Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise

by Joyce Magnin

  "Goodness gracious, Lucky, did you see those palm trees?"

  I slammed on the breaks and nearly jackknifed The Little Tough Guy. But fortunately, he stayed upright. I negotiated a tricky U-turn, much to the dismay of the log driver, and headed back for the palm trees. Lucky and I drove under the rainbow into Paradise. He was so happy riding on the front seat with his tongue lolled out and wearing a wide smile. He barked twice as if to say, "We're home."

  I slowed to a turtle's pace over the speed bumps. Multicolored trailer homes lined up like crayons in a box on either side of the street. In the periphery of my eye, I caught sight of another sign that read MANAGER and pointed a brown-painted finger toward a long green trailer nestled inside a grove of trees. Two tiny pink neon flamingoes flanked what I assumed to be the front door, and the word MANAGER, also in pink neon, hung over the top.

  "That must be Fergus Wrinkel's office," I told Lucky. I parked on the street behind a red Datsun and heaved a huge sigh of relief that my trailer didn't capsize on the way over the speed bumps, crack open like an egg, and dump all my worldly possessions on the road.

  I lingered in the car and took in the sights. The park seemed pleasant enough with groves of trees and trailers with awnings and white picket fences. Some had flower gardens with tiny gnomes like Midge's. I saw pink flamingoes standing on one leg, angel statues, and clotheslines. Other trailers looked disheveled, with weeds and overgrown grass and hanging-down, dilapidated metal roofs. Just about every single one displayed an American flag. Remnants of the last snowfall were still evident in dirty, exhaust-painted snow heaped in the shade of the trailers. Two women dodged a couple of potholes as they walked down the road. One carried grocery bags while the other pushed a stroller. When they saw me, they disappeared as quickly as snipers.

  "Well they looked nice," I said. "Younger than me, but nice enough. Just a little shy, I guess."

  I draped my arm around Lucky. "Just like any old neighborhood, I suppose. Now you stay here a minute while I fetch the keys to our house from Mr. Wrinkel."

  I saw no bell button, so I pulled open the rickety screen door. My knock made a tinny, hollow sound. I waited what I thought was enough time and then knocked again. The door opened slowly. One eye, one ear, and a nose peeked from the side.

  "Hello," I said. "I'm looking for Mr. Wrinkel."

  Nothing.

  "My name is Charlotte Figg." I spoke a little louder in case the ear was hard of hearing. I couldn't tell if I spoke to a young ear or an elderly ear. "I purchased the double-wide on Mango Street. I called and told Mr. Wrinkel I'd be arriving today. About this time." I'm not sure why, but at the end of each sentence my voice rose as though I asked a question. It just came out like I wasn't very sure, and I hoped the person behind the door wouldn't think I was a crackpot.

  The door opened a trifle more, and I stood eye-to-eye with a woman exactly my height who had mussed strawberry-blonde hair and sad eyes. At least I thought they were sad. Dark shadows circled below their dark depths, but they also held a hint of sparkle like sunken treasure. I felt a thud in the pit of my stomach as I gazed at her in the silence. I covered my reaction with a smile.

  "He ain't here," the woman said. "Gone on down to the hardware store in Shoops."

  "Are you Mrs. Wrinkel?"

  "Yes." She looked down at her feet or my feet, I couldn't tell which.

  "Could you please give me the key? I'd like to get settled." I tried to sound more authoritative.

  "Key's down there. Fergus don't keep keys in the house. Look under the mat or a rock or something. You'll find it."

  I stared at the woman a moment longer before she backed away and closed the door. I heard the lock turn.

  Back in the car, I spoke to Lucky. "That was an odd welcome, wasn't it? I certainly did not expect trumpeters announcing my arrival, but a considerate 'It's nice to meet you' would have been nice."

  I drove slowly down the rough road. The hilly terrain forced me to keep an eye on The Little Tough Guy as we navigated over potholes and speed bumps. The trailer park gave off a summer camp vibe, complete with the odor of mold and pine.

  I had no trouble finding the intersection and negotiated the right-hand turn with only the sound of what I thought was one box tumbling in the back. Stretched out between two other mobile homes, one sky blue and the other brown, sat my long double-wide trailer. It still had the scrawny FOR SALE sign stuck in a small patch of brown lawn I assumed was the front yard. I could not believe my eyes and blinked so hard I just nearly missed by a tail-length hitting a cat that darted out between two parked cars. I pulled onto a cement pad just wide and long enough to fit the Galaxy. The trailer hung out on the street like a big toe.

  Lucky let loose a loud, blustery bark.

  "I wish you wouldn't do that, boy," I said. "It gives me the willies."

  Lucky bounded out of the car and wasted no time marking his territory. I stood near the Galaxy and stared. "Oh, dear," I said. "It's the color of the inside of an Andes Mint. This is not the trailer I saw in the magazine; that one was gray with a purple stripe and awnings and hanging baskets. This one is old and grungy." Lucky bounded over to me and rested his muddy paws on my waist. "Look at it, Lucky, it's awful." Lucky licked my face and then dropped down. He scampered back to a small clump of trees still laden with snow around the trunks. He turned the piles from white to yellow in no time flat.

  "My sentiments exactly," I murmured.

  It was nearly noon. Cold and breezy air had rushed in like a cantankerous child, swirling up leaves on the ground and mussing my hair. I grabbed my handbag and heavy sweater out of the car and buttoned it all the way down. Since I wore a dress my calves were chilled like I always think chicken legs must be chilled when they run around their yards.

  "This can't be it? Can it?" I checked for a trailer number. I bought number 19 and for a moment—a brief, shining moment—I thought I must be looking at the wrong trailer while I tried to locate a house number. But no, right smack dab on the front of the broken-down monstrosity was the number 19 in black paint, partially hidden by a dying yew bush. I made a mental note; cut down the ugly yew.

  Lucky sniffed his way back to me. "This is it, boy. This is our new home, but something's not right. There must be a mistake. Maybe there are two Paradise Trailer Parks. Maybe we came to the wrong one. Maybe we drove into an alternate universe, you know? Like in the Twilight Zone?" Lucky shook his head and rattled his tags.

  I spied an unusual rock, pitch-coal and shiny black, sitting near the cement slab like a hand had placed it there with intention. "I wonder, Lucky. You suppose our key could be hiding under that funny rock?" I kicked it over with my toe and uncovered a brass key.

  A path made from splintered wood planks led to a small, square porch that looked more like an afterthought than a planned part of the trailer. It was really little more than a low deck with a slanted roof tacked onto the metal siding.

  "Come on, Lucky," I called. "We might as well take a look inside." Walking down the wooden path was both odd and charming as we made clip-clop sounds reminiscent of a Western movie. The sounds echoed in the stillness of the park.

  I took a breath and turned the key. I let my breath out when I heard the lock click. I turned the knob and nothing. The door stuck. I gave it a push with my hip and shoulder and when it swung open the smell that blew out nearly knocked me to the ground.

  "Something must have died in there!" The smell, a mixture of rot, mildew, and ages-old cigarette smoke, gagged me. Lucky scrabbled past me into the trailer to check it out first. He barked and I nearly tumbled feet-over-teacups off the deck when two large, mangy beasts scampered between my legs."Oh, my goodness gracious. Were those raccoons?" Lucky barked and raced off to see what else he could find.

  I stepped further inside, not far, maybe twelve or thirteen inches, alert to the possibility of more stampeding wildlife. I felt chilled and thought this must be what it feels like to be a sockeye salmon in a can, cold and totally out of my element.
Linoleum the color of the inside of an eggplant partially covered the floor. A thick, bilious shag rug spewed over the rest of it. Someone had paneled the walls with dark, thin paneling and covered the ceiling with white tiles, the kind with a million tiny holes. Some of the tiles had yellow stains and their bulging fat bellies hung over the living room.

  I walked into the small kitchen area and noticed one of the cabinet doors had fallen off its hinges. A tear rolled down my cheek and into my mouth.

  "Oh, Lucky. What have I done?"

  4

  A rickety card table stood under the kitchen bay window. An ash tray filled with old cigarette butts sat in the middle of the table. I set my purse down, pulled out the chair, brushed off the seat with my hand, and sat. The chair wobbled as though one of the legs was shorter than the others.

  Lucky rested his head on my knee and looked at me from underneath his wiry eyebrows.

  "It's not right, Lucky. I . . . we can't live here." And for the first time since he died, I wished Herman was there to tell me what to do. I'm not sure how long I sat there until a knock at the door startled me out of my reverie. Lucky barked and went to investigate.

  "Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo. Excuse me, yoo-hoo, excuse me. Charlotte? Charlotte Figg?"

  "Hello," I called. "I'm in the kitchen." If you could call it that.

  A woman wearing a heavy brown sweater with a wide collar over a long linen skirt and black boots walked toward me. She had a nice smile, twinkly eyes, and gobs of bright red, curly hair partially controlled by a long Peter Max scarf. I thought I saw an artist's paintbrush sticking out of the nest that was her head. Lucky stayed right with her, ready to defend me if necessary.

  "I'm your neighbor, Rose Tattoo. Welcome to Paradise."

  "Thank you," I said without really meaning it.

  She looked around the trailer. "So what do you think?" She patted Lucky's head, and I thought I saw green vines tattooed on her hand. I thought to mention it but didn't in case she had some sort of weird, embarrassing physical affliction.

  I averted my eyes. "It's . . . not what I expected."

  Rose leaned against the small turquoise stove. "Asa—you haven't met him yet, but he takes care of things around here— thought you might be some kind of international spy looking for a place to hide out incognito. I told him he was nuts. But he insisted. Who else would buy this place except a spy needing a place to hide? That's what he said."

  "I can assure you I am not a spy."

  "Didn't think so." She gave Lucky a rub behind the ears."He's a nice doggie. Kind of a mix, a mutt. He'll certainly fit in around here. But what in the heck happened to his tail?"

  "I don't know. He came that way and we're not staying."

  "What? Now, why in the world would you go to all the trouble of buying a trailer and then not stay? You sure you're not a spy or something?" She touched her hair. "Would you look at that? This is my number two brush. I was looking all morning for it and here it is in my head."

  I fought back an urge to laugh. "For the last time, I am not a spy. I just . . . just . . . " I had to choke back tears. "I hate it. But I'm glad you found your brush."

  "Well, what were you expecting? Didn't you know what you bought?"

  I shook my head. "No, I thought I bought this." I pulled the picture of the trailer in the magazine out of my purse.

  Rose looked at the image and clicked her tongue several times. "Looks like Fergus pulled a fast one." She tapped it with her brush. "What you got there is a picture of the Frost sisters' trailer."

  "Frost sisters?"

  "They live on the other side of Paradise." She snorted air out her nose. "Now, that sounds a bit ominous, doesn't it? I just mean they have some land and live in that trailer you got in your hand."

  Rose tried to rehang the cabinet door. It fell right back off with a slam. "It's not that bad, Charlotte. You can fix it up. Make it just how you want it, you know. Some new carpet, a new ceiling, take down that awful paneling, some new paint, appliances, furniture. It just needs a little . . . okay, a lot of TLC."

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. "TLC? TLC? But it has raccoons. Raccoons!"

  Rose laughed. "Sometimes they break in through the back windows to get out of the cold. It happens all the time, especially in the vacant trailers. But I'm sure they ran away and probably won't come back now that you're here."

  All I could do was sit and stare at this woman who seemed an eccentric combination of leftover flower child and cheerleader.

  Rose brushed crumbs, or rat poison for all I knew, from the kitchen counter. "I'll help you, Charlotte. I'll help you fix it up." She pushed the brush behind her ear.

  For a moment I imagined the trailer with awnings and hanging baskets of trailing verbena and clean windows with pretty curtains, a sparkly new porch and shingled roof and little lights along the wooden path, pretty pink carpet and my furniture. Then I shook that stupidity from my brain.

  "It would take forever to get it fixed and cleaned and painted. What it needs is some well-placed dynamite and a fur trapper."I put my head in my hands. "What would Herman say?"

  "Herman?" Rose asked.

  "My dead husband. I can hear him now, shouting at me from his grave. 'Caveat emptor, Charlotte. Caveat emptor.' Let the buyer beware."

  Rose smiled and revealed crinkly wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. "But he's not here. And he can't say that to you, not anymore."

  I looked out the window at the trees, leafless and tall with their branches reaching out to the sky and to me like giant, gnarled fingers.

  "I think I need to go speak with Mr. Wrinkel and tell him I want my money back."

  Rose cleared her throat. "Fergus is a tough cookie, Charlotte."

  "But he sounded so nice on the phone."

  "Of course he did. He just sold you a piece of—"

  I looked up. "I know. Believe me, I know about salesmen. But I have to try. Come on, Lucky."

  I left Rose standing in the kitchen and backed the Galaxy onto the street, unhitched the trailer, and left it where it sat, not giving a fat patooty who it might offend.

  I parked behind the red Datsun again and attempted to muster up my courage, rehearsing what I would say. It might have been ten minutes, it could have been only five, but I finally went to the door and knocked. Once, twice, three times and then I saw that same set of sad eyes peer out at me.

  "I told you," she said the instant she opened the door."Fergus ain't here. Didn't you find the key?"

  "Yes, but the trailer. It's not—"

  She pulled open the door a trifle more and leaned into me."Would you please leave?" she whispered. "Fergus will be home in just a few minutes and you can talk to him yourself."Her small voice broke in places, leaving me to wonder what might have been hiding inside the cracks.

  A sick feeling roiled in my stomach. It was like her outsides matched my insides. I swallowed hard. "Okay. But will you please let him know I want to speak with him?"

  The woman closed the door and I left with absolutely no confidence that she would pass my message on to her husband. I sat in the Galaxy with Lucky and waited. I ran the motor to keep warm, but it had gotten so cold I could still see my breath in the car. A two-toned brown and white pickup truck pulled into the driveway.

  "That must be him," I said. "Now, you stay here, Lucky. I better speak with him myself." I watched as a short, muscular man hopped out of the truck. He wore a Phillies baseball cap and a denim jacket. He turned and spotted me. I opened the door and called to him, "Mr. Wrinkel?"

  "Yeah." He snagged a bag from the truck bed.

  "I'm Charlotte Figg." I walked toward him. But with each step my anxiety heightened. I wished I had let Lucky out of the car. "Excuse me, but I need to speak with you."

  "Did you find the key all right? Under one of them rocks up there."

  "Yes, I did, but that isn't what I—"

  He just kept walking toward his front door.

  "Mr. Wrinkel." I raised my voice. "That trailer you sold me
isn't the one in the magazine. It's not the same place."

  "Never said it was. Just said I had a double-wide for sale. The picture was just a—what would you call it now—" he adjusted his cap, "a representation."

  "But, Mr. Wrinkel, that trailer I bought is not livable."

  He cleared his throat and spat tobacco-stained goo into a pile of snow. "Well, now, sure it is, Mrs. Figg. It's what us folks in the real estate biz like to call a fixer-upper. Just needs a little work. Now, you go on up there and I'll come by in a few and get your electric turned on and the plumbing going and show you how to work the propane tanks out back."

  "Propane?"

  "For cooking."

  "But I . . . I . . . don't want the trailer." My chest tightened and I thought I might cry again. I imagined Fergus Wrinkel in an embarrassing clown suit with large feet. "I would like my money back, please."

  "Oh, well now, Mrs. Figg, I am afraid that's not possible."

  I pulled myself up to my full height. "Mr. Wrinkel, my husband was a salesman for the Fuller Brush Company, and when a customer was not one hundred percent satisfied with any product, she got her money back, no questions asked."

  He cleared his throat again and took a step closer to the front door. "Well, Mrs. Figg, that's nice and all but you didn't buy some silly hairbrush. You purchased a trailer."

  "But I want the one in the magazine."

  "The trailer in the magazine would have cost you three times as much. Now, that ain't to say what you got ain't a classic. A real classic. A 1958 Vindar, that's what it said on the deed."

  "But . . . but it has raccoons!" I took a breath. "I didn't see any mention of raccoons in the bill of sale, Mr. Wrinkel."

  As he continued toward his trailer, I noticed the curtain in the bay window open and those sad, sorrowful eyes peer out at me. This time I felt a chill wriggle down my spine. "Mr. Wrinkel, I . . . I . . . "