False Memory

“Pardon me for not being blunt enough. He’s a pig.”

“Be nice, Martie.”

“I gotta be me. He’s a skunk.”

Susan was determined to avoid self-pity and tears, which was highly admirable, but she was equally determined not to admit to her anger, which was less so. “He just was so upset seeing me…this way. He couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Oh, the poor sensitive darling,” Martie said. “And I guess he was just too distressed to remember the part of the marriage vows that goes ‘in sickness and in health.’”

Martie’s anger at Eric was genuine, although she made an effort to stoke it like a fire and keep it ever alive. He had always been quiet, self-effacing, and sweet — and in spite of his abandonment of his wife, he remained hard to hate. Martie loved Susan too much not to despise Eric, however, and she believed that Susan needed anger to motivate her in her struggle against agoraphobia.

“Eric would be here if I had cancer or something,” Susan said. “I’m not just sick, Martie. I’m crazy, is what I am.”

“You aren’t crazy,” Martie insisted. “Phobias and anxiety attacks aren’t the same as madness.”

“I feel mad. I feel stark raving.”

“He didn’t last four months after this started. He’s a swine, a skunk, a weasel, and worse.”

This grim part of each visit — which Martie thought of as the extraction phase— was stressful for Susan, but it was downright grueling for Martie. To get her resistant friend out of the house, she had to be firm and relentless; and although this was a firmness informed by much love and compassion, she felt as though she were hectoring Susan. It wasn’t within Martie’s character to be a bully, even in a good cause, and by the end of this brutal four-or five-hour ordeal, she would return home to Corona Del Mar in a state of physical and emotional exhaustion.

“Sooz, you’re beautiful, kind, special, and smart enough to whip this thing.” Martie shook the raincoat. “Now get your ass out of that chair.”

“Why can’t Dr. Ahriman come to me for these sessions?”

“Leaving this house twice a week is part of the therapy. You know the theory — immersion in the very thing you’re frightened of. A sort of inoculation.”

“It isn’t working.”

“Come on.”

“I’m getting worse.”

“Up, up.”

“It’s so cruel,” Susan protested. Letting go of the arms of the chair, she fisted her hands on her thighs. “So damn cruel.”

“Whiner.”

She glared at Martie. “Sometimes you can be such a mean bitch.”

“Yeah, that’s me. If Joan Crawford were alive, I’d challenge her to a wire coat-hanger fight, and I’d lacerate her.”

Laughing, then shaking her head, Susan rose from the armchair. “I can’t believe I said that. I’m sorry, Martie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Holding the raincoat as Susan slipped her arms into it, Martie said, “You be good, girlfriend, and on the way back from the doctor, we’ll get some great Chinese takeout. We’ll open a couple bottles of Tsingtao, and we’ll play some killer two-hand pinochle over lunch, fifty cents a point.”

“You already owe me over six hundred thousand bucks.”

“So break my legs. Gambling debts aren’t legally collectible.”

After Susan switched off all but one of the lamps, she retrieved her purse from the coffee table and led Martie through the apartment.

As she was crossing the kitchen behind Susan, Martie found her attention drawn to a wicked-looking item that lay on a cutting board near the sink. It was a mezzaluna knife, a classic Italian kitchen tool: The curved stainless-steel blade was shaped like a half-moon, with a handle at each end, so it could be rocked rapidly back and forth to dice and slice.

Like an electric current, scintillant light seemed to sizzle along the cutting edge.

Martie could not look away from it. She didn’t realize how completely the mezzaluna had mesmerized her — until she heard Susan ask, “What’s wrong?”

Her throat was tight, and her tongue felt swollen. With audible thickness, she asked a question to which she already knew the answer: “What’s that?”

“Haven’t you ever used one? It’s great. You can dice an onion in a flash.”

The sight of the knife didn’t fill Martie with terror, as had her shadow and the bathroom mirror. It did, however, make her uneasy, although she couldn’t explain her queer reaction to it.

“Martie? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure, let’s go.”

Susan twisted the knob but hesitated to open the kitchen door.

Martie put her hand over her friend’s, and together they pulled the door inward, admitting cold gray light and a sharp-toothed wind.

Susan’s face drained of color at the prospect of entering the roofless world beyond her threshold.

“We’ve done this a hundred times before,” Martie assured her.

Susan clutched the doorjamb. “I can’t go out there.”

“You will,” Martie insisted.

Susan attempted to return to the kitchen, but Martie blocked her. “Let me in, this is too hard, it’s agony.”

“It’s agony for me, too,” Martie said.

“Bullshit.” Desperation clawed some of the beauty out of Susan’s face, and a feral terror darkened the green of her jungle eyes. “You’re getting off on this, you love it, you’re crazy.”

“No, I’m mean.” Martie gripped the doorjamb with both hands, holding her ground. “I’m the mean bitch. You’re the crazy bitch.”

Suddenly Susan stopped pushing at Martie and clutched at her instead, seeking support. “Damn, I want that Chinese takeout.”

Martie envied Dusty, whose biggest worry of the morning would be whether the rain would hold off long enough for his crew to get some work done.

Fat drops of rain — at first in fitful bursts but soon more insistently — began to rattle on the roof that covered the landing.

Finally, they stepped across the threshold, outside. Martie pulled the door shut and locked it.

The extraction phase was behind them. Worse lay ahead, however, and Martie was unable to see most of it coming.

6

Skeet ran exuberantly down the steeply pitched roof, toward the brink, angling for a point of departure that would ensure he landed on skull-cracking pavement rather than on mattresses, bounding along the convex orange- brown tiles as though he were a kid racing across a cobbled street to an ice-cream vendor, and Dusty ran grimly after him.

To those watching from below, it must have appeared that the two men were equally deranged, fulfilling a suicide pact.

More than halfway down the slope, Dusty caught up with Skeet, grabbed him, wrenched him off his intended trajectory, and stumbled diagonally across the incline with him. Some clay tiles cracked underfoot, dislodging small chunks of roofer’s mortar, which rattled toward the rain gutter. Remaining upright on this rolling debris was no less difficult than walking on marbles, with the added challenges of the rain and the slimy lichen and Skeet’s energetic