by Joyce Magnin
"Mother, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were there. I was just seeing Midge home."
Midge peeked out from behind me and wiggled her fingers."Hi."
"Hello," Mother said.
I raised my eyebrows at Midge. "I'll see you later. Thanks for the pot pie."
"Thanks for the Jell-O."
My mother stood there looking at me like I had deliberately tried to make her stumble.
"I wasn't expecting you until the morning," I said.
"Took an earlier flight." She stepped into the living room while I retrieved her gray Samsonite from the front porch.
My mother and I sat in the kitchen for an hour or so, nervously avoiding conversation while engaging in small talk.
"Do you need anything, Charlotte? Did that bum leave you insurance?"
There, she said it. Lillian DeSalle had come to the point.
"Don't call him a bum. And yes, I think I'll have plenty of money to live on. Maybe I'll get a job."
"You? What can you do? I told you you'd regret not finishing secretarial school. I told you a career should come first but no, no, you were in love." She made a dismissive, wavy motion with her hand.
"Mother."
She looked into my eyes and then reached out with her thumb and wiped a tear from my cheek. "I just wanted more for you."
My mother had been a buyer for John Wanamaker Department Store in Center City, Philadelphia. She had loved her work and thought every woman should have a career. She had worked hard and collected nearly a dozen awards for a job well done.
"Husbands are a dime a dozen, but a good career for a woman is hard to find," she had said.
"I know you always wanted my best, Mother. But did I really do that terrible?"
"Terribly," she said.
And that was pretty much how things went until the day of the funeral, which turned out mostly nice. Pastor Herkmeier did a fine job. I smiled and greeted the mourners as best I could, while my mother stood by with her long fingers intertwined in front and a practiced funeral face.
It was good to have Midge with me. She wore a navy dress with a white collar, white shoes with dark blue buckles, and a little sailor hat tipped to the left on her head. I never asked why she had felt the need to wear a sailor hat and only told her how glad I was that she came. I dressed in black except for secret pink undergarments with white lace edging that helped me feel a little less dismal. My mother made certain that I carried a small flask of cooking sherry tucked inside my purse in case I felt faint. As I remember, I might have taken three or four sips.
At one point, Gideon's viewing room was standing room only, jammed to the jalousies with Fuller Brush salesmen from all over the region. I had never seen so many gray suits, polished black shoes, and fedoras at one time.
"My goodness," Mother said after she had shaken the hand of the thirteenth salesman, "but these men all look like they popped right off some assembly line. When I was buying for Wanamaker, I met many salespeople and—"
I had to touch her shoulder. "Not here."
She took a breath and sidled near Herman's coffin.
"I'm sorry about Herman, Mrs. Figg," said a tall, skinny man who introduced himself as the regional sales manager."He was one of our best." Then he slid an orange Fuller Brush letter opener into Herman's breast pocket. He smiled at me, plopped his gray hat on his head, and hurried out into the gray day.
By the time the funeral was over, Herman had been buried with twenty-nine letter openers in his pocket, his samples bag tucked at his left hand, and his gray fedora grasped neatly in his right hand. And there he was, Herman Quincy Figg, on his way to that final sales call in heaven. At least I hoped it was heaven.
Mother left that evening.
"My taxi is here," she said, looking out the window. "Now, you call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you for coming, Mother. I'll be fine. I have everything I need."
She stood near the front door while the driver took her bag to the cab. She looked into my face like she was drilling for oil with her eyes. "Whatever happened to that feisty girl who climbed trees and could throw a baseball better than any boy?"
"She got married."
Mother pointed at my heart. "She might still be in there."
"Call me when you get home." I kissed her cheek.
"By the way, I couldn't help but notice your dish towels could use a splash of Clorox, and don't put chicken bones in the disposal, dear. Not good for the blades."
Once the taxi was out of sight, I went into the house, locked the door, and cried.
Three days later I met Lucky.
I opened the front door at around eight in the morning and in bounded the ugliest, hairiest mutt I had ever seen. He had wiry whiskers and eyebrows, and he looked for all the world like Nikita Khrushchev. His white paws reminded me of little girl anklets. With only a gnarled thumb—about the size of a Vienna sausage—for a tail, he went straight for Herman's chair, sniffed first, and took advantage of its cushiony comfort. He sat on his haunches, with his tongue lolled out, and panted like he had won a marathon.
My intruder barked once with a bark that seemed to emanate from deep within his bowels and then barrel through his stomach, up his throat, and out his snout. I stood there in a quasi state of shock with my hand still on the opened door. I thought Herman had come back to me in a dog's body but chalked it up to imagination.
The dog let go a second blustery bark.
"How rude," I said. "You can't just barge into a person's house like this and . . . and sit in her chair and . . . and bluster like her dead husband. Now go on home."
The dog scooted outside, but he camped in the yard for three days. Every so often I heard one of his barks and I felt sorry for him. So after some consideration, I invited him in and gave him three shampoo baths in a galvanized bucket in the backyard in the cold. I wore one of Herman's suit jackets because I didn't want to get my own clothes wet and soiled with dog grime. I dried him off with one of my good Egyptian cotton bath towels, which I subsequently dubbed Lucky's towel. About halfway through the drying I smiled when it occurred to me that if Herman had witnessed this he would have yelled something awful at me for sacrificing one of our good towels to the dog's cause.
I named him Lucky and bought him a black collar with purple rhinestones. It had been the first real financial decision, besides choosing a solid oak casket, I had made since Herman's surprising demise.
"There you go, Lucky." I clasped the collar around his skinny neck. "Guess this makes it official." He licked my face.
I found it easy to talk to Lucky, and I appreciated his affection, but I still felt like I was banging into walls with no direction. Kind of like a pinball but without all the bells and whistles and music and points.
Then one day Lucky came home with the neighbor's mail.
"Bad dog, Lucky," I said. "You mustn't steal mail. It's a federal offense, you know."
Lucky looked dejected at first but then he wagged his preposterously stubby tail and all was forgiven.
I rifled through the small stack bound with a rubber band that held the advertisements inside an RV magazine called Road Tripper. My eyebrows lifted. "I didn't know the Parsons had a recreational vehicle," I told Lucky. "I've never seen it, but Evie and Lewis do seem to be gone for long stretches several times a year."
Out of curiosity, I thumbed through the periodical and stopped when I saw a small block of type with bold letters pierced by a canine incisor that read:
For Sale, Nice-looking double-wide.
Contact: Fergus Wrinkel, Paradise Trailer Park.
A small image of a light gray trailer with wide windows and awnings with hanging baskets of pink and purple trailing verbena caught my eye. The sun setting in the distance painted ribbons of orange and lilac across a sky the color of my favorite copper-bottom frying pan. I was filled with a sudden burst of wanderlust.
My heart beat as fast as the mashed potato setting on my Mixmaster. "Paradise."
I said the word with a come-hither tone. Not that I had planned it. It just came out that way."Imagine that, Lucky. We could move to"—I took another breath and exhaled the word—"Paradise." I rubbed my arms. Just the thought of living in a place called Paradise gave me goose pimples. But I closed the magazine, banded all the mail together, and dropped it on the dining room table.
"Charlotte Louise Figg," I said right out loud. "What are you saying? You can't up and move to Paradise. What would Herman think?"
I made a cup of tea, sat at the dining table, and stared at the rolled-up magazine. I kept touching it and knocking it around. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore and opened to the page with the beautiful little trailer and nearly swooned over the verbena.
That afternoon I purchased the trailer, sight unseen, from Fergus Wrinkel, manager of The Paradise Trailer Park.
Six weeks later Lucky and I set out for our new home. I sold my house to a nice young couple—Jorge and Olivia Gonzalez. Jorge had just gotten a job as a produce supervisor at the Save- A-Lot supermarket, and Olivia was six months pregnant with their first child.
I left them the washer and dryer; all of the furniture except a Tiffany lamp, the beds, my lovely flowery sofa, and two chests of drawers; and various and sundry kitchen items like pots and pans, utensils, and my pie tins. I wanted to leave them Herman's La-Z-Boy. Jorge liked it.
"Look at this, Livie," he said as he settled the chair into its full reclining position. "I can rest here after work."
Olivia smiled. "Don't go thinking you'll be doing much resting, Jorge." She patted her bulging belly.
But no dice. Lucky wouldn't have it. He snarled and grabbed Jorge's pant leg and tried to pull him off the chair.
"Oh, my goodness gracious. I am so sorry." I rushed over and grabbed the dog by the collar. "Lucky likes the chair."
"No problem, Mrs. Figg. He didn't hurt me or nothin'," Jorge said. "I'll get a new one."
I smiled and handed him a set of house keys. "I'll leave the second set on the kitchen counter. And I also made a note with the names and numbers of the plumber, the electrician, the man who fixes my—um—your washer and dryer. Trash comes on Tuesday and Friday, and the mail is delivered by noon. If the heater goes off, just call Simon. He'll come right out. The man can fix anything, even if it's not broken. Every so often the shutters on the attic window bang against the house in a high wind, so don't get frightened and . . . " I stopped talking.
It was at that moment that I saw the reality of home ownership strike terror into the hearts of the nice young couple. Their eyes bugged out like cartoon characters.
"It is an old house," I said. "But she's a good house. And oh, I left you a pie—blueberry. And whipped cream in the fridge."Once I had gotten the agreement of sale, my baking desires returned. "And, Jorge, make sure you check the freezer gasket. It might need replacing."
Olivia reached out and pulled me close for a hug. It surprised me a little. "Thank you, Mrs. Figg. Good luck in Paradise," she said. "I think it's wonderful, a woman your age doing such a thing."
"Why, thank you, young lady." And that was when I was suddenly filled with a sense of my own mortality, of time shifting, of the world belonging to the young. It gave me a funny feeling in my gut. There had to be something more waiting for me in Paradise. There just had to be.
That evening after supper—a TV dinner of Salisbury steak with French fries and a tiny peach cobbler—I called my mother.
"I sold the house and I'm moving to Paradise." I said the words fast because it was easier that way.
She fell silent for a good long time until she finally said, "Is this you, Charlotte?"
"Yes, Mother. It's me."
"Well, I just don't understand what the dickens you are talking about. Are you trying to tell me you're joining Herman in Paradise? Who believes that rat is even in Paradise. And—"
"Mother. Don't be ridiculous. I mean Paradise Trailer Park. I bought one."
"One what?"
"Trailer. They call it a double-wide."
She dropped the phone.
"Are you there?" I asked. "Are you all right?"
A minute later I heard her breathing again. "Yes, I'm here. I thought I heard you say the word double-wide. But you must have said, filled with pride, dear. You're just filled with pride over something."
"No, Mother. I said I bought a double-wide trailer."
"Oh, Charlotte. I cannot believe my ears."
And she hung up.
3
I naturally inherited Herman's Ford Galaxy convertible— candy apple red with whitewall tires. The paint shimmered in the sunlight like a bright ruby ring. He spent hours washing and polishing the thing like it truly was a precious jewel.
That nice James Deeter from the insurance company came over with two of his buddies, and they helped lug the heavy stuff and boxes to the short utility trailer named The Little Tough Guy I rented from Skip Cozy at the Texaco station. Skip told me to return it to any other Texaco close to my destination. I packed it with my most precious belongings, including two tall trophies I had stored in the attic from my softball days. I played second base for the Clifton Canaries right up until I married Herman and he told me that playing ball was for children and my trophies did not belong in the living room. I packed the trophies with newspapers and tucked them securely between two boxes of kitchen items.
Midge said she would help pack but she never showed up. Maybe Midge's gallbladder attacked her again. It usually did when there was work to be done. But that was okay. There wasn't much packing left to do after I decided she probably wasn't coming. Just clothes, some books—most of which I never read front to back—and my plate collection. My favorite came clear from Paris and had a picture of the Eiffel Tower at night on it. I forget how I came to acquire it. Herman might have gotten it on one of his business trips. Anyhoo, I packed everything I cared to pack. When we finished, I served James and his friends cherry pie and cold milk, which they ate sitting on the floor in my empty living room.
Lucky and I planned to set out for Paradise early on the morning of Tuesday, March 5.
We stopped to say good-bye to Midge at a quarter past seven that morning. I pulled the loaded-down Galaxy into Midge's driveway, but I had never pulled a trailer before and the back driver's side wheel snagged on Midge's mailbox and yanked it out of the lawn, taking a bed of roses, two cast-iron garden gnomes, and six feet of lawn with it. The lamp I had shoved into the backseat, minus its shade and bulb, poked a hole through the convertible roof.
"My gnomes," Midge cried. "You killed them."
"My roof," I cried. "Herman will kill me." But then my eyebrows arched and I felt better. Even Herman's bluster could not reach me now.
I climbed under the little trailer and recovered two twelveinch gnomes with white beards and red jerkins. "They're alive, Midge. Just a bit soiled. A good hosing will take care of it." I handed them to Midge. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to get used to driving a car again, and one with a trailer wobbling behind, for goodness sake. Not as easy as it looks when you see them whizzing past you on the highway."
"It's okay." She sniffed.
Midge and I stood in the cold for a few minutes. She clutched the gnomes to her chest. "Now, you're sure about this," she said. "Change is always hard, especially when you're used to the same."
"The same?"
"You know, the same voices, smells, the same way of doing things day to day. And now that's changing. I just thought it might be hard."
"But change can be good too, right?"
"Sometimes." She clutched her gnomes to her chest. "I only want what's best for you. Lord knows you deserve it after all you endured."
I felt the corners of my eyes crinkle as I smiled. Midge knew more than I thought she did. "It will be. I can't wait to see my new home in Paradise."
After we pulled the brass floor lamp from the backseat and sealed the hole with about six yards of duct tape, we said our final good-bye.
"I'll miss you," Midge sa
id.
"I'll miss you too."
"You're sure you want to do this?"
"I am. It just . . . it just feels right." I took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition.
The road to Paradise was paved with asphalt. I had written out the directions on a piece of notebook paper that I had to keep referring to in order to stay on course.
It wasn't long before I saw a sign for the Jack Frost Ski Resort. "Lucky, I am so excited. Did you see that sign? This is where we get off the turnpike. Start looking for the Paradise Trailer Park. It's supposed to be not far from the exit." I felt my spirit soar like I was riding the Wildcat Coaster on the Ocean City Boardwalk.
I had driven about thirteen miles when I saw a sign for Shoops Borough. I glanced at my directions, "This is it, Lucky. Mr. Wrinkel said I need to drive through Shoops and look for a sign to Bright's Pond and then right after that we'll see another sign for Paradise Trailer Park."
Shoops was a big small town. We passed through it quickly and only had to stop at two red lights. Then I saw a sign that read, "Welcome to Bright's Pond. Home of the World's Largest Blueberry Pie."
"Would you look at that? Home of the world's largest blueberry pie. I knew this was the right place for us. Imagine that, a town that understands the importance of pie."
Soon we were driving through the quaintest little town I had ever seen. We passed a small church across the street from a large Victorian house. There was a delightful-looking diner called the Full Moon Café. I would have stopped in for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, but a quick glance at my watch told me I'd better head on toward Paradise. I had told Mr. Wrinkel we'd be there around noon.
Just a few minutes later I pulled The Little Tough Guy up a hill. When we reached the top I saw two spectacular and large green, orange, and yellow painted palm trees with wide leaves and coconuts on either side of a driveway on my left. A neon rainbow arch connected them. The word Paradise blinked on and off in the rainbow. I was so surprised I drove right past them and nearly crashed into a truck carrying logs.
