by Mary Hogan
“I mean your trailer is on Valhalla Drive.”
“We don’t have a trailer,” I said.
“It’s not ready yet?” asked Charlotte. “Your granny has been driving the construction workers crazy.”
I started to feel sick. Please, God, let heatstroke distort your hearing. And, if it does, please, God, let me have heatstroke.
“Mobile home, Charlotte,” Mim said. “You don’t want this sweet young girl thinking she’s moving into a trailer.”
Now, I began to feel faint. Juan continued to snore blissfully.
Mim asked me, “Did your grandmother tell you about the big party?”
My inner ping-pong game was suddenly an Olympic event in my head with slam serves and killer volleys.
“The whole trailer park is invited to your trailer warming. Mim is bringing her famous baked beans, I’m making cake—”
In a blur of sound waves, I lurched forward and snatched Juan Dog from the folds of Mim’s neck. Startled, he woke up and shook his head. Together, we bolted for the gate, Juan’s huge ears flapping.
“No running around the pool!” Charlotte shouted. “Sunset Park rules!”
FOURTEEN
“How could you?!” I burst through Nana’s trailer door.
Mom’s head snapped up, a half-eaten noodle whipping her face.
“There you are!” Nana said. “Your lunch is still warm, Libby. Would you like milk? A soda of some kind?”
“Were you ever going to tell us? Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” I practically spat the question at my mother.
“Libby, Nana made wild pig spaghetti! From scratch.” Elated, Dirk dragged a piece of warm garlic bread through the sauce at the bottom of his pasta bowl.
“Wild boar fettuccini,” Nana corrected him, “with truffle oil.”
“You’re not going to want to eat when I tell you what’s going on,” I said to my brothers. “We’re moving here. Into this trailer park! Not a house. A trailer.”
“Mobile home,” Dirk said, then he gazed lovingly at his grandmother. Nana smiled and stroked his head. Then she glanced at Mom, but Mom just stared at her fork and licked wild boar off her lips.
“You’re wrong, Libby,” Rif said calmly.
“I’m not wrong!” I exploded. “Am I, Mom?”
My mother gulped. Juan Dog bounded out of my arms and sat, shaking, at my mother’s feet, hoping for a spill.
“Not all mobile homes are big kitchens, you know,” Nana said gently.
“I can’t live in a trailer park!” I cried. “Only losers live in trailer parks! Our house in Chatsworth was bad enough! Who ever dreamed we could sink lower than that?”
It was hurtful to my grandmother, I knew. But I was too upset to care. Did she care that my parents had ruined my life?
“No,” said Rif. “You’re wrong about me not wanting to eat. This food rocks. No matter where we live.”
All I could do was stare. What was wrong with these people? Was everyone in my family completely around the bend?
Mom finally chose to speak. “Eat something, Libby. You’ll feel better.”
My body nearly levitated off the floor, I was so angry. “That’s your solution to the end of my life? Eat a wild pig?”
“Boar,” Mom said quietly.
What could I say? I was, literally, speechless. I felt like howling. How could this be happening? I’d never have a boyfriend now! My serious kiss was seriously gone – lost among the septic tanks and Astro Turf lawns.
Too upset to formulate actual words, I stamped my foot, crossed my arms in front of my chest, tried to mentally block the amazing aroma from entering my nose, and shot Mom a death stare.
“I have a fabulous idea!” Nana clapped her hands together. Her rings sounded like a pocket full of change. “Let’s not wait for Lance. Let’s look at your new home right now.”
Dirk squealed. “Will I have my own room?”
“Absolutely! You each have your own room.”
Good, I thought. I can’t wait to lock myself in mine.
“Come.” Nana held her hand out to me. Dirk reached up and slipped his grubby hand into hers.
“I like it here,” he said, beaming up at her.
“You’ll all love it here, just as I do. Follow me.”
Love living in a trailer park? Never. No way. Not ever. No matter how much I was dying to taste wild boar.
Everybody scraped their chairs back and stood. But instead of leaving out the front door, Nana led us to the back of her trailer. We wound around her dining room table and snaked past her toilet armoire.
Lagging behind the others, Rif said to me, “Don’t you know that it doesn’t matter where you live? Life sucks everywhere.”
Finally, someone in my family made sense.
Just beyond Nana’s back door, there was a tiny backyard, with one chair and a round red Weber barbecue. The heat instantly calmed me. I felt less like exploding, more like pulling a sheet over my head and willing myself into a coma.
“This is where I sunbathe,” Nana said.
What a hideous view for her poor neighbours, I thought.
It was still dead quiet except for the humming air conditioners. A low, chain-link fence with a tiny, swinging gate separated two trailer lots. Nana held the gate open for us and shuffled us through.
“Should we be trespassing through someone else’s backyard?” Mom asked.
“You’re not trespassing, Dot,” Nana said. “You’re home.”
“Home?”
“Home?”
“Home?! ” An echo passed through our family. Dirk’s jaw hung open as he grinned; Juan stepped aside to avoid the inevitable splat of drool. I felt my whole body melt into the ground. My mother looked dumbfounded. Clearly, she was shocked to hear that we would be living right behind my father’s mother. I mean, if you shouted out the rear window of Nana’s mobile home, you’d hear it clear as day at our place. Nana’s suntanning sessions would now be our scenery. Suddenly, I found my voice.
“Eat something, Mom,” I said sarcastically. “You’ll feel better.”
Mom didn’t even snarl at me; she was too dazed.
“C’mon inside!” Nana was positively glowing. “I’ve been running the air-conditioner!”
Inside, Nana swept her arms open like she was Vanna White. “This is the living room,” she sang. “Over there is the bathroom. Full size! A tub, even. The master bedroom is in the back, and, just as I said, you each have your own rooms!” Nana’s eyes were bright white elevator buttons, her smile psychotic.
“Where’s the kitchen?” Mom asked innocently.
“At my place!” My grandmother exploded in glee. “That’s the beauty of it! I gutted the whole trailer and redid it for you! I figured you needed bedrooms more than a kitchen so I got rid of all the appliances. Of course, I bought you a hot plate . ” She pointed to the corner of the living room. “You know, in case you want a cup of tea in the middle of the night. Isn’t it fabulous!? I’ve already called my editor friend at Trailer Life and he’s sending over a photographer as soon as you get settled in. Isn’t it just the most fabulous thing?!”
Again, nobody moved. Beads of sweat appeared on Mom’s upper lip even though the air-conditioner was on full blast. Her face was flushed. Now I felt scared. As soon as Dad finished running his errands (yeah, right), he’d stumble into this new home and discover it had no heart. Not only that, but the woman he’d rather mourn than talk to was only smelling distance away. Dad was going to freak out. Could you bash a hole in a metal wall?
“See, honey?” Nana said to me, wrapping both arms around my shoulders. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”
Her hug smelled of garlic. I stood as stiff as a garden gnome.
“That’s what you think, because you don’t have a clue.”
That’s what I wanted to say. Instead, I said nothing. My stomach was doing cartwheels; the ping-pong match in my head was into overtime. All I kept thinking was, How unfair is it that my lif
e is over when it was just starting to begin?
At that moment, we heard the squeak of Dad’s U-Move brakes as he pulled up to the front door of our brand-new kitchenless mobile home.
“Is that Lance?” Nana asked excitedly, letting go of me.
My heart started doing cartwheels, too. Rif disappeared down the hall and Dirk’s face got all pinched like he was about to cry.
“You’d better go,” Mom said quickly to Nana. “I mean” – she softened her tone – “we should get settled in.”
The truck door slammed as Mom gently prodded Nana toward the back door before Dad came in through the front.
“I haven’t seen my son in so long I don’t even know if I’ll recognise him,” Nana said.
Now Mom draped her arm around Nana’s shoulder. “We need to give him a few minutes to relax before the big family reunion. You know how it is after a long drive.”
Nana obviously didn’t know how it was, but she was too smart to question it. Either that or the fact that my mother was practically shoving her out the back door was enough of a hint. She dutifully made her exit, waved at Dirk and me, and sailed off in a flapping triangle of material, announcing over her shoulder, “Dinner’s at seven sharp. I’m making mulligatawny!”
Mom greeted Dad at the door like she was Donna Reed on speed. “Hi, honey!” she sang. “You made it! Come in! Come in! Come in!”
My brother and I cowered in the corner of our new empty living room. Dad growled, “I got lost.” The moment he’d entered our new pad, we knew he hadn’t been lost at all. His breath smelled sour and yeasty. His glasses were about to fall off his nose completely.
“So this is it?” he asked.
“It certainly is! Look how spacious!” Mom was whacked out. Her hands fluttered midair like they were trying to escape her wrists. I watched them flop, left then right, like some ghoulish tennis match.
“Where’s the woman?” Dad asked.
“She’s invited us for dinner!” Mom squealed. Dad groaned. Now my mother’s hands clapped insanely together. “Don’t worry, we have plenty of time to unpack.”
With that, Mom turned to us and flapped her hands toward the door. I took it to mean that she wanted the caravan from the U-Move to the trailer to begin. It was too surreal to question. Still upset, I yelled down the hall for Rif. He appeared, reeking of smoke, and walked outside to the open U-Move truck. Reluctantly, I followed.
“Libby, grab the other end of the coffee table, would you?”
“Rif, kiss my ass, would you?”
My parents got us into this mess, they could move us into it, too. No way was I lifting a thing. I just stood there, arms crossed in front of my chest.
“Libby!” Mom appeared, looking frantic. Dad was inside. “Forget the table,” she whispered. “Find the coffee and the coffeepot as soon as you can. We’ve got to sober your father up before dinner.”
It took my father about twenty minutes to realise there was no kitchen. The coffeepot percolated in a corner of the living room floor. Mom snatched all the boxes labelled “dishes” or “pots and pans” and quietly stacked them near the hot plate. My brothers and I walked back and forth from the U-Move like robots, waiting for the fuse to blow. It wasn’t until Dad and Rif rolled the refrigerator through the trailer door on a dolly that the fireworks began.
“I’ll take it from here, Dad,” Rif said once they were inside. I admired the effort and wondered where Rif planned to stow the fridge.
Dad said, “You can’t handle this baby yourself.” Then he yanked his baggy old work jeans up at the waist, tilted the dolly unsteadily back, and began to roll. Dirk, my mother, and I just stood there and stared, openmouthed, like three Pez dispensers. Dad stopped, scrunched his eyebrows together, and said, “Hey, wait a minute.”
That’s when Mom decided she had to go to the bathroom. Chicken.
Dad turned to me and asked, “Where the hell is the kitchen?”
“Interesting you should ask,” I said, stalling, waiting for the toilet to flush and Mom to reappear. But the only sound was the fwonk! of the refrigerator as Dad set it back on the ground.
“What the . Dot! Get out here.”
Now I heard the toilet flush.
“Coffee, Dad? I made it fresh.” I pointed to the coffeemaker on the floor, but that just made him madder.
“Now, Dot.”
My mother reappeared in the living room with fresh lipstick and a pained expression. She said, “Yes?” all innocent, like she didn’t know what was about to go down.
“I was wondering, dear, if you could lead the way into the kitchen. It’s so hard to see from behind the refrigerator.” Dad didn’t seem drunk at all now. In fact, he seemed more than sober.
“We all have our own rooms,” Dirk said, extremely close to tears.
Mom took a deep breath. “Don’t get mad, Lot,” she began.
“Mad? Why should I be mad? Has someone stolen our kitchen? Did someone sell it? You were in charge of arranging this whole move. Surely you wouldn’t forget to make sure we had a kitchen, would you? Not when the kitchen is your favourite room in the house.”
Here we go.
Mom bit her lip, tears began to rise in her eyes. “Your mother—” she started.
“My mother? What about my mother? Didn’t I tell you that I would only agree to this move if my mother was a minimal part of our lives? If I rarely had to see her or talk to her or even hear about her? Didn’t I?”
“Yes,” Mom said softly.
“So why am I hearing her name before I’ve even moved into my house?”
Uh-oh. I glanced at the back window. His mother was probably hearing this entire conversation.
“Your mother had the trailer redone,” Mom said quietly.
“Redone?”
“Without a kitchen.”
“What?!”
“Dad, we all have our own rooms!” Dirk burst into tears.
This time Dad shouted, “Then why don’t you all go to your own rooms!”
Like fighter pilots at an air show, we peeled off in unison. Snatching Juan Dog, I chose the bedroom at the far end of the trailer, Dirk ran into the room next to mine, and Rif shut the door of the third bedroom, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke out his small, slide window. I could smell it right away. If Dirk was doing what I was doing, we both had our ears pressed to the door.
“You trusted that woman?!” My father shrieked. “It’s bad enough we had to lower ourselves to move into a trailer my mother bought—”
“Mobile home.”
“Look around, Dot! Do you see any wheels on this thing? They only call them mobile homes so you can fool yourself into thinking you haven’t sunk this low permanently!”
“Keep your voice down, Lot. She’ll hear you.”
“Hear me? Where is she? Hiding in the closet with her broom?”
“Shhhh, Lot. She’s next door.”
“Next door?” My father sounded like his head was about to pop. “My mother is next door ? What kind of dumb-assed, pea-brained, simple-minded, stupid—”
“STOP!” Mom erupted in a bloodcurdling scream.
Even Juan stopped fidgeting. I think the whole trailer park must have halted, perched in mid-sentence waiting to hear what would happen next. My heart pounded out of my chest. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
Mom screamed again, then she got deathly quiet, and Dad didn’t say anything more. The silence in the mobile home was as thick as tapioca.
“You’ve come to the end of the line, Lot.” My mother’s voice scared me. It was as sharp and ragged as a hangnail. “With me, your children, your life as you’ve been living it. The end of the line.”
Dad mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Something indignant. Mom barrelled on through.
“It’s not my fault we’re in this mess. You should be grateful your mother took us in.”
“Grateful? The woman hasn’t spoken to her only son in tw
enty years!”
“Give me a break! You haven’t spoken to her.”
“Why should I? Where does she get off telling me I can’t have a beer?”
Now it sounded as though my mother’s head would pop.
“Can’t have a beer? Can you even hear yourself? Your father drank himself to death and your mother had every right to refuse to watch the same thing happen to her son. All she said was she’d talk to you when you stopped drinking. You let twenty years pass!”
Oh my God. So that was the big “family” sort of fight! At first, I couldn’t believe my ears. My father kept a grandmother out of our lives because he’d rather have a beer? He preferred to pretend his own mother was dead than give up the brew? Then I realised it was exactly like my dad. Hadn’t he once forgotten to pick me up at school when I was sick because he went to El Torita for lunch and had three tequila shots? Didn’t I spend four hours doubled over on the nurse’s cot watching her feel sorry for me?
Yeah, I could imagine my dad being so selfish. I mean, we were living in a trailer! What further evidence did I need?
When Mom continued, her voice was slow and icy. “You put me in charge, and I took charge, Lot. Are you ready for this?”
Dad didn’t say a word. I still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. My mom didn’t sound like my mom at all when she said, “I made a deal with your mother. We can live here as long as you don’t drink. Your mother has given us a roof over our heads and a chance to start over. Fall off the wagon and we’re out of here. Homeless. Your family, Lot, will be out on the street because of you. Your drinking cost you your job, your home, your friends. Keep it up and it will cost you your family, too. You’ve said a million times you can stop drinking whenever you want to. Now’s the time to prove it. You say you’re not an alcoholic; fine, it shouldn’t be a problem. If it is, get help. We have no money and nowhere else to go. It’s up to you now. Only you.”
The mobile home suddenly vibrated with the thump, thump, thump of my mother’s footsteps down the hall. I nearly jumped through the ceiling when she knocked on my door.
“Let’s go, kids,” she said, pounding on all three of our bedroom doors. “Time to get you registered for school.”