The Forgetting Place (8 page)

M
arj's Kitchen is a culinary and social mecca for locals in my town. The front entrance is so slight and unassuming that, if you arrived by car, you could easily miss it during your first lap around the block. Inside, however, the lights are turned up and the large dining area is typically awash in laughter and boisterous conversation. One interesting aspect of the place—and a likely deterrent for out-of-towners—is the communal dining. A vast wooden table stretches its massive torso from one end of the room to the other. Its flanks are lined with chairs, like ribs spreading to the floor. If you want to eat in
this
restaurant, you select an open 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.

“The good doctor arrives,” he commented, his words slightly muffled by the napkin he was swiping across his mouth.

“A lady of questionable credentials, blown in from the night wind,” Manny said, and gave me a wink.

“Hello, 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.

“A chunk of lettuce and a tomato for the doctor,” Manny ordered, as Marj filled my cup with iced tea from a tall glass pitcher.

“You could use a salad yourself, Mr. Linwood,” she said, but Manny just shook his head.

“I'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 and
full 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 third
floor, 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 sidewalk. My finger hovered over the 1 on the phone's dial pad, debating whether to call the police anyway.
I should at least make a report,
I told myself.
He followed me. He knows where I live
. But something made me hesitate, and
after a few seconds more I hung up the phone without dialing that final number. Because he had disappeared into the night and there was absolutely no sign of him. And because he'd been careful, so careful, that even the cigarette—the one he'd crushed into the sidewalk—was gone.

April 7, 2005

J
ason shifted his position on the concrete bench in Kogan Plaza. The last remnants of winter had yielded to spring in the nation's capital, the cherry blossoms decorating George Washington University's Foggy Bottom campus in broad swaths of pink. A chickadee flitted down from a tree branch to the walkway near his left foot. Its head darted at the cement path, snatching into its beak a small shard of pizza crust. A second later, with a quick spasm of the wings, the bird was off with its prize.

Jason watched as it disappeared around the near corner of Lisner Auditorium. He smiled, enjoying the warmth of the sun filtering through the cherry blossoms, the soft chatter of students, and the smell of spring being carried across the campus in the arms of an April breeze. The thought occurred to him—briefly and without much conviction—that he ought to be in the library finishing up an English paper on the modernist era in European literature, but his brain was fried from a political science exam he'd taken earlier that morning. It wouldn't hurt, he decided, to linger here a bit longer.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and rested the palms of his hands behind him on the bench. The newspaper in his lap was filled with an amalgam of the old and the new. Pope John Paul II had died five days earlier at the age of eighty-four. The Iraq conflict continued to drag on with no clear end in sight and no sign thus far of the weapons of mass destruction that had led to the war in the first place. In Afghanistan yesterday a U.S. military helicopter had gone down, killing at least sixteen people. CNN's website had reported this morning that a Palestinian-fired rocket had struck an Israeli cemetery, a reminder that even the dead are burdened with the price of our basic human inability to get along. He found himself stirred by such accounts, felt the desire to become more deeply involved in what was happening around the world. He was here pursuing a career in journalism and wondered where such a career would take him, whether his ideals would yield over the years to more pragmatic considerations. But on a day like today the chaos and disarray of the world seemed far away, like the vague recollection of a dream that had all but dissipated in the morning light. It—

The force of the impact struck him in the left temple. He startled, his eyelids snapping open, his body coming to attention. There was the plastic clatter of something falling to the concrete, and when he looked down he saw the underside of a purple disc. A Frisbee, he realized, bending at the waist to scoop it up.

“Man, I'm
really
sorry about that,” a voice sounded to his left.

Jason turned his head, squinting into the sun. The Frisbee's owner dropped to one knee, making it easier for Jason to look at him. He was slim and darkly complected. His short black hair was thick, wavy at the top, capping a face that seemed almost too
young for college. But there was a sharp intelligence in the brown eyes studying him now with their own quiet confidence.

“You're bleeding,” the guy said. His right hand reached out and wiped at the side of Jason's face where a trickle of blood was working its way down from where he'd been struck. “Just a small abrasion. Nothing that needs stitches or anything.” He shook his head. “I'm
really
sorry about that,” he repeated. “It was a bad throw, but still . . . I should've caught that one.”

“You okay?” a girl asked, trotting over to join them.

The Frisbee owner turned to her. “You hit him in the head, Allison. Nice going.”

“No, I'm . . . I'm fine,” Jason assured them. “I mean, it was just a Frisbee. It's made of plastic.”

“You see, Amir?” the girl said. “He's fine.”

“He's bleeding,” the other commented.

“Where?” she asked, bending at the waist to get a better look.

“Right there,” he said, pointing. “I already wiped most of it away.”

Jason looked from one face to the next.

“You mean that little red mark?” She shook her head. “It's nothing.”

“Says the premed who already thinks she's a doctor,” Amir remarked to Jason. He offered him a hand, and Jason took it, rising to his feet. “Your assailant here is Allison,” he continued. “She's got some work to do on her Frisbee-chucking skills.”

“It was a perfect throw,” Allison insisted. “He just missed it.”

“Don't worry about it,” Jason said, introducing himself.

Amir clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, the premed says you're fine, but I think we should keep an eye on you for a while—
make sure you don't lapse into a coma or anything. How 'bout joining us for some pizza at Vacarro's?”

“Yeah.” Jason nodded. “Pizza sounds good.” He slung his backpack over one shoulder, and the three of them headed off toward the eastern border of campus where I Street intersected Pennsylvania Avenue. He handed the Frisbee back to Amir, who put a hand on his arm—the fourth time, Jason noticed, that he'd touched him in the last three minutes—and leaned in close before whispering, “
Trust me. It was a bad throw
.”