The Forgetting Place by John Burley Page B

just shook his head.
    â€œI’m allergic to anything green,” he advised her.
    Tim retrieved a basket of corn bread from the center of the table and offered it to me, but I declined, not feeling particularly hungry this evening. Jason’s story today had upset me. In my mind, I kept hearing the soft, lethal whoosh of the bat slicing the air, kept picturing the unnatural angle of Billy Myers’s splintered arm as he clutched it against his body, his eyes wide andfull of terror. I imagined—could almost feel—the bat striking the earth, the shudder of the impact ascending into the handle. I’d come here to be in the presence of others, hoping the lights and chatter would drown out those other thoughts. I did not want to be alone in my apartment tonight until it was absolutely necessary.
    I looked along the length of the table at my haphazard collection of companions, and my eyes made contact with the pinched, mousy face of Janet Windsor. She glanced back at me, attempted a half smile, then let it fall away with a sigh, like a dress she kept in her closet because she thought it was pretty but never had the confidence to wear in public. I nodded to her, feeling a certain kinship in our individual struggles, but she looked away quickly.
    The night drew on. A few stragglers arrived after I did. But by now it was getting late and people were standing up and finding their way to the door—to whatever evening activities awaited them beyond the confines of this place. Manny produced a ragged deck of cards from one pocket and dealt them out to Tim and me, and we played for a bit, none of us really wanting to go home. Marj stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen, her broad shoulder resting against the frame, and watched us for a while with maternal interest—a mother presiding over her children after dinner, during the final hour before bed.
    Eventually, Marj dimmed the lights, signaling to us that it was time to go. We left together, but quickly split off as we continued down our separate avenues. I walked briskly, the night breeze ruffling my shoulder-length hair and sending a fleeting chill down the back of my neck as I turned the corner. I fished my keys from my pocket and let myself in through the building’s front door, crossing the lobby, taking the elevator to the thirdfloor, then heading down the hall to my apartment and slipping inside. I was breathing quickly, trembling a bit, my heart thudding dutifully inside my chest. I went to the window and parted the curtain with one hand, looked down at the street below.
    I’d felt his presence during the final two blocks. He’d been following me, pacing me, watching me in the slim light of a quarter-moon. He stood now on the sidewalk on the opposing side of the street, beneath the pale yellow cone of a streetlamp.
    I couldn’t discern much about the man’s features from this angle. He wore a beige overcoat that drooped straight down from his shoulders like a wet sheet, and the fedora on his head sat at a slight angle, casting a shadow across his face. It was as if he’d stepped right off the screen from a film noir crime drama, a cigarette burning in one hand. Its glow intensified as he raised it to his lips for a final drag, then dropped it onto the sidewalk and used the toe of one shoe to crush it out. He looked up at my window, studying the crack in the curtain through which I peered. I hadn’t turned on the lights, and I didn’t think he could see me. Still, I could feel him staring, could feel his eyes moving over me like beetles.
    I pulled away from the window and stood in the darkness of my apartment, trying to control my breathing. Five steps across the room took me to my desk, where I picked up the cordless phone, my hand shaking so much I thought I might drop it. I punched a button, heard a tone, and dialed 9-1- . . .
    By this time I was back at the window, and when I looked down there was only an empty