Forgetfulness by Ward Just

that was all she could think about as snow continued to fall, tiny flakes as hard as gravel. She closed her eyes, concentrating, but there was nothing to concentrate on. Her memory began to drift away, shuddering, almost vacant, and weightless. She saw herself from a great height, the horned moon over her shoulder. She knew she was falling asleep because she was no longer cross and no longer remembering. She was not conscious of time except for the faint beat of her heart. Then the Gitanes smell was close by and something warm against her throat.
    What is your name?
    Florette, she said.
    Goodbye, Florette.
    Goodbye, she said.

Granger
    T HOMAS RAILLES, in their bedroom, sorted through the items on her dresser one by one. They were everyday familiar, but he had rarely noticed them: photographs of her mother and Tante Christine and the postmaster, husband number one, looking official in a blue hat. He had been dead some years and she seldom spoke of him except to remark on his loyalty to the post office, one of the sublime achievements of French civilization, established by Louis XI and nationalized by the immortal Bonaparte himself. There were two photographs of her and Thomas in the mountains, snow-covered peaks in the distance. Florette wore a black beret and they both carried walking sticks; same beret, same walking sticks in both pictures. He leafed through a stack of postcards, then straightened them as you would straighten a deck of cards. He paused to look left at the Matisse sketch over the bed, the head of a young woman so ardent you felt she might fly off the paper and become flesh in front of your eyes. He had bought it for Florette on their first wedding anniversary and he had never seen her so pleased. The price would have appalled her but she never asked. With difficulty Thomas turned back to the task at hand, his inventory. There was a sewing kit and a crucifix on a silver chain with strands of her hair and next to the crucifix an alligator jewel box he had bought in Rome years before. A company of elephants ranged in a semicircle around the photographs: marble elephants from Thailand, stone elephants from South Africa, ebony elephants from Kenya, and a silver elephant from India. The Indian elephant came with a howdah and a miniature maharajah wearing a pointed turban. All of them were gifts
from Bernhard Sindelar and Russ Conlon. Wherever they went in the world they bought elephants for Florette. Elephants were good luck. Also, they had excellent memories and were faithful to one another. Thomas touched each elephant in turn, then reached into his pocket and put the gold cigarette lighter next to the jewel box. She had left the lighter on the dining room table the afternoon she went for her walk in the mountains. He looked again at the photographs of himself and Florette, and the one of the postmaster.
    When he asked her about him, she waved the question away.
    What attracted you to him?
    The usual things, she said.
    Really, he'd insisted. I'm serious.
    He never asked questions, she said. That was what attracted me to him. Then, softening some, she laughed dryly. I can't remember, she said. It was so long ago. He wasn't a brute, I can tell you that. And, my God, he did love his post office.
    From the bedroom window Thomas could see the driveway, cars parked haphazardly along it. He watched the mayor and his wife and daughter walk to their Citroën, get in, and drive away. He knew people wouldn't leave until he put in an appearance, accepted their condolences, thanked them for coming. Thomas did not move when he heard a knock on the door, and whoever it was went away. He wanted them all to go away but did not know how to go about telling them. Grief could not be shared or even communicated except in slovenly ways. Bernhard and Russ promised to take care of everyone but they hadn't succeeded. One voice rose above the others but Thomas could not identify it. Ghislaine, perhaps, or the doctor who lived in the