Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [55]
“Right, that’s it,” she said in clipped tones. “Come on, I’m taking you to a doctor.”
“No, no!” Forcing herself to mute the wailing mixture of laughter and sobs, Marjorie used both hands to gently but firmly draw her friend back down onto the couch. “You don’t understand. What you said—” She broke off, choking slightly, afraid the laughter would become uncontrollable and might degenerate into hysteria. She held out the crumpled, handwritten note. Carol took it and glanced down.
“He has beautiful handwriting, this guy.”
“I know.” Marjorie did not try to wipe her face, preferring to let the tears dry on her cheeks, a thin crust of salt. “Everything about him is beautiful.”
Carol read. “He says he loves you more than any woman, more than any person he’s ever known. That you mean more to him than anything in this or any other world. That he wants nothing more than to hold you in his arms and whisper his love to you forever. And that’s why he’s leaving San Francisco, and you.” She put the note down. Carol was not hard, but she was a woman who brooked no nonsense. “This is a crock, Marj. A typical Dear Jenny letter if I ever heard one. I think you’re well rid of the guy.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Reaching out, Marjorie took the note in shaky fingers. “Nobody understands.”
“All right.” Sitting back on the couch, the other woman crossed her arms and waited patiently. “Explain it to me.”
Her friend looked down at her lap. “I—I can’t. You wouldn’t believe me. And Joel wouldn’t want me to.”
Carol was not shy of gestures. “The son-of-a-bitch walks out on you without so much as a good-bye kiss, and you’re worried about what he wants?” She shook her head, disgust plain on her face. “What’s with this guy? I thought you said he was perfect.”
“No.” Finding a tissue, Marjorie reluctantly began to dab at her eyes. “I never said he was perfect. He’d be the last person on Earth to think that about himself.”
“I would hope so. Ah, shit.” Reaching out with both arms, she pulled Marjorie to her and let her cry herself out. Later, much later, they were finally able to talk.
“What are you going to do about it?” Carol was missing work, but she didn’t care. Her friend came first. “Me, I’d forget about him. Starting right now.”
“I can’t.” Marjorie’s reply was barely audible. She looked miserable.
“What is this guy, the only man in the world? Is he rich?”
“No.”
Carol persisted. “Movie-star handsome? Gigolo-great in bed? Nobel Prize material?”
“No.”
“Then what? What makes him so special?”
Marjorie looked up at her friend. “I know it sounds corny, Carol, but he was alive. More than alive. He knew, like nobody else I ever met, maybe like nobody else who ever was, what being alive means. It was something special, and he shared it with me, every time, every day, every minute we were together. He showed me what life is really about.”
Her friend pondered, then sipped from her cup. “I’m alive. You’re alive. So what. It’s nothing special.”
Marjorie’s reply was unintentionally condescending. “I told you you wouldn’t understand. Don’t feel bad. Neither would anyone else. Not without knowing Joel.”
“Okay, okay.” Carol put her cup down on the burl-wood coffee table, careful to set it on a coaster. “What are you going to do now? Any idea where he’s gone to?”
Marjorie shook her head. “He wouldn’t leave hints or clues. If he wants to lose himself, he knows how to do it. I thought about hiring a detective agency to look for him, or reporting him as missing to the police, or telling the Red Cross that I had to contact him because of an emergency, but it would just be a waste of time. I know Joel. If he wants to be gone, then he’s gone.”
Carol’s tone was thick with concern for her friend. “I hate seeing you like this, Marjorie.”
She shrugged. “I hate being like this. It’s kind of like—like dying a little.”
Now her friend was more than concerned; she was alarmed. “You’re not thinking of doing anything crazy, are you? Because if you are, I’m not leaving this apartment. Work can go take a flying