Trauma Read online

  GRAHAM MASTERTON

  TRAUMA

  “But she was of the world where the fairest things have the worst fate. Like a rose, she lived as long as roses live, the space of one morning.”

  —Francois de Malherbe

  Contents

  The Day’s Requirements

  The Glass House

  The Necessary Ingredients

  The Winter House

  Things to do on Wednesday

  The Day Job

  The Goodman Apartment

  The Bedrooms

  Discussing Terms

  Lunch Menu

  The Meaning of Human Tragedy

  Duke Apologizes

  The Next Morning

  Cleaning Up

  That Evening

  The Young Hero

  What Ralph Said

  What She Took to the Hospital

  Lord of the Flies

  The Wild and the Wayward

  Ashes to Ashes

  Bonnie Sees her Mother

  Ralph Relents

  Return of the Hero

  The Secret

  Two Phone Calls

  What She Wore

  Party Party

  In the Dark that Night

  Pasadena, Where the Grass is Greener

  On Ralph’s Nightstand

  The Next Morning

  The Kid-In-A-Box Case

  Duke’s Favorite

  Cleaning Up Again

  Ralph Calls

  Duke Confesses

  The Mystic

  An Unusual Silence

  Bonnie Calls Ralph

  Butterfly

  Life Without Duke

  The Mystic Eats Gorditas

  The Day of the Clouded Apollo

  The Jigsaw

  Ralph Pours his Heart Out

  Duke and Ray Show Up

  Answering Machine Message

  Night Falls

  Get Out of Jail Free

  A Note on the Author

  The Day’s Requirements

  Bonnie went into the garage to collect the extra sprays she needed for this morning’s job. They were arranged neatly on shelves on the left-hand side, with the bleaches and biological agents right at the top, for safety. She fitted them into a blue plastic milk crate.

  Fantastik multisurface cleaner

  Resolve carpet stain remover

  Woolite upholstery shampoo

  Windex window and glass cleaner

  Lysol disinfectant

  Glade Odor Neutralizer (nonfragranced)

  She sang, “Love, ageless and evergreen … seldom seen … by two.”

  At the rear of the garage stood her washing machine and tumble dryer, and all of her household cleaning things, her dusters and her scrubbing brushes and her cans of polish. On the right-hand side of the garage, which was Duke’s side, just as the right-hand side of the bed was Duke’s side, stood a dusty Honda Black Bomber motorcycle with its rear wheel detached. Countless cans of motor oil were crowded against the wall, and the shelves were littered with wrenches and motorcycle repair manuals with greasy thumbprints on them, as well as half-empty bottles of Coors Lite and peanut butter jars filled with rusty nuts and bolts. On the wall hung a Playboy Playmate calendar for 1997, with curled-up edges. It had been turned over no farther than Miss February, and a heavy red circle had been drawn around Thursday the fifteenth.

  Bonnie would never forget February 15, 1997. That was the day Duke had been given the sack.

  The Glass House

  At 11:42 she arrived at the Glass house. She was over twenty minutes late because of the traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway. She parked her big old Dodge truck outside and jumped down from the cab.

  The insurance adjuster was waiting for her in his car with the engine running to keep the air-conditioning going. He climbed out and put on his sunglasses. He was young and very thin, with a white short-sleeved shirt and arms as pale as chicken legs.

  “Ms. Winter? I’m Dwight Frears from Western Domestic Insurance.’

  “Pleased to know you,” said Bonnie. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

  “Well—waiting, ma’am.” He grinned. “That’s an integral part of my job.”

  The morning was very hot, touching 103. The sky was bronze with smog. Bonnie walked across the scrubby, unkempt grass in front of the Glass house and stood with her hands on her hips, looking it over. Dwight Frears came and stood beside her, persistently clicking his ballpoint pen.

  “Sheriff Kellett said this happened just over a week ago,” said Bonnie.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dwight Frears checked his clipboard. “July eighth to be precise.”

  Bonnie shaded her eyes with her hand. The Glass house was identical to hundreds of others in this part of San Bernardino. A shingle roof, a Spanish-style porch, a garage with a bent basketball hoop. The only difference was that this house was badly neglected—its air-conditioner rusted, its screen doors perforated, its light green stucco beginning to peel.

  Bonnie approached the front windows and tried to peer through the slats of the grimy green Venetian blinds. All she could see was a sagging white vinyl couch and her own reflection: a full-figured woman of thirty-four with bright strawberry-blond hair wearing a black Elvis T-shirt and a pair of white jeans with a stretch waistband.

  Dwight consulted his clipboard again. “What the coroner’s office said was … the kids were found in the back bedroom. One on the bed and one on the hideaway.”

  Bonnie walked around the side of the house, lifting a makeshift wash line with one hand. At the back there was a small yard with a play set, two sun loungers and a grease-encrusted barbecue. A child’s tricycle was tipped over on its side.

  She could see into the kitchen. Apart from the number of flies that were crawling all over it, it looked like any other kitchen. The back bedroom window, however, was covered by what looked like a shimmering black curtain. Dwight was about to say something, but then he realized what it was and turned to Bonnie with that look on his face.

  Bonnie walked back around to the front of the house. “Okay … it looks like mostly the back bedroom and a general cleanup of everyplace else. We’re talking six hours minimum, which comes out at twelve hundred plus materials plus transportation, say a round fifteen hundred.”

  Dwight sounded as if he were having trouble breathing. “Fifteen hundred? Sounds about right to me.”

  They sat in his car to fill out the insurance forms. He had almost finished when another car drew up, a battered blue Datsun with one brown door. A small, birdlike woman with a large nose and flicked-up hair climbed out and rapped on the passenger window.

  “Hi, Bonnie. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Hi, Ruth. This is Dwight.”

  “Hi, Dwight.”

  Dwight signed the estimate and handed it over without a word.

  Once Dwight had left, Bonnie and Ruth went to the back of the truck. It was loaded with gallon containers of industrial disinfectant, rolls of green plastic sheeting, stacks of heavy-duty garbage bags, insecticide sprays and plastic carryalls stocked with bleaches and spray solvents.

  “You and Duke sort things out?” asked Ruth as she took out a bright yellow plastic suit and began to step into it.

  “I guess. But I don’t know. Duke’s so weird these days. It’s like he’s been taken over by the body snatchers. If I didn’t think he was too darn lazy, I’d say that he was seeing another woman.”

  Bonnie tugged on her protective suit, too. It was clammy at the best of times, but in this heat she was sweating all over before she had even zipped it up. She sat on the truck’s front bumper to pull on her rubber boots.

  “You know what happened here?” Ruth asked her.

  “Not exactly. Jack Kellett said there was a fight over custody. The wife was de
termined not to let her husband have the kids. The next thing they knew, the neighbors reported a smell coming from the house, and they found the wife gone and both kids dead.”

  Ruth handed Bonnie a respirator and put one on herself. They walked toward the house carrying their two-gallon insecticide spray can and their garbage bags. The street had been almost deserted until now, but a man came out opposite to start washing his car, and another couple came out and started paying exaggerated attention to their lawn sprinkler. Three teenagers started to skateboard around the Glass house, circling closer and closer.

  Bonnie’s thighs rubbed together with a plasticky squeaking noise, and her breathing inside the respirator sounded as if an asthmatic were following her across the grass. She reached the front door and took out the key that had been given to her by the realty company. There was a brass knocker on the front door in the shape of a large beetle. She opened up and they went inside.

  It was an ordinary, shabby little house. There was a narrow entrance corridor, with a door on the left leading off to the front room and a door on the right leading to a bedroom. Ahead of them the kitchen door was slightly ajar.

  The house was teeming with flies. They were crawling over everything—the walls, the furniture, the windows. Bonnie nudged Ruth and mimed the action of vacuum cleaning. Ruth gave her a thumbs-up and went in search of the broom closet.

  Hanging in the hall was a large wooden crucifix with a plaster Christ nailed onto it and a wooden plaque with God Bless The Children etched into it. Bonnie went into the living room, with its white vinyl furniture and a television the size of the Los Angeles County courthouse. The smell was much more noticeable in here, even though Bonnie’s respirator spared her from the worst of it. Before she started this job, she had never realized how strongly human beings smelled when they died. Even dried blood, on its own, had a stench like rotten chicken.

  Sometimes in the middle of the night she lay awake and wondered how people could love each other, considering how perishable they were, and what they were really like inside.

  She crossed the living room rug. It was a matted beige shag, with a crisscross pattern of brown footprints on it, like dance-lesson instructions. She went through to the kitchen, batting flies away from her face. A head of iceberg lettuce on the draining board had turned into a lump of yellow slime. A knife lay beside it, ready to cut it up for salad.

  Inside the back bedroom she came across the children’s toys, scattered on the floor. A Fisher-Price pull-along telephone. A bright blue dump truck, carrying bricks. There was a single bed against the wall and a hide-a-bed at right angles to it. So many flies were clustered on the window that she had to switch on the overhead light. There were two shiny brown stains, like wood varnish, one on each bed.

  Bonnie picked up one of the extra-heavy-duty plastic sacks. She reached up and dragged down the drapes and folded them roughly into it, along with scores of glittering emerald flies. At that moment, Ruth came in with the vacuum cleaner. She plugged it in and started to suck away the flies around the hide-a-bed as matter-of-factly as if she were cleaning up her own house.

  They tore down all the drapes and all the blinds. “Save these?” asked Ruth, with an armful of faded gold velour.

  “Sure. I’ll take those down to the trash.”

  They carried the beds out to Bonnie’s truck and laid them one on top of the other like a sandwich so that the neighbors couldn’t see the stains. They ripped up all the carpets and rolled them up ready for toting away.

  The carpet in the children’s room was the worst. When Bonnie pulled it away from the wall, its underlay was seething with maggots, and Ruth had to sweep them up with a dustpan and brush.

  Everything went into the plastic garbage sacks. Books, bank statements, family photographs, newspapers, clothing, birthday cards. A crayon drawing of two small boys under a spiky yellow sun and the words We Love You, Mom. Bonnie was glad that there were no grieving relatives here today, the way there sometimes were. It was bad enough cleaning up after somebody’s death without having to explain why God had allowed it to happen.

  Ruth came in from the bathroom. She was holding up a hypodermic syringe.

  Bonnie took off her respirator. She opened her sack a little wider and said, “Just drop it in here. I’ll tell Dan about it later.”

  Ruth took off her respirator, too. “It was in the laundry. You never know, it might be important.”

  Bonnie didn’t say anything. Occasionally she came across evidence that the police had overlooked, but she didn’t make a religion of reporting it. She was a cleaner, not a cop, and in this business there wasn’t much future in letting too many people know that she might have figured out more than was good for her. She had been threatened twice by her own clients: once when she had found some burned fragments of letters in the fireplace; the second time when she had taken a phone call in a house in Topanga Canyon, asking, urgently, “Is she dead yet?”

  After two-and-a-half hours, the Glass house was clean enough for them to stand outside for a while and drink strong black coffee, which Ruth had brought with her in a flask. The neighbors continued to watch them, and now they had even stopped pretending that they were trimming their hedges, but none of them came near.

  “Where’re you going to dump all this?” asked Ruth, nodding toward the beds and the carpets piled up on the back of the truck.

  “It’s not biohazard. I’ll take it to Riverside.”

  “I thought Riverside was squeamish about maggots.”

  “I’m squeamish about maggots. But I’ll give Mr. Hatzopolous my sweetest smile.”

  She tipped the dregs of her coffee into the gutter and went back inside. There was only the master bedroom to finish off now. It was a cheap imitation of a Niagara Falls honeymoon suite, with cream chipboard furniture with imitation-gilt handles and a pink padded headboard on the bed with two yellowish stains on it from heads that had once rested while the bed’s occupants sat up and watched TV.

  In one corner stood a spindly dressing table with a crowd of half-used cosmetics on it, as well as a china ballerina with her upraised foot missing. Right in the center of the dressing table was one of those Mexican sugar skulls from the Day of the Dead, with a bite taken out of it.

  Bonnie took hold of the grubby white throw and dragged it back. She crammed it into a garbage sack and then reached for the pillows. As she picked the first one up, she found something black clinging to the edge of it, and then another, and another. She shook the pillow in disgust, and six or seven more fell out. They were shiny and brittle, with a pointed, twisted shape like seashells—dark brown rather than black, and faintly translucent, so that she could see that there was something inside them. It was only when she picked one up and looked at it more closely that she realized what it was: a chrysalis. A butterfly, or a moth maybe, or some other insect.

  It must have been the hot weather, she guessed. Last week, cleaning up an apartment on Franklin Avenue, she had come across a mass of huge blowfly larvae, much bigger than any she had ever encountered before. Ruth had said it was an omen, although she didn’t know what of. Ruth was deeply superstitious for somebody who spent her time scrubbing the blood of suicides out of people’s upholstery.

  The Necessary Ingredients

  Bonnie took out the recipe book that her mother had given her when she and Duke were first married. Home Cooking For Brides, by Hannah Mathias. The cover was torn, and it fell open at Meat Loaf, which was Duke’s favorite. However, she turned to the next chapter, which was Poultry, and found the recipe she had been reading over the weekend.

  One chicken, cut into eight pieces

  Two cloves garlic

  1 green bell pepper

  ¼ teaspoon ground cloves

  2 teaspoons chili powder

  1½ cups chopped canned tomatoes

  ⅓ cup raisins

  4 tablespoons dry sherry

  ⅓ cup green olives, chopped

  She put on her reading glasses while sh
e was following the recipe, and she bent over the book with a concentrated frown.

  The Winter House

  “So what do you call this?” Duke wanted to know, scrutinizing a piece of chicken on the end of his fork.

  “Mexican chicken,” said Bonnie, without looking up.

  Duke dropped his fork back onto his plate. He sat there with his eyes riveted on Bonnie for almost ten seconds before he demanded, “Tell me something, Bonnie. Do I look to you like a Mexican person? I mean, in any respect?”

  Bonnie didn’t answer, but went on eating with her eyes fixed on her plate. Between them, their son, Ray, instinctively sat back, as if he were edging himself out of the line of fire.

  “Excuse me,” Duke persisted. “Have you noticed me wearing a sombrero lately?”

  “No, Duke. I haven’t noticed you wearing a sombrero lately.”

  “I mean, I don’t have a droopy mustache, do I, or a poncho, and I don’t go around saying ‘Arriba! Arriba!’ do I?”

  “No, Duke, you don’t.”

  “So I don’t look like a Mexican person?”

  “No.” Her throat was so constricted that she could hardly swallow. She knew exactly what he was going to say next and she knew what it was going to lead to, but she didn’t know how to stop it.

  “I see. You don’t think that I look like a Mexican person. So why are you giving me this Mexican food?”

  Bonnie lifted her head. “You eat Italian. I don’t see your gondola tied up outside.”

  He stared at her in exaggerated disbelief. “Is this you trying to be funny? My great-grandfather was Italian. Eating Italian, that’s in my blood.”

  “You eat Szechuan, too. Don’t tell me you’re part Chinese.”

  “Why do you always have to be so cute? Why can’t you answer a simple question with a straightforward answer? I mean, ever? Gondola—what’s the matter with you? All I said was, what was this stuff you just served up and you said Mexican and I said I’m not a Mexican person and I don’t even look like a Mexican person, which makes me wonder why you served it up just to annoy me or what?”