“Calling you a bastard.”
He shrugged. “Hey, call me anything you want, as long as you don’t kill me.”
Gas flames weren’t as blue as her eyes when anger brightened them. “That’s not funny.”
“I refuse to be afraid of you.”
“You’ve got to be,” she said plaintively.
“Nope.”
“You stupid, stupid…man.”
“Man. Ow. The ultimate insult. Listen, if you ever call me a man again…I don’t know, it could mean we’re through.”
She glared at him, finally reached for the hair dryer, but then snatched her hand back. She tried again, recoiled again, and began to shake not with fear as much as with frustration and quiet anguish.
Dusty was afraid she might cry. Last night, the sight of her in tears had knotted his guts.
Approaching her, he said, “Let me do it.”
She shrank from him. “Stay away.”
He plucked a towel off the rack and offered it to her. “Do you agree this wouldn’t be any homicidal maniac’s weapon of choice?”
Her gaze actually traveled the length of the towel as though she were warily calculating its murderous potential.
“Grip it in both hands,” he explained. “Pull it taut, hold it tight, concentrate and keep your grip on it. As long as your hands are occupied, you can’t hurt me.”
Accepting the towel, she looked skeptical.
“No, really,” he said. “What could you do except snap my ass with it?”
“There’d be some satisfaction in that.”
“But there’s at least a fifty-percent chance I’d survive.” When she seemed hesitant, he said, “Besides, I’ve got the hair dryer. You try anything, I’ll give you a case of chapped lips you won’t forget.”
“I feel like such a schlump.”
“You’re not.”
From the doorway, Valet chuffed.
Dusty said, “The vote is two to one against schlump-dom.”
“Let’s get this over with,” she said grimly.
“Face the sink and keep your back to me if you think I’ll be safer that way.”
She faced the sink, but she closed her eyes rather than look at herself in the mirror.
Though the bathroom wasn’t cold, Martie’s bare back was stippled with gooseflesh.
With a brush, Dusty repeatedly pulled her thick, black, glorious hair through the gush of hot air from the blow-dryer, shaping it as he had seen her shape it before.
Ever since they’d been together, Dusty enjoyed watching Martie groom herself. Whether she was shampooing her hair, painting her nails, applying her makeup, or massaging suntan lotion into her skin, she approached the task with an easy, almost lazy, meticulousness that was catlike and wonderfully graceful. A lioness, confident of her appearance but not vain.
Always, Martie had seemed strong and resilient, and Dusty had never worried about what might happen to her if fate dealt him an early death while he was climbing across some high roof. Now, he worried — and his worrying felt to him like an insult to her, as if he pitied her, which he didn’t, couldn’t. She was still too
As the great philosopher Skeet once put it,
Something strange happened in the kitchen. In fact, virtually everything that happened in the kitchen was strange, but the last thing, just before they left the house, was the strangest of all.
First: Martie was rigid in one of the dinette chairs, hands trapped under her thighs, actually
Because she was having blood drawn and tests conducted, she was required to fast from nine o’clock the previous night until the doctor was finished with her later this morning.
She was upset about lingering in the kitchen while Valet wolfed his morning kibble and while Dusty drank a glass of milk and ate a doughnut, though not because she resented their freedom to indulge. “I know what’s in those drawers,” she said with anxiety evident in her voice, meaning knives and other sharp utensils.
Dusty winked lecherously. “I know what’s in your drawers, too.”
“Damn it, you better start taking this more seriously.”
“If I do, we might as well both kill ourselves now.”
Though her frown deepened, he knew she recognized the wisdom of what he’d said.
“There you stand, drinking whole milk, eating a glazed doughnut with cream filling. Looks like you’re already halfway to hara-kiri.”
Finishing the milk, he said, “I figure the best way to live a
“What if tomorrow they say cheeseburgers and french fries are the healthiest diet you can eat?”
“Then it’s tofu and alfalfa sprouts for me.”
Washing out the glass, he turned his back to her, and she said, “Hey,” sharply, and he faced her while he dried it, so she wouldn’t have a chance to sneak up on him and beat him to death with a can of pork and beans.
They were not going to be able to take Valet on his morning constitutional. Martie refused to stay here alone while Dusty went out with the dog. And if she accompanied them, she would no doubt be terrified of pushing Dusty in front of a truck and feeding Valet into some gardener’s portable woodchipper.
“There’s a pretty funny aspect to all this,” Dusty said.
“There’s nothing funny about it,” she grimly disagreed.
“We’re both probably right.”
He opened the back door and sent Valet out to spend the morning in the fenced backyard. The weather was cool but not chilly, and no rain was in the forecast. He put a full water dish on the porch and told the dog, “Poop where you want, and I’ll pick it up later, but don’t get the idea this is a new rule.”
He closed the door, locked it, and looked toward the telephone, which was when the strange thing happened. He and Martie began to talk at once, over and through each other.
“Martie, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—”
“I have all the faith in the world in Dr. Closterman—”
“—but I think we really should consider—”
“—but it might take days for test results—”
“—getting a second opinion—”
“—and as much as I hate the idea—”
“—not from another medical doctor—”
“—I think I need to be evaluated—”
“—but from a therapist—”
“—by a psychiatrist—”
“—who treats anxiety disorders—”
“—with the right experience—”
“—someone like—”
“—I’m thinking maybe—”
“—Dr. Ahriman.”
“—Dr. Ahriman.”
They spoke the name in unison — and gaped at each other in the ensuing silence.
Then Martie said, “I guess we’ve been married too long.”
