THE HIDING PLACE. John Burley

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