Росс Макдональд - The Three Roads

He was no more than a tiny mote of darkness in the sun, a little seed of flesh thrown down between the earth and sky, blown here and there by the wind of time that swept away the insect generations of men. He had betrayed his own side in the unequal war against death, and deserved nothing of anyone. Yet he drew a bitter strength from his humility. He could say the word “murderer” to himself and answer to the name. He could see it was not justice but mercy that he needed.

He leaned forward and covered his shamed face with his hands, so that his words were muffled. “You took such a risk for me. You must have been crazy to think I was worth it.”

“ ‘Crazy’ is a word we don’t use in our family.” She tried to smile, but her mouth was forced into a grimace of pity instead.

She couldn’t bear to sit here and see him bowed. She crossed the space between them and went down on her knees, holding his head to her breast. She felt his body shaking and held him tighter. She would have liked to be able to divide her own flesh, to take him inside of her and shield and comfort him.

“What am I going to do?” he said against her breast. He had taken a life and could no more evade his guilt than a hunchback could unstrap his hump. Whatever he said for the rest of his life would be censored by the knowledge that certain things could not be spoken. His perceptions would be darkened forever by the black memory that stood between him and the sun. Yet there was no way out. He couldn’t tell the police, for if he did, Paula, who was innocent, would suffer for his guilt. He had to go on living with the knowledge of what he had done, not just tonight, but every night, and in the daylight. “What can I do?” he said.

“Come to bed. You’re tired, and it’s past midnight. There’s nothing for you to do but come to bed.”

“Can you possibly still love me?”

“Tonight before you came I thought I’d lost you. I wanted to die.”

“But aren’t you–?” His voice broke.

She held him tighter still, as if her arms could smother the remorse inside his head. “Aren’t I what?”

“Afraid of me?”

For a second she felt quite panicky, she didn’t know exactly why. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she was afraid. Life was so very complicated and unpredictable, and the energy she needed to cope with it had all drained out of her tonight. She’d been living on her nerve for months, buying vitality on margin, and all the bills had come due at once. She knew that she had won, but she was too tired to realize her victory, too tired to think of the future without fear.

No doubt she’d feel different in the morning. Life would begin again, and the unsettling future would become the routine present. There’d be people to see and dialogue to write, appointments with Klifter, meals to plan, a place for Bret to start to work again, an excuse to put off Mrs. Swanscutt for a while. She didn’t want that bird of ill omen at her wedding; it was already equipped with ill omen enough. Still, she was sure that things would get better. The worst of the danger was over, and the worst of the pain. Things would never be as good as they might once have been, but they would be good enough. She had learned not to make too great demands on life. It was enough for her at the moment that she and Bret were very close to each other. She told him without faltering that she could never be afraid of him – she loved him too much.

“You’re very good,” he said. The warmth of her body had penetrated to his marrow, and he wasn’t shaking any more.

“Come to bed,” she said again.

They went up the stairs arm in arm. It’s past midnight, she was thinking, but it’s still a long time till morning. To him she said more cheerful things.