My name is Benita. I beg you, please don't call my name.
The story rewinds to an autumn evening in 1980. The sky, like muted amber, held its breath in a silence thick enough to taste. That evening, I met a boy. He called himself Lola, said he was the son of a nearby farmer. Later, I would learn he had lied—he was no one he claimed to be.
That night, it was as though my eyes could see things they shouldn't. His arm was bleeding, the red stark, raw, almost unreal; I could smell it, fresh and cold in the air. Fear seeped into me.
He burst into my house with a loud, chaotic clatter. The woman downstairs caught a glimpse of him and gave me a strange, cold smile before she disappeared. Nearby, a hungry black cat circled an empty dish, meowing—a strange, anxious cry, thick with confusion.
Then my sight faded, darkness took over, and I turned on a light. The room dimmed as night swiftly swallowed the last of the evening.
For a long time, I sat on my bed, gazing toward the window, sipping water, imagining the sight of pigeons drifting by. My eyes had been dark for so long. I couldn't see any of it, only the sounds—their gentle coos, hollow, like the sounds of human hunger. They would drift away eventually, fed and far out of reach.
The night my lover, Hong, left, she kissed me and whispered that she'd come back that evening. So I waited. Like countless other nights, I sat on the bed, eyes on the window, trying to conjure images of our time together.
Outside, rain poured over New Orleans, streaming down the roof, pooling through the gaps in the old wooden floorboards. But Hong never returned. Fevered and dry-throated, I grew sick, and in a haze, I saw my father as he had been, handsome in his uniform. He smiled faintly, his brow softening, and he called me "Ben."
He had died for reasons I never understood. I remember standing in the doorway, watching my beautiful mother leave New Orleans with another man, off to a faraway city, leaving me behind.
When Hong left, the rain didn't stop that night. She never returned. She had stayed with me for years, endured so much by my side—I knew that. But in the end, we became strangers, passing each other in quiet, distant peace, as if back where we began.
There's a flower shaped like a hoof, its fragrance so faint it's almost only memory. Later, I learned its name was calla lily. In my fevered mind, her face became vivid once more, her back turned to me, carefully arranging lilies on the round table.
That night, the wind was fierce, and rain fell until dawn. I remember whispering a line from Walt Whitman to the empty window, my words soft and slipping from me:
"I am large, I contain multitudes."
Lola lay in my home, unconscious on the floor for days. His wounds were severe, but I was only a blind woman—there was nothing I could do to help him. The scent of fresh blood faded gradually from the air, replaced by the familiar damp rot of old wood and a long-held gloom.
He was young. In his sleep, he would call out softly, his voice catching in pain. And then the names spilled out, one name repeating again and again—"Sarah." I sensed she was close to him, his age perhaps, maybe a sister, maybe his lover.
On the third day, he finally woke. I knew because I heard the familiar cooing, not from the pigeons outside, but from his hunger. Lola was starving, and by now, the pain in his arm had likely dulled. He was really just a child, only beginning to feel the extent of his need.
I told him, "There are oatmeal cookies in the bottom drawer of the cabinet by the front hall—you can have them; they should taste good." He followed my words eagerly, heading to the front hall. I turned my unseeing eyes toward him, trying to imagine him. Was he tall or short? Did he have tangled hair or a beautiful pair of eyes? I didn't know—I could only imagine.
Lola tore open the cookie package, rustling and frantic, then bit into them, his sharp teeth sinking into oatmeal and sugar, splitting each cookie in two and swallowing. He picked up my water glass and gulped it down, cup after cup, as if he were watering a barren field or softening dry cement.
The water ran down his throat, each gulp a hollow, hurried sound—a strange emptiness filling the room.
"He must be kind," I whispered to myself, watching as he ate. And as Lola devoured those cookies, my mind drifted back to my own youth.
Here is what I remember from those days—traces of uncontainable joy, and the lingering shadows that followed every night.
My name is Benita, though long ago, my parents called me "Little Ben." Back then, I was their obedient child.
Years later, I would sit in silence, wondering why they had called me that, trying to trace the meaning back to something real. In those days, they were happy, just like so many young couples—working, cooking, caring for a small child.
My mother was beautiful. Everyone thought so. Her makeup was always light, her voice always soft. She loved to arrange flowers, often calling me close to watch her fingers work, gently tucking stems into place. Always, it was calla lilies—their scent so faint it barely touched the air, and yet they filled the house.
My father loved those flowers too.
He was only thirty, an officer, tall and striking, with the sharp features of his mother, my late grandmother. His face was narrow, his nose high-bridged, his short hair always clean and soft. His voice was loud and rough, like the bristle on his cheek. It made me flinch sometimes.
But later, he grew silent. Quiet, like a man removed from the world. He stopped calling me "Little Ben" and rarely spoke to my mother. Instead, he'd taken to smoking—a cheap, bitter brand of cigarettes, the smoke hanging heavy in the air. Neither my mother nor I could stand it.
The arguments began soon after. They were sharp, fierce, their words edged with something raw. Eventually, the fights faded into a strained routine, an unspoken truce where each went about their lives, alone. I watched as their lives turned into an invisible battle they no longer cared to win.
I kept pigeons in those days—dozens of them, filling the long hours with their quiet, gentle company. I watched them eat, delicate in their movements, pecking lightly at my hand. Their feathers brushed my skin, tickling, and I'd laugh. But they recoiled, troubled by my sudden burst of joy.
My father, at dusk, would sit in his chair, cigarette between his fingers, and watch them too. He'd wave them away, irritated by their presence, his fingers impatiently flicking the air.
One night, I heard him singing, a soft, broken song. The melody drained him, leaving him fragile in his silence. I remember how his voice became oddly gentle, wavering. After that, he rarely called me by name. I sensed he was beginning to forget me, to drift somewhere far beyond our world.
My mother… she was restless, more so each day. She'd pace through the house, room to room, like she was looking for something she'd lost, turning over objects, glancing back at the shadows as if they hid what she sought.
She seemed afraid. She would wake suddenly in the night, her dreams unsettling, her body tense, as though waiting for dawn to bring her some unknown answer. Once, in frustration, she threw my father's cigarette into a glass of water, letting it sizzle and die.
Sometimes, she would stand near the pigeons, watching them move quietly, smiling faintly, her fingers brushing through my hair. She'd murmur about another man, one who would take her away from all this.
One day, that man finally came.
He stood at our door, looked my father in the eye, and told him plainly: he was here for my mother. He was here to take her away.
The fight was terrible. They hit, struck, each blow echoing, walls trembling under the force. My father—a soldier—broke the man's ribs with ease, the crack echoing low and violent. My mother cried, not for my father, but for this stranger she loved.
In a fit of anger, she tore at my father's uniform, pounding her fists against his chest, her hands trembling as she ripped off a button and tore down one of his golden epaulets, grinding them beneath her heel.
My father winced, his face twisted in pain. Then he slapped her hard, turned, and walked out of our lives.
Days later, he was found dead in a dim, empty motel by the train station. The door was locked. No one knew why he had gone there, why he had chosen to die that way. All that remained were a pile of burned-out cigarettes and a single calla lily, bright against the dark bedspread.
When my father was gone, my mother left too. She followed that man who promised her the world, left New Orleans behind, never once looking back at the silent soldier she had married or the daughter they once called "Little Ben."