The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  “You didn’t mention the trip and everything to Jo Miller, did you?”

  “No. Why? That’s a strange thing to ask.”

  “Just wondered.” Pascal almost mumbled.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. How’s Rudy doing? What was wrong with him?”

  “He’s fine. He was just drunk and stoned and melodramatic. He doesn’t remember much and he was sick for a couple days, but everything’s back to gaiety here at the doublewide. It was just a bad night for him—that happens occasionally when you get fried as much as we do.”

  “Maybe he was right, Pascal. Maybe this trip could be a little dark.”

  “Whatever. I guess he’s right in a sense. Everything has a downside, even good dope and fine scotch. Planes fly vaccines to save the sad kids in the Sally Struthers pitch and the Enola Gay pops a whole city. In the end, it’s just how you work things that matters.” Pascal sucked on his cigarette and quit talking.

  “I just fucked a woman I don’t know,” Evers said.

  “Good. That’ll bring Jo Miller to her knees. Call her and tell her.” Pascal laughed a little.

  “That’s not good. Not a good idea, Pascal.”

  “Then I’ll do it for you. I’ll call Jo Miller.”

  “Don’t do that,” Evers said, but he knew his brother probably would. Pascal was reckless, and the idea would seem sound after a couple of joints and some scotch, late at night, around two in the morning.

  “I’m going to tell her that the woman moaned a lot, too. In French—French moaning. Beaucoup French moaning.”

  “You do that.”

  “Whatever.” “Whatever” was Pascal’s favorite response, his type-O, white-bread answer, he called it: always in context, always suitable, always unassailable. Pascal would never be at a loss for words. “I don’t really care” was also popular with Pascal.

  “So you’ll go?” Evers asked.

  “Are you serious about this, Evers?” Pascal’s voice changed, became heavier, slower. “This is all pretty abrupt and drastic.”

  “Jo Miller cheated on me. What else do you need to know?”

  “She probably was drunk and it was her prom night and all.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Good answer. Let’s see what our studio audience said.”

  “Come on, Pascal. This isn’t funny. Don’t fuck with me. It’s different with men. It is. For us, it’s instinct, but women take it seriously. It means that she’s going to leave me. That’s what it means. And I don’t give a shit what you or anybody else says. Everyone knows what I’m saying is right, even if nobody will admit it. Fucking someone else would be an end for me, but it’s a start for Jo Miller.”

  “You’ve never cheated on her, have you?”

  “No.” Evers raised his voice. “I haven’t.”

  “I’ll bet that it was pretty wild, having sex with someone else after such a long time with the same person. That would have to chart pretty high.”

  “I’m glad you’re tuned in to the critical parts of all this, Pascal.”

  “So you’re leaving, huh?”

  “She obviously doesn’t love me now.”

  “Love’s just lust spread over time, Evers.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Evers answered.

  “Who’s the guy?” asked Pascal.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Do you know when we’re supposed to leave?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll call you when I find out.”

  “Just let me know.” Pascal yawned again. “I’m going back to bed.”

  Evers tried to sleep in the room where he and Naomi had just been together. The covers on the bed felt stiff and smooth. Velveteen—Evers wondered how it was manufactured. He had never slept under it before, and he had been surprised when he opened the door to his room for the first time and saw the counterpane. “People paint on this stuff,” he said, lying on his back, his hands rubbing the tough fuzz above his stomach.

  Evers needed to sleep. He stopped rubbing the bedspread. His meeting with Pauletta Lightwren Qwai in a few hours was important, and he needed to be sharp.

  • • •

  Charleston is dim and sluggish in the morning, and Evers was frazzled and shaky, even though he’d slept for over an hour after driving Naomi home and eating breakfast at the pancake restaurant. And the hills were foreign and queer for Evers as well. They seemed to ring the whole city, a simple congruity, a rugged, uneven band of transition from earth to sky—the rough hills—as if god had built the ground first, the sky second, and then, dissatisfied with the lacuna between top and bottom, joined the two together by wedging in the Appalachian Range. The wall of hill and colorless sky made it appear to Evers that airplanes might have to fly straight up quite a distance before they could get out.

  While he was getting dressed, Evers couldn’t stop yawning and had trouble getting his hair to stay in place. Despite his fugue state and the early hour, he felt compelled to order a drink with breakfast before driving to Sparkman, Roberts, Plunk and Small to meet Pauletta Lightwren Qwai. After all, he had just fucked a stranger and become baffled at the pancake house. Evers didn’t want to drink so early in the day—he needed to be tightly wrapped when he spoke with Ruth Esther’s lawyer—but, he thought to himself, a drink was appropriate, necessary, very much in character. “Gin, straight, ma’am.” Evers the gangster. The waitress in the hotel coffee shop had to go into the lounge and bring the alcohol out in an orange juice glass.

  Evers was early for his appointment with Pauletta, and while he was sitting in the reception area of her law firm, six floors high in the Kanawha Bank and Trust building, he reached into his suit pocket and found a page he’d torn from a newsweekly in the public library about a month before. He recalled that he had picked up an old magazine, from March, and while he was trying to locate the Newsmakers section, he had found an odd story about Westland, Michigan. Evers’ cousin lived in Westland, sold pets and pet supplies there, so Evers had stopped and begun to read. He had read the article over and over and over and over. He read it again, then folded it in quarters and put it back into his suit pocket.

  THE BOWLING-BALL MURDER

  Will and Helen Wood of Westland, Mich., were driving home one night last December when a 14-pound bowling ball smashed through the windshield of their car. Will Wood, 40, died of massive cerebral injuries, the victim of a seemingly random act of mayhem that led to the arrest of 19-year-old Charles Anglin. Anglin had been in similar trouble before—he had recently completed a year’s probation for running a carload of teenagers off the road and then trying to run one of them down—and Wayne County prosecutors charged him with manslaughter, which in Michigan carries a maximum sentence of 15 years in prison.

  Anglin pleaded no contest. But when Wayne County Circuit Court Judge Richard Owens announced he might not sentence Anglin to time behind bars, the community erupted. Last week Owens—son of the judge who recently freed with a fine and probation two autoworkers who had clubbed a Chinese-American to death—bowed to pressure and sentenced Anglin to 12 months in jail and three years of community-service work.

  Evers started to taste the alcohol in his mouth, a bitter, acrid broth that settled into his throat and fought off his coughs and hard swallows. He left the reception area and walked down a bright corridor into a bathroom. It struck him that you appear differently in every mirror, depending on the light and the cut of the glass and the colors of the tile and how far away you have to stand. Evers looked different in the Sparkman, Roberts mirror, better than he had in the mirror at the hotel the night before, but not as good as he did in the $4.98 Kmart full-length he had tacked onto the back of his bedroom door in Norton. Evers wondered what he actually looked like. He couldn’t see the thinning spot on his crown in the Kmart mirror; that’s how he wanted to look. Evers hoped the thinning would stop. He needed all his hair, since he was going to be single again.

&
nbsp; He flushed his mouth several times with cold water, scrubbed his teeth with his index finger. He combed his hair again, tightened the knot in his tie and put two sticks of gum in his mouth at the same time. The gum was old, dry and brittle, and it broke into stoney little pieces that were hard to chew. Evers decided, after breathing into his hands, that the water and gum were not going to eliminate the taste of the gin, or the smell. He left the bathroom and found a coffee machine and mugs beside a secretary’s desk. He poured coffee into one of the mugs and took several sips. Each time, before swallowing, he sucked the liquid through his teeth, like a stream through tiny enamel turbines. “Not much different from eating Jell-O,” he mumbled. A secretary was talking on the phone near the coffeemaker, and the lights overhead made her seem white, almost luminous. There was a picture of two dachshunds on her desk, and a picture of a child standing beside a fat horse.

  “Pardon?”

  “What?”

  “Did you say something to me, sir?” The secretary was looking at Evers.

  “Uh, no. Not really. I was just thinking about how sometimes you get a chunk of Jell-O in the front part of your mouth, between your teeth and gums, and inhale it back through your teeth. Kind of suck it back, strain it between your teeth. It’s a good feeling, in a weird sort of way.”

  She seemed perplexed, looking at Evers with her head cocked like a parrot’s and her lips packed together. Thinking. Trying to decipher an end without having the start. And then her face relaxed. “I do know. I know what you mean. We used to do it at supper all the time. My sister said it was like French-kissing the Jell-O.”

  “I never thought of it in quite those terms. But I’m glad you know what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just babbling on. Mind you, I do that on occasion, too, but I was on fairly solid ground here. Thank goodness for your sister, huh? If she didn’t French-kiss Jell-O you might have thought I was a full-blown idiot.”

  “I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. Although you were talking to yourself.”

  “I do that a lot.”

  The secretary leaned over her typewriter. “Who are you here to visit?”

  Evers hesitated. He was anxious, a little paranoid. “One of the attorneys.”

  “Oh.”

  Evers looked at the mug in his hand. “You must be Evelyn, and you’re an Aries, right?”

  “Evelyn doesn’t work here anymore. She quit. I’m Sherri. I’m a Capricorn. Evelyn had to leave her mug. She wanted to take it, but Mr. Jarvis wouldn’t let her. Said the firm bought it, and the firm would keep it.”

  “Never know when you’ll have another Evelyn Aries.”

  Sherri laughed. “Never know.”

  “Do you believe in astrology and signs?” Evers asked.

  “I guess some folks are lucky and some aren’t.”

  “That sounds more Calvinist than astrological.” Evers wondered if Sherri understood what he was talking about.

  “I guess.”

  “Well, thanks for the coffee. Maybe we’ll see each other around.” Evers noticed Sherri’s hands. There were rings on almost every finger, mostly silver bands with designs and inlays, but her fourth finger was empty.

  “Okay. It was nice talking to you.”

  Evers took a step, then stopped. “I was thinking … if you’re not married or doing anything, I thought you might want to go out for a drink this afternoon. Maybe after work. Or later, later in the evening. Whatever would suit you.” Even though he was talking, Evers could barely hear what he was saying; the words popped out and were gone before he could get a hold on them.

  “That’s a pretty sudden invitation.” Sherri smiled. She sat back in her chair, and Evers heard the chair squeak when she moved. “I’d like to, I guess, but I have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’m glad you asked. I’m flattered. Maybe some other time.”

  Evers began to sweat immediately after he entered the door to Pauletta’s office. Wet comets fell from beneath his arms and burned down across the skin covering his ribs. Evers thought of his family, sitting on the screened-in porch in Winston-Salem, in the summer, with all the night noises—traffic and insects and radios—starting again, and he remembered that his mother would serve ice tea, and that the glasses on the table would soon become covered with tiny drops of moisture, water balls hanging … hanging … hanging … until they cut clear paths down the sides of the tea glasses. That was what Evers was thinking about when he realized he was seconds away from losing his mind. Cerebral meltdown. Evers’ mind began to think things over which he had no control. This was different from his ruminations before the Ramada Inn toilet; this time there was no stopping and starting the images and pieces and bits that came into his consciousness.

  He was confused, considerably. He had opened the door and discovered a forest, a rain forest. He was in this foliage, these trees, and the temperature was so extreme that he could feel his pores expanding into craters, as if small subcutaneous faults were causing his skin to cave in, leaving rows of sinkholes all over his body. And the pores might keep expanding until they overlapped and—damn—his skin would expand away. Gone.

  Evers didn’t want to think about losing his skin. His mind made him. It also made him think about a Frank Sinatra line in three-quarter time. “Only a Barnum & Bailey world, as phony as can be.” And bowling balls. Bowling balls were in his head, falling like rain from an overpass. His mind made him think about a kitchen sink and a scrambled-egg pan filled with yellow islands floating in greasy water. Evers’ mind was slipping and grinding. He thought about Bob Lilly and Black & Decker power tools.

  The forest’s trees moved, and in front of him, pushing toward him through the bush, there was a savage. Stalking him, Evers felt sure. He shielded himself with his briefcase, but his mind was locked onto power tools.

  “Skill saw. Skill saw.”

  “Mr. Wheelings?”

  “Skill saw,” Evers repeated.

  “Mr. Wheelings?”

  “Skill saw,” he said again.

  “You’re not all right, are you?” Pauletta later told Evers that at first she thought his falling to one knee on her carpet was an elaborate slight, a mocking, tongue-in-cheek pose of supplication. “May I help you? Should I get help?”

  “The skill saw.”

  “You need a skill saw?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to call someone,” Pauletta said a second time.

  “What?”

  “You’re—what is wrong? You want a saw?”

  It wasn’t a rain forest. The dark woman in the trees wasn’t a savage. Evers was regaining his senses. “No. No, I don’t. I mean, well, no. I was just thinking about a skill saw. Jeez. I’m sorry.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry.” Evers tried to smile.

  “Nothing?”

  “I’m really sorry. I guess I’ve upset you, huh?” Evers stood up and held out his hand. He left his briefcase lying on the floor. “I’m Evers Wheeling.”

  “I know. I know who you are. What happened to you? Are you sick?”

  “My … damn. I … I know that seemed like a pretty bizarre entrance. I’m sorry.” Evers paused. He was disoriented but recovering, except for his breathing, which was too quick and ineffective. “Goodness.” Another pause. “You see, I’ve been ill. Ill. Some physical problems. And affairs with my wife. Nothing long-term or disabling—if you don’t call spells of rambling disabling—but my medicine gives me equilibrium problems. I’ll soon be through with the whole mess, though. I’m okay. Don’t worry. Why don’t we sit down? I’ll be fine.”

  “What sort of medication are you taking?”

  “I don’t remember the names. Just the reactions. There are several of them. Medicines, I mean. One’s a liquid, like cough syrup.” This was all a grand lie. Evers was startled by his mind’s mutinous bent. All of this stumbling and straining was unpleasant and unexpected.

 
; “I see. You should be more careful. And if I were you, I’d see my physician, Mr. Wheelings. You act like you’re on dope.”

  “Wheeling. No ‘s.’”

  “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do? You looked pretty bad. And you’re still pale.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m just sorry I’ve upset you. I’m afraid I haven’t made a very good first impression.”

  “Quite the opposite, I promise,” Pauletta said as she sat down behind her desk.

  “Why do you have all of these plants in here? Friend on vacation or something?” Pauletta’s office was crowded with tall green plants; they occupied every inch of floor space, except for a clearing around two chairs and a narrow path which led from the office door to her desk. Evers had settled onto the edge of one of the chairs.

  “Keeps up my image as the wild nigger, you know?”

  “Maybe I could come here and work with you—the hallucinating judge and jungle lawyer.”

  Pauletta Lightwren Qwai didn’t smile. She was laying papers and files and a Southeastern Reporter into a briefcase open on her desk. “We have a problem. I don’t mean, Mr. Wheeling, to seem inconsiderate, but I’m afraid that right before you arrived, I was called down to court. One of my mother’s sisters’ sons has a case, and they just contacted me about representing him. I’ll have to get right to the point of our business.” Her enunciation was perfect, every syllable given its due, every vowel sounded.

  “That’s fine with me.” Evers’ armpits and the weak, fleshy pockets behind his knees were becoming sticky from the drying sweat. “I certainly don’t want to inconvenience you, though. If you want to go, I can wait for you to get back. Or perhaps I could walk out with you. Whatever I can do to accommodate you.” His breathing was still too rapid.

  “Let’s not jerk each other around, Mr. Wheeling.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Let’s not act as if things are as we know they aren’t.” All traces of concern had left Pauletta’s voice. Her tone was flat and formal.