The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  Ruth Esther didn’t answer. Evers heard the last part of a sob, sniffling and some muffled, blunt gulps. It sounded like she was trying not to cry.

  There was a gap between the bottom of the stall door and the floor—the opening private eyes and psychopaths always check to see if someone’s hiding in the john—and Evers could see that Ruth Esther’s pants were bunched around her ankles, and that her underwear was pulled across above the pants, stretched tight, connecting leg to leg. The front partitions of the stall were bolted to the floor with silver brackets; the brackets and screws were nicked and pitted and spotted with rust, and a thick piece of cotton mop string was caught underneath the edge of one of the brackets. “What are you doing?” Evers asked again. “Are you okay? Are you crying?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m okay. I’m comin’ right out. Don’t leave. I’ll be right there. I’m embarrassed … I’m just upset some. Nervous.”

  “I can’t be late for work. What else do you want, anyway?” Evers frowned. “This is a crazy confrontation. So far, I know you want me to let your brother go. I’ve told you that I’ll follow the law and be fair. If two fat-ass police officers are out there eating McMuffins and thinking about bowling uniforms while they’re recording this, I’m telling them the same thing. I’m sorry. If you’re offering me sex, then I am declining. I don’t want money, either. There’s nothing that you can do or say that’s going to change my sentiments. I didn’t mean to upset you, but I can’t help.”

  “Please don’t leave yet.”

  Evers waited another minute or so, didn’t say anything more to Ruth Esther. He heard someone shout for a waitress out in the restaurant, and a man’s voice ask for more coffee. “Ma’am, I really am going to go,” Evers said. “I have to. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  Ruth Esther opened the stall door and bumped it toward Evers with her shoulder. She was disheveled when Evers saw her, not all the way dressed, stuffing the tail of her blouse into the top of her pants, and after a couple of jabs and tucks, she gave up and left several uneven folds hanging out of her waistband. She put her hand inside her pocket, and Evers’ mouth opened and he took in his breath—a hard suck that the tiles trapped and echoed, the sound circling the room two or three times. He stepped away from Ruth Esther until he felt the edge of the sink hit him in the back. “This is my business card,” she said before she took her hand out of her pocket. “I’m going to leave it on the windowsill for you. Please give some thought to freeing my brother. He has information I need to help me locate property that belongs to me. I can’t get my property unless he’s out of jail.”

  “That’s all very interesting, but I cannot and will not help you. I’ll decide your brother’s case on its merits.”

  Ruth Esther nodded. “I’ll leave my card. Please just keep an open mind.” She worked on her shirt a little more, pushed it into her pants, and she touched the corner of her eye where some makeup had dried into a tiny, blue-black ball. “Just think about it.”

  After Ruth Esther left, Evers leaned against the restroom wall and patted his pockets, looking for his cigarettes. Ruth Esther had walked right past him on her way out, and was face to face with him when she opened the door to go back into the restaurant. Evers locked the door. He lit a cigarette and smoked part of it while he was resting on the wall; after a few minutes, he slid and slumped down until he felt the floor underneath him, and he sat there looking at his knees and at his hand holding the cigarette. He finished the cigarette, put it out in the sink and walked across the room to pick up Ruth Esther’s card.

  When Evers walked by the stall, he glanced inside, and he saw—he stuck right where he was, didn’t go any farther, reeled and spun and herky-jerked to get a better look—there was a perfect white curve lying on the floor in front of the toilet, five flat alabaster drops, this albino arc that looked like a row of marble dimes laid down into a big grin, small bright circles, a vivid Morse code smile: dot dot dot dot dot. The circles were all the same size, and Evers stepped closer and crouched down. Light from outside was coming into the bathroom through a window, and occasionally a moment’s worth of brightness would reflect off the water in the commode and settle on his jacket or the crease in his pants. Evers stood above the smiling drops until he heard someone out in the restaurant knocking on the door. He rubbed the white circles with the toe of his shoe until they disappeared, picked up the card from the sill and put it into his pocket without reading it.

  As soon as he got to the courthouse, Evers went into his office and dialed the district attorney’s number. He was able to find the chief deputy, a woman named Joan Anderson, who was about to leave for court. Evers told her that he had been approached by a lady claiming to be the sister of a man named English, and that the sister wanted Evers to help Mr. English. “Does the name ring a bell?” Evers asked. “Is this guy noteworthy?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Joan said. She sounded distracted. “I’ll check and let you know.”

  “I just wanted to give you a call. I always try to when something like this comes up. Just to be safe.”

  “It’s not a big case, as far as I know. I’ve never heard of the guy. Do you recall his first name?”

  “Artis. Or Artist. Something close to that.”

  “I’ll have someone run it down and get back to you if we find anything important. How long are you going to be in Winston?”

  “What’s today?”

  Joan laughed. “You sound like me. Today’s Friday, Judge.”

  “I’ll be here for another two weeks.”

  “How are things in Norton?”

  “Okay.” Evers looked at his watch. “I can’t complain.”

  “Thanks for calling. I appreciate your letting me know about this.”

  “Sure. I’m glad to do it. It’s generally a good idea to try to cover everyone’s butt.”

  “No doubt about that. Maybe I’ll have a chance to work with you while you’re here. I hope so. Do you have many criminal cases?”

  “A bunch.” Evers heard someone in the background talking to Joan. “I’ll let you go, and thanks for the help. Give me a call if you find out anything.”

  Evers took Ruth Esther’s card out of his pocket. He had looked at it as soon as he got to his office, before he called Joan Anderson. Ruth Esther was a “sales associate” at a car dealership in Winston-Salem. He turned the card over; there was nothing written on the back. Evers phoned the clerk’s office and had them bring him Artis English’s file; when he read it, there was nothing exceptional about the case or the paperwork. He asked his secretary to put a memo in the file regarding his contact with Ruth Esther, and had a copy sent to the chief judge and the district attorney’s office, addressed to Joan Anderson. Evers put the card back in his pocket. He drank a Coke out of the can, smoked another cigarette, put on his robe and started work.

  During a break in the morning docket, Evers had one of the deputies check Ruth Esther’s background. The officer handed Evers two sheets of computer paper with Ruth Esther’s name printed in large type across the top of each sheet. She was licensed to drive in North Carolina, Evers discovered, and she had no criminal record or traffic convictions. He put the two pages on the bench beside his pens, gavel and rubber bands, laid the card on top of the report and kept glancing at the pile throughout the day. During a long, tedious case after lunch, Evers started doodling on the sides of Ruth Esther’s driving record. He drew a house and a man with a beard, and eventually blackened in all of the “o’s” and “a’s” on the page. While he was listening to his last case, he circled the address on the card and tried to recall if he’d ever seen Ruth Esther anywhere else. Evers remembered the white drops on the floor, how bright they were, five thin pearls he could still see if he kept his eyes closed. He figured that if traffic wasn’t heavy, he could get from his office to Ruth Esther’s car lot in about fifteen minutes.

  The Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu dealership was about as nice as possible, given that the heart of the tra
de was selling superfluous extended warranties, defrauding buyers with shell games and counterfeit invoices, hiding used oil from the EPA and rebuilding whole transmissions that probably needed little more than a bolt tightened or a dollar gasket. The salesmen were wearing tasseled loafers and suits with pleated pants, and two had mousse in their hair. The cars were new and clean, rows of them in color gradations like a sheet-metal spectrum, lined up by size and model, Escorts to Lincolns. Evers looked at them from small to large and thought about a xylophone. The showroom was full of heavy-paper brochures that showed cars and trucks parked on wet black driveways and in front of streams and mansions. The floor inside the building was made from large, slick tiles, and the ceiling had several rows of recessed lights and one bright brass chandelier. Ruth Esther walked up just after Evers stepped inside the door to the showroom. She was wearing the same suit she’d had on when Evers talked to her in the bathroom of the restaurant.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I’m glad you came by.” Ruth held out her hand, and Evers shook it. She had a soft grip. Evers couldn’t feel any bones or joints while their hands were together.

  “I would never have thought that you sold cars. You seem a little … elegant for this.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but it’s a good business. I make a lot of money. Old men think that they can take advantage of me, young men think that they have a chance to have sex with me and women trust me. I moved a hundred eighty-six units last month. One hundred eighty-six automobiles. That’s one of the best figures in the nation, and we’re in a small market. I was by far the leader in North Carolina.”

  “Are you honest?”

  Ruth Esther nodded several times, but she didn’t smile or speak. “I am,” she finally said. She took a step back and leaned against the trunk of a car on the showroom floor. “Do you want to go to my office or walk through the lot? Would you like a snack or a drink? We have bottled water, soft drinks, pretzels.”

  “How do you get paid for something like this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I get paid a commission on the above-cost profit that we make on each vehicle. Depending on the model and promotion, that margin is anywhere from two hundred dollars to two or three thousand. In addition to that, I get bonuses and incentives for meeting certain sales targets.”

  Evers thought for a few seconds. “You’re making thirty or forty thousand dollars a month selling cars? Is that possible?”

  “I make more than that when you take my target bonuses into account.”

  “Damn.”

  “So where would you like to talk?”

  “I don’t think I want to go to your office.” Evers rubbed his neck with the heel of his hand. Ruth Esther was paged over the intercom system. “Do you need to answer that?”

  “They’ll take a message.”

  “Let’s take a test drive. I suppose that if we’re being monitored, there’s about a six-hundred-to-one chance that they’ve bugged the right vehicle in advance.”

  “I’ll go get a plate. Which vehicle do you want?”

  Evers looked into the lot and saw a black pickup about forty yards from the door. “The black truck.” He pointed.

  “I’ll go get everything.”

  Evers watched the truck while she left to get a tag and the keys. No one went near it. Ruth Esther walked and moved so quietly that Evers didn’t realize she was back until she tapped him on the wrist. “Here are the keys.”

  “Let me see them. And the plate.”

  Ruth Esther handed Evers the keys. The key ring was attached to a rectangular, yellow piece of plastic with black Magic Marker writing on one side of the plastic. The keys were flat and metal. The plate had two springs running from corner to corner and a clip in the center. Evers turned it over and stretched the springs. The coils were stiff and close together, two silver tunnels that didn’t give much when Evers tried to pull them apart.

  “I can’t see inside the springs. Can you unhook the ends?”

  “No. But the plate will be on the outside of the car, so that shouldn’t bother you.”

  “You’ll need to get a temporary tag. One of those flat, cardboard, thirty-day deals.”

  “I can’t do that unless I transfer title. There has to be a sale.” Ruth Esther’s hands were back in front of her, her two index fingers pointed up.

  “Then I don’t guess we can do business,” Evers said.

  Ruth Esther took the plate from Evers and looked at the fasteners. She pulled the springs, then pressed the license tag under her arm and worked and twisted the ends of the coils, trying to separate them from the corners of the plate. “I’ll take the spring off and get some screws from the shop.”

  “I’m paranoid now; try to get a paper tag. And let me tell you again that I’m not going to do anything venal or corrupt or misuse my office.” A beer would taste good, Evers thought, a cold beer in a clear bottle that would sweat in his hand when he picked it up. He rubbed his neck some more. “I’ve notified several people about our first contact and your entreaty.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “To find out what it is that you want.”

  “If your intentions are good, why are you so concerned about bein’ overheard?”

  “People take things out of context from time to time.” Evers half smiled, very quickly, and then reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

  “I’m not trying to cause problems. Really, I’m not.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Ruth Esther stopped trying to bend the ends of the springs. Evers had found a cigarette and had it in his hand, but he hadn’t lit it. He leaned very close to Ruth Esther and whispered, “Get a cardboard tag.” She left and walked through a door and out of sight.

  A salesman with chain-saw cologne and his hands on his hips had walked up and was half-sitting on the hood of one of the showroom cars behind Evers. “I wouldn’t think that you’d care for a truck,” he said. “You look like a sport-utility man to me. Grand Cherokee or Explorer. In fact, we’re just about giving away an interior package on some of the Explorers. Of course, everyone can use a good truck.” The citrus and musk fumes settled on Evers.

  Evers turned his head, twisted his neck as far as he could and looked at the salesman. He didn’t move his feet or bother to get any closer. “Was it Lionel Hampton who played the xylophone? I can’t recall. It’s a great instrument, though, isn’t it? I like the name. I like the name ‘harpsichord,’ too.” He looked away from the salesman, back outside at the truck. “So what do you think? Was it Lionel Hampton?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve started getting into some New Age stuff myself. Yanni, you heard of him? Or John Tesh? He’s the guy from Entertainment Tonight, but he’s also a great music composer. Women—let me tell you—they love the stuff, too. You ought to try some.” The salesman winked. “I’ve got a disc in my car—you’re welcome to borrow it if you want to.”

  “No thanks.” Evers didn’t look back.

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Ruth Esther returned with a cardboard tag and two screws, and she and Evers walked to the truck. She fastened the tag to the front bumper and handed Evers the keys. Evers had never driven a truck before, and he was surprised by how high he was off the ground and how awkward he felt inside the cab. The length and size of the interior made his hands and legs look small. He shifted the truck into drive and pulled out onto the interstate.

  “You are going to have to take off your coat and shirt and let me see them.”

  “I’m not carrying any sort of listening device,” Ruth Esther offered.

  “Then I won’t find one.”

  She took off her suit coat and laid it on the seat. Evers looked in it and felt along the lapels and seams and pushed his hands into the pockets. Ruth Esther handed him her blouse, and he held it up and patted it and turned it inside out. She was wearing a white cotton bra with a plastic snap in the front.

  “You’ll need to take off the
bra, too.”

  “I’m beginning to think that you want to be entertained rather than safe. This is sort of low and ugly.” Ruth Esther was looking out at the road, not at Evers.

  “This must be important to you.”

  “It is, obviously. And it upsets me to have to undress in front of you like this.” Ruth Esther glanced at him. “You know, if I were trying to get you into trouble, my being almost naked in a truck with you would be pretty hard to explain, don’t you think? You’re being so guarded and careful and now you’re tellin’ me to take my clothes off.”

  “You really don’t have to do anything. You approached me and asked me to misuse my office. I think I have the right to be wary and ask for some concessions. And I’ll probably enjoy seeing you naked—you’re right about that. You’re attractive, and I’m a fan of form and pulchritude.” Evers looked in the rearview mirror. “For what it’s worth, I’ve already seen you with your pants down at the restaurant anyway. Saw your shins, the bottoms of your knees.”

  “It’s a combination of things, I guess.”

  “I’m not trying to be a cad. I hope you can see why I might be concerned.”

  Ruth Esther snapped open her bra and handed it to Evers. “Would you turn so that I can see your back, please?” he asked.