Asimov's SF, February 2007 by Issue 02 # February

Author:Issue 02 # February
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-07-10T14:01:40+00:00

CLOSE by William Preston

Just because you’re feeling ill at ease and terrified doesn’t mean something isn’t out to get you…

That night, a turtlish car crept into the parking lot of the former St. Jude’s School fifteen minutes after every other, passed more than a dozen vehicles huddled in regions of brightness, then backed into the dimmest corner, against the narrow band of woods. Crows riotously packing the high branches briefly lifted off and raised even more argument, then settled back to their ordinary din.

Elbow on the open window, Ed Lukens breathed clouds as he surveyed the other cars. Some had gathered under the tall, helmeted lamp in the lot’s middle; the rest, in the first row of slots by the one-story brick building, faced the few bright, curtained windows and the regularly spaced floods.

He’d kept the ignition key partly turned; the dashboard clock read 7:20. Choosing what to wear had taken too long, what with his mother out for the evening with his married sister. The part in his flat brown hair hadn’t fallen correctly, so he’d simply combed his hair forward, where it troubled his brow. Then there’d been that wrong turn, his brain’s autopilot taking him initially toward work rather than here. He twisted his face into an imitation of disappointment, though once the expression was in place, he felt himself sinking into despair.

During mass two weeks ago, in the middle of the sermon, his sister had dropped the church bulletin into his lap and, with one red-nailed finger, tapped twice, sharply, at a notice.

Does meeting new people make you uncomfortable? Does small talk make you anxious? Afraid to get out of the house for new experiences?

Through the rest of the service, he’d imagined everyone in the congregation reading those sentences and thinking only of him, thirty-four, tall, and strange. At night he’d lie in bed, the window open in any season, listening. Not attending to the night’s sounds exactly, but to the gaps between the sounds, he ached, the aggregate emptiness confirming his sense that everyone was truly alone.

Two weeks his sister had kept after him, mentioning the bulletin notice over dinner every other day when she and her husband visited. Coming tonight was meant to stop her wearying assaults. The evening had been difficult enough to this point; walking in late seemed impossible. He pictured people turning toward him, holding drinks, going silent. He couldn’t face such attention. Just to be here was quite an achievement. Maybe another night, he’d manage to go inside.

He considered sitting a while longer, then driving a meandering route home. Probably his mother wouldn’t be back until later, and he could lie that he’d attended, answering with shrugs when pressed for details.

Then he heard a failing muffler, and headlights swept his eyes. A four-door car, streaked with old mud, appeared, and in the light from the center pole Ed could see, as the car paused, the female driver, pale and blonde, leaning over her hands, which clutched the steering wheel. She scanned the lot, moved forward hesitantly, then at last selected a spot one row from the building.

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