False Memory

Dinner conversation was awkward. Even after the detailed account she had given in the living room, he had many questions regarding the panic attack. She grew increasingly reluctant to talk about it.

For one thing, the subject depressed her. Recalling her queer behavior, she felt helpless, as though she had been cast back to the powerless and dependent condition of early childhood.

In addition, she was troubled by an irrational but nonetheless firm conviction that talking about the panic attack would induce another one. She felt as if she were sitting on a trapdoor, and the longer she talked, the more likely she was to speak the trigger word that would release the hinges and drop her into an abyss below.

She asked about his day, and he recited a list of business errands that he usually attended to when the weather didn’t favor housepainting.

Although Dusty never lied, Martie sensed that he wasn’t giving her the full story. Of course, in her current condition, she was too paranoid to trust her feelings.

Pushing aside his plate, he said, “You keep avoiding my eyes.” She didn’t deny it. “I hate for you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Weak.”

“You aren’t weak.”

“This lasagna has more spine than I do.”

“It’s two days old. For lasagna… hell, that’s eighty-five in human years.”

“I feel eighty-five.”

He said, “Well, I’m here to testify, you look way better than that damn lasagna.”

“Gee, mister, you sure can charm a girl.”

“You know what they say about housepainters.”

“What do they say?”

“We know how to roll it on thick.” She met his eyes.

He smiled and said, “It’s going to be all right, Martie.”

“Not unless your jokes get better.”

“Weak, my ass.”

Walking the battlements of her four-room fortress, Susan Jagger satisfied herself that all the windows were locked.

The only apartment door opening to the outside world was in the kitchen. It was protected by two dead bolts and a security chain.

Finished checking the locks, she tipped a kitchen chair onto its back legs and wedged it under the doorknob. Even if Eric somehow had obtained a key, the chair would prevent the door from being opened.

Of course, she had tried the chair trick before. It hadn’t foiled the intruder.

After hiding the camcorder and testing the view angle, she had removed the battery pack to plug it into a bathroom outlet once more. Now it was fully charged.

She inserted the battery and hid the camcorder in the ivy under the potted ming tree. She would switch it on just before she got into bed, and then would have three hours of tape — in extended mode — on which to catch Eric in the act.

All the synchronized clocks agreed on the hour: 9:40 P.M. Martie had promised to call before eleven o’clock.

Susan remained eager to hear what analysis and advice her friend might offer, but she wasn’t going to tell Martie about the camcorder. Because maybe her phone was tapped. Maybe Eric was listening.

Oh, how lovely it was here on the dance floor at the Paranoia Cotillion, gliding around and around in the fearsome embrace of a malevolent stranger, while the orchestra played a threnody and she grimly worked up the courage to look into the face of the dancer whose lead she followed.

29

Two glasses of Scotch, a brick of lasagna, and the events of this terrible day left Martie half numb with exhaustion. As Dusty cleaned up the dinner dishes, she sat at the table, watching him from under heavy eyelids.

She had expected to lie awake until dawn, racked by anxiety, dreading the future. But now her mind rebelled at assuming an even heavier burden of worry; it was shutting down for the night.

A new fear of sleepwalking was the only thing preventing her from nodding off here at the kitchen table. Somnambulism had never previously afflicted her, but then she had never suffered a panic attack until this morning, either, and now all things were possible.

If she walked in her sleep, perhaps that Other Martie would control her body. Slipping out of bed, leaving Dusty to dream on, the Other might descend barefoot through the house, as comfortable as the blind in darkness, to extract a clean knife from the utensils basket in the dishwasher.

Dusty took her hand and led her through the downstairs, turning off lights as they went. Valet padded after them, his eyes red and shining in the gloom.

Having brought Martie’s raincoat from the kitchen, Dusty paused to hang it in the foyer closet.

Sensing a weight in one of the coat pockets, he fished out the paperback book. “Are you still reading this?” he asked.

“It's a real thriller.”

“But you’ve been taking it to Susan’s sessions forever.”

“Not all that long.” She yawned. “The writing’s good.”

“A real thriller — but you can’t get through it in six months?”

“It hasn’t been six months, has it? No. Can’t be. The plot is entertaining. The characters are colorful. I’m enjoying it.”

He was frowning at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Plenty. But, right now, mostly I’m just so damn tired.”