Empties by George; Zebrowski Page B

to sort out his thoughts from his feelings.  
    His noisy black phone rang, making him jump. He hurried to it, grabbed the large receiver, and held it without answering.  
    “Hi,” Dierdre said with a laugh. “Let’s talk.”  
    He hesitated, then said, “So talk.”  
    “Not on the phone,” she said. “Know the Italian restaurant on East 50th Street? I forget the name.”  
    Her friendly tone was startling, unbelievable, making him doubt his memory. Without it his whole life might be a delusion, for all he knew.  
    “Meet me there tonight,” she said.  
    Had it all been a gag gone wrong? He waited, seeing the open grave and loose earth in the basement chamber. Had he misinterpreted some kind of repair work in progress?  
    “We—ll?” she said, dragging the word across his mind. “Oh, it’s called Juliana’s.”  
    “Yeah, that’s the name,” he said, grateful for the memory.  
    “Well?” she shot into his ear. “I’ve made a reservation.”  
    “Okay,” he heard himself say, and was about to ask her another question, but she hung up, and he knew that he would go. What more could happen? The game was over, but what was the game? Maybe not knowing was part of the charm. A test—because it was a game between men and women, in the selection of worthies...  
    As he showered, his wounds did not seem so bad; she had not really hurt him, so why should he fear her? It was part of the game to have fooled him into believing that she could work wonders...  
    He showered and dressed in a new suit, telling himself that she would be civil in a public place, and maybe he would find out what this had all been about. There were people, he knew, in groups, who played all sorts of games, always raising the ante to increase thrills. Maybe she wanted him in such a group. Was he such a loner to have attracted her interest? Maybe this was the end of the game.  
    By the time he went out the door he was no longer sure of anything.  
     
    She was sipping water at her table. Wearing jeans, a sweater top, without makeup, she looked up at him as if apologizing as he sat down, then reached over and covered his hand.  
    “You think you’re safe here,” she said, stroking his scratched hand, “in a public place, but you’re not.”  
    Her words pushed him back into the delusion she wanted him to have, but he pulled his hand away and asked, “What have you to  
    tell me?”  
    She did not answer.  
    He looked around the restaurant. The room was brightly lit with electric candles set below the red velvet trim of pink walls. The diners were older couples, well dressed, probably just come down from the theaters, or even the music hall. They smiled and frowned, ate and drank, and paid no attention to him and Dierdre, or much to each other. It was a good restaurant. The food was performing.  
    “Look at them,” Dierdre said, smiling. “So snug in their bras and panties and manly briefs, tight in their chairs, so oblivious.”  
    Benek said, “So what was that all about at your place?” He felt slow-witted as she sipped some more water.  
    “Let’s order,” she said.  
    “Tell me,” he said.  
    “After we eat,” she said.  
    “Now,” he said, feeling pain in his jaw.  
    “Exactly what you saw, exactly what I told you. But I suppose you’ve explained it all away to yourself by now.”  
    He said, “None of that could have been real.” He stared at his glass of water as if it had become his only anchor to reality.  
    “I do what you saw. Look around you. No one here would know what was happening. No one would connect it with me. I’d have to explain and demonstrate for a while, and even then they wouldn’t believe, just like you.”  
    “I don’t,” he said.  
    “You do, way down deep,” she said, “and the rest of you will catch up.”  
    He picked up his glass but did not drink, imagining that the glass would be empty when he tried to drink from it.  
    “What do you want