TRAILERPARK
RUSSELL BANKS
for my mother
Epigraph
A certain sense of tragedy, however attractive,
Is to be avoided.
Though there is no need to make a dogma of that…
Bertolt Brecht
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
The Guinea Pig Lady
Cleaving, and Other Needs
Black Man and White Woman in Dark Green Rowboat
Dis Bwoy, Him Gwan
What Noni Hubner Did Not Tell the Police about Jesus
Comfort
God’s Country
Principles
The Burden
Politics
The Right Way
The Child Screams and Looks Back at You
The Fisherman
About the Author
Praise
Other Works
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Guinea Pig Lady
THE STORY OF FLORA PEASE, how she got to be the way she is now, isn’t all that uncommon a story, except maybe in the particulars. You hear often in these small New Hampshire towns of a woman no one will deal with anymore, except to sell her something she wants or needs—food, clothing or shelter. In other words, you don’t have a social relationship with a woman like Flora, you have an economic one, and that’s it. But that’s important, because it’s what keeps women like Flora alive, and after all, no matter what you might think of her, you don’t want to let her die, because if you’re not related to her somehow, you’re likely to have a friend who is, or your friend will have a friend who is, which is almost the same thing in a small town. And not only in a small town, either—these things are true for any group of people that knows its limits and plans to keep them.
When Flora Pease first came to the trailerpark and rented number 11, which is the second trailer on your left as you come in from Old Road, no one in the park thought much about her one way or the other. She was about forty or forty-five, kind of flat-faced and plain, a red-colored person, with short red hair and a reddish tint to her skin. Even her eyes, which happened to be pale blue, looked red, as if she smoked too much and slept too little, which, as it later turned out, happened to be true. Her body was a little strange, however, and people remarked on that. It was blocky and square-shaped, not exactly feminine and not exactly masculine, so that while she could almost pass for either man or woman, she was generally regarded as neither. She wore mostly men’s clothing, a long, dark blue, wool overcoat or else overalls and workshirts and ankle-high workboots, which again, except for the overcoat, was not all that unusual among certain women who worked outside a lot and didn’t do much socializing. But with Flora, because of the shape of her body, or rather, its shapelessness, her clothing only contributed to what you might call the vagueness of her sexual identity. Privately, there was probably no vagueness at all, but publicly there was. People elbowed one another and winked and made not quite kindly remarks about her when she passed by them on the streets of Catamount or when she passed along the trailerpark road on her way to or from town. The story, which came from Marcelle Chagnon, who rented her the trailer and who therefore ought to know, was that Flora was retired military and lived off a small pension, and that made sense in one way, given people’s prejudices about women in the military, and in another way too, because at that time Captain Dewey Knox (U.S. Army, ret.) was already living at number 6 and so people at the park had got used to the idea of someone living off a military pension instead of working for a living.
What didn’t make sense was how someone who seemed slightly cracked, as Flora came quickly to seem, could have stayed in the military long enough to end up collecting a pension for it. Here’s how she first came to seem cracked. She sang out loud, in public. That’s the first thing. She supposedly was raised here in Catamount, and though she had moved away when she was a girl, she still knew a lot of the old-timers in town, and she would walk into town every day or two for groceries and beer, singing in a loud voice all the way, as if she were the only person who could hear her. But by the time she had got out to Old Road, she naturally would have passed someone in the park who knew her, so she had to be aware that she wasn’t the only person who could hear her. Regardless, she’d just go right on singing in a huge voice, singing songs from old Broadway musicals, mostly. She knew all the songs from Oklahoma and West Side Story and a few others as well, and she sang them, one after the other, all the way into town, then up and down the streets of town as she stopped off at the A & P, Brown’s Drug Store, maybe Hayward’s Hardware, finally ending up at the Hawthorne House for a beer before she headed back to the trailerpark. Everywhere she went, she sang those songs in a loud voice that was puffed up with feeling if it was a happy song or thick with melancholy if it was a sad song. You don’t mind a person whistling or humming or maybe even singing to him- or herself under his or her breath while he or she does something else, sort of singing absentmindedly. But you do have to wonder about someone who forces you to listen to him or her the way Flora Pease forced everyone within hearing range to listen to her. Her voice wasn’t half-bad, actually, and if she had been singing for the annual talent show at the high school, say, and you were sitting in the audience, you might have been pleased to listen, but at midday in June on Main Street, when you’re coming out of the bank and about to step into your car, it can be a slightly jarring experience to see and hear a person who looks like Flora Pease come striding down the sidewalk singing in full voice about how the corn’s as high as an elephant’s eye. It can unsettle your entire day if you let it. And of course most people can’t help but let it.
The second thing that made Flora seem cracked early on was the way she never greeted you the same way twice, or at least twice in a row, so you could never work out exactly how to act toward her. You’d see her stepping out of her trailer early on a summer day—it was summer when she first moved into the park, so everyone’s first impressions naturally put her into summertime scenes—and you’d give a friendly nod, the kind of nod you offer people you live among but aren’t exactly friends with, just a quick, downward tip of the face, followed by a long, upsweeping lift of the whole head, with the eyes closed for a second as the head reaches its farthest point back. Then, resuming your earlier expression and posture, you’d continue walking on, wholly under the impression that when your eyes were closed and your head tilted back Flora had given you the appropriate answering nod. But no, or apparently no, because she’d call out, as you walked off, “Good morn-ing!” and she’d wave her hands at you as if brushing cobwebs away. “Wonderful morning for a walk!” she’d bellow (her voice was a loud one), and caught off guard like that, you’d agree and hurry away. The next time you saw her, however, the next morning, for instance, when once again you walked out to Old Road to the row of mailboxes for your mail and passed her as, mail in hand, she headed back in from Old Road, you’d recall her greeting of the day before and how it had caught you off guard, and you’d say, “Morning,” to her and maybe smile a bit and give her a friendly and more or less direct gaze. But this time what you’d get back would be a glare, a harsh, silent stare, as if you’d just made an improper advance on her. So you’d naturally say to yourself, “The hell with it,” and that would be fine until the following morning, when you’d try to ignore her and she wouldn’t let you. She’d holler the second she saw you, “Hey! A scorcher! Right? Goin’ to be a scorcher today, eh?” It was the sort of thing you had to answer, even if only with a word, “Yup,” which you did, wondering as you said it what the hell was going on with that woman?
You wouldn’t be alone in wo
ndering. Everyone in the park that summer was scratching his or her head and asking one another what the hell was going on with the woman in number 11. Doreen Tiede, who lived with her five-year-old daughter Maureen in number 4, which was diagonally across the park road from Flora Pease’s trailer, put Marcelle on the spot, so to speak, something Doreen could get away with more easily than most of the other residents of the park. Marcelle Chagnon intimidated most people. She was a large, hawk-faced woman, and that helped, and she was French Canadian, which also helped, because it meant that she could talk fast and loud without seeming to think about it first and most people who were not French Canadians could not, so most people tended to remain silent and let Marcelle have her way. In a sense she was a little like Flora Pease—she was sudden and unpredictable and she said what she wanted to, or so it seemed, regardless of what you might have said first. She didn’t exactly ignore you, but she made it clear that it didn’t matter to her what you thought of her or anything else. She always had business to take care of. She was the resident manager of the Granite State Trailerpark, which was owned by the Granite State Realty Development Corporation down in Nashua, and she had certain responsibilities toward the park and the people who lived there that no one else had. Beyond collecting everyone’s monthly rent on time, she had to be sure no one in the park caused any trouble that would hurt the reputation of the park, she had to keep people from infringing on other people’s rights, which wasn’t all that simple, since in a trailerpark people live within ten or fifteen feet of each other and yet still feel they have their own private dwelling place and thus have control over their own destiny, and she also had to assert the rights of the people in the park whenever those rights got stepped on by outsiders, by Catamount police without a warrant, say, or by strangers who wanted to put their boats into the lake from the trailerpark dock, or by ex-husbands who might want to hassle ex-wives and make their kids cry. These things happened, and Marcelle was always able to handle them efficiently, with force and intelligence, and with no sentimentality, which, in the end, is probably the real reason she intimidated most people. She seemed to be without sentimentality.
Except when dealing with Doreen Tiede, that is. Which is why Doreen was the one who was able to put Marcelle on the spot and say to her late one afternoon in Marcelle’s trailer at number 1, “What’s with that woman, Flora Pease? Is she a fruitcake, or what? And if she is, how come you let her move in? And if she isn’t a fruitcake, how come she looks the way she does and acts the way she does?” There were in the park, besides Doreen, Marcelle and Flora, three additional women, but none of them could make Marcelle look at herself and give a straight answer to a direct question. None of them could make her forget her work and stop, even for a second, protecting it. Only Doreen could get away with embarrassing Marcelle, or at least with demanding a straight answer from her, and getting it, too, probably because both Doreen and Marcelle looked tired in the same way, and each woman understood the nature of the fatigue and respected it in the other. They didn’t feel sorry for it in each other; they respected it. There were twenty or more years between them, and Marcelle’s children had long ago gone off and left her—one was a computer programmer in Billerica, Massachusetts, another was in the Navy and making a career of it, a third was running a McDonald’s in Seattle, Washington, and a fourth had died. Because she had raised them herself, while at the same time fending off the attacks of the man who had fathered them on her, she thought of her life as work and her work as feeding, housing and clothing her three surviving children and teaching them to be kindly, strong people despite the fact that their father happened to have been a cruel, weak person. A life like that, or rather, twenty-five years of it, can permanently mark your face and make it instantly recognizable to anyone who happens to be engaged in similar work. Magicians, wise men and fools are supposed to be able to recognize each other instantly, but so too are poor women who raise children alone.
They were sitting in Marcelle’s trailer, having a beer. It was five-thirty, Doreen was on her way home from her job at the tannery, where she was a bookkeeper in the office. Her daughter Maureen was with her, having spent the afternoon with a babysitter in town next door to the kindergarten she attended in the mornings, and was whining for her supper. Doreen had stopped in to pay her June rent, a week late, and Marcelle had accepted her apology for the lateness and had offered her a beer. Because of the lateness of the payment and Marcelle’s graciousness, Doreen felt obliged to accept it, even though she preferred to get home and start supper so Maureen would stop whining.
Flora’s name had come up when Maureen had stopped whining and had suddenly said, “Look, Momma, at the funny lady!” and had pointed out the window at Flora, wearing a heavy, ankle-length coat in the heat, sweeping her yard with a broom. She was working her way across the packed dirt yard toward the road that ran through the center of the park, raising a cloud of dust as she swept, singing in a loud voice something from Fiddler on the Roof—“If I were a rich man…”—and the two women and the child watched her, amazed. That’s when Doreen had demanded to know what Marcelle had been thinking when she agreed to rent a trailer to Flora Pease.
Marcelle sighed, sat heavily back down at the kitchen table and said, “Naw, I knew she was a little crazy, you know, but not like this.” She lit a cigarette and took a quick drag. “I guess I felt sorry for her, and I’ll be honest, I needed the money. We got two vacancies now out of twelve trailers, and I get paid by how many trailers got tenants, you know. When Flora come by that day, we got three vacancies, and I’m broke and need the money, so I look the other way a little and I say, sure, you can have number eleven, which is always the hardest to rent anyhow, because it’s on the backside away from the lake and it’s got number twelve and number ten tight next to it and the swamp behind. Number five I’ll rent easy, it’s on the lake, and nine should be easy too, soon’s people forget about the suicide. It’s the end of the row and has a nice yard on one side plus the tool shed in back. But eleven has always been a bitch to rent. So here’s this lady, if you want to call her that, and she’s got a regular income from the Air Force, and she seems friendly enough, lives alone, she says, has relations around here, she says, so what the hell, even though I can already see she’s a little off, you know what I mean? Not quite right. I figure it was because of her being, you know, not interested in men, one of them kind of women, and I figure, what the hell, that’s her business, not mine, I don’t give a damn what she does or who she does it with, so long as she keeps it to herself, so I say, sure, take number eleven, thinking maybe she won’t. But she did.”
Marcelle sipped at her can of beer, and Doreen went for hers. The radio was tuned quietly in the background to the country and western station from Dover. Doreen reached across the counter to the radio and turned up the volume, saying to no one in particular, “I like this song.”
“That’s ’cause you’re not thirty yet, honey,” Marcelle told her. “You’ll get to be thirty, and then you’ll like a different kind of song. Wait.”
Doreen smiled from somewhere behind the veil of fatigue that covered her face. It was a veil she had taken several years ago, and she’d probably wear it until she either died or lost her memory, whichever came first. Anyone who wished to could see it, but only someone who wore it herself knew what it signified. She looked at her red-painted fingernails. “What happens when you’re forty and then fifty? You like a different kind of song then too?”
“Can’t say for fifty yet, but yes, for forty. Thirty, then forty, and probably then fifty, too. Sixty, now, that’s the question. That’s probably when you decide you don’t like any of the songs they play and so you go and sit in front of the TV and watch them game shows,” she laughed.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Doreen said, finishing her beer off and standing up to leave, “that Flora Pease over there, let me warn you, she’s going to be trouble, Marcelle. You made a big mistake letting her in the park. Mark my words.”
“
Naw. She’s harmless. A little fruity, that’s all. We’re all a little fruity, if you want to think about it,” she said. “Some are just more able to cover it up than others, that’s all.”
Doreen shook her head and hurried her daughter out the screened door and along the road to number 4. When she had left, Marcelle stood up and from the window over the sink watched Flora, who swept and sang her way back from the road across her dirt yard to the door, then stepped daintily up the cinderblocks and entered her home.
Then, in August that summer, a quarrel between Terry Constant and his older sister Carol, who were black and lived in number 10 next door to Flora, caused young Terry to fly out the door one night around midnight and bang fiercely against the metal wall of their trailer. It was the outer wall of the bedroom where his sister slept, and he was doubtlessly pounding that particular wall to impress his sister with his anger. No one in the park knew what the quarrel was about, and at that hour no one much cared, but when Terry commenced his banging on the wall of the trailer, several people were obliged to involve themselves with the fight. Lights went on across the road at number 6, where Captain Knox lived alone, and 7, where Noni Hubner and her mother Nancy lived. It wasn’t unusual for Terry to be making a lot of noise late at night, but it was unusual for him to be making it this late and outside the privacy of his own home.
It was easy to be frightened of Terry if you didn’t know him—he was about twenty-five, tall and muscular and very dark, and he had an expressive face and a loud voice—but if you knew him, he was, at worst, irritating. To his sister Carol, though, he must often have been a pure burden, and that was why they quarreled. A few years ago she had come up from Boston to work as a nurse for a dying real estate man who had died shortly after, leaving her sort of stuck in this white world, insofar as she was immediately offered a good job in town as Doctor Wickshaw’s nurse and had no other job to go to anywhere else and no money to live on while she looked. Then her mother down in Boston had died, and Terry had come with his sister for a spell and had stayed on, working here and there and now and then for what he called “monkey-money” as a carpenter’s helper or stacking hides in the tannery. Sometimes he and Carol would have an argument, caused, everyone was sure, by Terry, since he was so loud and insecure and she was so quiet and sure of herself, and then Terry would be gone for a month or so, only to return one night all smiles and compliments. He was skillful with tools and usually free to fix broken appliances or plumbing in the trailerpark, so Marcelle never objected to Carol’s taking him back in—not that Marcelle actually had a right to object, but if she had fussed about it, Carol would have sent Terry packing. People liked Carol Constant, and because she put up with Terry, they put up with him too. Besides, he was good-humored and often full of compliments and, when he wasn’t angry, good to look at.
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