The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  “The fucker hit me, Miss Qwai. He hit me and provoked me. And he impugned you.”

  “What would you have done if a ten-year-old retarded child had slapped your precious head? You would’ve ignored him, yes? Or called the manager or walked away?”

  Evers pointed at Pauletta. There was a scratch on his arm, and his head ached. “This man is not a ten-year-old, pitiful dullard.”

  “Oh yes he is, more or less.”

  “That’s idiotic.”

  “It is? Did you hear the two of you? ‘Leave.’ ‘No, you leave.’ ‘Make me.’ ‘Hit me first.’ ‘I dare you.’ Jesus. You two sounded like you were in a sandbox. You simply demeaned yourself. Would you argue with a pet? Put yourself on the same level as a dog?”

  “Don’t you have any pride at all?”

  “Pride shouldn’t be confused with passion,” she answered. “What would you have given up by ignoring that hillbilly? Tell me that?”

  “Drop dead. I defend you, and you ally yourself with those assholes. Fine. Great.”

  “You scuffled because that man struck you, not because of any commitment to me or to principle.” She was twisting a ring on her middle finger.

  “He wouldn’t have hit me if I hadn’t been with you. That’s de facto commitment, okay?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You’ll probably tell the cops it was my fault.” Evers was still shaking.

  “Legally it wasn’t.”

  “You have no character. None whatsoever.” He raised his voice.

  The men in hats and the woman with the fur-ringed boots had refused to sit down, and one of the men had pushed the Italian in a suit. They were still cursing and fidgeting when the police arrived. There were two officers, and they talked to the men in aprons. The policemen had their backs turned toward Evers; the men in aprons were gesturing. One policeman took his hat off. After some discussion, the police turned and started to Evers’ table. Only then did he notice that one of the officers was black. Evers looked at Pauletta, and he smiled. Then she smiled. “Go figure,” she said.

  The black policeman introduced himself and took out a pad. “Do you want to file a complaint?” he said to Evers.

  “No, he doesn’t,” answered Pauletta.

  “I certainly would,” said the policeman, a young man with an immaculate, pressed uniform and polished leather belt and holster. “I would if I was in your shoes.”

  “That’s all right,” Evers said. “I’m not too concerned about what happened to me. I would like to see that the owner is compensated for the damage, though.”

  “You don’t have to pay, sir,” the policeman said.

  “I agree. That’s not what I meant. Why don’t you arrest them for drunk in public or destruction of private property or something? That way they’ll have to pay for the damage they’ve caused, and I won’t have to fool with driving up here for an assault-and-battery trial.”

  “I don’t see why you won’t file a complaint. The man hit you, sir, with no right.”

  “I’d rather not bother.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.” The policeman handed him a card and joined his partner, who was arguing with the rednecks, trying to persuade the ringleader to walk to the squad car without another fracas.

  After Pauletta and Evers left the restaurant, they walked through the parking lot and she asked why he didn’t file charges.

  “I couldn’t,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I just don’t feel like another battle right now. But I didn’t elect not to prosecute the assholes because I agree with you.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t, and that’s sad.”

  “No it’s not. Not really. Old women who work in fast-food restaurants are sad. Somebody’s mother or grandmother in one of those polyester uniforms, serving burgers and chicken. Think about that.”

  “You’re not that compassionate.”

  “Yes I am.” Evers put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve had all of these fights recently. None of them have turned out too well, even though I’ve done my best. I’m worn out, Miss Qwai. Fucking worn out.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I think we should get high and go to an automatic car wash, a drive-through, one of those with the big, whirling blue brushes. Are there any of those around here?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Moderately.”

  They decided instead to go to Pauletta’s house. Evers followed along behind her in the Datsun, touching the side of his face every few miles to see if it was swelling. Near the end of a long, two-lane straight, a raccoon darted in front of his car, caused him to swerve and bounce off the highway onto the shoulder, and he heard the tires change rhythm and gravel rattling in the wheel wells.

  “You are unbelievably pigheaded,” Pauletta said the moment Evers stepped into her living room, where she was sitting on the couch.

  “I try to be agreeable. I really do,” he replied.

  “You’re the most unyielding, unbending individual I know. Selfish, too.”

  “Just think, Miss Qwai. If men were a little more flexible, we’d have no need for women.”

  “With that attitude, you have no need for women now. Little wonder your wife didn’t stay with you.”

  “It depends, O chocolate sage, on what you want.” He was still standing near the doorway.

  “I’m never too sure about what you want, but I know what you deserve.” Pauletta was looking him in the eye, but he couldn’t judge her mood.

  “You are my woman, Bess. Don’t forget it.”

  She smiled. “I noticed something in the parking lot—you need to bend your knees when you walk. You look like an old, stiff claymation figure.” She got up and poured some scotch into a wineglass, then handed it to Evers. “Maybe this will loosen you up a little, get you out of that really hip robot stroll you’ve got.”

  He took the drink and sat down on the sofa, lowered himself in little mechanical jerks and lurches. “Danger! Danger, Will Robinson.” He kept his arms stiff and extended, his whole hand wrapped around the glass.

  “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of that sissy gold thing in Star Wars.”

  Evers relaxed and took a sip of scotch. “Don’t you have a more suitable glass?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t.” Pauletta didn’t sit down. She pulled her hair back and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “You’re not drinking,” Evers pointed out.

  “I suddenly don’t feel too good. I don’t know if it’s the food or your conduct.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My head … I think I may have a fever. And my stomach’s upset.”

  “I’ll bet you’re pregnant.”

  “Maybe you’re the father.”

  “Why don’t you take something?” Evers asked.

  “I think I’ll get some water. Some ice water.” Pauletta went into the kitchen. Evers heard the refrigerator door open and the tap running, then she came back into the living room.

  “Another fine goblet. Did you get that one out of a box of detergent or with a ten-dollar purchase at Burger King?”

  “What is it with you and glasses?”

  “It just seems so out of character. You have nice clothes, expensive furniture, a beautiful leather briefcase in your car, all grades of first editions on your shelves, a laser disc collection, a frigging stuffed peacock and not a single decent glass.”

  “This one’s a jelly jar.”

  “Charming.”

  “Look. Couldn’t we do this some other evening? I feel terrible. I really need to lie down.”

  “Come on. I drove all the way up here. And you just handed me a drink. At least you can talk to me for a few minutes.”

  “Couldn’t you be a little more gracious?”

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “I’m going to lie down. Come in the bedroom, then.” Pauletta went into her bedroom, got in bed and pulled the covers up to her waist. She left he
r clothes on, and her jewelry. “I feel awful.”

  “You do look sort of sick.”

  “Were the situation reversed, were you sick, and had you asked me to leave, I would have. You’re like an oil spill, Judge Wheeling—unwanted and persistent.”

  “Actually, it’s been a pretty long night. I’m burned out, too. You’re probably right. I think I’ll go ride around in the city and eat doughnuts. Next trip up, though, maybe I can stay here instead of the hotel. I think I’m losing ground. I stayed here the first night we went out, had sex soon after, and now I’m meandering through the wall of hills counting the number of lit windows in bank buildings.”

  “So you’re leaving, right?”

  “Yes. And no matter how much you plead, I’ve decided not to have sex with you.”

  Pauletta laughed a little. “Go away.”

  “I’ll see you,” Evers said.

  “Okay.”

  “Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “All right, then.”

  “You really think it’s the height of niggerdom that I don’t have a certain kind of glasses, don’t you?” Pauletta said from her bedroom when Evers was walking into the den.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.” Evers started back to the bedroom door.

  “Good.”

  He stopped before he got to the room. “Do you think you might be inclined sometime to tell me what you guys got out of our trip to Salt Lake? This isn’t the first time I’ve asked. I’m not a bad person, not greedy, not trying to meddle. I’d just like to know.”

  “Perhaps. Maybe I will sometime.”

  “So why not now?”

  Pauletta sat up in bed. “It’s a confusing story, and I feel bad.”

  “It’s not all that epic, is it? Can’t you just tell me?”

  Pauletta was quiet.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” Evers inched closer and leaned against the door frame. “Haven’t I paid my dues? I constantly look over my shoulder, worrying about Lester Jackson, Warren Dillon, my job, prison and Artis. And, to make things even worse, there’s always this undercurrent, you and Ruth Esther never missing a chance to be tight-lipped and inscrutable.”

  Pauletta looked up at Evers. “I got close to two million dollars; that’s what I got.”

  “You what?”

  “I got two million dollars.”

  “For what? How? There wasn’t that much money. There wasn’t, not there in the box, no way.” Evers jumped and rambled over his own words. “Did Ruth Esther pay you? She gave you that kind of money?” He kept talking, excited. He took a step into the room. “There was something else, right? You guys went somewhere else. Where? Shit. I mean, that’s fine, I’m glad you got the money. I don’t want it or anything. Good for you. I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell me, though.”

  Pauletta waited for him to quiet down. “I’d like to know something from you now.”

  “From me?” Evers asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  Pauletta had stopped looking at Evers. She was rubbing the top of her sheet between her thumb and second finger. “What did the letter say? The letter in the box?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Evers wondered.

  “Why do you want to know what I was paid for the trip?”

  “I just glanced at it, at the letter. I skimmed it. As you may recall, everyone—yourself included—was scolding me for being such a ham-fisted knave. Remember? It was pretty ordinary, though, the parts I read. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m fine.’ Pleasantries, something about a car. It was hard to read … the script was so elaborate and Artis the half-wit donkey boy was kicking and screaming.”

  “Who was it written to?” Pauletta asked.

  “To Ruth Esther.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Well, it began ‘Dear Ruth.’”

  “Anything else you remember?”

  “Like I said, there was some mention of a car, and a thank-you for something, ‘enjoyed our time together, I have a lot of affection for you, good luck.’ What I saw, it was just, you know, a letter, not a map or some … I don’t know … valuable document.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “How would I know? I assumed it was her father.” Evers spread his hands out in front of him. “It’s more than a little hypocritical for you to quiz me about the letter, isn’t it? After you yelled at me and berated me for opening it?”

  “Did you see the signature, who signed it?” Pauletta had sat all the way up; her back was straight, and her hands were in her lap, her legs crossed at the knees.

  “That I do recall. William—that was the name. William. It sticks in my mind because I remember thinking that Artis had such an uncommon name, and ‘Ruth Esther’ is sort of rare, and I wondered about their father.”

  “I don’t think Ruth Esther’s father is named William.”

  Evers nodded several times. “I saw the name John—John English—on the book at the bank, the ledger for the bank box, but I figured that it could’ve been a scam or an alias or something.”

  “Actually, I think her father’s name is John,” Pauletta said. “I wonder who William is. Did you see the surname on the letter, Judge Wheeling?”

  Evers tilted his head back, closed his eyes. “There wasn’t one. Just William.” Evers walked all the way into the bedroom and sat down on the corner of the bed. “So what’s the deal with the letter? Lester mentioned it, too, remember?”

  “That I don’t know.” Pauletta’s perfect speech was slower than usual. She paused after each word, and her voice got fainter as she came to the end of the sentence; when she stopped, it was almost all whisper and air.

  “Was there something I missed? The little bit I saw read like casual correspondence, just, you know, a cordial letter. Of course the writing was hard as hell to read, very elaborate. There was nothing else in the envelope, nothing in the letter. Maybe it was in code or something. Or more clues. Is that what you think?”

  “I truly don’t know,” Pauletta said. “I thought maybe that you could shed some light on things.”

  “Sorry.”

  She handed Evers her glass. “Would you get me some more water? With lots of ice, please. And let the spigot run for a moment so the water will be cold.”

  Evers took the glass out of Pauletta’s hand. “So tell me what you got, how you got all this money.”

  Pauletta smiled. “You probably won’t believe me.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see.”

  “I got the envelope,” Pauletta said.

  “The envelope?”

  “Right.” She smiled again and kicked Evers from underneath the covers. “Would you go get my water, please?”

  “In a minute. So what’s the deal with the envelope?”

  “Did you notice, Judge Wheeling, that it was old?”

  “I did. It was fairly yellow. It did seem old. I noticed that. I figured it had been in the bank for a while, but it seemed older than four or five years. And the calligraphy, the rococo writing was old-fashioned. It flashed through my mind that it was a keepsake or some family missive, an heirloom or something—and that’s what Ruth Esther said, too.”

  “It was written in 1918.”

  “In 1918?” Evers scratched his head. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. At least that’s when the envelope was originally sent. It’s possible that the letter you saw didn’t go with the envelope. I don’t know.”

  “Did someone noteworthy—”

  “The stamps, Judge. I got the envelope and the stamps.”

  “And they’re worth two million dollars?”

  “Thereabouts. Do you know anything about stamps and stamp collecting?”

  “No. Beyond James Dean and Elvis and a few other postal flimflams, no. Do you?”

  “I collect them,” Pauletta said.

  “And these stamps are worth two million dollars?” Evers was having difficulty believing what he w
as hearing.

  “The envelope had six twenty-four-cent stamps on it. I’m not sure why there were six, although I’m guessing that there was something besides the letter in the envelope when it was mailed. And some people are overly careful and use extra postage; that could explain it. The six stamps all have an upside-down airplane on them. The plane is a Curtiss ‘Jenny’ biplane. They’re known as ‘inverted Jennies.’ Are you following this?” She poked Evers with her foot again.

  “So far.”

  “The stamps, obviously, contain a printing error. They were issued in May of 1918. It’s generally agreed that four hundred were printed, but until I found these six, only a hundred were known to exist. Most collectors assume that the postal service caught the error and destroyed the remaining stamps. The ‘Jenny’ stamps are the most valuable stamps in existence.”

  “I noticed them when we were in Utah, and the address. New York. Addressed to Ruth Esther. To tell the truth, that’s what made me curious. I wasn’t sure why the letter would have stamps if her father had just left it for her. It—the letter, I mean—was sort of out of place. That’s why I got it out of the envelope and looked at it.”

  “Well, each of these biplane stamps is worth a minimum of a quarter-million. Probably more, since they’re all together and in fine condition. And it will be a novelty—their sudden appearance after all these years.”

  “People pay that much for a stamp?”

  “People are willing to pay much more for Jackie O’s trifles, bad paintings and the carcass of the Elephant Man. People pay for all sorts of things, Judge Wheeling, from oral sex to quarter horses and pieces of meteorites.”

  “Are the stamps real?”

  “Yeah, they are. I’ve had them insured and called Sotheby’s. They’re doing some appraisals and word of mouth, and they’re having a large stamp sale in about two months. These will be the headliners.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it.” Pauletta relaxed her back and shoulders.

  “Pascal and I got a trip, you got close to two million dollars, Artis and Dillon got a hundred grand … well, Dillon did. What did Ruth Esther get? The letter?”

  “That’s it. She wanted the letter.”

  “If it was written in 1918, how could it be to her? Her name was on the envelope, I’m fairly … certain about that. I think that’s right. I know I saw the name ‘Ruth.’”