Trauma

by Graham Masterton

“Can’t Duke do that?”

  “Duke thinks eggs come out of chickens already fried.”

  “Can’t they survive on takeout for just one night?”

  “I don’t know, Ralph. Ray’s kind of messed up at the moment. I really don’t like to leave him.”

  “Well, it’s your choice. But I wish you’d change your mind.”

  “Let me think about it. I’ll call you.”.

  She switched off her cell phone and went up the hospital steps.

  Return of the Hero

  Ray’s wrist and ankle were still in plaster, and he could only hop and hobble his way to the bathroom. Both of his eyes were spectacularly rainbow-colored, and his lips were still swollen. But the doctor had said that he was making excellent progress, and besides, they needed the bed. Ray was pleased because the hospital food was “drek.”

  Bonnie cooked pork and beans for supper, which was Ray’s favorite, with Bisquick blueberry-lemon coffee cake for dessert. Duke drank three cans of Budweiser, and every time he lifted his can he said, “Here’s to the hero. Here’s to the goddamned hero.”

  After the seventh or eighth time, he began to get on Bonnie’s nerves. “Oh, you think because he beat up on some totally innocent Mexican kids he’s a hero?”

  “He stood up for what’s right, didn’t he? And what’s right, sweet cheeks, is that California belongs to Californians and not to the goddamned Mexicans. Do you know that this year there are going to be more goddamned Hispanics living in California than there are white people, and that’s not counting the goddamned blacks?”

  “Do you want some more of these fried potatoes?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Bonnie. The boy’s a hero. In fact, he’s not a boy anymore. He’s a man. If I’d known he was going out to beat up on those goddamned wetbacks, I would’ve gone with him. Then they would have learned their lesson. Whop! Whap! Take that, you enchilada-eating ball of grease!”

  “You’re a bigot, Duke.”

  “A bigot? You’re calling me a bigot? You’re working your goddamned butt off all the hours that God sends you because some Mexican took my job and you think I’m a bigot? Under the circumstances I think I’m a model of goddamned tolerance. Under the circumstances I think I’m a goddamned saint.”

  Bonnie said, “There’s still a chance that the police are going to file charges. I hope you’re going to be saintly about that.”

  “If they charge him—well, that’s the kind of price that heroes have to pay. But I’m behind you all the way, Ray. Your old man’s behind you all the way. You’ve earned his respect, boy.”

  Ray gave Duke a split-lipped smile. Bonnie, spooning out potatoes, suddenly realized what Ray had done. In one stroke, he had ended all of the arguments between them by electing to side with his father, right or wrong. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Up until this evening, almost every mealtime had been World War Three, with Bonnie holding her ground against everything that Duke could throw at her, followed by Duke’s noisy and abusive retreat. But now it was two against one, and there was nothing she could do but accept that what Duke said went, no matter how prejudiced or illogical it was.

  Duke was right about one thing: Ray had gone down to the X-cat-ik Pool Bar as a boy and come back as a sort of a man.

  After the meal, Bonnie helped Ray to heave his way back to his room and climb into bed.

  Ray said, “You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

  “Mad at you? Why should I be mad at you? You’re my only son.”

  “You shouldn’t be mad at Dad, either.”

  “I’m not really mad at him. I just don’t happen to look at life the same way that he does. He’s full of expectations, but he never does anything to make them come true, and then he gets disappointed. But you can’t go through your whole life being disappointed. Not if you won’t make the effort.”

  “I love you, Mom. But, you know, Dad’s my dad, too.”

  Bonnie nodded and gave him a pursed little smile, but it was then that she made up her mind that she would go to Pasadena, after all.

  When she got back, Duke had opened another can of Budweiser and was sitting on the couch staring at Stargate SG1.

  “Look at this shit. Can’t they see what those aliens are doing? Why don’t they blow the shit out of them and have done with it?”

  Bonnie sat down beside him and helped herself to a handful of caramel popcorn. “Ralph’s asked me to go to Pasadena Friday.”

  There was a long silence while Duke swallowed beer. Then he burped and said, “Ralph? That asshole. I thought he fired you.”

  “He did, but now he wants me to take a trip to Pasadena.”

  Duke nonchalantly flung his arm around her and sniffed. “I hope you got great pleasure out of telling him to stick his trip to Pasadena where you don’t need Ray-Bans.”

  “No, I’m going to say yes.”

  Duke slowly turned his head and stared at her. “You said yes? As in, ‘Yes, I’m going to take a trip to Pasadena’?”

  “Yes, I said yes.”

  “So how long are you supposed to be going for?”

  “Just one night. Back on Saturday morning.”

  “You don’t seriously think I’m going to let you spend a night in Pasadena with that creep?”

  “Duke, he isn’t a creep. He’s my boss. And going to Pasadena is part of my job. He’s not interested in my body. He’s just interested in the fact that I’m good at presenting the product.”

  “Presenting the product? Oh, sure, I’ll bet. Ralph Kosherick has only one thing on his mind, and that’s getting you to present the product between your legs.”

  “Duke, don’t be so crude. And don’t be so ridiculous.”

  “Oh, I’m crude now, am I? Just because I don’t want my wife to spend the night with some drooling what’s-it’s-name—lecher.”

  “Going to Pasadena is important, Duke. It’s our major presentation for the holiday season. It could make all the difference between Glamorex really succeeding or going bankrupt.”

  “And I’m supposed to give a shit about that?”

  “Duke, I need the Glamorex job, and more than that, I enjoy it. It fulfills me. For a few hours every day it makes me feel like a woman instead of a cleaner, or a housekeeper, or a taxi driver. I’m going to Pasadena whether you like it or not.”

  “I’m your fucking husband, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Don’t you be profane, Duke. I’m going.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I’m your husband.”

  “Husband? Who are you kidding? You’re just some man who sits around my house all day and expects me to wash his clothes and cook his meals and work myself half to death to keep him in beer. Husband? You can’t even get your dick up.”

  She wished instantly that she hadn’t said that, of all things. She had always promised herself that she never would. She knew that you could say whatever you liked to a man—call him lazy and cruel and stupid and narrow-minded. But telling him that he couldn’t get an erection was telling him that he wasn’t a man at all. It opened up the floor right beneath his feet.

  Duke didn’t say a word. Instead, he lifted his can of Budweiser and poured beer slowly all over Bonnie’s head. She sat on the couch with it dripping from her hair and running down the back of her neck.

  “See what you fucking made me do?” said Duke.

  Then he leaned forward and screamed into her face at point-blank range, “See what you fucking made me do?!”

  The Secret

  She washed her hair and wrapped it in a pink towel turban. Earlier in the evening, for just a moment, she had been tempted to tell Duke about Kyle Lennox’s invitation, but now she went to her purse and took out the business card with Kyle Lennox’s autograph on it and tore it into the tiniest pieces possible.

  Two Phone Calls

  A few minutes before 8:00 A.M. the next morning Bonnie received two phone calls. She was frying bacon for Duke’s breakfast. The first call came from Lieutenant David Irizarry
of the Los Angeles Police Department.

  “Ms. Winter? Captain O’Hagan asked me to call you.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “It’s about your son, Raymond Winter. Captain O’Hagan says that we’ve decided not to file charges of assault against him. However, he will be required at some point to come down to headquarters.”

  “I see. I see. That’s good news, I guess.”

  “Captain O’Hagan will be in touch with you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  The second call was from Lieutenant Dan Munoz.

  “Bonnie? I’m glad I caught you. I’ve fixed up a job for you at Ivanhoe Drive by the Silver Lake Reservoir. Kind of messy, the kid-in-a-box case. How about meeting me three o’clock tomorrow. We can sort it all out. Who loves you, baby?”

  Bonnie hung up the phone and stared at the bacon gradually shriveling in the pan. Duke appeared, wearing a sweaty T-shirt and droopy boxer shorts. He hadn’t shaved or showered, and he staggered around the kitchen as if he were still drunk, which he probably was. Eventually he dragged out a chair and sat down, tilting wildly to one side.

  “You think I don’t love you, don’t you?” he announced.

  “Duke—forget it. I’m not saying anything.”

  “But you think—because I can’t always get it up—you think that I don’t love you.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Shit—you didn’t have to say it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Well, okay, let’s be frank. It would be nice if you could sometimes get it up.”

  Duke didn’t answer, but stared at the place mat as if it would miraculously reveal the answers to all of his problems. Bonnie took a plate out of the oven and scraped six slices of bacon onto it, as well as hash browns, grilled tomato, and two fried eggs. She set it down in front of Duke’s nose and said, “There. Don’t ever tell me that I don’t love you. Ever.”

  Duke poked at his bacon with his fork. “You’re trying to murder me, aren’t you? All this goddamned cholesterol. Well, fuck you.”

  “Duke, if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t wait for you to die of a heart attack, believe me. I don’t have the patience.”

  He began to stab his breakfast even more furiously, as if he were trying to kill it. “Fuck you! You’re trying to murder me—that’s what you’re doing! You’re trying to clog up my arteries and murder me!”

  Bonnie lowered her head and sat and listened to Duke’s ranting and didn’t say a word. What else could she say? After a while she stood up and took his plate away and scraped his entire breakfast into the garbage can under the sink—eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, everything. Duke sat and watched her, gripping his fork so tightly that he bent it.

  “I’m going out this evening,” Bonnie announced.

  “Out? Who says?”

  “I say. I’m going to Ruth’s place, and we’re going to polish our nails and eat cake and talk about what bastards men can be.”

  “Oh, really. And who’s going to look after Ray? Your son’s practically a cripple, one day out of the hospital, and you’re going out?”

  “Yes, I’m going out. Because Ray has two parents, not just one, and you’re the other one. So you can look after him. There’s meat loaf in the icebox. All you have to do is warm it up in the microwave.”

  “Now you listen, Bonnie—” Duke began. But at that moment Ray appeared in the doorway, hobbling on his aluminum walking sticks. “Hi, Mom! How’s everything going? That bacon sure smells good!”

  “It’s in the fucking trash if you want it,” said Duke. He stood up, slammed his chair against the table and pushed his way out of the kitchen.

  What She Wore

  It took Bonnie over two hours to get ready because she couldn’t decide what to wear. What had Kyle Lennox meant by “informal”? His idea of “informal” might be a fugi silk suit by Anne Klein, with strappy Blahnik sandals. She tried on the red dress with the big pink flowers that she had bought to go to Ruth’s son’s bar mitzvah, but apart from the fact that she had put on weight since last summer, she thought it made her look like the victim of a frenzied stabbing.

  She tried her fawn slacks, but there was a bleach mark on the right knee. Then she tried her jeans, but she didn’t want to walk around with a Lands End label if everyone else was going to be wearing Armani.

  Duke came to the half-open bedroom door and stared at her for a while, as if he couldn’t understand why she was making such a fuss about dressing up if she was only going to Ruth’s, but the look she gave him discouraged him from making any smart remarks. Eventually he said, “I’m going to take Ray to the market to buy some beer. So long as I have to baby-sit this evening, I think I’m entitled to a little refreshment, don’t you?”

  “There’s fifteen dollars in the Popeye jar.”

  “I know. I took it already.”

  “Well, don’t be too long, will you? I have to leave at five-thirty sharp.”

  “Yes, sir!” Duke gave her a sarcastic salute and left. She went back to her wardrobe, jingling her way through the wire hangers in mounting desperation. All her clothes suddenly looked so cheap. Make a decision. Make a decision. You’re going to be meeting people who buy their clothes on Rodeo Drive. They won’t have seen this dress in Wal-Mart.

  In the end she decided on her navy-blue slacks and her cream satin blouse with the ruffles. The slacks were comfortable and even if the blouse’s ruffles looked a little country-and-western, they concealed the size of her breasts. She laid them out on the bed.

  Then she thought: If it’s going to be a poolside party, will they expect me to go for a swim? She’d better take a swimsuit in case. She rummaged through the bottom drawer of her dressing table and eventually found her spotted turquoise swimsuit, the one with the little skirt, but when she tried it on, she looked far too bulgy. Next she tried the purple Lycra swimsuit with the high-cut legs and that was better, even if the top was so tight that it gave her four breasts.

  By 5:05 she was ready, but Duke still wasn’t back with the car. She watched TV for a while, nervously perched on the arm of the couch, holding her brown plastic pocketbook ready in her hand. Then she got up and looked out of the window. At 5:27 he still hadn’t returned, so she went and stood outside in the street. Old Mr. Lenz came past with his balding Pomeranian and said, “Hi there, Bonnie. Not working today?”

  “No, Mr. Lenz. Not working today.” Like—do I look like I’m working, in my new navy slacks and my ruffled satin blouse?

  Half past five came and went, and there was still no sign of Duke. She wished to God that she had told him to take her cell phone with him. She went back inside and primped her hair for the seventh time. She was beginning to feel hot and edgy now. Supposing Duke didn’t come back at all? That meant that she would have to take her truck.

  At 5:45 she wrote a note saying, “Gone To Ruth’s Thanks For Nothing” and stuck it on the front of the icebox with a magnet in the shape of a heart.

  Party Party

  She parked the truck around the corner on Alta Avenue and walked the rest of the way. The street in front of Kyle Lennox’s house was a traffic jam of shiny, expensive automobiles—a yellow Ferrari Testarossa, a silver Lamborghini and more Mercedes than Bonnie had ever seen in one street together at the same time.

  Even out on the street she could hear the samba band playing “Samba em Preludio” with lazy, torpid, self-satisfied rhythm. Two pimply teenage car jockeys were standing on the lawn outside, wearing white coats with gold epaulets. They stared at Bonnie as she came walking up the street and up the redbrick pathway.

  “Help you?” one of them asked her, showing his shiny wire braces.

  “I’ve been invited to the party,” said Bonnie.

  The car jockey peered over her shoulder in bewilderment. “Where’s your car, ma’am?”

  “I didn’t come by car.”

  “You walked here?”

  “No, I was dropped at the corner by an alien spacecraft. Is this the right
way in?”

  “Sure. I have to check your invitation.”

  “I wasn’t given an invitation.”

  “You were invited but you weren’t given an invitation?”

  At that moment, however, Kyle Lennox appeared on the porch, wearing a green silk shirt and Happy white pants and carrying a highball. He lifted his drink in salute and said, “Bonnie! Come along in! Real glad you could make it!”

  Bonnie gave the car jockeys a “so-there” grimace and followed Kyle Lennox in through the front door. The stairs and the hallway were crowded with people, all of them shouting and shrieking so that they sounded like the passengers on a rapidly sinking liner. She felt a panicky urge to make her apologies and leave, but Kyle Lennox put his suntanned arm around her and propelled her through the throng until they reached the living room. And what a living room it was. She had never seen anything like it. The far wall was mirrored, floor to ceiling, and lined with bronze statuettes of naked nymphs. A huge crystal chandelier hung over the center of the room, and the chairs and the couches were all upholstered in cream-and-yellow satin. The patio windows were open to the pool area, which was paved in swirly Italian marble and equally crowded with laughing, screaming people. Beyond the pool, the garden was brilliant with scented flowers, and a white stone statue of Pan danced on a pedestal, his hair lifted into little horns.

  “You probably know some of the people here already,” Kyle Lennox shouted in her ear. The salsa band had launched into a Latin interpretation of “Positively Fourth Street,” and a man in a red sombrero and tight red satin flares was weakly singing the words into a microphone. “There’s Vanessa McFarlane from Shining Light, and Gus Hanson from The Lives We Lead.”

  “Gus Hanson? Where? I can’t believe it! It is. You’re right. It’s Gus Hanson!”

  “You want to meet him? He’s an old surfing buddy of mine.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. Let me catch my breath. I’m a little overwhelmed, to tell you the truth.”

  “Come and meet him. He’s the nicest guy on the planet. But how about a drink first? We have champagne and wild white strawberries. You’ll love it.”