Woman with a Blue Pencil by Gordon McAlpine Page B

here. But now it’s like she doesn’t know that. And it’s like she doesn’t know me , which is exactly what she claims when I press her about it. Good God, I’ve taken that little girl to my bed a time or two after her shift and now she says she doesn’t recognize me? So I lose my temper and make a scene and it’s only by flashing my badge that things simmer down and I get out of there all right.”
    â€œBut you’re telling me things weren’t all right, even after you got out of there.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I’m telling you,” Czernicek said, knocking over the sugar cube wall.
    The waitress came with the sandwiches on plates in each hand.
    Czernicek scooped up the sugar cubes and returned them to the porcelain bowl.
    Sumida made a mental note not to take sugar with his tea if he ever returned to this place.
    â€œEat up,” Czernicek said, as the waitress put down the food.
    She turned and walked away.
    â€œThat one,” Czernicek indicated, with a wave of his hand toward the retreating waitress. “She ought to know me too. And she sure as hell should know my last name. She lives at home and likes to fuck in her lacy little girlhood bedroom, not ten feet from her Mom and Dad’s room. She likes me to put a pillow over her face when she starts making too much noise. And now, you see, she doesn’t even recognize me.”
    Sumida shook his head. “You got a thing for waitresses, Czernicek?”
    â€œI got a thing for women,” he answered, biting into his sandwich. “But waitresses . . . Well, women who spend their whole working day on their feet are especially appreciative of a man who puts them flat on their backs.”
    Sumida grunted.
    â€œBut this isn’t about that,” Czernicek said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat’s going on, Sumida? Are we ghosts or something?”
    The thought had occurred to Sumida. He’d dismissed it. “I think these people would respond to us differently if that were the case,” he answered.
    â€œThen what’s your theory, professor?”
    Sumida picked up his sandwich with his good hand. He shrugged, I don’t know .
    â€œHell of a lot of good running into you has done me,” Czernicek said.
    Sumida put his sandwich down. “Our recognizing each other means everything, however little we may understand what’s going on.”
    â€œOh, why?”
    â€œBecause it means we’re not insane.”
    Czernicek laughed. “Was that worrying you?”
    Sumida said nothing.
    â€œOr maybe it’s all a dream,” Czernicek said.
    Sumida shook his head. “You know that business about pinching yourself to ascertain that you’re not dreaming?”
    â€œSure.”
    Sumida brought his sore wrist up from beneath the table, where he’d kept it resting on his lap.
    It was already black and blue where Czernicek had twisted it.
    â€œNo dream,” Sumida said.
    Czernicek ignored his brutal handy work. “So that brings us back to our being ghosts.”
    Sumida shook his head. “I’ve been to the Hall of Records. There’s no indication of my ever having existed. No birth certificate, marriage license, real estate or tax records . . . nothing. Ghosts leave behind some indication of their having once been alive.”
    â€œSo what do you make of it, Sumida?”
    Privately, Sumida suspected the two were not ghosts, but phantoms of another, even more disturbing order—beings who seemed never to have lived at all, despite their memories. Impossible, of course. “No clue,” he answered.
    â€œAnd why just you and me?” Czernicek wondered.
    Sumida had already silently inventoried the areas of common ground between them. There was only one . . . Kyoko, who was absent in the public records. “I don’t know, Czernicek. Maybe we’re just meant for each other.”
    â€œVery