The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright Page A

he seemed to be carrying. I had my own emotional baggage, and it was damned heavy—hell, I thought I was losing the woman I hoped to marry. In retrospect, I think all that goes a long way toward explaining why I ran from his house. But there was this, too: He was right—he'd spooked the hell out of me. "Sure we're friends," I went on, "but Abner—"
    "Abner Doubleday," he cut in.
    "Abner Doubleday? What are you talking about?"
    "Abner Doubleday, remember?—Abner W. Cray, Abner Doubleday—the two sound pretty much alike, don't they?"
    "For God's sake, Abner—"
    "Sam, I just wanted to warn you."
    "Abner, I know where you're staying. Just give me some time to get my own life squared away, then—"
    "Sam," he broke in, "listen to me. They don't like people ... knowing—"
    That was it. "The only thing I know, Abner, is that I want to sit back, watch some football, slug down a few beers, maybe send out for a pizza—"
    "They won't let go of you, Sam."
    "Maybe they won't," I cut in, "but you sure as hell better, pal," and I hung up. Half a minute later, I called him back to apologize, to give him a good long chance to talk—maybe that was all he needed, someone to talk to—but after his phone rang a good two dozen times, I gave up. "Damn!" I breathed, and decided I'd try to find my way back to the beach house in the morning.
    ~ * ~
    The L.A. Rams were playing the Dallas Cowboys that evening, but the cable system was on the fritz, so all I got was colored snow and a play-by-play that sounded like it was being broadcast from a fishbowl. I listened anyway, and in the middle of the game I heard a knock at my door. I thought it was the super or one of the other tenants, because no one gets in my building without being buzzed in.
    "Who is it?" I hollered.
    "Sorry?" I heard. It was a woman's voice.
    "I said, 'Who is it?'"
    "Oh," the woman called back, "no one. I need to come in to your apartment."
    "Why?"
    "To use the phone?"
    "Is that a question?"
    "Sorry?" she called.
    I sighed, got out of my chair, went to the door, put my hand on the knob, and hesitated. "Do you need to use the phone?"
    "Yes," she answered quickly, and crisply, as if she had just then decided that that was what she needed to do. "Yes, I need to use the phone."
    I looked through the security peephole in the center of the door. I saw only the left side of her face, a swatch of red hair. "Are you one of the other tenants?" I called.
    "Sorry?" she called back.
    "I said are you one of the other tenants?"
    "Oh. Yes. I am. I'm one of the other tenants."
    "I don't believe you."
    Silence.
    "I said I don't believe that you're one of the other tenants."
    "I'm not."
    "You just said you were."
    "I'd like to come in and talk with you, if that's okay."
    I hesitated, looked through the peephole again, saw the same thing—the left side of her face, a swatch of red hair, a bit of her eye—green, I guessed. "No. I'm sorry," I called. "Maybe you could ask the super, down on one—how'd you get in, anyway?"
    "Through the door," she answered. "Don't you remember me?"
    I looked again through the peephole. She'd stepped further to her right and back a bit, so I could get a good look at her. "We were on the ferry together, do you remember?"
    Again I hesitated, then I said, "Yes, I remember. What do you want?"
    "Only to talk."
    I turned the knob and opened the door until one of the chain locks stopped it. "Okay—talk."
    "I'd like to come inside." She nodded to indicate my apartment. "Could I come inside?"
    "How'd you find me?" I asked.
    She answered simply, "I looked. I found you." She nodded again to indicate my apartment. "Could I come inside? I can't talk to you out here. I need to come into your house. Please, tell me I can come into your house."
    I didn't like the sound of that. It sounded half like a plea, half like a threat, and I told her, "Find the super, he's on one, you can use his phone."
    "I don't know the super. I know