Christine

They held hands until the parcels grew too many for that, and then Arnie complained goodnaturedly about how she was turning him into her beast of burden. As they were going down to the lower level and B. Dalton, where Arnie wanted to look for a book on toy-making for Dennis Guilder’s old man, Leigh noticed that it had begun to snow. They stood for a moment at the window of the glassed-in stairwell, looking out like children. Arnie took her hand and Leigh looked at him, smiling. He could smell her skin, clean and a bit soapy; he could smell the fragrance of her hair. He moved his head forward a bit; she moved hers a bit toward him. They kissed lightly and she squeezed his hand. Later, after the bookstore, they stood above the rink in the centre of the mall, watching the skaters as they dipped and pirouetted and swooped to the sound of Christmas carols.

It was a very good day right up until the moment that Leigh Cabot almost died.

She almost surely would have died, if not for the hitchhiker.

They had been on their way back then, and an early December twilight had long since turned to snowy dark. Christine, surefooted as usual, purred easily through the four inches of fresh light powder.

Arnie had made a reservation for an early dinner at the British Lion Steak House, Libertyville’s only really good restaurant, but the time had gotten away from them and they had agreed on a quick to-go meal from the McDonald’s on JFK Drive. Leigh had promised her mother she would be in by eight-thirty because the Cabots were having friends in” and it had been quarter of eight when they left the mall.

“Just as well,” Arnie said. “I’m damn near broke anyway.”

The headlights picked out the hitchhiker standing at the intersection of Route 17 and JFK Drive, still five miles outside of Libertyville. His black hair was shoulder-length, speckled with snow, and there was a duffel-bag between his feet.

As they approached him, the hitchhiker held up a sign painted with Day-Glo letters It read: LIBERTYVILLE, PA. As they drew closer, he flipped it over. The other side read: NON-PSYCHO COLLEGE STUDENT.

Leigh burst out laughing. “Let’s give him a ride, Arnie.” Arnie said, “When they go out of their way to advertise their non-psychotic status, that’s when you got to look out. But okay.” He pulled over. That evening he would have tried to catch the moon in a bushel basket if Leigh had asked him to give it a shot.

Christine rolled smoothly to the verge of the road, tyres barely slipping. But as they stopped, static blared across the radio, which had been playing some hard rock tune, and when the static cleared, there was the Big Bopper, singing “Chantilly Lace”.

“What happened to the Block Party Weekend?” Leigh asked as the hitchhiker ran toward them.

“I don’t know,” Arnie said, but he knew. It had happened before. Sometimes all that Christine’s radio would pick up was WDIL. It didn’t matter what buttons you pushed or how much you fooled with the FM converter tinder the dashboard; it was WDIL or nothing.

He suddenly felt that stopping for the hitchhiker had been a mistake.

But it was too late for second thoughts now; the fellow had opened one of Christine’s rear doors, tossed his duffel-bag onto the floor, and slipped in after it. A blast of cold air and a swirl of snow came in with him.

“Ah, man, thanks.” He sighed. “My fingers and toes all took off for Miami Beach about twenty minutes ago. They must have gone somewhere, anyway cause I sure can’t feel em anymore.”

“Thank my lady,” Arnie said shortly.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the hitchhiker said, tipping an invisible hat gallantly.

“Don’t mention it,” Leigh said, and smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

“Same to you,” the hitchhiker said, “although you’d never know there was such a thing if you’d been standing out there trying to hook a ride tonight. People just breeze by and then they’re gone. Voom.” He looked around appreciatively. “Nice car, man. Hell of a nice car.”

“Thanks,” Arnie said.

“You restore it yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Leigh was looking at Arnie, puzzled. His earlier expansive mood had been replaced by a curtness that was not like his usual self at all. On the radio, the Big Bopper finished and Richie Valens came on, doing “La Bamba”.

The hitchhiker shook his head and laughed. “First the Big Bopper, then Richie Valens. Must be death night on the radio. Good old WDIL.”

“What do you mean?” Leigh asked.

Arnie snapped the radio off. “They died in a plane crash. With Buddy Holly.”

“Oh,” Leigh said in a small voice.

Perhaps the hitchhiker also sensed the change in Arnie’s mood; he fell silent and meditative in the back seat. Outside, the snow began to fall faster and harder. The first good storm of the season had come in.

At length, the golden arches twinkled up out of the snow.

“Do you want me to go in, Arnie?” Leigh asked. Arnie had gone nearly as quiet as stone, turning aside her bright attempts at conversation with mere grunts.