think I’m glad I know about Mr. Yow, Git Down and that I told you what I did.”
“I am, too.” And it was true.
“Now may I ask you two questions?”
“Of course.”
“How much of what they call ‘survivor guilt’ are you feeling?”
“I thought you said you weren’t a shrink.”
“I’m not, but I read the magazines and have even been known to watch Oprah. That
my husband does know, although I prefer not to rub his nose in it. So…how much,
Scott?”
I considered the question. It was a good one—and, of course, it was one I’d asked
myself on more than one of those sleepless nights. “Quite a lot,” I said. “Also, quite a
lot of relief, I won’t lie about that. If Mr. Yow, Git Down was a real person, he’d
never have to pick up another restaurant tab. Not when I was with him, at least.” I
paused. “Does that shock you?”
She reached across the table and briefly touched my hand. “Not even a little.”
Hearing her say that made me feel better than I would have believed. I gave her hand
a brief squeeze and then let it go. “What’s your other question?”
“How important to you is it that I believe your story about these things coming back?”
I thought this was an excellent question, even though the Lucite cube was right there
next to the sugar bowl. Such items are not exactly rare, after all. And I thought that if
she had majored in psychology rather than German, she probably would have done
fine.
“Not as important as I thought an hour ago,” I said. “Just telling it has been a help.”
She nodded and smiled. “Good. Now here’s my best guess: someone is very likely
playing a game with you. Not a nice one.”
“Trickin’ on me,” I said. I tried not to show it, but I’d rarely been so disappointed.
Maybe a layer of disbelief settles over people in certain circumstances, protecting
them. Or maybe—probably—I hadn’t conveyed my own sense that this thing was
just…happening. Still happening. The way avalanches do.
“Trickin’ on you,” she agreed, and then: “But you don’t believe it.”
More points for perception. I nodded. “I locked the door when I went out, and it was
locked when I came back from Staples. I heard the clunk the tumblers make when
they turn. They’re loud. You can’t miss them.”
“Still…survivor guilt is a funny thing. And powerful, at least according to the
magazines.”
“This…” This isn’t survivor guilt was what I meant to say, but it would have been the
wrong thing. I had a fighting chance to make a new friend here, and having a new
friend would be good, no matter how the rest of this came out. So I amended it. “I
don’t think this is survivor guilt.” I pointed to the Lucite cube. “It’s right there, isn’t it?
Like Sonja’s sunglasses. You see it. I do, too. I suppose I could have bought it myself,
but…” I shrugged, trying to convey what we both surely knew: anything is possible.
“I don’t think you did that. But neither can I accept the idea that a trapdoor opened
between reality and the twilight zone and these things fell out.”
Yes, that was the problem. For Paula the idea that the Lucite cube and the other things
which had appeared in my apartment had some supernatural origin was automatically
off-limits, no matter how much the facts might seem to support the idea. What I
needed to do was to decide if I needed to argue the point more than I needed to make
a friend.
I decided I did not.
“All right,” I said. I caught the waiter’s eye and made a check-writing gesture in the
air. “I can accept your inability to accept.”
“Can you?” she asked, looking at me closely.
“Yes.” And I thought it was true. “If, that is, we could have a cup of coffee from time
to time. Or just say hi in the lobby.”
“Absolutely.” But she sounded absent, not really in the conversation. She was looking
at the Lucite cube with the steel penny inside it. Then she looked up at me. I could