The Forgetting Place by John Burley Page A

spot along the rib cage of the beast and become part of the organism. The relationships among the patrons have the ease and familiarity of family. If you don’t know the person you’re sitting next to, you will soon. And because of its somewhat bohemian atmosphere, the joint self-selects for some of the town’s more colorful characters. In this way, it reminds me a bit of Menaker: a heaving band of outcasts brought together under a common roof, and somehow—almost predictably—finding friendship, or at least camaraderie, within their midst.
    The food, I must admit, is mediocre. It’s simple, reliable, warm,and filling—what you’d call comfort food, I suppose. Nothing fancy or decorative, the offerings are brought to the table by the proprietor, Marj herself, in heaping bowls to be scooped onto plates and passed around in a clockwise fashion. You take as much as you want, eat what you take, make no special requests, and bring your plate, cup, and utensils to the counter for the dishwasher when you’re through. But, for most of its patrons, the food isn’t the main attraction. People come here to talk, to listen, to argue, to be welcomed, to immerse themselves in cheerful infectious animation. To be counted among the living.
    To say that I’m a regular at Marj’s is a bit of an understatement. Fact is, I eat here most nights. I realize that sounds extreme, but the place simply suits my needs. I work long hours and live alone. I know how to cook, but it seems like a lot of effort to concoct a meal that will only be eaten by me. Because of patient confidentiality, I have a job I can’t talk about, and close, intimate relationships have always been difficult for me. The problem stems from the environment in which I grew up, I suppose—offspring to an emotionally absent mother and a belittling, verbally abusive father. I realize that people have to take responsibility for themselves—to resist blaming the past for their shortcomings—but honestly, who comes out of a childhood like that completely intact? So I’ve learned to rely on myself, to go it alone rather than depend too heavily on others. But there are times when I do seek social interaction, and Marj’s Kitchen is filled with people I know who will not ask for more than I can give.
    I pulled up a chair between Manny Linwood and Tim Barrens. Tim was diving into a mound of mac and cheese like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, although I’d seen him polish off a similar-looking plate two days ago.
    â€œThe good doctor arrives,” he commented, his words slightly muffled by the napkin he was swiping across his mouth.
    â€œA lady of questionable credentials, blown in from the night wind,” Manny said, and gave me a wink.
    â€œHello, boys,” I greeted them, offering a smile, the strain of the day slipping from my body like a river of dirt beneath a hot shower. “Can a lady get a salad around here?”
    Across the table, Rob Friedlander peered at me over the slick yellow top of a piece of corn bread. “Chunka iceberg lettuce and a single tomato, maybe,” he said. “Marj don’t specialize in salads.”
    A heavy hand fell on my shoulder as the subject of discussion—Marj, not the salad—materialized from the kitchen. “Don’t listen to him, honey,” she said, populating the space in front of me with a clean plate and utensils. Her voice was deep and full, her forearm thick and strong, the way a restaurant proprietor’s should be. She smelled vaguely of olive oil and freshly baked bread. “Salads are our specialty.”
    At that, Rob seemed to choke a bit on his corn bread, but he said nothing, dropping his eyes to the tabletop.
    â€œA chunk of lettuce and a tomato for the doctor,” Manny ordered, as Marj filled my cup with iced tea from a tall glass pitcher.
    â€œYou could use a salad yourself, Mr. Linwood,” she said, but Manny