False Memory

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 embarrassment, but as if with shame.
    “Sooz, what aren’t you telling me?”
    “Nothing. I’m just... being paranoid, I guess.”
    “There is 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 damn 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, and halfway through any 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? 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 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 knob 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 a pig,” Martie insisted.
    “—but he’s not dangerous.”
    “He’s a wimp.”
    “Exactly.”
    Martie hesitated but then finally cracked open the door. “We’ll be finished with dinner by eight o’clock, maybe sooner. In bed by eleven, as usual. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
    “Thanks, Martie.”
    “De nada.”
    “Give Dusty a kiss for me.”
    “It’ll be a dry peck on the cheek. All the good wet stuff comes strictly from me.”
    Martie pulled her hood over her head, stepped out onto the landing, and drew the door shut behind her.
    The air had grown still, as though the wind had been pressed out