The Sound of Death
Copyrighted to the author Ruth Trimble/ Permission to
reproduce is denied. The following is a sample of the beginning of a
novel. The dust billows up from the battered Ford truck's rear driver's
side tire as it slips sideways off the shoulder of the country road.
The wizened, leathery Filipino driver, his fingers curled around the
last inch of a cigarette, flaps his hand against the side of the loosely
closed door to the beat of some inner music, seemingly oblivious of
his carelessness. Suddenly, without signalling, he swoops too fast
into a driveway, making the brooms, clippers and rakes loosely
arrayed in the back, lurch over to one side, crashing and scraping
against the truck bed. More dust rises from the circular gravel yard
of the Pupukea, mansion atop the cliffs overlooking the north shore
of Oahu, but it settles quickly in the light breeze onto the neat rows
of mondo grass and exotic shrubs adjacent to the drive.
Whistling no particular tune, the yard man goes about his tasks.
This day he notices that the leaves are dropping from the miniature
plumeria trees, which means all the leaves will soon be on the
ground.. He calls out to the front door, "Hey d'kine - someone hea?"
His voice rises with a strong accent belying his recent arrival from
the Philippines. Getting no response, he saunters around the large
white mansion, built in the American Colonial style and grotesquely
out of place in the Hawaiian jungle He peers into the dining room
double windows. Black and white checkerboard floors stretch away
before him. Immaculate white furnishings, polished, sparkling and
new reveal no sign of life. He pulls away from the window and
crosses his arms over his chest as if thinking. A red cardinal, fearing
he is too close to its nest, tries to catch his attention with a strident
chirping, but he barely notices. He shrugs, turns and strides towards
the back door carefully going around the tree ferns decorating the
rear lattice-shaded garden. "Hello Mr. Chatterjee, Mrs. Bach--you
hea?" He waits with his hands mutely crossed in front of his
stomach, servant-like and patient. There is no answer. He calls
again, louder this time, and knocks three times on the back door,
looking down and listening. Again there is no response. Finally
convinced that he is alone, he walks back to his truck and begins to
select the tools and bags to begin the three hour job.
Sometime later he is wiping the perspiration from his forehead
as he surveys the finished lawn. Needing a drink he walks around
the pagoda to the yard faucett which faces the ocean and stands
surveying the surfers 500 feet below. The ocean is deeply blue
green with white crests near the beach. He loosens his wet shirt so
the trade winds can blow on his belly and he scratches at the
scraggly hairs absently; then he bends down to the faucett drinking
directly from the flowing water. His eye catches something white
and yellowish. He looks around at other pieces of white and
yellowish matter lying on the path in front of the pagoda. He pushes
off his battered red baseball hat and, holding it aloft, scratches his
scalp with the little finger. He peers around then bends down and
scoops up some of the material. "Mr. Chatterjee, Sir, " he suddenly
croaks, " Mr Chaterjee, Sir, are you there?" He plunges forward, but
trembling legs fail him and he collapses on his knees before the open
window, his arms trembling and outstretched, clutching at the scene,
his mute mouth opening and closing in horror.
There sprawled face up and stretched across the coffee table is
Ravan Chatterjee. The top of his head is gaping bloody hole.
Spattered over the windows and through the open patio doors are
tiny pieces of skull and brain tissue.
The yard man begins a monotone "Hail Mary, ...." crosses himself
and wobbles slightly as he turns away. A muffled rumble builds to
a crescendo as he falls foward, heaving up his breakfast over the toes
of his boots and the Tahitian Gardenia bush.
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