You Live Once by John D. MacDonald Page B

sat on the pine log. She smoked her cigarette and scratched at a punkie bite on her ankle. Ever since the night she had gotten drunk and told me her woes, we had talked frankly with each other, though she had retained an aura of shyness. I had not told her what I had learned that night. There was no point in it. Suspicions could hurt, but the actuality would be worse.
    “I hope … I hope she never comes back,” Nancy said.
    I didn’t say anything for too long and the words hung there between us until Nancy laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t mean I hope anything bad has happened to her. Even to her. I just hope she’s found some other fly to pull the wings off.”
    “She’s impulsive,” I said.
    “Nice polite word. She’s a harpy. She feeds on people. She has a nice built-in excuse—her insane mother. That’s handy for her. No marriage, so she does as she pleases. Including going to bed with my husband.”
    “You aren’t positive of that, though.”
    “Oh, I am, Clint. Entirely certain. I kidded myself for a long time. But you can’t live with a man and not know. All the little false touches. That blandness, with all the guilt underneath. I know, Clint. I’ve known for a long time. It started back in February, a month after we arrived. She didn’t waste any time, did she?”
    “Don’t try to laugh about it.”
    “Aren’t I supposed to be gay about it? Isn’t thatsophisticated or something? Last night after we got home we had a real scrap. He wouldn’t admit it, of course. I asked him about the things that are missing. His good robe, some sports shirts, an extra pair of slippers—little things like that. And a book of poems. Poems! My God, can you imagine reading poems to a … a thing like that? I asked him if it would ease his conscience any if I took a lover. You know, continental style. Sauce for the goose. At that he stormed out and didn’t come back until five this morning. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you, Clint. I haven’t told him or anybody else, but I’m going to leave him.”
    “Do you mean that?”
    “I have some pride. I don’t have to put up with this. I can earn my own living. It hurts … hurts badly, Clint, when someone tells you in that way that you aren’t enough for them. Enough woman.”
    “You want to be awfully sure, Nancy.”
    “I am sure. I’ve told you so much of my personal life. Aren’t you sick of it? Don’t you want to know everything? The whole story? I have two small brown moles right here on my left hip. Tomatoes give me a rash. When I get emotionally upset, I get diarrhea. Nervous colon they call it. I lost my virginity when I was sixteen and had a job waiting on table at a summer …”
    “Nancy!” Her voice had gone shrill and her face was tense.
    The tension went out of her. She put her head down on her bare knees and said in a small voice, “I’m sorry, Clint.”
    I touched the silky-fine blonde hair. “You’ve had it rough. I don’t blame you. But promise one thing. Think about it for a week.”
    She sighed. “If you think I ought to.”
    “I do.”
    She sighed again. “Clint?”
    “Yes, honey.”
    “Clint … do you want me?” Her voice was shy, far off.
    I knew why she asked. I knew how careful I had to be. “Yes, of course. Any man would say yes. You’re a special thing, Nancy.”
    “I’m not. But I’ll … be special for you. When, Clint? And where?”
    “I want you, but I don’t think it would be smart. I think you still love the guy. He’s hurt you badly. You want reassurance. You want to be wanted. And you want to hurt him back. I’m your friend, Nancy. I don’t want to be caught in the middle of that sort of thing. Suppose he sees what a fool he’s been, and you get back together. You’d always regret it. You’ve never done anything like that, have you?”
    “No. I … I don’t know what I want to do.”
    “Think for a week. Then we’ll talk again. Okay?”
    She lifted her head and looked at me. Her