Sue Grafton - T Is For Trespass

“Oh. Well, I guess you better come on in,” she said, already turning her walker so she could hump her way back to the La-Z-Boy where she’d been sitting.

As I closed the front door, I noticed a collapsible wheelchair propped up against the wall. I’d been wrong about the carpet. Theirs had been removed, revealing narrow-plank hardwood floors. Staples that once held the padding in place were still embedded in the wood, and I could see a line of dark holes where the tack strips had been nailed.

The interior of the house was so dense with heat that the air smelled scorched. A small brightly colored bird was fanning its way like a moth from one drapery panel to the next while the dog pranced across the sofa cushions, toppling the stacks of magazines, junk mail, bills, and newspapers piled along the length. The dog had a small face, bright black eyes, and a poufy cravat of hair spilling across its chest. The bird had left two white poker chips of poop on the floor between the end table and the chair. Gladys hollered, “Millard? I told you to get that dog out of here! Dixie’s up on the couch and I can’t be responsible for what she does next.”

“Goddamn it. I’m coming. Quit your hollering,” Millard called from somewhere down the narrow transverse hall. Dixie was still barking, dancing on her hind legs with her dainty front feet pawing the air, her eyes fixed on the parakeet, hopeful that she would be rewarded for her trick by getting to eat the bird.

A moment later Millard appeared, propelling his wheelchair into view. Like Gladys, I judged him to be in his early sixties, though he was aging better than she. He was a heavyset man with a ruddy face, a thick black mustache, and a head of curly gray hair. He whistled sharply for the dog and she hopped off the sofa, crossed the room rapidly, and leaped onto his lap. He did a rolling pivot and disappeared down the hall, grumbling as he went.

“How long has your husband used a chair?”

“Eight years. We had to have the carpet taken up so he could manage from room to room.”

“I’m hoping he’s made time for me today. As long as I’m here, I can talk to him as well.”

“No, now he said it didn’t suit him. You’ll have to come back another time if you want to talk to him.” Gladys shoved aside a pile of papers. “Make a space for yourself if you care to sit.”

I perched gingerly in the clearing she’d made. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and removed my tape recorder, which I placed on the coffee table in front of me. A tower of manila envelopes tilted against my thigh, most by way of a courier service called Fleet Feat. I waited while she maneuvered herself into position and then eased into the recliner with a grunt. During that brief delay, purely in the interest of securing the avalanche of bills, I did fan out the first five or six envelopes. Two had red rims and a hoary warning that read URGENT!! FINAL NOTICE! One was for a gasoline credit card, the other from a department-store chain.

Once Gladys was settled, I tried on my visiting-nurse voice. “I’ll be recording this with your permission. Is that agreeable to you?”

“I suppose.”

After I pressed the Record button, I recited my name, her name, the date, and the case number. “Just for the record, you’re giving this information voluntarily without threats or coercion. Is that correct?”

“I said I would.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. In answering my questions, please respond only with the facts within your knowledge. I’d ask you to avoid opinions, judgments, or conclusions.”

“Well, I’ve got my opinions like everyone else.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Fredrickson, but I have to limit my report to information as accurate as you can make it. If I ask a question and you don’t know or don’t remember, just say so. Please don’t guess or speculate. Are you ready to proceed?”

“I’ve been ready since I sat down. You’re the one dragging it out. I didn’t expect all this claptrap and folderol.”

“I appreciate your patience.”

She nodded in response, but before I could formulate the first question, she launched into an account of her own. “Oh hon, I’m a wreck. No pun intended. I can’t hardly get around without my walker. I got numbness and tingling in this foot. Feels like it’s fell asleep, like I’ve been laying on it wrong…”

She went on describing the pains in her leg while I sat and took notes, doing a proper job of it. “Anything else?” I asked.

“Well, headaches, of course, and my neck’s all froze up. Look at this-I can’t hardly turn my head. That’s why I got this collar here to help give support.”

“Any other pain?”

“Honey, pain’s all I’ve got.”

“May I ask what medications you’re taking?”

“I got a pill for everything.” She reached over to the end table, where a number of prescription bottles had been assembled along with a water glass. She picked up the vials one by one, holding them out so I could write down the names. “These two are pain pills. This one’s a muscle relaxant, and this here’s for depression…”

I was scribbling away but looked up with interest. “Depression?”

“I got chronic depression. I can’t remember when I’ve ever felt so low. Dr. Goldfarb, the orthopedic specialist, he sent me to see this psychiatrist who put me on these new pills. I guess the other ones don’t do much once you’ve taken them awhile.”

I made a note of the prescription for Elavil that she’d held out for my inspection. “And what were you on before?”

“Lithium.”

“Have you had other problems since the accident?”

“Poor sleep and I can’t hardly work a lick. He said I might not ever be able to work again. Not even permanent part-time.”

“I understand you do the bookkeeping for a number of small businesses.”

“The past forty-two years. Talk about a job that gets old. I’ve about had it with that stuff.”

“You have an office in your home?”

She nodded toward the hall. “Second bedroom back there. Thing is, I can’t sit for long on account of my hip gives me fits. You oughtta seen the big old bruise I had, all up and down this side. Purple as a eggplant. I still got a patch of yellow as big as the moon. And hurt? Oh my stars. I had tape on these here ribs and then, like I said, I have this problem with my neck. Whiplash and all and a concussion of the head. I call that ‘confusion contusions,’” she said, and barked out a laugh.

I smiled politely. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“Nineteen seventy-six Ford van. Dark green in case you mean to ask that next.”

“Thank you,” I said, and made a note. “Let’s go back to the accident. Would you tell me what happened?”

“Be happy to, though it was a terrible, terrible thing for me as you might imagine.” She narrowed her eyes and tapped a finger against her lips, looking into the middle distance as though reciting a poem. By the time she was halfway through the second sentence, it was clear she’d told the story so often that the details wouldn’t vary. “Millard and me were driving along Palisade Drive up by the City College. This was Thursday of Memorial Day weekend. What is that, six or eight months back?”

“About that. What time of day was this?”

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“What about weather conditions?”

She frowned slightly, forced to think about her answer instead of offering up her usual rote response. “Fine as near as I remember. We’d had rains off and on all last spring, but a dry spell come along and the papers was saying the weekend would be nice.”

“And which direction were you heading?”

“Toward downtown. He couldn’t have been driving more than five or six miles an hour. Might have been a bit more, but it was way under the posted limit. I’m positive about that.”