The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t. I don’t mean that harshly. I think this whole thing is connected in a fantastic way, and that you’ve delivered me from a lot of hand-wringing and funk and indifference.” Evers raised up. “How many judges would’ve been so restless and unhappy that they would have gotten involved in a scheme like this? And there’s so much more. Our buddy Warren Dillon gets shot, the shrine comes alive at the creek one day. And you try to tell me that this is all just spilled out, coincidence piggybacking on good fortune. Shit. And you’re saying, you’re telling me, that you went through all this and gave up thousands of dollars for a letter with sentimental value. That’s a crazy, patchwork, unbelievable tale—”

  “As opposed to your more compelling explanation, Judge Wheeling, that Ruth Esther is over a hundred years old and has supernatural powers.” Pauletta grinned at Ruth Esther, and Ruth Esther giggled. “And I didn’t see a thing when we were all sitting out there in the woods in the pouring rain. Nothing came alive for me.”

  “Well, I sure don’t know anything about a creek,” Ruth Esther said. A little of the giggle made its way into her words.

  “I’m convinced. You two can laugh all you want, but I’m convinced.”

  “Judge Wheeling has a convert’s zeal, I’m afraid, Ruth Esther. The same world looks brand-new to him today.”

  Evers wasn’t through. “You gave up these stamps, all of this money, gave millions to Pauletta, just to get a letter you want for your scrap-book? Why give her anything more than her hourly rate? Tell me that. And what about the lottery and the car and Jo Miller and the white, smiling tears?”

  Ruth Esther was wearing a white blouse and pants one or two shades darker. “I don’t know about the lottery; it’s just luck, isn’t it? And the car, didn’t someone’s will leave it to Rudy? I’m not sure what that—or your wife—has to do with anything. And Pauletta is my lawyer and friend. She risked a lot, her job and everything, talkin’ to you and making offers to you and going with us. Her job was at stake. And it’s possible that we might never have found the stamps, and then she would have been in pretty bad shape—a lot of time for nothing. It could have been good for her, could’ve been bad. Turns out it was good.”

  “Whatever. Tell me about the white shrine. You didn’t mention that. Explain that,” Evers demanded. “You just happened to dive into a bathroom stall when I’m there and leave this incredible, white curiosity. That had to be planned. The albino smile was the come-on, a little taste of opium to whet my appetite.”

  “Well, it’s an eye disorder, just the way I am. And I was pretty crazy I guess, when I first met you, chasin’ you into a bathroom. I’m embarrassed about all that now. I almost wish I hadn’t done it. You as much as made me give them to you, remember? You came down to the dealership and said you didn’t trust me.”

  “I simply don’t believe that you would give up millions for no reason. That’s why I’m convinced I’m right. Every explanation you two have is just terrible. I know what I know; I know what makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry I’m no more help,” Ruth Esther said. “But I’m flattered that you are sayin’ such nice things about me.” She walked out from behind her desk and stood beside Evers. “If you’re feeling better, I’m glad that I helped. And you’re right about Mr. Bryan; I think it’s pretty neat and all that he’s in my background, that he wrote the letter. I guess you pretty much know that he ran for president and was in the monkey trial and was an important religious figure. He was a big deal in his day. That much of what you’re saying is right.”

  “I don’t imagine there’s any reason to sit here and debate this all day.” Evers shrugged. “I’m not going to say anything else about it. Well, one more thing. I thought of this on the ride over here. Why, after you went into Lester’s, would you not get your letter back immediately? That’s why the three of you broke in to begin with, to get your letter. The money was probably an afterthought or just punishment for Lester. You and your father didn’t break in that store to get cash. No way. But then John English doesn’t give you your letter, doesn’t give you what you really came for, but hides it with the money. Even though he has it right there, and it has nothing to do with him or Artis. That was odd, and it sets up this whole thing, sends you on this headlong dash to get your letter back. Like a rock in a lake, all these ripples come out of that, something that happened years ago and made no sense at the time.”

  “I’ve never even thought about that. I sorta see your point. But the reason my father put the letter with the money is to make sure I didn’t just forget about the money and Artis. He wanted to make sure I looked after Artis when he was in jail and then would take him to where the clues said. I don’t think I would’ve looked for the money unless my letter was with it, and if I hadn’t looked for it, Artis would never have found it. Of course, I don’t guess our father figured that Artis would screw himself out of the money. And, it made us stay, you know, in touch.”

  “Well, like I said, I’m not going to argue with you two anymore. But I knew from the beginning—hell, I told Pascal and Henry and Rudy—that this whole thing didn’t make sense if you just look at it in ordinary terms.”

  “It makes sense to me, Judge Wheeling, but what do I know.” Pauletta picked up Evers’ apple from the desk and took a bite.

  The three of them talked a little while longer, mostly about Pascal, then Ruth Esther hugged Pauletta and Evers, told them to come back anytime, and that she wanted to ride with them one afternoon to visit Pascal. Maybe in a week or two. She stood in the doorway to her office, and Evers and Pauletta started out across the showroom floor, past a long silver car, and Pauletta touched Evers’ shoulder and slowed down. Men and women and children were everywhere, looking at price stickers and opening hoods and moving around, and two girls were making hot dogs and pouring soft drinks. A man with a large TV camera was filming the crowd and the cars, walking along with another man. The second man had on shorts and tennis shoes and was carrying a bright light on a skinny metal pole.

  “So, listen. Tell me this: If Ruth Esther’s magical or an angel or the deputy prime minister for the heavens, then why wouldn’t she tell you? Why wouldn’t she just get on with it, since you’ve been converted and figured all this out? That doesn’t make any sense, her disclaiming all of her work and good deeds. Have you thought about that?”

  Evers stopped walking. Three children with helium balloons ran past him, the last child bumping Evers’ leg when he passed. “That’s the most critical part, Pauletta. The linchpin. I have faith, you see. You have to take a little step, a little jump, trust a little. Faith. And that’s what I was missing, why everything was a broken-down, soupy, nasty morass for me. A little bit of belief, that’s what I needed. You can’t imagine how good I feel. Just like that. When I figured this out, I just … just … can’t explain it. Just like that—I feel so much better.” He looked past Pauletta. There was a live elephant out in the parking lot. Two kids were on the beast’s back, sitting on a colorful blanket. There was a line of people waiting to take a ride, children and adults, most of them with cameras. The elephant was led around in a circle by two handlers, and the kids on its back held on with both hands. “Check that out,” Evers said, pointing out the window. “That’s what was in the truck.”

  “Couldn’t you believe in gravity or the Red Cross or air-traffic controllers, something a little less bizarre? Or, if you need something religious, how about the pope? He’s better documented, more popular, and the faith requirement would seem to me to be a little less demanding. Or Billy Graham. He seems like a kind, devout gentlemen. You’re sort of at the Jim-Jones-levitation-and-chants end of the spectrum.”

  “It’s not like I just made all this up, Pauletta, or that I’m a fool. Think about it.”

  “I have.”

  “Do you want to get in line, ride the elephant? El Elephanto.” Evers started walking again. “Imagine getting on that thing if you were stoned.”

  “No. Stoned or other
wise.”

  “How come?”

  “Why would I want to ride an elephant?”

  At the door leading outside, Evers reached in front of Pauletta and took hold of the handle. She hesitated and caused Evers to jam into her shoulder and side.

  “Does that offend you,” he asked, “civility and old-school courtesy? Is there something in the black feminist code that condemns door opening? Too contrived, too condescending, too full of alpha-male symbolism?”

  “Not at all. I’m just unaccustomed to it. Respect and courtesy and kindness—even if just for an instant—all play well with me.”

  She walked through the door, and Evers saw the elephant turn a corner in its ring, saw its eye the size of a fist and its trunk dangling off its face, limp and wrinkled, pink at the very end. Evers followed Pauletta out the door and suddenly heard thunder—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—and light poured into his eyes, white glare that popped open his pupils and sent them reeling. Ruth Esther’s name came out of the sky, deep and electric, out of the ceiling and sky, more behind him than in front, and through a lot of white, dilated blindness, he saw some colors, sparks and streaks, red flares in the sky, and he heard the elephant bellow, saw its trunk hooked and rolled in the air. BOOM! Again, BOOM BOOM BOOM! Evers felt the pavement vibrate under his feet. He saw more color in the sky and began to get used to the brightness in his face.

  He looked back over his shoulder into the showroom, located Ruth Esther, and she started to fade in and out, a fifties jungle-radio transmission, flickering paler and whiter, mixed and flecked with shimmers, coming and going, in and out, steam from a stove pot, and then she was returned, solid and apparent, one more person among all the cars and food and tacky decorations. She began walking toward him.

  Evers recognized the camera in his face and the brightness retracted into a square, into the light on the tall pole, and a man in a suit was shaking Evers’ hand. BOOM! Sparkles and bright showers were in the air—fireworks—and the elephant had stopped in the lot. Evers rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands; the light was causing them to water and sting. Then Ruth Esther was standing beside him, and Pauletta in front, beside the cameraman. He heard Ruth Esther’s name called out on the paging system again.

  “Congratulations! Congratulations,” said the man shaking Evers’ hand. People began to close in and started clapping.

  “What?” Evers said. BOOM! More fireworks exploded above his head. The man dropped Evers’ hand and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. He looked at the camera and put his arm around Evers’ neck.

  “I’m Cannady Vaughn, owner of Vaughn Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu, and you are the one millionth person to step through our dealership doors. We started with my daddy in 1946, and we’ve been the longest continuously open Ford dealership in the tristate region. We’re proud of that.”

  At least a hundred people had surrounded the door and were listening to Cannady Vaughn. The crowd was chewing gum, eating hot dogs, holding babies, and clutching giveaway hats and plastic ice scrapers.

  “Good. Great,” said Evers. He reached behind Cannady Vaughn’s back and touched Ruth Esther, pushed on her arm with his open hand. He wanted to make sure that she was solid, cloth and flesh and bone.

  “Have you followed our promotion on K98, our Door-to-Door Sweepstakes?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “What’s your name, sir?” Cannady Vaughn asked.

  “Evers Wheeling.”

  “Where are you from, Evers, around here or out of town?”

  “Norton. I live in Norton.” Evers’ eyes had adjusted to the camera light. People in the crowd were beginning to move around, and the elephant and its handlers were getting ready to start circling the lot again; two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were at the front of the line, ready to ride.

  “What brings you to Vaughn Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu?” Cannady Vaughn was smiling and his head was slanted; he looked right into the camera after he spoke to Evers. Evers guessed that he did his own commercials, local TV spots that had too much backlight and showed him standing in the middle of his car lot, ending with a finger snap or goofy gesture and a tired tag line.

  “Why am I here?” Evers repeated.

  “Exactly.”

  Pauletta started laughing.

  “I … uh … well, I came to look at a truck. Black full-size.” Evers hesitated. “I drove it a few months ago, took a test drive.” He began to pick up steam, turned toward the camera. “Looked all over Virginia and the Carolinas, and I couldn’t find a better truck at a better price. So I came back here today. Came back to Vaughn Motors. And I had a great saleswoman. I really appreciated the way I was treated. Ruth Esther English. She’s a real professional.”

  “Well there you have it. People are gonna think we set this up, Evers.” Vaughn winked at him, then smiled at the camera. “Of course if we weren’t on the level, we would’ve waited till dark to let off those fireworks. They were still somethin’ though, right? They showed up real good I thought.”

  “I didn’t have any trouble finding them.” Evers gave everyone a stagy smile. “Is this live? Are we on TV or something?”

  “No. We’ll use this for our fall commercials.”

  “Oh.”

  “So let me tell you about our Door-to-Door giveaway, Mr. Evers.”

  Pauletta snickered and made a face at Evers.

  “One million people have walked through the doors of Vaughn Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu,” Cannady Vaughn began, “and we see each one as a special client, an old friend and a buyer with individual needs. We want everyone to leave here feeling well treated by courteous, experienced salespeople and a great service department with state-of-the-art equipment and technology.”

  Cannady Vaughn rattled on and Evers leaned back toward Ruth Esther, talked over his shoulder through the corner of his mouth. “I don’t see how you sell anything. This blowhard fool would scare away any rational buyers.”

  “People like Cannady,” Ruth Esther whispered. “He’s actually real honest. Sometimes he’s just a little too hyper.”

  Evers leaned further back. “Hyper? That’s a little understated, isn’t it?”

  Finally, Vaughn was getting to the payoff. “So, Mr. Evers Wheeling, of Norton, North Carolina, we plan to take you from this door to the door of any vehicle on our lot, and that car will be yours. Door to door. You pick the vehicle, we give you the title.”

  “I won a car?”

  “Correct. Any car on our lot. Plus a trip to Cancun and five hundred cash dollars to spend while you’re there, courtesy of Vaughn Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu.”

  “Wow.” Evers grinned. “Thank you. That’s hard to beat.”

  “Are you still interested in that truck?” Cannady Vaughn asked.

  Evers ducked his head and smiled at him, a slick, over-the-top smile. “I think I’ll take a look at one of the Lincolns now that my budget has changed.” The crowd laughed, and Cannady Vaughn slapped Evers on the back. BOOM! More fireworks, and the cameraman swung around to take in the people and elephant and explosions in the sky. Evers stepped back and put his mouth beside Ruth Esther’s ear, felt a few soft strands of her hair when he turned his cheek to talk. “Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I don’t guess you’re going to confirm my suspicions, are you? Suddenly confess? Tell me the truth?”

  Ruth Esther turned away from Evers, changed positions so that she was close to his face, her hand on the round part of his shoulder. “I’ve told you all I can tell you,” she said, and when she stepped back, Evers was sure that he saw a sly cut in her eyes and a winking, ephemeral smile.

  BOOM! BOOM! The crowd began to scatter, and Evers tried to locate Cannady Vaughn and Pauletta. People were milling around and winding through the cars and trucks like ants in red-powder dirt. “What a treat,” he said. “What a treat.”

>   Prisons, all of them, have the same smell, especially right before or right after a meal—grease, cabbage, disinfectant, perspiration and cigarette smoke, a dank caldron of odors that don’t belong together and catch in your nose and throat as soon as you walk through the gate. Pauletta had discovered, about a year after starting her job in Charleston, that all corrections officers, even those with lopsided mustaches and heavy bellies, try to avoid the smell of boiled food and prison fog by wearing a lot of cheap cologne—Old Spice, Brut or the pungent products from Avon that somebody’s wife peddles from the back of a dusty, stickered-up minivan. The prison where Pascal was being held, in Statesville, North Carolina, was no different. The guard who walked with Pauletta through a metal detector and two sets of cellblock doors smelled like aftershave, hair oil and mouthwash, all the scents of a middle-aged alcoholic without the undercurrent of whiskey; the matron who patted Pauletta on her arms, legs and trunk was wearing some sort of drugstore perfume, an unrepentant mix of flowers and hammers. The two guards in their ill-fitting uniforms were tiny, filtered breaks in five acres of low-grade stench.