Surprisingly Cold

BY DAN DOMENCH

Aer I’d been sitting on the oor in the a ernoon heat for more than three hours, the door nally opened and Becca Salman marched toward me. A batik-dyed dress rippled around her legs and nearly covered the gum soles of her skate shoes. She shook my hand and pulled me to my feet. Her shoulders glistened with perspiration. e front of my T-shirt was dark with sweat.

I introduced myself. She said she was on her way out and we’d talk as she walked. I grabbed my backpack and scrambled a er her down the stairs.

“Whatever you want,” she said, “sitting in the hallway outside the production o ce is no way to get it.”

I apologized and said it was important. I asked if she knew Harlan Ashton.

She never heard of him. At the bottom of the stairs, Becca held the door to the street open for me and I stepped out into the exhaust of a passing bus. She cut behind me and strode up the incline toward Congress Street.

I tried to stay alongside her. I said, “Harlan saw a play you directed. He made plans to meet you before he disappeared two years ago.”

Her face tightened, but she didn’t slow down.

It came to me what I was going to do. I said, “I’m putting on a memorial service for him on Red Island.”

She stumbled to a stop, said, “Red Island? Why did you say that?”

“It’s where we grew up,” I said, “up north, nineteen miles o the coast.”

Our re ections faced each other in the window of a restaurant. Inside, tables were set with plates and wine glasses. A stout man stocked a bar.

Becca said, “It’s a real place.”

“Yes,” I said. “Did you dream about it?”

“I must’ve told someone,” she said. “I need you away from me.” She pulled open the