Dean Koontz - False Memory

“I don’t feel erotic,” she said, her voice husky. She pouted without calculation but with powerful effect. “I feel like birdshit.”

“Curious.”

“Not me.”

“What?”

Skinning out of her underwear, she said, “I don’t want to go the way of the cat.”

“No,” he said, “I meant your choice of words. So you feel like birdshit — why in particular bird?”

She yawned. “Is that what I said?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I feel like I’ve dropped a long way and splattered all over everything.”

She didn’t want to be alone to shower.

Dusty watched from the bathroom doorway while Martie spread the bath mat, opened the door of the shower stall, and adjusted the water. When she stepped into the stall, he moved into the room and sat on the closed lid of the toilet.

As Martie began to soap herself, Dusty said, “We’ve been married three years, but I feel like I’m at a peep show.”

A bar of soap, a squeeze bottle of shampoo, and a tube of cream conditioner were objects so lacking in lethal potential that she was able to finish bathing without being seized by terror.

Dusty got the hair dryer out of a vanity drawer, plugged it in for her, and then retreated to the doorway once more.

Martie balked at using the hair dryer. “I’ll just towel it a little and let it dry naturally.”

“Then it’ll just fizz up, and you’ll hate the way it looks, and you’ll bitch all day.”

“I don’t bitch.”

“Well, you certainly don’t whine.”

“Damn right I don’t.”

“Complain?” he suggested.

“All right. I’ll admit to that.”

“You’ll complain all day. Why don’t you want to use the hair dryer? It’s not dangerous.”

“I don’t know. It sort of looks like a gun.”

“It’s not a gun.”

“I didn’t claim any of this was rational.”

“I promise if you turn it up to maximum power and try to blow-dry me to death, I won’t stand still for it.”

“Bastard.”

“You knew that when you married me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“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 schiump.”

“You’re not.”

From the doorway, Valet chuffed.

Dusty said, “The vote is two to one against schlumpdom.”

“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 Martie to elicit pity. Yet now she appeared alarmingly vulnerable, neck so slender, shoulders so fragile, the vertebrae linked with such delicacy in the spinal cleft of her back, and Dusty feared for this dear woman to an extent that he must never allow her to perceive.

As the great philosopher Skeet once put it, Love is hard.

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 sitting on her hands, as though they would seize anything within reach and hurl it at Dusty if they were not restrained.

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 harakin.”

Finishing the milk, he said, “I figure the best way to live a normal — and probably long — life is to listen to everything the health Nazis say, then do exactly the opposite.”

“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.