It's all well and good to talk about fiction and writing and literature, but every once in awhile real life rears its cold, bony head and casts a dark look around.  It's a  cliche' but " bad things do happen to good people."   Real people, such as Rebecca. . . .

                                                                                          THE BENEFIT

           The fliers are everywhere:  pinned on community bulletin boards, taped inside gas station doors, prominent by truckstop tills and especially in the foyers of drug stores.   "Benefit for [fill in thename] following the  [huntingaccident, brain cancer, leukemia, stroke].  Silent auction and bake sale to be followed by free-will-offering dinner." Often the fliers are side-by-side, competing for attention.  Some are well-designed, with a color photo of the victim in a wheel chair or with bandaged head and a lopsided smile; it is not uncommon to see posters featuring only the survivors, smiling grimly for well-meaning friends trying to help them pay crushing, left-over medical bills from the death of child, a mother, a father.  Often the posters are poorly constructed: a grainy photocopied photo of a man standing proudly, in better days, beside a new logging truck. Many times the accompanying narrative is internalized:   "Benefit for Joe followingthe accident"– as if we all, in our small city of Bemidji, Minnesota,should know Joe and what happened to him.

            Recently I went a benefit for Rebecca, a 26 year old mother struggling with thyroid cancer.  She graduated from high school with my son, and played trombone in their short-lived Ska band that was far stronger on life force than musicality–a fine young woman now struck with very bad luck and insufficient insurance.   Her benefit was held on a Sunday, after the morning service at a local church (another common setting and time is Saturday eveningat the American Legion or Eagles Club). The parking lot was full when I arrived, and a small queue stretched out the doorway.  Inside, Rebecca greeted each person with a sometimes awkward hug;  tradesmen and older men in particular were not entirely sure what to do with their hands and their caps.  Though her face was puffy from medications, and her voice thin and raspy, her smile was bright and her manner strictly "We're-going-to-beat-this"cheerful.  To the side, her husband minded their tow-headed, one-year old son.

            Past the hugging station, the silent auction tables held all manner of donated items:  a screwdriver set from the local hardware store; a Terry Redlin look-alike framed print;  a bright, zigzag pattern, hand-knitted afghan blanket;  and services such as "single-room carpet steam cleaning" and "free tire rotation with oil change" and "half-day guided muskie fishing trip."   The precise descriptions–the boundaries– of the locally donated services left the impression that businesses get asked often for donations, and were mindful both of the cost of charity and of the opportunity for advertising.

            Tothe side was the bake sale. Several tables stood covered with fresh-baked items on paper plates andcovered with tight, clear plastic wrap.   Date-filled cookies, chocolate brownies, sugar cookies; apple pies, rhubarb pies, apple-rhubarb pies, berry pies, custard pies; chocolate cakes, angel food cakes, white cakes; and, at the far end, a few loaves of bread and rolls, their warmth fogging the inside of their plastic wrap.  The cookies, a dozen per plate, were two dollars; a full pie, five dollars.

            Crowd noise spoke to good attendance. The wide church foyer was filled with people chattering, talking, being of good cheer, the hum and  buzz punctuated by the occasional shriek and laughter of small kids.  Beyond, in the luncheon hall, plates clattered as people shuffled along the buffet line.  The menu was roast beef cooked through (and then some),brown gravy, creamed corn, mashed potatoes, buns and butter.  Beverages (lemonade, milk, coffee orwater) waited at the end of the buffet line, and were poured by a blushing young boy and girl about eleven years old, wearing their church clothes, andwho were clearly spending some quality time together.   Condiments, pickles, relishes and trays of sweets(rice crispy bars, brownies, cookies) waited on the long tables.

             As we ate, the silent auction progressed. A pretty young woman from a local bank called out names via a scratchy-sounding microphone; her voice was hard to hear, but people regularly jumped up and hurried forward with their little blue tickets to claim a prize:  a fishing pole, a car wash, a one-hour make-over at a local salon.  In the slow line for a second cup of coffee, I ran into a couple of former neighbors, a former student, and the guy who had poured concrete, years ago, for my house; eventually, back at my table, I had a moment with Rebecca herself, who came by to thank me again.  In the din, I had to lean forward to hear that she was headed soon to a cancer center that specialized in "her type." I could only wish her well and keep our conversation short.  She looked exhausted.

            Afterward,I drove the long way home in order to think more about "the benefit" in specific and in general.  As a local guy, I could find out how much money Rebecca's benefit raised–then lay it alongside a month's worth (a day's worth?) of cancer treatment.  It would be easy pickings to show thefutility of "the benefit" for Rebecca's healthcare costs; to show the chasm–the absurdity, really– between good intentions and current reality.  A darker argument could be made that such events are a cultural soporific that allows people to sleep easier, to avoid confronting our current healthcare problems because they had, after all,"done their part."

  But my elderly mother always slips a few dollars in a sympathy card whenever she attends a funeral, and out of habit, I do too.  Back in the day, such a community mustering could pay for a funeral, for the medical bills for afarm accident or a sick child.  But not now, or probably ever again. At Rebecca's benefit, I spent a hundred bucks on a roast beef dinner and an Dutch apple pie.  It was the right thing to do, I suppose, but I did not feel very good about it. 

Any way, this is not about me.  Good luck Rebecca.  We're pulling for you.