Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Finally, after walking through molasses for a million years, I was asking her to dance. You accepted, Pat, but what happened? The moment you were in my arms, the wonderful, youthful, haze disappeared. Was it a foreboding, a preview of today? Later, at the punch bowl, when Frank said, “The situation calls for us to run like hell, or we won’t start out,” I think I realized even then—

The dry underbrush crackled up ahead, alerting Jim. He was gripping his rifle too tightly, sweating too much. Deer, for sure; Frank was right. Quietly, he worked the bolt back and forth, putting a cartridge in the chamber. Perspiration stung his eyes, and he wiped it away. Annoyed, he knew he had to relax, move slowly.

Move slowly? I did, for two years. Until that night in the city. We were all tense; there was some silly quarrel about where we’d eat, ending as usual at North Beach — sure, Italian food, romantic setting, night-life of the nongods. And everyone snapping at everyone else.

We’d almost finished when Frank suddenly dropped his fork. This would be uncomfortable; I knew what he was going to do even before he proposed, and it was obvious Pat accepted. But — I remember now! — my feelings were a strange mixture of relief and sorrow.

I must have spoken aloud because Pat started talking; told me I loved her. Did I? Yes, with reservations.

Somewhere, appropriately, I said, “Sergeant, this is a situation where I run but you can’t.” It was supposed to be funny, but Pat didn’t like the sound of it. Guess Frank didn’t either.

During the evening, I managed to express my loyalty to both of them. Or perhaps not — Pat was talking quite a bit.

She was always a good talker, but she failed when it came to the divorce. These 11 years were good years, fun years — why this sort of an ending? From that day a few months ago, when Pat called and invited me to lunch, the pattern seemed obvious and inevitable.

She told me the whole story; in her words, Frank’s infidelity, gaucherie, stubbornness, and the rest. I felt sorry for both of them — and for one second, I saw Pat as I had that night we first met.

Funny, but with one break in your armor, you leave yourself wide open. I don’t like to think about what happened next, Frank; it was betrayal. Unplanned, but still betrayal: of you, of Pat, of me.

So I am responsible for what today brings—

Today? Now.

Jim was excellently positioned. “Happy birthday!”

He brought the rifle up, aimed, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Frank Morriss watched Jim walk toward the sunset, then swing out of sight around the hill. Silently, he turned to Pat, a mocking look in his eye.

“I’d better take off myself.”

She nodded, deep in thought.

Frank began the long walk to and up the east shoulder of the hill. I wish she’d kissed me, he thought, or maybe I should have kissed her. I gave her the chance; I gave Jim one, too — and now... He shrugged. Thou shalt not kill, true, but what is the solution? I can’t lose her to another man. God! despite everything, I still love her.

Frank stopped suddenly, instinctively, at the buzzing noise. A small, Coast Range rattlesnake was coiled on guard, less than six feet away. Shaking its tail, its head and neck upright and poised for a strike, the rattler glowered malevolently at him.

Though the snake wasn’t really a threat, Frank felt the usual chill at the back of his neck. He eased to a stoop, his fingers fumbling for, and finding, a heavy rock.

By then, the snake had buzzed angrily a few more times and uncoiled. It glided regally eastward, an imperious look proclaiming its victory. Frank, gripping the rock, could have thrown it accurately enough to break the rattler’s neck. Instead, the man let go, hardly hearing the dull thud of rock against soil.

Snake, why should I kill you? You’re as frightened as I, so today we are brothers. You don’t kill a brother — or someone as close as a brother. Stay alive, snake. I am older; I came to life 13 years ago, so I’ll be the one to die soon.

Came to life! Jim and I hit that dance with only one thought: available, makeable, age-of-consent females. We couldn’t know the dance would not be over for so many years.

I’m sure I saw Pat first — and stood, stunned. By the time I’d recovered, Jim was already talking to her. How could the son of a bitch do something like that?

Hold it! Am I talking about Jim? The guy who picked off the mortar squad when the rest of us were hugging holes in the ground, too frightened to move. Jim’s a friend; besides, I could always talk him into doing what I wanted. Pat danced with me the rest of the evening.

OK, we should have run like hell, and maybe today wouldn’t be here. I couldn’t leave her, Jim. She was like a picture that I’d made up and never thought could exist. Bells going off in my head, alarm bells, telling me to get away. Instead, I stayed, with my guts churning. I wanted to strangle you when you spoke to her; I floated when she gave me her full attention. Pat was man-hunting; I vowed she’d stop as of then.