Crack-Up by Eric Christopherson Page B

laughing at you, honey, honest.   I’m laughing at myself.   You really had me going there for awhile.”
    “But Sarah,” I said, “don’t you see what this means?”
    “Only too clearly.”
    “We know it’s not the case that my pills stopped working, like Doctor Shields says might happen one day.   Because there wasn’t a trace of Risperdal in my system when they brought me in here.   Either I stopped taking my pills voluntarily—which flatly contradicts my own memory, and my own history—Flatly!—or I’ve been taking dummy pills!   Placebos!   Whatever you call them!”
    “Dummy pills?” Sarah said.   “That looked just like your real pills, I suppose?”
    “Yes!” I said.   “I think I’ve been set up!”
    “But Argus, who on Earth—”
    “I don’t know, I don’t know, but I do know we have a state-of-the-art security system protecting our home, which means the new housekeeper is our prime suspect.   She’d have the easiest opportunity of anyone to switch my real pills for the dummies.”
    “What about Ellie?” Sarah said, smirking.   “Or Duke?   You know, you really can’t trust those Irish setters.”
    “This is no laughing matter!”
    “Relax, Argus,” Sarah said.   “You’re going to be okay.   Everything’s going to be okay.”
    “Listen to me, Sarah!   Please!   You’ve got to listen to me!”
    “I’m listening.”
    “But you’re convinced I’m still paranoid!”
    She nodded, smiling sweetly.
    “Stupid little shit stain."   It was Darth whispering in my ear suddenly.   “Tell her just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
    “Uh-oh,” I said.
    “What?” Sarah said.
    “N-n-nothing, never mind.”   At least Darth’s voice was growing weak and infrequent.
    “How’s he doing?”   The question for my wife came from Keisha Fallon as she sat down at our table.   “I won’t bother to ask the man himself.”   Her sneering glance stabbed at my heart.
    “Oh, Keisha!” I burst up out of my seat to hug her, but she put a traffic cop-type hand in my face, freezing me in a hunched, mid tackle position.
    “No more touchy-feely from you, mister.”
    “I’m sorry.   So sorry.   I—”
    “Oh, Keisha!” Sarah said, rising, wrapping her arms around the other woman without meeting resistance.   “They told me what he did.   I’m so sorry.   So, so sorry.”   For a moment, the two women sneered at me together.   I dropped back down in my seat.
    “He’s better now,” Sarah said, patting Keisha’s shoulder.
    “He better be,” Keisha said, throwing me her coldest stare.
    Sarah complimented Keisha on her outfit—embroidered blue jeans with a hot pink top that Sarah was correct in saying did go well with Keisha’s beautiful bronze skin.
    “Why weren’t you at the funeral?” I asked my employee.
    “Rebecca Helms fired us yesterday.”   Oops.   Ex-employee.
    “Oh, Keisha!” Sarah said.   More hugging and patting and squeezing ensued, myself once more excluded.   “You poor thing!”
    “Poor is right!” Keisha said.   “No job now, but I’ve still got all my bills.   House payment, car payment, food and gas, water and electricity.   And no man to help out.”
    She turned teary-eyed.   Sarah too, in sympathy.   My wife turned to me.   “Argus you have to do something.”
    “Oh!” Keisha said, sniffles mixing now with more sneers in my direction.   “Wish I’d never left the Service.   ‘Big future,’ the man said.   ‘Big money.’ Oh!”
    “Argus,” Sarah said, “you have to find a place for Keisha.   Of all people.”
    “If we have any accounts left,” I told her and turned to Keisha.   “What about Helms Technology?”
    With a haughty head tilt and downcast eyes, Keisha said, “We still have the account.   For now.”
    “Let me make some calls, and I’ll see if I can find you a place out there.   For now.”
    “Thank you.”   Big sniffle.   “And by the