Catherine seemed completely recovered from the shock of the night before, although even after she was dressed and moving through the house on the innumerable tasks a mother must endure, he noticed that she hesitated fractionally before entering each room. It was as if she were checking things out, scanning the floors and walls for any signs of the phantom intruders of the night before. Fortunately, Willard had already made sure that the bathtub and sinks and kitchen were free from infestation.
Catherine visibly relaxed as they finally sat together at the kitchen table and ate a light breakfast of juice and toast together-fashionably late, but the more pleasant for that. Sams was strapped into his chair, enjoying a second helping of dry Sugar Crisps, most of which ended up on the floor or stuck in his hair.
On an impulse, Catherine reached over to the small radio on the counter and turned it on to KNWS, the local news station she had discovered a day or so after moving in. The station could be counted on to repeat weather and local updates during the morning, giving her a better sense of how to dress the kids for school.
The newscaster’s voice murmured largely unnoticed in the background as she and Willard sat without talking, enjoying the muted quiet, enjoying each other’s presence.
“Cath,” Willard said after a while, as he stood to set his plate in the sink. “How about a drive? It’s cold outside but it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day. We could pack up Sams and head up the coast toward Santa Barbara. Maybe we could…”
“Wait,” Catherine said suddenly. “What was that?” She leaned over and turned the volume on the radio up.
“…Struck just after 2:30 and registered only 3.0, with its epicenter five miles off the coast of Malibu. There have been no reports of any damage from the quake, although a number of Valley residents were awakened by the jolt. No aftershocks have been reported.” The newscaster’s smooth voice robbed the announcement of any of the terror Catherine had felt the night before when the temblor had shaken her awake.
She turned the radio off. “There was an earthquake,” she said, her voice quiet.
“What?” Willard tore his eyes from the spectacle of his youngest son, mouth speckled with stray bits of cereal, sipping milk from his Scooby-Doo cup so carefully that not one of the strays dropped off.
“That’s what woke me up. Before I saw the…before I came into the kitchen. There was an earthquake. I felt it and got out of bed and went to check on the kids, then I came out here to get some tea and…”
“Her face grew white at the memory.
“Sit down, hon,” Willard said.
She dropped heavily into the solid oak chair-one of six that surrounded the equally heavy oak table.
“I woke up from the quake, and I went in to see if the kids were all right,” she repeated, her voice calm and even, as if she were repeating instructions on how to bottle boysenberry jelly or how to change a tire on a car. “Then I went into the living room and turned the furnace on-it was really cold, and you would be waking up in only an hour or so anyway,” she added, looking slightly discomfited at the admission of her guilt.
Willard shook his head and said, “Don’t worry about that. No problem.”
“Anyway,” she continued after a long pause, “Then I came into the kitchen and saw… There were hundreds of them. Thousands.”
Willard almost shivered at the raw horror, the open revulsion in her voice. He reached over and touched her arm.
“Come on, honey, that’s impossible. Thousands?”
She whirled to glare at him. “I saw them. I know how it sounds. I know that sometimes I freak out pretty much when I see one or two of the filthy things. But I know what I saw.” She glanced around her-at the table, the counters, the floor. “They were all over everything. They were on the table, in the…” Her eyes flew open, and what little color there was in her cheeks bleached out. Her throat visibly constricted, so convulsively that Willard felt a pang of sympathetic pain. For a moment it seemed as if Catherine was choking.
Suddenly she burst from her chair and crossed the kitchen in two strides and doubled over by the sink. He heard the sounds of heaving, smelled the pungency of vomit, and rushed to her side. He held her tightly, one hand on her forehead-hot and damp. She vomited explosively again, and once again. He twisted the water taps and ran a stream of water into the sink. It curled around the clotted remains of Catherine’s breakfast, barely able to wash away the bitter-smelling stuff.
Catherine heaved once more, but this time nothing came. She was trembling beneath his hand, her muscles quivering and tight.
“Are you all right?” he asked, feeling like a fool-of course she’s not all right, all-right people don’t toss their cookies in the kitchen sink in the middle of the day, all-right people don’t shake like their insides have been vomited loose. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Are you okay?”
She nodded weakly
He helped her back to the table and lowered her into the chair. She sat with her head in her hands for a long time. Willard watched her carefully, alert for any signs of recurrent nausea. Sams was silent, watching as well.
Finally, Catherine looked up. “Sorry,” she said quietly. Her voice still shook. Her breath stank. Willard could smell the sourness on her breath and felt his own stomach twist momentarily. She sipped at the orange juice in her glass. That seemed to help.
“I just remembered…” She paled again, and Willard was afraid that she was in for another bout of vomiting, but she visibly controlled her reflexes, swallowing hard a couple of times. “They were in…,” she began, seemed to choke again, then she continued, her voice breaking, “… in the bread.”
Willard understood. His stomach convulsed again at the image her words conjured. “It’s okay. There were only a couple of pieces left in the wrapper this morning. I had a piece of toast before I went to bed last night, and I left the wrapper open. Like always.”
The last was a play for humor.
Catherine didn’t laugh.
“Anyway, when I got up this morning and cleaned up in here, I could tell that the rest of the bread was all dried out. I tossed it. And got a new loaf from the freezer.” He could trace the relief as it blossomed in her face. For a moment, it seemed as if she was struggling to say something, then her expression crumbled and she burst into tears, long and hard and frightening.
“I know I saw them. I know it. I know it.”
“Come on,” Willard said finally, not really knowing how to handle the situation. “Let’s go into the living room and sit down. Relax.”
She allowed herself to be led into the other room. She dropped heavily onto the sofa. Willard returned to the kitchen and lifted Sams out of his high chair and set him on his feet. The boy toddled across the carpeting, clambered slowly and awkwardly onto the couch, and settled himself next to his mother. He carefully spread his blanket over his own legs and across part of his mother’s lap. Catherine took no notice.
Willard knelt next to her, forcibly reminded of the night before. “Look,” he said, “you two stay here and I’ll check things again. Okay?”
She nodded without speaking. Her passivity was more frightening to Willard than anything else. Catherine was nothing if not self-reliant, independent, strong. She might have an aversion to crawly, squirmy things, but Willard was well aware of how much she struggled against those weaknesses. For her to collapse this completely…
He was baffled.
Still, he began carrying out his promise. Armed with a now-familiar, half-used Raid can noticeably lighter than it had been the night before, he re-sprayed the baseboards in the kitchen. He felt Catherine’s eyes on him as the repeated the process in the living room.
Then he concentrated his efforts on the metal frame of the sliding door that opened from the house to the patio. There, it seemed to him, would be the logical place for vermin to enter. The doors might not meet exactly. Possibly there was some dirt in the tracks that…
“What the hell?”
Catherine’s head jerked up at the sound of his voice.
Willard dropped to his knees and began tugging at a loose flap of carpeting that had been tucked into the corner where the wall between the kitchen and the living room abutted against the back wall.
“What…?” he repeated.
“Willard?”
“Look at this.”
Catherine got up slowly and crossed the room.
Willard was still on his knees, slowly pulling the thick carpet back a foot or so. He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“This isn’t even tacked down. It’s just laying on top of the padding.” He leaned further over and peered into the corner. “Shit.” He leaned back and held something out to Catherine.
It was a splinter of wood, perhaps ten or eleven inches long and just over an inch wide, with needle-sharp nails protruding every half inch or so, the tips just long enough to catch in the backing of the carpet.
“This is supposed to be set into the concrete. It keeps the carpet stretched. Something broke it off.”
He turned back to the flap of carpet. Catherine looked over his shoulder. They could both see the remains of twisted, broken strips bordering the carpet pad. Willard caught the edge of the pad between his thumb and index finger and peeled the half-inch-thick green foam pad away from the concrete flooring.
Catherine screamed and nearly fainted.