False Memory

12

From New Life, in the grip of something close to grief, Dusty went home to change out of his damp work clothes into dry civvies. At the connecting door between the garage and the kitchen, Valet greeted him with doggy enthusiasm, tail wagging so hard that his whole butt swayed. The very sight of the retriever began to bring Dusty out of his internal darkness.

He squatted and gave the dog a nose-to-nose greeting, gently scratching behind the velvety ears, slowly down the crest of the neck to the withers, under the chin, along the dewlaps, and into the thick winter fur on the chest.

He and Valet enjoyed the moment equally. Petting, scratching, and cuddling a dog could be as soothing to the mind and heart as deep meditation — and almost as good for the soul as prayer.

When Dusty plugged in the coffeemaker and began to spoon some good Colombian blend into the filter, Valet rolled onto his back, with all four legs in the air, seeking a belly rub.

“You’re a love hog,” Dusty said.

Valet’s tail swished back and forth across the tile floor.

“I need my fur fix,” Dusty admitted, “but right now I need my coffee more. No offense.”

His heart seemed to be pumping Freon instead of blood. A chill had settled deep in his flesh and bones; even deeper. Turned up full blast, the van heater hadn’t been able to warm him. He was counting on the coffee.

When Valet realized that he wasn’t going to receive a belly rub, he got to his feet and padded across the kitchen to the half bath. The door was ajar, and the dog stood with his snout poked through the six-inch gap, sniffing the darkness beyond.

“You’ve got a perfectly fine water dish there in the corner,” Dusty said. “Why do you want to drink out of a toilet?”

Valet glanced back at him, but then returned his attention to the dark bathroom.

As fresh-brewed coffee began to drip into the glass pot, the kitchen filled with a delicious aroma.

Dusty went upstairs and changed into jeans, a white shirt, and a navy-blue wool sweater.

Usually, when only the two of them were in the house, the dog followed him around, hoping for a cuddle, a treat, a play session, or merely a word of praise. This time, Valet remained downstairs.

When Dusty returned to the kitchen, the retriever was still at the door to the half bath. He came to his master’s side, watched as Dusty filled a cup with the steaming java, then returned to the bathroom door.

The coffee was strong, rich, and plenty hot, but what warmth it provided was superficial. The ice in Dusty’s bones didn’t begin to thaw.

In fact, as he leaned against the counter and watched Valet sniffing at the gap between the bathroom door and the jamb, he was overcome by a new and separate coldness. “Something wrong in there, fluffy butt?”

Valet looked at him and whined.

Dusty poured a second cup of coffee, but before sampling it, he went to the bathroom, nudged Valet aside, pushed the door inward, and switched on the light.

A few soiled Kleenex had been emptied out of the brass waste can, into the sink. The can itself lay on its side atop the closed lid of the toilet seat.

Someone apparently had used the waste can to smash the mirror on the medicine cabinet. Jagged shards like solidified lightning blazed across the bathroom floor.