False Memory Part 11

"Who told you Eric was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around?"

"Oh, Martie, this is too boring."

"I don't find it boring. You-"

"I won't talk about this," Susan said with airy dismissiveness, rather than with anger or embarra.s.sment, either of which would have seemed more appropriate. She waved one hand as if she were chasing off a bothersome fly. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"Good grief, Sooz, you can't drop a bombsh.e.l.l like that and then just-"

"I'm in a good mood. I don't want to spoil it. Let's talk Martha Stewart c.r.a.p or gossip, or something frivolous." She sprang up from her chair almost girlishly. On the way into the kitchen, she said, "What was your decision on that beer?"

This was one of those days when being sober didn't have a lot of appeal, but Martie declined a second Tsingtao anyway.

In the kitchen, Susan began singing "New Att.i.tude," Patti LaBelle's cla.s.sic tune. Her voice was good, and she sang with buoyant conviction, especially when the lyrics claimed I'm in control, my worries are few. I'm in control, my worries are few.

Even if Martie had known nothing about Susan Jagger, she was sure that nevertheless she would have detected a note of falseness in this apparently cheerful singing. When she thought of how Susan had looked only minutes ago-in that trancelike state, unable to speak, skin as pale as a death mask, brow beaded with sweat, eyes focused on a distant time or place, hands clawing at each other-this abrupt transition from catatonia to exuberance was eerie.

In the kitchen, Susan sang, "'Feelin' good from my head to my shoes.'"

Maybe the shoes part. Not the head.

16.

Dusty never failed to be surprised by Skeet's apartment. The three small rooms and bath were almost obsessively well ordered and scrupulously clean. Skeet was such a shambling wreck, physically and psychologically, that Dusty always expected to find this place in chaos.

While his master packed two bags with clothes and toiletries, Valet toured the rooms, sniffing the floors and furniture, enjoying the pungent aromas of waxes and polishes and cleaning fluids that were different from the brands used in the Rhodeses' home.

Finished with the packing, Dusty checked the contents of the refrigerator, which appeared to have been stocked by a terminal anorexic. The only quart of milk was already three days past the freshness date stamped on the carton, and he poured it down the drain. He fed a half loaf of white bread to the garbage disposal, and followed it with the hideously mottled contents of an open package of bologna that looked as if it would soon grow hair and growl. Beer, soft drinks, and condiments accounted for everything else in the fridge; and all of it would still be fresh when Skeet came home.

On the counter next to the kitchen phone, Dusty found the only disorder in the apartment: a messy scattering of loose pages from a notepad. As he gathered them, he saw that the same name had been written on each piece of paper, sometimes only once, but more often three or four times. On fourteen sheets of paper, one-and only one-name appeared thirty-nine times: Dr. Yen Lo. Dr. Yen Lo. None of the fourteen pages featured a phone number or any additional message. None of the fourteen pages featured a phone number or any additional message.

The handwriting was recognizably Skeet's. On a few pages, the script was fluid and neat. On others, it appeared as if Skeet's hand had been a little unsteady; furthermore, he had borne down hard with the pen, impressing the seven letters deep into the paper. Curiously, on fully half the pages, Dr. Yen Lo Dr. Yen Lo was inscribed with such apparent emotion-and perhaps struggle-that some letters were virtually slashed onto the paper, gouging it. was inscribed with such apparent emotion-and perhaps struggle-that some letters were virtually slashed onto the paper, gouging it.

A cheap ballpoint pen also lay on the counter. The transparent plastic casing had snapped in two. The flexible ink cartridge, which had popped out of the broken pen, was bent in the middle.

Frowning, Dusty swept the counter with his hand, gathering the pieces of the pen into a small pile.

He spent only a minute sorting the fourteen sheets from the notepad, putting the neatest sample of writing on top, the messiest on the bottom, ordering the other twelve in the most obvious fashion. There was an unmistakable progression in the deterioration of the handwriting. On the bottom page, the name appeared only once and was incomplete-Dr. Ye-probably because the pen had broken at the start of the n. n.

The obvious deduction was that Skeet had become increasingly angry or distressed until finally he exerted such ferocious pressure on the pen that it snapped.

Distress, not anger.

Skeet didn't have a problem with anger. Quite the opposite.

He was gentle by nature, and his temperament had been further cooked to the consistency of sweet pudding by the pharmacopoeia of behavior-modification drugs to which a fearsome series of clinical psychologists with aggressive-treatment philosophies had subjected him, with the enthusiastic encouragement of Skeet's dear old dad, Dr. Holden Caulfield, alias Sam Farner. The kid's sense of self was so faded by years of relentless chemical bleaching that it could not hold red anger in its fibers; the meanest offense, which would enrage the average man, drew from Skeet nothing more than a shrug and a fragile smile of resignation. The bitterness he felt toward his father, which was the closest to anger that he would ever come, had sustained him through his search for the truth of the professor's origins, but it hadn't been potent enough or enduring enough to give him the strength to confront the phony b.a.s.t.a.r.d with his discoveries.

Dusty carefully folded the fourteen pages from the notepad, slipped them into a pocket of his jeans, and scooped the fragments of the pen off the counter. The ballpoint was inexpensive but not poorly made. The one-piece transparent plastic casing was rigid and strong. The pressure required to snap it like a dry twig would have been tremendous.

Skeet was incapable of the necessary rage, and it was difficult to imagine what could have caused him such extreme distress that he would have pressed down on the ballpoint with the requisite ferocity.

After a hesitation, Dusty threw the broken pen in the trash.

Valet stuck his snout in the waste can, sniffing to determine if the discarded item might be edible.

Dusty opened a drawer and withdrew a telephone directory, the Yellow Pages. He looked under PHYSICIANS PHYSICIANS for Dr. Yen Lo, but no such entry existed. for Dr. Yen Lo, but no such entry existed.

He tried PSYCHIATRISTS PSYCHIATRISTS. Then PSYCHOLOGISTS PSYCHOLOGISTS. Then finally THERAPISTS THERAPISTS. No luck.

17.

While Susan put the pinochle deck and score pad away, Martie rinsed the lunch plates and the takeout cartons, trying not to look at the mezzaluna on the nearby cutting board.

Susan brought her fork into the kitchen. "You forgot this."

Because Martie was already drying her hands, Susan washed the fork and put it away.

While Susan drank a second beer, Martie sat with her in the living room. Susan's idea of background music was Glenn Gould on piano, playing Bach's Goldberg Variations. Goldberg Variations.

As a young girl, Susan had dreamed of being a musician with a major symphony orchestra. She was a fine violinist; not world-cla.s.s, not so great that she could be the featured performer on a concert tour, but fine enough to ensure that her more modest dream could have become a reality. Somehow, she had settled for real-estate sales instead.

Even until late in her final year of high school, Martie had wanted to be a veterinarian. Now she designed video games.

Life offers infinite possible roads. Sometimes your head chooses the route, sometimes your heart. And sometimes, for better or worse, neither head nor heart can resist the stubborn pull of fate.

From time to time, Gould's exquisite sprays of silvery notes reminded Martie that although the wind had diminished, cold rain was still falling outside, beyond the heavily draped windows. The apartment was so cloistered and cozy that she was tempted to succ.u.mb to the dangerously comforting notion that no world existed beyond these protective walls.

She and Susan talked about the old days, old friends. They devoted not a word to the future.

Susan wasn't a serious drinker. Two beers were, to her, a binge. Usually, she got neither giddy nor mean with drink, but pleasantly sentimental. This time, she became steadily quieter and solemn.

Soon, Martie was doing most of the talking. To her own ear, she sounded increasingly inane, so at last she stopped babbling.

Their friendship was deep enough to make them comfortable with silence. This silence, however, had a weird and edgy quality, perhaps because Martie was surrept.i.tiously watching her friend for signs of the trancelike condition that had previously overtaken her.

She couldn't bear to listen to the Goldberg Variations Goldberg Variations yet again, because suddenly the music's piercing beauty was depressing. Strangely, for her, it had come to signify loss, loneliness, and quiet desperation. The apartment quickly became stifling rather than cozy, claustrophobic rather than comforting. yet again, because suddenly the music's piercing beauty was depressing. Strangely, for her, it had come to signify loss, loneliness, and quiet desperation. The apartment quickly became stifling rather than cozy, claustrophobic rather than comforting.

When Susan used the remote control to replay the same CD, Martie consulted her watch and recited a series of nonexistent errands to which she must attend before five o'clock.

In the kitchen, after Martie slipped into her raincoat, she and Susan embraced, as they always did on parting. This time the hug was more fierce than usual, as though both of them were trying to convey a great many important and deeply felt things that neither was able to express in words.

As Martie turned the k.n.o.b, Susan stepped behind the door, where she would be shielded from a glimpse of the fearsome world outside. With a note of anguish, as if suddenly deciding to reveal a troubling secret that she had been keeping with difficulty, she said, "He's coming here at night, when I'm asleep."

Martie had opened the door two inches. She closed it but left her hand on the k.n.o.b. "Say what? Who's coming here while you're asleep?"

The green of Susan's eyes seemed to be an icier shade than before, the color having been intensified and clarified by some new fear. "I mean, I think he is." Susan lowered her gaze to the floor. Color had risen in her pale cheeks. "I don't have proof it's him, but who else could it be but Eric?"

Turning away from the door, Martie said, "Eric comes here at night while you're asleep?"

"He says he doesn't, but I think he's lying."

"He has a key?"

"I didn't give him one."

"And you've changed the locks."

"Yeah. But somehow he gets in."

"Windows?"

"In the morning...when I realize he's been here, I check all the windows, but they're always locked."

"How do you know he's been here? I mean, what's he do?"

Instead of answering, Susan said, "He comes...sneaking around...sneaking, slinking like some mongrel dog." She shuddered.

Martie was no great fan of Eric's, but she had difficulty picturing him slinking up the stairs at night and slithering into the apartment as if through a keyhole. For one thing, he didn't have sufficient imagination to figure out an undetectable way to slip in here; he was an investment adviser with a head full of numbers and data, but with no sense of mystery. Besides, he knew Susan kept a handgun in her nightstand, and he was highly aversive to risk; he was the least likely of men to take a chance at being shot as a burglar, even if he might harbor a twisted desire to torment his wife.

"Do you find things disturbed in the morning-or what?"

Susan didn't reply.

"You never heard him in the apartment? You never woke up when he's been here?"

"No."

"So in the morning there are...clues?"

"Clues," Susan agreed, but offered no specifics.

"Like things out of order? The smell of his cologne? Stuff like that?"

Still staring at the floor, Susan nodded.

"But exactly what?" Martie persisted.

No answer.

"Hey, Sooz, could you look at me?"

When Susan raised her face, she was blushing brightly, not as if with mere embarra.s.sment, but as if with shame.

"Sooz, what aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. I'm just...being paranoid, I guess."

"There is is something you're not saying. Why bring it up at all, and then hold out on me?" something you're not saying. Why bring it up at all, and then hold out on me?"

Susan hugged herself and shivered. "I thought I was ready to talk about this, but I'm not. I've still got to...work some things out in my head."

"Eric sneaking in here at night-that's a weird d.a.m.n thing. It's creepy. What would he be doing-watching you sleep?"

"Later, Martie. I've got to think this through a little more, work up the courage. I'll call you later."

"Now."

"You've got all those errands."

"They're not important."

Susan frowned. "They sounded like they were pretty important a minute ago."

Martie wasn't capable of hurting Susan's feelings by admitting that she had invented the errands as an excuse to get out of this dreary, suffocating place, into fresh air and the invigorating chill of cold rain. "If you don't call me later and tell me all of it, every last detail, then I'll drive back here tonight and sit on your chest and read you pages and pages of the latest book of literary criticism by Dusty's old man. It's The Meaning of Meaninglessness: Chaos as Structure, The Meaning of Meaninglessness: Chaos as Structure, and halfway through and halfway through any any paragraph, you'll swear that fire ants are crawling across the surface of your brain. Or what about paragraph, you'll swear that fire ants are crawling across the surface of your brain. Or what about Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend? That's his stepfather's latest. Listen to that one on audiotape, and it'll make you want to cut off your ears. They're a family of writing fools, and I could could inflict them on you." inflict them on you."

Smiling thinly, Susan said, "I'm suitably terrified. I'll call you for sure."

"Guaranteed?"

"My solemn oath."

Martie grasped the k.n.o.b again, but she didn't open the door. "Are you safe here, Sooz?"

"Of course," Susan said, but Martie thought she saw a flicker of uncertainty in those haunted green eyes.

"But if he's sneaking-"

"Eric's still my husband," Susan said.

"Watch the news. Some husbands do terrible things."

"You know Eric. Maybe he's a pig-"

"He is is a pig," Martie insisted. a pig," Martie insisted.

"-but he's not dangerous."