Paradise Park

by Carolina Mac

  PARADISE PARK

  CAROLINA MAC

  Copyright © 2017 by Carolina Mac

  PARADISE PARK- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-988850-08-05

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  To my granddaughter, Emily, who saved my life in Paradise Park.

  Damaged people are dangerous because they know they can survive.

  ―Anonymous

  CHAPTER ONE

  EDGAR PLIMPTON FIDDLED with the nozzle on the garden hose in an effort to regain his self-control. Usually a calm and ordinary man, Edgar felt his everyday persona slipping through his fingers. He had tolerated his wife and her nasty habits for fifty years and could he do it for one more day? Was it possible? One more day? Doubts clouded his mind, or what was left of it after all this time with Mabel.

  He tried to fill the empty space in his head with thoughts of things more pleasant than his spouse. The middle of May had come out warm and sunny. Perfect weather for a day alone on the lake in his fishing boat, but Edgar wanted to get the spring wine bottled while the dandelions were in abundance and before they went to seed. His day of solitude and contemplation would have to wait.

  Mabel Plimpton’s butt widened to gigantic proportions as she leaned forward to pick the crop of bright yellow weeds in the meadow. Her red floral dress was much too stingy on material to cover what needed to be covered. Edgar stepped out of the makeshift plastic greenhouse he had constructed behind the sixty-foot trailer he co-habited with his wife. His cold gray eyes rested on Mabel’s enormous backside for a moment too long. He averted his glance, cursed under his breath and got busy.

  Time spent in the greenhouse was his private time. Quiet peaceful moments alone that he didn’t have to listen to Mabel-babble. He clutched the garden hose tightly in his hand and a sound escaped from his throat. She was seventy-two on her last birthday and going downhill in the looks department faster than a snake on a cricket. Growing old together was not all it was cracked up to be—no sunshine and roses in his life.

  Edgar sucked in a breath and nodded his head. He wasn’t too old to make a change—not by a long shot. Once the thought had taken root in his brain, it had grown and flourished and taken on a life of its own. Thinking about it occupied his every waking moment.

  “I told you not to let the dogs out while you were doing the picking,” he hollered. Five tiny Mexican rat dogs... “Now the little bastards are pissing all over the meadow. Says in the recipe not to use any flowers that dogs have pissed on. I read you that part, Mabel.”

  “Don’t curse them, Edgar. My babies have feelings, just like you and me.” Mabel turned to the dogs, “You have feelings, don’t you darlings?”

  I hate it when she talks to the hairless mutts in that baby voice.

  Edgar whipped off his gardening hat, wiped his brow with his forearm and shook his gray head. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. Mabel hated it when he cursed and that fact alone had increased his use of four letter words ten-fold. He filled the first wash tub to the brim with cold water and overflowed it until all the yellow flowers were submerged.

  Mabel headed towards him. Wiry gray hair—almost white—sticking out from under her Tilley hat, her rubber boots squeaking through the grass, the rusty wheelbarrow piled high with yellow blossoms. She hit a bump and dandelions flew willy-nilly over the sides.

  “Too full,” called Edgar, “make two trips.” Laziest woman alive.

  She parked the conveyance and started throwing handfuls of yellow heads into the second wash tub. Edgar lit a cigarette and inhaled a lungful of nicotine as he monitored her progress.

  His wife cast him a sideways glance, waiting for him to pitch in and help her. “Thought you were going to quit that filthy habit.”

  “Don’t want to.”

  “Do you get to do everything you want?”

  “Far from it,” he growled as he headed for his pickup.

  “Where are you going?” Her whiny voice assaulted his ears and made him wince.

  “To the store to get the rest of the stuff we need.” He waved a scrap of paper in the air to justify his escape, then jumped into the cab of his truck.

  EDGAR LEFT AND moments later the dogs lathered into a yapping frenzy as the big tractor-trailer pulled through the gate. Mabel cranked her head around and cast hateful pale blue eyes in the direction of the disturbance. “That trucker shouldn’t be allowed to bring that big ugly thing into the park,” she hollered as she dropped down on one arthritic knee and tried to calm the Mexican uprising.

  The five Chihuahuas danced around Mabel’s legs nearly tripping her up as she pushed the wheelbarrow into the field for another load. “Watch out, babies. Mommy wouldn’t want to run over your adorable little paws.”

  That asshole, Edgar is acting so weird. I should put him in a home. Serve him right.

  After filling all three tubs with dandelion heads and putting them to soak, Mabel hurried into the trailer to wash the bottles for the wine. The tribe of dogs was right on her heels as she squeezed past the thigh-high piles of newspapers that lined both sides of the sagging, weathered porch. There was just enough room in the narrow pathway to reach the screen door. As she grabbed for the handle, the phone rang in the kitchen. Out of breath from rushing inside, she picked it up on the last ring before it went to message. “Harold, is that you?”

  “Residents meeting tonight at eight o’clock,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Thanks, we’ll be there.”

  “Everybody better be there.”

  “Something important to discuss?”

  “Guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”

  Two new tenants this month. Maybe we’ll get to see what they look like. Probably more low-lifers from the city trying to save money living out here. They’re all the same. They come and they don’t fit in.

  Mabel spent an hour clearing off one square foot of counter space near the sink so she could start the wine bottles. Some day she would clean the trailer. She meant to, but there never seemed to be enough time to get at it. Not without taking time away from her babies.

  One by one, Mabel gave them a biscuit after they each did a trick for her. She praised them in her ‘baby-voice,’ “So adorable and better company than that mean old man who lives here, aren’t you?” When she heard the truck pull into the yard, she turned away from the yipping Mexican army and picked up speed on her cleaning.

  EDGAR SLAMMED THE screen door behind him. “Bottles ready?” he yelled.

  “Almost,” said Mabel, setting another in the drain rack.

  Edgar knew it was a lie. He couldn’t deal with it anymore. His head was ready to explode. The hoarding—saving useless crap for years and years. The dogs yapping. Mabel
’s constant nagging. And now her latest demand—she had come right out and told him at the breakfast table—separate beds—the woman wanted separate beds—that was the final straw.

  With a sweep of his one free arm, Edgar shoved a stack of gardening magazines off the table and onto the floor to make room for the grocery bag. Some of the shiny covers tore as they skittered across the sticky linoleum. “When are you going to clean up this fucking mess?” He pushed Mabel up against the sink and held her there with a stick-thin arm. “We can’t live like this. There isn’t room to breathe.”

  “I’m cleaning now,” she blubbered, “see how much I’ve got done?”

  Edgar eyed the twelve inches of pale green Formica he hadn’t seen since the day they moved in. “You have that whole counter cleaned off by suppertime,” he snarled.

  Mabel rallied and stuck her chin out. “Or what?”

  “You don’t want to find out.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  GARY EASTMAN STEERED his mud-streaked pickup, piled high with his worldly goods through the back gate of Paradise. “Which one is it?”

  “Third one in from the gate on the right side of the street. The side that backs up to the bush.” Marg waved her arm out the truck window and pointed a short stubby finger tipped with chipped candy floss polish.

  Gary nodded when he saw the sold sign, passed the gravel drive and backed the over-loaded truck as close as he could to the steps leading up to the deck. “Let’s take a break for a brew before we unload this shit,” he grumbled.

  “Guess there’s no rush to get settled,” said Marg. “Kind of warm today.”

  Gary sat down on the steps. “How in hell did your friend end up living in a trailer park in North butt-crack when she teaches at a school in Lindsay?”

  “She doesn’t like living in town, and this is what she could afford,” said Marg. “She called me when this one came on the market because she knew we needed a cheaper place to live.”

  “Yep.” He surveyed the other trailers from his vantage point on the deck. Most were neat and tidy—no junk lying around. There must be rules. Gary didn’t like rules. He’d spent most of his life breaking them. “Which one does your friend live in?” He lit up a smoke and tossed the pack to Marg.

  “Sheila lives around the bend on one of the other streets. Don’t worry about her. She won’t be on our doorstep all the time. She knows we like our privacy.”

  Gary raised his eyebrows while he digested that remark and wondered how much privacy he really needed with Marg any more. He was growing tired of her. All the time he was in the slam he had been thinking about making a change—dumping Marg and going for something younger and hotter. Marg looked like use up shit, her bottle-blonde hair was starting to go gray and she never bothered putting makeup on any more. She was way too fat around the middle to turn him on.

  On the other hand, Gary figured he looked damn good for forty-six. A little bit of prison wear and tear, but that just gave him character and made him more interesting to the opposite sex. He still had all his hair, not too much gray, and his beer belly wasn’t all that bad. He could suck it in and do his belt up a notch tighter if he needed to impress some new chick. “When we get settled, we should have her over for a beer. Thank her for scoping out a place for us,” he said, thinking maybe the friend looked better than Marg. Wouldn’t be hard.

  “Sure, we can do that.” Marg pulled two cold ones out of the cooler in the back of the cab, shook off the drips and handed one to Gary on the steps. “Here’s to a fresh start for us, Gary,” Marg clinked her bottle against his.

  “Yeah, this is gonna be okay. How much of my stash did you use for this dump?”

  “I gave five K down, just like you said, and the rest is in a mortgage.”

  “Fuck, I don’t want payments.”

  “Everybody has payments, if you live on this planet.”

  He shook his head. “Never had payments when I was in the slam.”

  Marg smirked at him. “Maybe you want to go back there?”

  I ought to smash your face in again, bitch. Don’t you ever learn?

  Gary smiled as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Didn’t mind it.” He lit up a fresh smoke and ambled towards the truck, his ripped jeans riding low on his butt crack. “Open the trailer up and let’s get this shit unloaded. I want you to make me something to eat.”

  A GOLF CART rolled onto the end of the driveway as Gary finished carrying the last load into the trailer. “Hey,” Gary hollered, giving the newcomer a wave.

  The old man struggled out of his compact vehicle and trudged towards the deck, limping badly and using his silver cane for support on the rough gravel. “Harold Deegan, Park Supervisor,” he growled in a throaty voice as he extended a hand to Gary. Gary sized him up.

  Harold looked to be in his early eighties but if he was that old, he had weathered well. A tall, heavy-set man he was only slightly stooped in old age. A lot of white hair poked out from under his Blue Jay’s cap and his keen blue eyes darted about, taking it all in.

  “Nice to meet you, sir. Can I offer you a beer?”

  “Nope, no thanks. Didn’t really come to socialize. Just making sure you arrived safely and that you knew about the meeting tonight—resident’s meeting, that is. You can meet the other folks, see which ones are your neighbours and the like. Ask any questions you want about the park.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Gary. “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock down in the meeting hall. Just keep to your right,” he drew a semi-circle in the air, “and you’ll wind you’re way around to it. You could walk from here. Ain’t far.”

  Marg had stepped out onto the deck and heard the conversation. “Is there an Avon rep in the park already?”

  Harold looked up at her. “Don’t know, dear. You can check that out with the women at the meeting.” He limped back to his cart and turned around in the driveway.

  “What the hell is a resident’s meeting?” asked Gary when Harold was gone. “Probably gonna lay down a bunch of fuckin rules we better not be breakin, or some shit like that.”

  “Probably,” Marg said.

  Gary grit his teeth. “Get me another beer.”

  Marg appeared with another cold one for Gary, her purse slung over her shoulder. “I have to go get a load of groceries so I can make you something to eat. Will you drive me?”

  “Go yourself,” barked Gary. “Get more beer too. And don’t take too fuckin long.” He raised his voice and pointed a finger at Marg. “I’m starving.”

  “I’ll hurry,” she said and winced as she passed him.

  GARY CHUGGED THE last of his beer as he watched his pickup roll out the gate. The F-10 needed a wash. He’d get Marg on that later. The door opened three trailers down on the opposite side of the road and a blonde honey in cut-off shorts and a red tank came outside. He watched her walk behind the trailer to her garden shed, pull out a lawnmower and try to start it. She pulled the cord five or six times, then removed the gas cap and looked in the tank. She screwed the top on and gave it another three cranks before she kicked it, and headed back to her trailer.

  Before she reached the front steps, Gary had ambled across the road and intercepted her. He showed her his best neighborly grin, “Need help with the mower?”

  She looked up, saw him standing at the edge of her lawn and smiled. “I’m not mechanical.” She giggled and Gary took it as an invitation.

  She walked back towards the shed. “I’m Melba.”

  Gary followed her. “Like the toast?”

  She giggled again. “My friends call me Mel.”

  I’ll be your friend. A very close friend.

  “Are you the new guy?”

  “Yep. Gary.” He knelt on the grass beside the old gas mower and fiddled with the choke. “Any oil?”

  This mower had probably never been fuckin serviced. People think motors run forever with no care. You have to give every motor some love to make them purr.

  “Oil and gas are in
the shed. Randy usually cuts the grass, but he took off fishing with friends.”

  Gary looked up at her and saw she had blue eyes. “That your husband?”

  “My son.” She smiled. “He’s seventeen.”

  “You don’t look old enough.”

  Melba sighed. “Thanks, but I am.”

  Gary kept probing as they found the oil can on a shelf in the shed. “No husband?”

  “Nope. Better off without one. I do okay on my own.”

  “Uh huh.” Gary bent over, added the oil and held the gas down for a few seconds. He stood up and pulled the cord. The engine coughed a couple of times then started with a roar. “There you go.”

  “Thanks, Gary. I owe you a beer,” she yelled over the noise of the mower. When she smiled, he noticed her teeth were a bit crooked, but overall, she wasn’t bad. Cute face and long ponytail. Good legs. Not enough up top but you can’t have everything.

  “Later,” he said, feeling he’d made a conquest. He swaggered back to his new digs.

  ARTHUR LYONS PEEKED from behind dingy brown curtains in his living room as the newest park resident strode across the narrow gravel road and headed back to his own trailer. The new guy had sashayed over without being asked and started Mel’s lawnmower for her. That pissed Arthur off in a major way. He was the handyman for the park and that was his job. He had lived in the park for the past twenty years, and for twenty years he had been the handyman. It wasn’t official, of course, but everybody knew he was the one to call if they needed help with a clogged drain, a door that didn’t close properly or a roof that leaked—or a lawnmower that wouldn’t start. Mel called more than most—and, why wouldn’t she? She lived right next door and was grateful that Arthur enjoyed looking out for her and her boy.

  Arthur smiled as he remembered the day Mel baked him a pie and brought it over while it was still warm from the oven. He closed his eyes tight and thought he could feel the warm gooey sensation of the sweet cherry filling in his mouth.