Trauma

by Graham Masterton

  “You don’t have to tell him anything. This is the age of sexual equality.”

  “Bullshit. If this is the age of equality, what am I doing running two jobs while my husband is sitting at home watching TV?”

  “You ought to stop for a moment, Bonnie. You ought to stop and smell the flowers.”

  “Sorry, Dan. I’m too busy cleaning up the smell of dead bodies.”

  “Cynic.”

  “Lecher.”

  Lunch Menu

  She met her friend Susan Spang at the Green Rainbow on the corner of Sunset and Alta Loma. It took her more than fifteen minutes to decide what she ought to eat, while Susan impatiently played with her fork. At last she chose:

  Warm red cabbage salad with chorizo, green olives and goat cheese (674 calories)

  Beef and tiny corn stir-fry with pepper confetti (523 calories)

  Grilled figs (311 calories)

  Evian water (0 calories)

  The Meaning of Human Tragedy

  She had known Susan since high school. In those days they had been the closest of friends, sisters almost, and they had both fantasized that they would be movie stars. They had even cut stars out of baking foil, written their names on them and stuck them to the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard. Bonnie would be called “Sabrina Golightly,” and Susan would be called “Tunis Velvet.” Now they met only three or four times a year, and they hardly had anything to say to each other, but Bonnie was reluctant to end their friendship altogether. It would be like finally admitting that her teenage dreams would never come true and that she would never own a million-dollar diamond ring or a pink house in Bel Air. Apart from that, Susan was the only friend she had who didn’t talk about shopping or children or what to do with leftover chicken.

  Susan was tall and intense, with glossy black hair that reached all the way down to her waist and a pale, starved-looking face with enormous black eyes. Today she was wearing a short purple dress embroidered with silver stars and a big, floppy felt hat that looked as if a medieval dwarf were perched on her head.

  She was sitting at a table in the corner with her long legs crossed underneath it.

  “You look ex-hausted,” was the first thing she said.

  “Thanks. I am.”

  “Can you not scrape your chair? I have one of my headaches.”

  “Sorry. You should have canceled.”

  “I didn’t want to cancel. I wanted to see you. I’m so tired of people who aren’t real.”

  “Well, I’m glad I’m real.”

  “You are. That’s the point. You’re completely real. You always have been. I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay so real.”

  “I don’t know either.”

  A Chinese-American waiter in a long green apron came up to their table and recited the day’s specials.

  “Sangchi ssam, what’s that?” Susan interrupted.

  “It’s a dish inspired by Korean cuisine. Highly seasoned ground beef and tofu in a parcel of radicchio, topped with mint and chili sauce.”

  Bonnie thought: Give me a double cheese-and-bacon burger any day. But this time it had been Susan’s choice of restaurant.

  Susan swallowed an ibuprofen tablet and half a glass of Evian water. “I can’t drink Perrier anymore. It reminds me too much of Clive.”

  “How is Clive?”

  “Oh, he’s still with that synthetic-chested teenager. You should see him. No, you shouldn’t see him. He’s dyed his hair blond. He looks like an alien. Well, he always did.”

  “Duke’s okay,” Bonnie volunteered.

  “And Ray? I’ll bet he’s eight feet tall by now. Does he still want to be a WWF wrestler?”

  Bonnie smiled and shook her head. She suddenly felt that time was passing her by.

  “And how’s business?” asked Susan, pulling a ghoulish face.

  “It’s okay, yes, ticking over good. We have a natural death to clean up tomorrow and two suicides Friday. The natural should be something. The guy died in the hot tub, and they didn’t find him for seven-and-a-half weeks. It was only when his body fat blocked up the drain.”

  “My God, Bonnie, I don’t know how you do it. I really don’t. I think I’d—I don’t know what I’d do. Barf. Faint. Barf and faint, both.”

  “Somebody has to do it. The police won’t do it and the coroner’s department won’t do it and the county won’t do it. It’s a public service, that’s all.”

  “I can’t even think about it. The smell. A coyote died in our crawl space once.”

  Bonnie shrugged. “Blob of Vicks on your upper lip—that’s all you need.”

  Susan shivered.

  While they were eating, Bonnie’s cell phone rang. It was Dean Willits, calling for Bernice Goodman. He was driving along the Ventura Freeway, so his voice kept breaking up. “I’ve talked to Mrs. Goodman’s insurance agent, and he says fine, go ahead and clean up. Guy called Frears, says he knows you.”

  “That’s great, Mr. Willits. I should be able to get there tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Frears has the keys, okay?”

  Bonnie went back to her stir-fry. She put a forkful of beef and baby corn into her mouth and started to chew, but it was tepid and greasy and underdone and she suddenly thought of the children’s beds with the bloody, blown-apart comforters, and she couldn’t swallow it. At last she retched and spat it out into her napkin.

  “What’s the matter?” Susan asked her. “Bonnie—you’ve gone so white.”

  “It was something I saw this morning, that’s all. You don’t want to hear about it while you’re eating.”

  “For goodness’ sake, tell me. What are friends for?”

  Bonnie described the Goodman house. Susan sat and listened and nodded.

  “So that’s it,” said Bonnie. “I don’t know why it’s affected me more than any other trauma scene I’ve been to. Maybe I felt the same way as Mrs. Goodman … like the children were still there, you know? Or at least their souls were.”

  “You really felt their souls?”

  “I don’t know.… I felt something. Like there was somebody there, but there wasn’t. It was scary. Very depressing.”

  “You felt their souls. That’s wonderful! Do you know what that is?”

  “Sorry? I don’t understand you.”

  “That’s Gilgul, the transmigration of souls. To be able to feel it, that shows that you’re very receptive. You really ought to come see my kabbalah instructor. His name’s Eitan Yardani, and he’s so enlightening. Like your whole life will be so fulfilled.”

  “Susan, what are you talking about?”

  “The kabbalah, of course. Everybody’s into it. Madonna, Elizabeth Taylor. It shows you how to find all the answers to your inner self. It’s like there’s one God, En Sof, so far away from human thought that some kabbalists call it Ayin, the Nothingness.”

  “But the kabbalah—that’s Jewish, isn’t it? I’m a Catholic.”

  “So what? Is Madonna Jewish? Am I? So long as you find the infinite truth, what does it matter what religion you are? The kabbalah teaches us that everything in life has a special meaning, even if it’s hidden. Those children died for a reason, Bonnie; and you could look through the texts and find out what it is.”

  “I don’t think I want to find out what it is.”

  “You felt them, Bonnie! You felt their presence! That’s totally kabbalistic. You may not want to find out—but what if they want to tell you?”

  Bonnie couldn’t think what to say. If Susan hadn’t been her lifelong friend, she would have dropped her fork and walked out. She was used to Susan’s spiritual flirtations. Last month she wouldn’t stop enthusing about the Dalai Lama, and in the spring it was Sufi. But as far as Bonnie was concerned, Benjamin, Rachel and Naomi had been murdered less than twenty-four hours ago, and their deaths couldn’t be explained by the kabbalah, or the Tarot, or anything else but the plain factual truth, no matter how hideous that truth might be. Their father had gone crazy and shot them. That was all.

&n
bsp; “Do you know what you ought to do, Susan?” she interrupted. “You ought to come along with me one day, when we’re clearing up a trauma scene. You wouldn’t believe that human beings contain so much blood.”

  “I told you, I’d throw up.”

  “Maybe you would. But you’d look infinity right in the eye, and I think you’d forget your kabbalah.”

  “You’re trying to make fun of me.”

  “I’m not,” said Bonnie, pushing her plate away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you any of this. It wasn’t fair.”

  Susan fiercely prodded her raw tuna salad. “You’ve changed. Do you know that? You never used to be so cynical.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve said I’m sorry.”

  “I was only trying to help you, Bonnie. I was only trying to show you that life has its affirmative side, too. I mean, you’re so negative these days.”

  “What?” said Bonnie.

  “I can’t—I don’t know. It’s like you’re somebody else.”

  “I don’t understand you. What do you mean I’m like somebody else?”

  “You were always laughing. You were always like—I don’t know. Sunshine.”

  Bonnie found herself worriedly scratching at her forearm. “I still laugh.” Although she thought, When? When was the last time I really laughed?

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Bonnie. But it’s depressing.”

  “You think I’m depressing?”

  Susan pressed the palms of both hands flat on the table and stared Bonnie directly in the eye. Her breath came in small, compressed sniffs. “I’ll tell you something, Bonnie. I’m positive for life. It’s taken me years to find life. And when I say life, I’m talking about creation, and fulfillment, and transformation.”

  “Yes? I know that. Who isn’t? What do you want me to say?”

  Susan opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. She was so upset that she was hyperventilating. “It’s just that—you’re all about death. You walked into the restaurant, and I could feel it. You carry death around with you like a—like you’re wearing it. Like a black veil, Bonnie. And I can’t take it. I’m sorry, but I have to tell you how I feel. It frightens me and it brings me down.”

  “So? You don’t want to see me anymore? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Susan was in a mess of tears. She gave an airy wave of her hand, and then she pressed her knuckles against her mouth.

  “Listen, Susan, if you don’t want to see me anymore, then you only have to say so. If I’m death incarnate—you know—I don’t want to cast a shadow over your spiritual affirmation or anything. God forbid. Or En Sof forbid. Or whatever.”

  The waiter came up. “Is everything all right?” he asked, staring uneasily at their scarcely touched food.

  Susan took a tiny tissue out of her diminutive pocketbook and wiped her nose. She wouldn’t even look at Bonnie. “I’ll take care of this,” she said, offering her platinum card.

  “I’m death, am I?” said Bonnie, as they waited for the check. “You really think I’m death?”

  “I’m sorry, Bonnie. I have a headache. You were right. I should have canceled.”

  She stood up, but Bonnie took hold of her sleeve. “Are we going to see each other again?”

  Susan whispered, “Sure,” but Bonnie knew that she was lying. She stayed at the table and watched her go. The last time she saw her was when she was crossing Sunset, flicking her hair back with her hand. A last frozen Polaroid. And to think of all the days and all the nights; all the parties and all the bus trips; all the laughter and all the teenage despair. They had kissed each other once, on the pier at Venice Beach, at sunset, with the gulls screaming, because they loved each other. Love, ageless and evergreen, seldom seen by two.

  The waiter came up. “You want anything else, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you,” said Bonnie. “What I need, you don’t have here.”

  She stopped halfway along Hollywood Boulevard, double-parked, and went into the Super Star Grill. It was noisy inside, all tiles and chrome and Meatloaf screaming “Bat Out Of Hell.” She bought a giant chili dog with onions and kraut and sat in the car and messily devoured it, watching her eyes in the rearview mirror as she did so.

  So this is what death looks like. A thirty-four-year-old blonde with chili round her mouth. She finished the hot dog and drove away with sticky hands. She hadn’t even driven as far as Vine Street before her vision was blurred with tears.

  Duke Apologizes

  Duke had bought her a dozen red roses, which lay wilting on the kitchen table. He came in from the yard still blowing out cigarette smoke. She didn’t like him smoking in the house. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt with a Harley Davidson emblem on it.

  “Hey, look, I’m sorry,” he said.

  She put down her shopping bags. “What are you sorry for? Everybody has off days once in a while.”

  “The Mexican chicken thing. That was—”

  “Insane? Yes, it was. But that was yesterday and this is today and thank you for the flowers. How much did they sting you for them?”

  Duke shrugged and looked sheepish. “They were—well, I got them for not very much.”

  “How much is not very much?”

  “I got them for free, okay?”

  She picked them up. “You got a dozen red roses for nothing? What did you do, take them off somebody’s grave?”

  “Rita at the florist. You know Rita. I told her what happened, and she kind of took pity on me.”

  “Oh, so now Rita knows that we had a fight about Mexican chicken? Who else did you tell? Jimmy down at the TV repair shop? Karen at the beauty parlor? I suppose the next time I go to the market they’re all going to be clucking at me and singing ‘La Cucaracha’?”

  Duke banged his fist on the draining board. “Why do you always have to be so goddamn funny? Why don’t you ever listen to anything I ever say without making a goddamn comedy act out of it? I brought you some roses, right, because I wanted to tell you that I was sorry about yesterday, right? I brought you some roses because I meant it. And what do I get? ‘Did you take them off somebody’s goddamn grave?’”

  Bonnie carefully laid the roses back on the table. It was way past seven, and she should have been starting the evening meal.

  “This time yesterday,” she said, “three young children were getting themselves ready for bed.”

  “What?” said Duke. He was totally baffled. “What children?”

  “One was nine and one was seven and one was only four. I even know what their names were.”

  “So—so what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  She glanced up at the kitchen clock. “That was yesterday. Today they’re dead.”

  “What?” said Duke. Bonnie came up to him and wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. “Hey, I can’t breathe here.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry and bring me flowers or anything. It’s me. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  “You work too frigging hard, that’s all. Why don’t you give up this cleaning thing? It’s not a nice thing to do, you know. I know it brings in the shekels, but we could sell the truck and make a few bucks, right? And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get myself a job, right? I will, I solemnly swear to God. Doesn’t matter what it is. Dog walking, anything. I swear to God.”

  “You hate dogs.”

  “They’re okay. Just because that Schnauzer took a hunk out of my ass.”

  Bonnie laughed. It was the first time that she had really laughed all day.

  The Next Morning

  She stood naked on the bathroom scales and stared at herself in the mirror.

  Height 5 ft 4½ inches

  Target weight 132 lbs

  Actual weight 147 lbs

  Ray knocked on the door. “Come on, Mom. I’m going to miss the bus.”

  “I’ll drive you,” she said. She needed to look at herself a few minutes longer, as if to reassure herself that she wasn�
��t going to vanish.

  Cleaning Up

  That morning she had two of her three part-time assistants to help her, Ruth and Esmeralda. Jodie had scalded her arm and had to take two weeks off. Ruth was wearing a bright cerise track suit, her hair tied back with a yellow chiffon scarf. Esmeralda was a plump, solemn Mexican woman with dark-rimmed eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in a month. Today, as usual, she wore black, with black lace-up shoes that monotonously squeaked on the kitchen floor.

  Between them they rolled up the living room carpet. They had to lift the couch over it, and the couch weighed so much that it left them gasping.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” said Ruth.

  “You should exercise more. Why don’t you join my t’ai-chi ch’uon class?”

  “Because I’d never go to it, just like you never go to it.”

  “I went last week. Well, maybe the week before. It’s so hard to find the time, that’s all. My life seems to be so—filled up.”

  In an oddly uneasy voice, Esmeralda said, “That stain has gone right through to the floorboards.”

  Bonnie came over and looked at it. Aaron Goodman’s blood had soaked right through the underlay and formed a wide brownish blotch, like a Rorschach test.

  Bonnie said, “That’s all right. It’s oak. We can probably get most of it out if we scrub it with sodium perborate.”

  Esmeralda crossed herself. “I think it’s better if I make a start on the wall.”

  “You’re sure? This is nothing like so yukky.”

  “No, no. I do the wall.”

  “Is something wrong?” Bonnie asked her.

  “My knee’s bad. I can’t do too much bending.”

  “You crossed yourself.”

  Esmeralda gave her a hollow, noncommunicative look. “A small gesture for the dead, that’s all.”

  “Okay … you can do the floor then, Ruth. I’ll start bagging up the bedcovers.”

  They worked for an hour and a half. Bonnie’s steam cleaner hissed and whuffled in the bedrooms, while Ruth’s vacuum cleaner droned around the rest of the apartment and Esmeralda’s scrubbing brush set up a brisk, percussive rhythm on the walls.