Джон Макдональд - You Live Once

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“While they’re looking for me they won’t be looking for who really did it.”

“I know, but will they look anyway, after they have you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Somebody killed her, Clint.”

“I know that.”

“Mr. Raymond?”

“I don’t think so. There’s too much coldness there, under all that boyish good nature. Too much calculation. He wouldn’t do anything that stupid. Why should he kill her? He was perfectly confident that now and then she would jump into bed with him.”

“It’s all so... nasty,” she said, looking up at me.

“Right.”

“Clint, I don’t think you should turn yourself in yet.”

“So what do I do?”

She blushed more violently than before. “You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow I can find out how... how convinced they are. Somehow. If they aren’t completely sure, then you should go in. If they think they can... kill you, then you’ll have to go away. I can get you away somehow. I know I can.”

It could have been the way she said that. Or the way she looked. Or it could have been a lot of half noticed things adding up in my mind, to make a sudden startling total. Maybe it was merely what she was, and how she was, and who she was. And she was definitely somebody. She was Toni MacRae. She was superbly, uniquely herself. Anyway, it happened to me at that moment. Like, according to the books, it is supposed to happen to everybody.

One minute she was a handsome gal with a good mind, good taste, and far better equipment than average. All that one minute — and then she was suddenly Toni MacRae. Not a pastime, not a hobby, not a target for tonight. Toni. Part of my life. Most of my life. All of my life.

Love at first sight is too trite. When it comes it doesn’t creep. It pounces. It isn’t even love like I thought of love. It is something else. It is a necessity. It is a place in the road. You get there, turn oblique right, and take a road you never saw before.

She became, all of a sudden, Toni MacRae, indisputable, irreplaceable, unanswerable — as necessary to me as lungs, legs and blood. There is no other way to say it.

I stood there and stared at her. She was miracles. Lips, legs, eyes, breasts. All miracles, all precious.

She was still red. “Just because I say you can stay here doesn’t mean that...”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“All of a sudden, just like that, I know what you mean before you say anything. We could sit without words and carry on whole conversations. Your eyes are wonderful.”

“Too loud!” she hissed.

“Sorry.” I sat on my heels on the floor so I could look up at her face. I took her hand. She tried to pull it away and then let it rest in mine, unresponsive. “Toni,” I said. “Toni!”

“Too loud!”

“Look, it doesn’t make any difference if you lock me in your bathroom. Or if I sleep under the bed. One night doesn’t matter. We’ve got us ten thousand coming up.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I told you, I’m not sure. How can we help not get married, Toni?”

“How can we help... what?”

“It’s an accomplished fact, anyway. So they stamp a paper for us for the file. Toni, Toni.”

She yanked her hand away. “Whatever this is, it isn’t funny, Mr. Sewell.”

“I know it isn’t funny. Toni, I started at the wrong place. I’m disorganized. Let’s start at a standard place. I love you.”

“Oh sure,” she said dubiously.

“All of a sudden. You just sat there, all of you, perfectly miraculous, and it came to me, like it fell on my head.”

“This is all just because...”

I rocked back on my heels. “Just because I’m going to stay here? It’s a fat line. I tell it to all the girls who hide me from the cops. You haven’t got any fire around here I can hold my hand in. I’ve outgrown crossing my heart and spitting. About the only way I can show sincerity is to go trudging out of here. Bake me a cake and bring it to the dungeon. They can’t electrocute Sewell. He has to get married. Suddenly I’m confident. Even Kruslov loves me.”

I unlocked the door, opened it and started down the hall. She caught my arm with astonishing strength and whirled me around. Her face was like chalk. She got me back into the room, locked the door, leaned against it and closed her eyes. Her color came back slowly. She opened her eyes and looked at me. She looked at me steadily and for a long time. I looked back. I looked back until the room misted out and there was nothing there but her eyes.

She reached me in three small fragile steps. “True?” she whispered.

“True,” I said.

She put her hands on my shoulders. I didn’t touch her. She put her head a little on the side, still looking, still cautious, still tentative. She put her lips evenly, steadily against mine — firm-soft, warm-cool. All her vulnerability, so sweet you could cry. She was something in my arms. She was a lot of girl. Then she put the side of her dark head against my cheek and we held tight in a drowning world. She shuddered and it went away and she shuddered again and again.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. So long... The... the ice going out, maybe?” She leaned back to give me a crooked grin, but the grin turned into the pinched child-face of tears. She went face down diagonally across the bed, hitting it hard enough to bounce a little. I sat beside her and didn’t touch her.

She couldn’t possibly feel the same. I sank into a grey swamp — loving and unloved. Then she defeated the tears, turned and curled, and snagged me and hauled me down. This one was a salty kiss. She put the words with it, and the words were fine. It had come true for her some months back and she had been carrying it around, waiting, without much hope.

We lay facing each other, noses touching, her eyes like sooty saucers. When she breathed I took her warm breath deep into my lungs. My hands were on the concave softness of her waist. Her fists lay against my chest. We told each other how wonderful it was. Everything slowly became more heated, crowded, excited. We had started up the slant of a dangerous spiral. I moved away from her.

We whispered until one. We fixed my bed, spare blankets on the floor under the windows, with a sheet and her winter coat over me, and her extra pillow under my head. I was all tucked in in the dark room when she came out of the bathroom, the light behind her. Her summer pajamas might have been hung between two shrubs by a self-respecting spider. She turned out the light and the floor creaked as she came over to me. She knelt and kissed me.

“Sleep well, darling,” she breathed against my cheek. She smelled of all the summer gardens of my childhood, with a dash of Pepsodent. I slid my arm around her waist. She pulled back a little.

Then leaning against my arm, she made a funny sound way down deep in her throat and came toward me.

It was a foolish and desperate chance, born of haste and greed. It could have been cheap. It could have spoiled too many things.

But it was magical.

I awakened in the high bed in the morning, awakened early for me, and without any shock of disassociation. I knew exactly where I was and why I was there and all about it. I knew she was behind me.

I rolled over with the greatest of care. The covers were over her shoulder and bunched under her chin. A good clean line went down from the point of her shoulder to the nip of her waist, then mounded up warmly over her hip. A strand of black hair lay across her cheek. Each soft exhalation stirred it. Her face was smooth, faintly dusky, without blemish or scar or mark of living.

The alarm clock behind me let off a horrid clanging. Eyes still closed she lunged for the alarm, sprawling across me. She gave a gasp of fright and shock and yanked herself back, eyes wide and dazed and uncomprehending. I turned and grabbed the metal beast and stilled its fury. When I turned back to look at her, her eyes were shut again.