Christine

She laughed. Ice-cubes clinked in glasses. Shortly she came back with two glasses of ice and two cans of Canada Dry.

“Thanks,” I said, taking mine.

“No, thank you,” she said, and now her blue eyes were dark and sober. “Thanks for being around. If I had to deal with this alone, I think I’d… I don’t know.”

“Come on,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”

“Isn’t it? Do you know about Darnell?” I nodded.

“And that other one? Don Vandenberg.”

So she had made the connection too.

I nodded again. “I saw it. Leigh, what is it about Christine that bothers you?”

For a long time I didn’t know if she was going to answer. If she would be able to answer. I could see her struggling with it, looking down at her glass, held in both hands.

At last in a very low voice, she said, “I think she tried to kill me.”

I don’t know what I had expected, but it wasn’t that. “What do you mean?”

She talked, first hesitantly, then more rapidly, until it was pouring out of her. It is a story you have already heard, so I won’t repeat it here; suffice to say that I tried to tell it pretty much as she told it to me. She hadn’t been kidding about being scared. It was in the pallor of her face, the little hitches and gulps of her voice, the way her hands constantly caressed her upper arms, as if she was too cold in spite of the sweater. And the more she talked, the more scared I got.

She finished by telling me how, as consciousness dwindled, the dashboard lights had seemed to turn into watching eyes. She laughed nervously at this last, as if trying to take the curse off an obvious absurdity, but I didn’t laugh back. I was remembering George LeBay’s dry voice as we sat in cheap patio chairs in front of the Rainbow Motel, his voice telling me the story of Roland, Veronica, and Rita. I was remembering those things and my mind was making unspeakable connections. Lights were going on. I didn’t like what they were revealing. My heart started to thud heavily in my chest, and I couldn’t have joined in her laughter if my life had depended on it.

She told me about the ultimatum she had given him—her or the car. She told me about Arnie’s furious reaction. That had been the last time she went out with him.

“Then he got arrested,” she said, “and I started to think… think about what had happened to Buddy Repperton and those other boys… and Moochie Welch…”

“And now Vandenberg and Darnell.”

“Yes. But that’s not all.” She drank from her glass of ginger ale and then poured in more. The edge of the can chattered briefly against the rim of the glass. “Christmas Eve, when I called you, my mom and dad went out for drinks at my dad’s boss’s house. And I started to get nervous. I was thinking about… oh, I don’t know what I was thinking about.”

“I think you do.”

She put a hand to her forehead and rubbed it, as if she was getting a headache. “I suppose I do, I was thinking about that car being out. Her. Being out and getting them, But if she was out on Christmas Eve, I guess she had plenty to keep her busy without bothering my par—” She slammed the glass down, making me jump. “And why do I keep talking about that car as if it was a person?” she cried out, Tears had begun to spill down her checks. “Why do I keep doing that?”

On that night, I saw all too clearly what comforting her could lead to. Arnie was between us—and part of myself was, too. I had known him for a long time. A long good time.

But that was then; this was now.

I got my crutches under me, thumped my way across to the couch, and plopped down beside her. The cushions sighed. It wasn’t a raspberry, but it was close.

My mother keeps a box of Kleenex in the drawer of the little endtable. I pulled one out, looked at her, and pulled out a whole handful. I gave them to her and she thanked me. Then, not liking myself much, I put an arm around her and held her.

She stiffened for a moment… and then let me draw her against my shoulder. She was trembling. We just sat that way, both of us afraid of even the slightest movement, I think. Afraid we might explode. Or something. Across the room, the clock ticked importantly on the mantelpiece. Bright winterlight fell through the bow windows that give a three-way view of the street. The storm had blown itself out by noon on Christmas Day, and now the hard and cloudless blue sky seemed to deny that there even was such a thing as snow—but the dunelike drifts rolling across lawns all up and down the street like the backs of great buried beasts confirmed it.

“The smell,” I said at last. “How sure are you about that?”

“It was there!” she said, drawing away from me and sitting up straight. I collected my arm again, with a mixed sensation of disappointment and relief. “It really was there… a rotten, horrible smell,” She looked at me. “Why? Have you smelled it too?”

I shook my head. I never had. Not really.

“What do you know about that car, the she asked. “You know something. I can see it on your face.”