didn’t seem so bad. Nothing was so bad, except for those green eyes staring at her from the instrument panel. They weren’t unemotional anymore. Now they were blazing with hate and triumph.
(o my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee
I am
for offending
this is my act
my act of
of)
Arnie had reached across from the driver’s side. Now Leigh’s door was suddenly jerked open and she spilled sideways into a brutal, cutting cold. The air partially revived her, made her struggle for breath seem important again, but the obstruction wouldn’t move… it just wouldn’t move.
From far away, Arnie’s voice thundering sternly, the voice of Zeus: “WHATARE YOU DOING? GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!”
Arms around her. Strong arms. The wind on her face. Snow swirling in her eyes
(o my God hear me a sinner this is my act of contrition I am heartily sorry for having offended
OH!
OWW!
what are you DOING my ribs
hurts
what
what are you) and suddenly there were arms around her, crushing, and a pair of hard hands were clasped together in a knot just below her breasts, in the hollow of her solar plexus. And suddenly one thumb popped up, the thumb of a hitchhiker signalling for a ride, only the thumb drove painfully into her breastbone. At the same time the grip of the. arms tightened brutally. She felt caught
(Ohhhhhhh you’re breaking my RIBS) in a gigantic bearhug. Her whole diaphragm seemed to heave, and something flew out of her mouth with the force of a projectile. It landed in the snow: a wet chunk of bun and meat.
“Let her go!” Arnie was shouting as he slipped and slid around Christine’s rear deck to where the hitchhiker held Leigh’s limp body like a life-sized marionette. “Let her go, you’re killing her!”
Leigh began to breathe in great, tearing gasps. Her throat and lungs seemed to burn in rivers of fire with each gulp of the cold, wonderful air. She was dimly aware that she was sobbing.
The brutal bearhug relaxed and the hands let her go. “Are you okay, girl? Are you all—”
Then Arnie was reaching past her, grabbing for the hitchhiker. He turned toward Arnie, his long black hair flying in the wind, and Arnie hit him in the mouth. The hitchhiker flailed backward, boots slipping in the snow, and landed on his back. Fresh snow as fine and dry as confectioners” sugar puffed up around him.
Arnie advanced, fists held up, eyes slitted.
She took another convulsive breath—oh, it hurt, it was like being stabbed with knives—and screamed: “What are you doing, Arnie? Stop it!”
He turned toward her, dazed. “Huh? Leigh?”
“He saved my life, what are you hitting him for?”
The effort was too much and the black dots began to spiral up before her eyes again. She could have leaned against the car, but she didn’t want to go near it, didn’t want to touch it. The dashboard instruments. Something had happened to the dashboard instruments. Something
(eyes they turned into eyes) she didn’t want, to think about.
She staggered to a lamppost instead and hung onto it like a drunk, head down, panting. A soft, tentative arm went around her waist. “Leigh… honey, are you all right?” She turned her head slightly and saw his miserable, scared face. She burst into tears.
The hitchhiker approached them carefully, wiping his bloody mouth on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Thank you,” Leigh said between harsh, swift breaths.
The pain was ebbing a trifle now, and the hard, cold wind was soothing on her hot face. “I was choking. I think… think I would have died if you hadn’t…”
Too much. The black dots again, all sounds fading into an eerie wind-tunnel again. She put her head down and waited for it to pass.
“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 cliche 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.
