Strange Highways

like people," Glenda said, which seemed an odd comment until she added, "but I like them more in books than in real life."
     "Why's that?"
     "I'm sure you know," she said.
     And he did. "In a book, even the real bastards can't hurt you."
     "And you can never lose a friend you make in a book."
     "When you get to a sad part, no one's there to see you cry."
     "Or wonder why you don't cry when you should," she said.
     "I don't mind living secondhand. Through books."
     "It has big advantages," she agreed.
     He wondered who had hurt her, how often, and how badly. Beyond doubt, she had suffered. He could sense a depth of pain in her that was disturbingly familiar to him.
     Yet there was nothing melancholy about her. She had a sweet, gentle smile, and she virtually radiated a quiet happiness that made him more comfortable in her living room than he had been anywhere since he'd left home for college seven years ago.
     "When I returned to the reference desk at the morgue and you'd gone," she said, "I thought you were angry about being made to wait."
     "Not at all. I just remembered ... an appointment I'd forgotten."
     "I'll be back on duty Monday if you want to stop around."
     "You like working there?"
     "It's nice and quiet. Some of the reporters can be too flirty, but that's the worst of it."
     He smiled. "You can handle them."
     "Reporters all think they're persistent and tough," she said. "But they're no match for a newspaper-morgue librarian."
     "At least not for this one."
     "Where do you work?" she asked.
     "Nowhere right now."
     "Waiting," she said, instead of anything that anyone else might have said. "Sometimes waiting is the hardest thing."
     "But it's all you can do."
     She sipped her iced tea. "One day there'll be a door like any other door, but when you open it, right in front of you will be just the thing you need."
     "It's nice to think so," he said.
     "Then you forget the pain of waiting."
     Chase had never been party to a conversation half as strange as this - yet it made more sense than any conversation that he'd ever had in his life.
     "Have you found that door?" he asked.
     "There's not just one. A series of them. With spells of waiting in between."
     Dinner was delicious: tossed salad, potatoes and pasta layered with spinach and basil and feta cheese, zucchini with slivers of red pepper, and marinated sea bass lightly grilled. For dessert, fresh orange slices sprinkled with coconut.
     When they weren't talking in that strange shorthand that came naturally to them, they fell into silences that were never awkward.
     After dinner in the dining area off the kitchen, she suggested that they adjourn to the small balcony off the living room, but Chase said, "What about the dishes?"
     "I'll take care of them later."
     "I'll help, and we'll get them done twice as fast."
     "A man who offers to wash dishes."
     "I thought maybe I could dry."
     After the dishes, they sat on a pair of lawn chairs on the balcony in the warm July darkness. The garden courtyard was below. Voices drifted to them from other balconies, and city crickets made a sound as lonely as any made by their country cousins.
     When at last it was time to leave, he said, "Is this a magical apartment - or do you make it peaceful wherever you go?"
     "You don't have to make the world peaceful," she said. "It is to begin with. You just have to learn not to disturb things."
     "I could stay here forever."
     "Stay if you want."
     The balcony had no lamp, only fireflies in the night beyond the railing. In such deep shadows, Chase couldn't read her face.
     He thought of dead women in a tunnel, half a world away, and the weight of guilt in his heart was immeasurable.
     He found himself apologizing to Glenda for what she might have thought was a pass. "I'm sorry. I had no right, I didn't mean-"
     "I know," she said softly.
     "I don't want-"
     "I know. Hush."
     They were silent for a while.
     Then she said, "Being alone can be good. It's easy to find peace alone. But sometimes ... being alone is a kind of death."
     He could add nothing more to what she'd said.
     Later she