, some kind of cryptic treasure map?”
    “Yeah,” Jason said, feeling defensive. “Why not?”
    Ben shook his head. “She wasn’t a pirate, and I’m not a chest full of gold. She put me in here to keep me safe, not to torture me. If she’d thought to leave directions, they would have been crystal clear. Something like, ‘Bathe in the blood of a rooster and dance naked under the full moon.’”
    “Do you think that would work?” Jason asked.
    Ben winked out of existence rather than gracing him with an answer.
    Jason dropped the subject for the rest of the afternoon, but he didn’t give up his search. Any time that wasn’t spent sleeping or with Ben was spent online, tracking down people who claimed to be experts in the supernatural. He sent emails and made phone calls asking for advice, but got nowhere. Most of them never responded. The ones who did generally thought he was pulling their leg. The vast majority of the people who claimed to believe him quickly proved to be complete frauds who asked for massive down payments in advance, clearly hoping only to take him for as much money as possible while running him in circles. Only a handful showed genuine interest, but they all suggested the same thing: a religious intervention, similar to an exorcism. But they assumed he wanted Ben’s spirit banished or “laid to rest.” They were at a loss when he tried to explain that he wanted Ben returned to his living state.
    “Why would you want to do that?” one man asked him. “Most folks don’t like being haunted.”
    “That’s because they aren’t haunted by Ben.”

    A few days later, they settled together on the couch to watch the most recent of Jason’s movies, Summer Camp Nightmare 3 .
    “I’ll be so sad when it’s over,” Ben said before Jason had a chance to hit Play.
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s the last one. You’ll have to go make more movies for me to watch.”
    Jason winced, thinking about the script sitting in the desk drawer. “I wasn’t planning on acting again.”
    “Why not? Don’t you enjoy it?” Ben asked.
    “Yes and no.”
    “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
    Jason laughed. That, of course, was the crux of the issue. As much as he sometimes wanted to swear off acting forever, it was the only thing he really knew. He sure as hell didn’t want to get an office job, or work in retail. Dylan always laughed when he said that, reminding him those weren’t the only options. He was right of course, but nothing in the world held the same appeal as acting.
    “Yes,” Jason answered at last. “I’d rather be sitting here with you.”
    Ben smiled, but shook his head. “That doesn’t count.”
    Jason didn’t want to argue about it, so he pointed the remote at the TV and hit Play. It seemed like the easiest way to end the conversation.
    Watching Summer Camp Nightmare 3 was nothing like watching Alley of Blood . That movie had been tainted from the get-go, but he found as he watched Summer Camp Nightmare 3 that he had fond memories of the shoot. Yes, there had been the incident of the actress who’d been given bad weed. And yes, there’d been the usual pain of watching Dylan fuck his way through the cast. But for the most part, the shoot had been several months of hanging out with friends.
    He became aware of Ben next to him, flailing his hands to get Jason’s attention. Winding the music box had become habit for Jason, whether they were watching TV or sitting on the veranda or walking in the