Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [56]
“No, Carol.” Marjorie mustered a forced smile. “I’d never do that. No matter what. That’s something else Joel taught me.” She inhaled deeply. “Doesn’t it smell wonderful?”
Carol frowned. “What, the coffee? It’s okay, but…”
“No, not the coffee. Life.”
The other woman sighed tiredly. “Life doesn’t ‘smell.’”
Her friend looked her straight in the eye. “You didn’t know Joel Farrell.”
Five months went by, and then he was there. Just like that. At her door one Thursday evening, when he was sure she would be home. They didn’t say anything for a very long time. Then she threw herself at him hard, with deliberate force, so that he would have to either put his arms around her or be knocked to the ground. Eventually they went inside.
“You rotten bastard,” she muttered lovingly. “Why’d you come back?”
He shrugged, his expression half-irresistible boyish grin, half barely contained inner torment. “I needed a place to die.”
“Funny man. Oh, what a funny, funny man you are.” She didn’t know whether to smile or slap him.
He saved her the trouble of deciding. Putting his arm around her, he walked her toward the tiny kitchen where once he had methodically washed cheap dishes. “When I died, it was thinking of you. Since that happens every night, I finally decided I had no choice but to come back.” His tone was serious. Dead serious. “If you still want me back, after what I did.”
She tried to make light of it. That was her nature. Inside she was joy and jelly. “So you went away for a while, to think things over. You took a vacation. I can handle that. I guess if I want you back, I have to.” Her fingers played on his chest as he opened the door to the tiny porch and they walked outside. The autumn night was cold and brittle, invigorating and full of new life. “I mean, it’s not like you died or something.” She put her hand on his face, caressing the stubbly skin. “I guess nothing—has changed?”
He shook his head slowly. “Nothing has changed. I didn’t tell you—one of the reasons I left was because I was afraid, after that night when you found me in the street, that I might start dying sooner. Earlier. That it might become a regular thing or even become worse. That I might start dying at six o’clock or five or three in the afternoon. I needed to check that out before I could even think of doing anything about—us.”
Her heart was pounding. “And did you? Do you?”
His smile was a recurrent miracle that she had never thought to see again. “No. I had a couple more seven o’clock episodes, but other than that I’m still usually good until after ten. Nine thirty at the worst.”
She nodded. “I can live with that, too. If you can.” Tears were streaming down her face, completely soaking her good blue blouse. She didn’t care. About that or anything else.
“Then you’ll take me back?” The sense of hope rising in his voice pierced her heart like a long needle. “You still want me? If you do, if you will—Marjorie, I swear to God I’ll never leave you again, ever. I’ll do anything for you. Anything and everything. Please, let me do everything for you. Money, travel, cooking, laundry, I’ll give you everything if you’ll just take me back. I’ll do anything. Just name it.” He put a hand on either side of her face, cupping her cheeks, framing her smile and her tears. They were glorious, phenomenal, astonishing. As was everything about her, and the world they found themselves in. “I’ll even die for you.”
She was crying uncontrollably as she threw her arms around his neck and drew him close. Crying and laughing at the same time.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” she sobbed.
A Fatal Exception Has Occurred at…
As I have mentioned previously, the first story I ever sold (though not the first one to appear in print) was “Some Notes Concerning a Green Box.” This was a Lovecraftian pastiche done in the style of a letter to Arkham House’s founder and editor, August Derleth. I never expected it to see print as a story, yet that’s what happened. Its purchase by Derleth taught me a valuable lesson. Write for yourself, write what pleases you, and do not