Christine

“It’s the Heimlich Manoeuvre,” the hitchhiker said. “They make you learn it when you go to work in the cafeteria. At school. Make you practise on a rubber dummy. Daisy Mae, they call her. And you do it, but you don’t have any idea if it’ll—you know—work on a real person or not.” His voice was shaky, jumping in pitch from low to high and back to low again like the voice of a kid entering puberty. His voice seemed to want to laugh or cry—something—and even in the uncertain light and heavily falling snow, Leigh could see how pallid his face was. “I never thought I’d actually have to use it. Works pretty good. Did you see that fucking piece of meat fly?” The hitchhiker wiped his mouth and looking blankly at the thin froth of blood on the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Arnie said. He sounded close to tears. “I was just… I was…”

“Sure, man, I know.” He clapped Arnie on the shoulder. “No harm, no foul. Girl, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Leigh said. Her breath was coming evenly now. Her heart was slowing down. Only her legs were bad; they were so much helpless rubber. My God, she thought. I could be dead now. If we hadn’t picked that guy up, and we almost didn’t—

It occurred to her that she was lucky to be alive. This cliché struck her forcibly with a stupid, undeniable power that made her feel faint. She began to cry harder. When Arnie led her back toward the car, she came with him, her head on his shoulder.

“Well,” the hitchhiker said uncertainly, “I’ll be off.”

“Wait,” Leigh said. “What’s your name? You saved my life, I’d like to know your name.”

“Barry Gottfried,” the hitchhiker said. “At your service.” Again he swept off an imaginary hat.

“Leigh Cabot,” she said. “This is Arnie Cunningham. Thank you again.”

“For sure,” Arnie added, but Leigh heard no real thanks in his voice—only that shakiness. He handed her into the car and suddenly the smell assaulted her, attacked her: nothing mild this time, much more than just a whiff underneath. It was the smell of rot and decomposition, high and noxious. She felt a mad fright invade her brain and she thought: It is the smell of her fury—

The world slipped sideways in front of her. She leaned out of the car and threw up.

Then everything there was went grey for a little while.

Are you sure you’re all right?” Arnie asked her for what seemed to be the hundredth time. It would also have to be for one of the last, Leigh realized with some relief. She felt very, very tired. There was a dull, throbbing pain in her chest and another one at her temples.

“I’m fine now.”

“Good. Good.”

He moved irresolutely, as if wanting to go but not sure it would be right yet; perhaps not until he had asked his seemingly eternal question at least once more. They were standing in front of the Cabot house. Oblongs of yellow light spilled from the windows and lay smoothly on the fresh and unmarked snow. Christine stood at the curb, idling, showing parking lights.

“You scared me when you fainted like that,” Arnie said.

“I didn’t faint… I only got fogged in for a few minutes.”

“Well, you scared me. I love you, you know.”

She looked at him gravel. “Do you?”

“Of course I do! Leigh, you know I do!”

She drew in a deep breath. She was tired, but it had to be said, and said right now. Because if she didn’t say it now, what had happened would seem completely ridiculous by morninglight—or maybe more than ridiculous; by morninglight the idea would likely seen mad. A smell that came and went like the “mouldering stench” in a Gothic horror story? Dashboard instruments that turned into eyes? And most of all the insane feeling that the car had actually tried to kill her?

By tomorrow, even the fact that she had almost choked to death would be nothing but a vague ache in her chest and the conviction that it had been nothing, really, not a close call at all.

Except it was all true, and Arnie knew it was—yes, some part of him did—and it had to be said now.

“Yes, I think you do love me,” she said slowly. She looked at him steadily. “But I won’t go anywhere with you again in that car. And if you really love me, you’ll get rid of it.” The expression of shock on his face was so large and so sudden that she might have struck him in the face.

“What—what are you talking about, Leigh?”

Was it shock that had caused that slapped expression? Or was some of it guilt?

“You heard what I said. I don’t think you’ll get rid of it—I don’t know if you even can anymore—but if you want to go someplace with me, Arnie, we go on the bus. Or thumb a ride. Or fly. But I’m never going to ride in your car again. It’s a death-trap.”

There. She had said it; it was out.