Trailerpark (2 page)

Marcelle sipped at her can of beer, and Doreen went for hers. The radio was tuned quietly in the background to the country and western station from Dover. Doreen reached across the counter to the radio and turned up the volume, saying to no one in particular, “I like this song.”

“That's 'cause you're not thirty yet, honey,” Marcelle told her. “You'll get to be thirty, and then you'll like a different kind of song. Wait.”

Doreen smiled from somewhere behind the veil of fatigue that covered her face. It was a veil she had taken several years ago, and she'd probably wear it until she either died or lost her memory, whichever came first. Anyone who wished to could see it, but only someone who wore it herself knew what it signified. She looked at her red-painted fingernails. “What happens when you're forty and then fifty? You like a different kind of song then too?”

“Can't say for fifty yet, but yes, for forty. Thirty, then forty, and probably then fifty, too. Sixty, now, that's the question. That's probably when you decide you don't like any of the songs they play and so you go and sit in front of the TV and watch them game shows,” she laughed.

“Well, I'll tell you,” Doreen said, finishing her beer off and standing up to leave, “that Flora Pease over there, let me warn you, she's going to be trouble, Marcelle. You made a big mistake letting her in the park. Mark my words.”

“Naw. She's harmless. A little fruity, that's all. We're all a little fruity, if you want to think about it,” she said. “Some are just more able to cover it up than others, that's all.”

Doreen shook her head and hurried her daughter out the screened door and along the road to number 4. When she had left, Marcelle stood up and from the window over the sink watched Flora, who swept and sang her way back from the road across her dirt yard to the door, then stepped daintily up the cinderblocks and entered her home.

 

Then, in August that summer, a quarrel between Terry Constant and his older sister Carol, who were black and lived in number 10 next door to Flora, caused young Terry to fly out the door one night around midnight and bang fiercely against the metal wall of their trailer. It was the outer wall of the bedroom where his sister slept, and he was doubtlessly pounding that particular wall to impress his sister with his anger. No one in the park knew what the quarrel was about, and at that hour no one much cared, but when Terry commenced his banging on the wall of the trailer, several people were obliged to involve themselves with the fight. Lights went on across the road at number 6, where Captain Knox lived alone, and 7, where Noni Hubner and her mother Nancy lived. It wasn't unusual for Terry to be making a lot of noise late at night, but it was unusual for him to be making it this late and outside the privacy of his own home.

It was easy to be frightened of Terry if you didn't know him—he was about twenty-five, tall and muscular and very dark, and he had an expressive face and a loud voice—but if you knew him, he was, at worst, irritating. To his sister Carol, though, he must often have been a pure burden, and that was why they quarreled. A few years ago she had come up from Boston to work as a nurse for a dying real estate man who had died shortly after, leaving her sort of stuck in this white world, insofar as she was immediately offered a good job in town as Doctor Wickshaw's nurse and had no other job to go to anywhere else and no money to live on while she looked. Then her mother down in Boston had died, and Terry had come with his sister for a spell and had stayed on, working here and there and now and then for what he called “monkey-money” as a carpenter's helper or stacking hides in the tannery. Sometimes he and Carol would have an argument, caused, everyone was sure, by Terry, since he was so loud and insecure and she was so quiet and sure of herself, and then Terry would be gone for a month or so, only to return one night all smiles and compliments. He was skillful with tools and usually free to fix broken appliances or plumbing in the trailerpark, so Marcelle never objected to Carol's taking him back in—not that Marcelle actually had a right to object, but if she had fussed about it, Carol would have sent Terry packing. People liked Carol Constant, and because she put up with Terry, they put up with him too. Besides, he was good-humored and often full of compliments and, when he wasn't angry, good to look at.

Captain Knox was the first to leave his trailer and try to quiet Terry. In his fatherly way, embellished somewhat by his tousled white hair and plaid bathrobe and bedroom slippers, he informed Terry that he was waking up working people. He stood across the road in the light from his window, tall and straight, arms crossed over his chest, one bushy black eyebrow raised in disapproval, and said, “Not everybody in this place can sleep till noon, young man.”

Terry stopped banging for a second, peered over his shoulder at the man, and said, “Fuck you, honkey!” and went back to banging on the tin wall, as if he were hammering nails with his bare fists. Captain Knox turned and marched back inside his trailer, and after a few seconds, his lights went out.

Then the girl, Noni Hubner, in her nightgown, appeared at the open door of number 7. Her long, silky blond hair hung loosely over her shoulders, circling her like a halo lit from behind. A woman's voice, her mother's, called from inside the trailer, “Noni,
don't!
Don't go out there!”

The girl waved the voice away and stepped out to the landing, barefoot, delicately exposing the silhouette of her body against the light of the living room behind her.

Now the mother shrieked. “Noni! Come back! He may be on drugs!”

Terry had ceased hammering and had turned to stare at the girl across the road. He was wearing a tee shirt and khaki work-pants and blue tennis shoes, and his arms hung loosely at his sides, his chest heaving from the exertion of his noise-making and his anger, and he smiled over at the girl and said, “Hey, honey, you want to come beat on my drum?”

“You're waking everyone up,” she said politely.

“Please come back inside, Noni!
Please!
”

The black man took a step toward the girl, and suddenly she whirled and disappeared inside, slamming the door and locking it, switching off the lights and dumping the trailer back into darkness.

Terry stood by the side of the road looking after her. “Fuck,” he said, and then he noticed Flora Pease standing next to him, a blocky figure in a long overcoat, barefoot, and carrying in her arms, as if it were a baby, a small, furry animal.

“What you got there?” Terry demanded.

“Elbourne.” Flora smiled down at the chocolate-colored animal and made a quiet, clucking noise with her mouth.

“What the hell's an Elbourne?”

“Guinea pig.”

“Why'd you name him Elbourne?”

“After my grandfather. How come you're making such a racket out here?”

Terry took a step closer, trying to see the guinea pig more clearly, and Flora wrapped the animal in her coat sleeve, as if to protect it from his gaze.

“Listen, I won't hurt ol' Elbourne. I just want to see him. I ain't ever seen a guinea pig before,” the man said.

“He's a lot quieter than you are, mister, I'll tell you that much. Now, how come you're making such a racket out here banging on the side of your house?”

“That ain't my house. That's my
sister's
house!” he said, sneering.

“Oh,” Flora said, as if she now understood everything, and she extended the animal toward Terry so he could see it entirely. It was a long-haired animal shaped like a football with circular, dark eyes on the sides of its head and small ears and almost invisibly tiny legs tucked beneath its body. It seemed terrified and trembled in Flora's outstretched hands.

Terry took the animal and held it up to examine its paws and involuted tail, then brought it close to his chest, and holding it in one large hand, tickled it under the chin with his forefinger. The animal made a tiny cluttering noise that gradually subsided to a light drr-r-r, and Terry chuckled. “Nice little thing,” he said. “How many you got, or is this the only one?”

“Lots.”

“Lots? You got a bunch of these guinea pigs in there?”

Flora looked at him suspiciously, the way you'd look at someone accusing you of deliberately withholding information. “I said so, didn't I?”

“Suppose you did.”

“Here,” she said brusquely, “give him back,” and she reached out for the animal.

Terry placed Elbourne into Flora's hands, and she turned and walked swiftly on her short legs back around the front of her trailer. After a few seconds, her door slammed shut, and then the lights went out, and Terry was once again standing alone in darkness in the middle of the trailerpark. Tiptoeing across the narrow belt of knee-high weeds and grass that ran between the trailers, he came up close to Flora's bedroom window. “No pets allowed in the trailerpark, honey!” he called out, and then he turned and strolled off to get some sleep so he could leave this place behind him again early in the morning.

 

Either Terry didn't find the opportunity to tell anyone about Flora Pease having “lots” of guinea pigs in her trailer or he simply chose not to mention it, because it wasn't until after he had returned to the trailerpark, two months later, in early October, that anyone other than he had a clue to the fact that, indeed, there were living in number 11, besides Flora, a total of seventeen guinea pigs, five of which were male. Of the twelve females, eight were pregnant, and since guinea pigs produce an average of 2.5 piglets per litter, in a matter of days there would be an additional twenty guinea pigs in Flora's trailer, making a total of thirty-seven. About two months after birth, these newcomers would be sexually mature, with a two-month gestation period, so that if half the newborns were females, and if the other mothers continued to be fertile, along with the four other original females, then sometime late in December there would be approximately one hundred fifteen guinea pigs residing in Flora's trailer, of which fifty-four would be male and sixty-one female. These calculations were made by Leon LaRoche, who lived at number 2, the second trailer on your right as you entered the park. Leon worked as a teller for the Catamount Savings and Loan, so calculations of this sort came more or less naturally to him.

“That's a
minimum!
” he told Marcelle. “One hundred fifteen guinea pigs, fifty-four males and sixty-one females. Minimum. And you don't have to be a genius to calculate how many of those filthy little animals will be living in her trailer with her by March. Want me to compute it for you?” he asked, drawing his calculator from his jacket pocket again.

“No, I get the picture,” Marcelle scowled. It was a bright, sunny, Sunday morning in early October, and the two were standing in Marcelle's kitchen, Marcelle, in flannel shirt and jeans, taller by half a hand than Leon, who, in sport coat, slacks, shirt and tie, was dressed for mass, which he regularly attended at St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Catamount. It was a conversation last night with Captain Knox that had led young Leon to bring his figures to the attention of the manager, for it was he, the Captain, who had made the discovery that there were precisely seventeen guinea pigs in Flora's trailer, rather than merely “lots,” as Terry had discovered, and the Captain was alarmed.

It hadn't taken much imagination for the Captain to conclude that something funny was going on in number 11. When you are one of the three or four people who happen to be around the park all day because you are either retired or unemployed, and when you live across the road from a woman who announces her comings and goings with loud singing, which in turn draws your attention to her numerous expeditions to town for more food than one person can consume, and when you notice her carting into her trailer an entire bale of hay and daily emptying buckets of what appears to be animal feces, tiny pellets rapidly becoming a conical heap behind her trailer, then before long you can conclude that the woman is doing something that requires an explanation. And when you are a retired captain of the United States Army, you feel entitled to require that explanation, which is precisely what Captain Dewey Knox did.

He waited by his window until he saw Flora one morning carrying out the daily bucket of droppings, and he strode purposefully out his door, crossed the road and passed her trailer to the back, where he stood silently behind her, hands clasped behind his back, briar pipe stuck between healthy teeth, one dark bushy eyebrow raised, so that when the woman turned with her empty bucket, she met him face to face.

Switching the bucket from her right hand to her left, she saluted smartly. “Captain,” she said. “Good morning, sir.”

The Captain casually returned the salute, as befitted his rank. “What was your rank at retirement, Pease?”

“Airman Third Class, sir.” She stood not exactly at attention, but not exactly at ease, either. It's difficult when retired military personnel meet each other as civilians: their bodies have enormous resistance to accepting the new modes of acknowledging each other, with the result that they don't work quite either as military or civilian bodies but as something uncomfortably neither.

“Airman Third, eh?” The Captain scratched his cleanly shaved chin. “I would have thought after twenty years you'd have risen a little higher.”