On Thursday, March 7, 2019, at precisely 5:05 pm, Benny pulled up to the side entrance of Henry Stack’s offices on 6th and Blanchard. Henry preferred that door over the usual front entrance because of its proximity to the service elevator. Benny noted that a large metal trash bin had rolled and partially blocked the alley making his navigation more complicated than usual. The luxury Mercedes Benz stopped near Henry and his assistant, James Pierce, and Benny rolled down the window to better hear his instructions.
“Benny,” barked the assistant as he approached the Mercedes. “Open the trunk.”
“Yes, Mr. Pierce.” The latch clicked and the car shifted as Pierce put Henry’s luggage in the back, then slammed the trunk with a swiftness Benny associated with the assistant’s impatient nature. Pierce’s sense of efficiency matched Benny’s in many ways, but his lack of precision made Benny more watchful on Henry’s behalf. More than once, Pierce had opened the car door for Henry and banged it against the building wall chipping paint on both.
Still, Benny unlocked the back passenger door for the man without being asked knowing it would hasten their departure. Pierce opened the door for Henry; no paint was lost this time.
“My cane, would you please, Pierce,” said Henry as he settled into his seat. The car jostled slightly as the man adjusted the seatbelt across his hips.
“It’s right beside you, Mr. Stack. I’ve texted Benny the details for where to meet the working group tomorrow. I have you booked at the Bellwether tonight as usual. They are expecting you late.”
Benny checked his texts and confirmed everything was as Pierce arranged.
“I’ll see you on Monday, Pierce,” said Henry.
“Of course,” Benny heard Pierce say. “I’ll leave my ringer on.”
“I’m sure Benny will take fine care of me, Pierce.”
“Yes,” Pierce replied, a slight hesitation in his voice. “Still, be careful. Your car has its limits.”
Benny had overheard Pierce’s objections before about Henry driving with Benny alone, but they had never encountered a problem. Whatever limits Pierce referred to did not seem relevant to their upcoming trip. After all, the automotive systems were all running at peak efficiency.
Once Pierce shut the door and stepped a safe distance away, Benny disengaged the brake, turned the wheel, and set off west to the freeway.
“I’ve set your seat to your usual temperature, Mr. Stack,” said Benny. “The evening will be cooler but there is a low chance of icy conditions. Traffic is usual for a Thursday and I don’t anticipate any delays in our commute. The construction on the new La Quinta hotel is complete. The hotel is three stories high with six suites on the top floor and—”
“Spring is nearly here, isn’t it, Benny? The trees will be full of nests soon. Robins, finches, and—”
“Crows, Mr. Stack?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Though Benny remembered that Henry was more interested in nature than new building construction, he tried to be timely in his report of what they passed on their route. He remembered about the crows, though, and safely changed lanes before turning right. They had left at their usual time, but Benny always made sure there was leeway for a side trip to the Moore Creek Rookery no matter what Henry’s itinerary might be.
Once they arrived, Benny unlocked the door for Henry once more.
“I won’t be long, Benny. Did Paulina stock treats?”
“Yes, Mr. Stack. Plain roasted pistachios in the shell, as usual.” He released the latch for Henry so he could retrieve the package of treats from the center console of the back seat.
The car rocked once more as Henry left his seat. Benny watched him take a few steps, his hand trailing the car, then lean against the hood. Pieces of food clattered on the car roof in a steady rhythm.
Benny kept the door open to allow Henry easy access once he returned. While he waited, Benny checked their route once more and saw nothing troubling on the navigation system.
“Good-bye until next time,” Benny heard the man say as the car rocked once more. Henry settled back in his seat and shut the door. Benny started the engine and began to pull away when he heard three caws from a crow inside the car.
“What? Oh dear. Benny, open the window. I think one of them followed me again.”
“Yes, Mr. Stack.”
Benny stopped the car and rolled down the window. He watched the crow fly inches away from the windshield before it headed back into the trees.
“Very good, Benny,” said Henry after a few moments. “The murder seems particularly vocal this evening. I almost feel like they’re warning me about something. We shall have to be more watchful.”
Benny wasn’t sure that crows could impart omens despite the lore about them, but if Henry Stack wanted him to be more watchful, he would be.
“Would you like some music, Mr. Stack?”
“Play some Police, Benny. ‘Message in the Bottle’ would be just fine.”
Benny located the song about a lonely man sending an SOS.
“It’s nearly sunset,” he said, resuming his commentary. “I estimate we will arrive in Jessup’s Cove at approximately 8:00 pm. The city lights are beginning to twinkle.”
“Twinkle?” replied Henry. Benny could detect amusement in his voice. “A very good word, Benny. You’ve been studying again.”
“Yes, Mr. Stack,” Benny replied. “You said that you would enjoy more descriptive words.”
Henry chuckled. “Indeed, I did.”
Night had fallen by the time they crossed the Sauk River. Traffic was light, making it easier for Benny to note the other cars on the road. A blue ‘W’ blinked on the dashboard and Benny maneuvered the Mercedes to the right lane toward exit 197 East.
“Everything all right, Benny?”
“There’s been a landslide reported 10 miles to the north. Traffic is backing up and we’ve been advised to take the Salish Passage. It’s unfortunate that the sun has set, otherwise there would be a spectacular view of the sea.”
“Spectacular,” Henry remarked. “Another good word, Benny.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stack.”
Benny expertly navigated the road that narrowed to two-lanes, one in each direction, cutting the face of the hillside.
“Would you like to know about this route, Mr. Stack?”
“Certainly.”
“Despite the landslide that has diverted us, there is no water or mud present. Not much has changed since we took this route three years ago. Historically, it was a gravel access road for tree harvesting when lumber was needed after the San Francisco earthquake in 1906. The road was paved in 1921 and was popular with locals once the automobile became more readily available.”
A blue ‘W’ blinked on the dashboard once more, and Benny turned west as the on-board navigation system recommended.
“We are skirting the edge of Mussel Cove, Mr. Stack. Our estimated arrival in Jessup’s Cove is now 9 pm. Would you like me to contact Mr. Pierce about your delay?”
“That won’t be necessary, Benny. Have we been down this road before?”
“No, Mr. Stack. It can barely accommodate two lanes for cars and appears to be dropping into a valley.”
“Any possums, Benny? Or perhaps coyotes?”
Benny scanned the territory briefly then returned to his driving.
“None that we’ve passed, Mr. Stack.”
“Pity. Switch our music to something smoother, Benny.”
Benny continued down the lonely road at precisely 40 miles per hour, while strains of bossa nova jazz filled the car. As they came to a bend in the road, Benny slowed. He sensed they were approaching something, but it was nothing he had registered before.
“Is something the matter, Benny?”
“I’m not certain. A person appears to be standing in the middle of the road.” The car came to a halt. “I can’t seem to focus on them. The details aren’t resolving into anything I can identify. Perhaps it is a hallucination.”
“Interesting word choice, Benny. I’ve not known you to have hallucinations. How curious. Roll down the window. Perhaps they are in need of help.”
The window buzzed slightly as it retracted into the door.
“Hello,” said Henry pleasantly. “Are you all right?”
Benny watched the figure move toward the open window.
“I’m lost, sir,” a young woman said, her voice high and shaking. “I can’t find my way home.”
Benny searched the area but couldn’t detect anyone else nearby. The GPS indicated that the nearest house was 3.5 miles away though he couldn’t be sure it was her house.
“Come in, my dear. You must be cold. We can take you home. Benny, unlock the door, please.”
With a faint click, the doors unlocked, and Benny waited for the woman to let herself in.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Fasten your seatbelt, my dear,” said Henry. “Roll the window up, Benny, and let us be on our way.”
Benny did as he was directed, but there was something amiss. He didn’t recall the door opening or shutting. Still, Henry seemed calm, so Benny gently eased the car back to 40 miles per hour. Bossa nova music continued to play.
“What is your name, my dear?” asked Henry.
“M-M-Meggie O’Neill, sir,” she stammered. “I was swimming in the cove, but I think I stayed out too late.”
“It would appear so,” Henry replied. “What is your address, dear?”
Benny did a search for a Meggie O’Neill who lived in the area but only found reference to a fourteen-year-old girl by that name. He quickly dismissed the idea since that Meggie had died nearly a century ago. He extended his search to surrounding counties.
“Address? We don’t have addresses out here. Just a post office at the bottom of the hill.”
“I will need an address to take you home,” said Benny as he shifted from high to low beam and back again, focusing on his driving to give his passengers more privacy.
“Who said that?” asked the young woman, her voice pitching high.
“No need to be concerned, my dear,” said Henry matter-of-factly. “That’s just Benny, my driver.”
“But there’s only you and me in here,” she stammered as she tried to open the door. “I’m frightened. Are you lying to me?”
“For your safety, please remain in the vehicle while it is in motion,” Benny responded.
“Where did that voice come from? There’s someone else in this car!”
“Oh, my dear, your hand is quite cold. You needn’t grab my arm like that. Benny, turn the passenger seat temperature to 75 degrees.”
Benny complied with Henry’s request and turned on the heat under all the passenger seats since he could not determine Meggie’s location.
“You’re kidnapping me!” she whimpered. “Just like that terrible man with the white teeth. He talked nice to me at first then he-he-he-he did awful things to me.”
Benny turned down the music to hear better in case Henry needed his assistance.
“When, my dear? Should we call the police?”
“Held my throat. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe,” she cried. “He killed me and left me in the ditch. You’re all the same. All the same! I’ll make you pay, just like I did all the others!”
“You’re not making sense, my dear. No one will harm you. Benny, turn the internal thermostat to 75 degrees. Her hands are still quite cold.”
Benny raised the temperature and set the on-board emergency system ready for Henry’s command.
“Monster! You’re a monster just like them. I’ll end you!”
Benny slowed as they turned down another curve. Every search result for Meggie O’Neill claimed she was dead. How could she be in the car with them?
“Why won’t you die?” asked the woman. “They all died when I touched them.”
“Who?” asked Henry.
“The monsters like you! The ones with motor cars who pick me up. Like the first man. The one who made me a monster.”
“Mr. Stack, I’m having trouble navigating this stretch of road. The compass and the GPS don’t agree. My sensors are giving conflicting data. May I stop and restart the car?”
“Whenever you feel it’s safe, Benny.”
“Where is that voice coming from? Make it stop! I’ll make you stop that voice! Give me the wheel!”
The car jerked from one side to another. Benny fought to keep the car on the road, then slowed until he found a place to pull over safely. Once they reached the shoulder, he disengaged the car’s internal systems. The headlights went dark and the engine stilled. With the navigation systems down, he listened carefully to the conversation between Henry and Meggie.
“My dear, sitting on my lap isn’t going to do you any good. I’m likely old enough to be your grandfather given how small you feel.”
“Feel? How can you feel me? Why won’t you die? You need to die.”
“My dear, I think it’s best you sit back in your seat.”
“Your eyes. They’re all white like milk. What happened to your eyes?”
“I began losing my sight when I was in my twenties and now it is completely gone.”
“How are you driving this motor car then?”
“I’m not, my dear. Benny will return shortly. Would you like some food? I think there’s a granola bar or perhaps a bottle of water. Benny likes to have the car well stocked.”
“I don’t need food no more,” Meggie replied, confusion in her voice. “Why’s there feathers all over in here? Big black ones.”
“Oh? Well, I shall have them cleaned up. Crow feathers, I imagine. My assistant tells me there’s always so many feathers in my car. He thinks they’re leaving me presents or something when I visit.”
“Crow feathers? Are you… are you a… Kindness?”
“I’m sorry, my dear?”
“Are you a Kindness?”
“I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”
“There’s a story the birds tell. I heard it from an owl. There’s crows who believe there’re kind people in the world and look for ‘em. Story says they give ‘em feathers in thanks and sometimes protection. But Kindness don’t exist. You can’t be real. Men are cruel. I know. I know men are cruel.”
While he waited for the car’s systems to reboot, Benny looked up the definitions of ‘ghost’ and ‘kindness’ and ‘crows’ and ‘cruel.’ He came across a reference to ‘superstition,’ but Meggie sounded as firm as any person he’d encountered before.
With the completion of one last set of computer routines, the car’s engine came to life once again.
“Mr. Stack, shall we continue on our journey to Jessup’s Cove?”
“Yes, Benny, that would be fine. Now, what were you saying, my dear?”
Benny turned back to the pavement and the car began to hum at exactly 40 miles.
“Kindness… crow feathers…” Meggie’s voice sounded weaker than before.
“Crow feathers? Why I don’t know, my dear. Benny, do you know anything about feathers?”
“Yes, Mr. Stack. Birds have feathers to keep their internal body temperature carefully regulated –.”
“Crows only give feathers to Kindnesses,” said Meggie. “And you offered me food and drink.”
The road joined the freeway once more and soon they were moving along at a quick 60 miles per hour.
“Your hands were so cold, my dear. And you said you were lost.”
“Lost? Yes, I was lost. But no one ever showed me Kindness before. Where do I go now? What’s to become of Meggie O’Neill?”
“Meggie O’Neill died on this day in 1923. Her body was found near Mussel Cove, cause of death, unknown,” said Benny. “She is buried at the cemetery on the hillside overlooking Jessup’s Cove. According to legend, whomever sees and gives the Ghost of Meggie O’Neill a ride will die before reaching their destination.”
“What a strange thing to say, Benny. Still, it explains things, doesn’t it? We should get Meggie home.”
“Home?” said the woman. “You truly are a Kindness, sir.”
“You need to rest, Meggie. Even ghosts need to rest. Jessup’s Cove Cemetery, Benny.”
“Yes, Mr. Stack. Estimated time of arrival is 15 minutes.” Benny adjusted the seat and cabin temperatures to Henry’s preference.
Benny continued to drive the Mercedes north toward Jessup’s Cove, switching the music back to Sting once more. He would have to look up more stories about ghosts once they stopped for the night. The words ‘twinkle’ and ‘despair’ and ‘spectacular’ and ‘cruel’ would be next.. The definitions seemed clear, yet their impact was unpredictable. Perhaps this was Benny’s limitation, the one Pierce referred to before their departure.
Humans were difficult to understand sometimes, but as the driver of Henry Stack’s self-driving car, it was enough to listen and tell a blind man the things he could detect with his sensors. With enough practice, perhaps, Benny would come to understand why it was a kindness to drive a ghost home.
Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor’s non-fiction, poetry, and short fiction have appeared in print and online in several journals and anthologies including Katipunan Literary Magazine, Growing Up Filipino II: More Stories for Young Adults, Kuwento: Small Things, and Beyond Lumpia, Pansit, and Seven Manangs Wild: An Anthology. Her poetry chapbook Pause Mid-Flight was released in 2010. She is also the co-editor of True Stories: The Narrative Project Vol. I-IV, and her poetry and essays have been collected in Dancing Between Bamboo Poles, released in 2019. Rebecca (she/they) has been performing as a storyteller since 2006 and specializes in stories based on Filipino folktales and Filipino-American history.