"Died," he said, exhaling. "And that's all I remember. Then you, the
others, all this. Ain't you supposed to have peace when you die?"
"You have peace," the old woman said, "when you make it with
yourself."
"Nah," Eddie said, shaking his head. "Nah, you don't." He thought
about telling her the agitation he'd felt every day since the war, the bad
dreams, the inability to get excited about much of anything, the times he
went to the docks alone and watched the fish pulled in by the wide rope
nets, embarrassed because he saw himself in those helpless, flopping
creatures, snared and beyond escape.
He didn't tell her that. Instead he said, "No offense, lady, but I don't
even know you."
"But I know you," she said.
Eddie sighed.
"Oh yeah? How's that?"
"Well," she said, "if you have a moment."SHE SAT DOWN then, although there was nothing to sit on. She
simply rested on the air and crossed her legs, ladylike, keeping her spine
straight. The long skirt folded neatly around her. A breeze blew, and
Eddie caught the faint scent of perfume.
"As I mentioned, I was once a working girl. My job was serving food
in a place called the Seahorse Grille. It was near the ocean where you
grew up. Perhaps you remember it?"
She nodded toward the diner, and it all came back to Eddie. Of
course. That place. He used to eat breakfast there. A greasy spoon, they
called it. They'd torn it down years ago.
"You?" Eddie said, almost laughing. "You were a waitress at the
Seahorse?"
"Indeed," she said, proudly. "I served dockworkers their coffee and
longshoremen their crab cakes and bacon.
"I was an attractive girl in those years, I might add. I turned away
many a proposal. My sisters would scold me. 'Who are you to be so
choosy?' they would say. 'Find a man before it's too late.'
"Then one morning, the finest-looking gentleman I had ever seen
walked through the door. He wore a chalk-stripe suit and a derby hat.
His dark hair was neatly cut and his mustache covered a constant smile.