The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  The phone rang and Evers picked up his jacket, then the receiver. The cap to the milk was on the nightstand, the jug on the floor. “Thurgood Marshall Scholarship Fund. May I help you?”

  “Evers?”

  “Yes?” Evers hesitated. “Yes?”

  “Evers Wheeling?”

  “Yes.” The voice sounded familiar, but it wasn’t Pauletta.

  “This is Judge Wheeling, right?”

  “Henry? Is this Henry?” Evers was surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought it was someone else. I was waiting on someone to pick me up. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Henry said. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “What’s up?” Evers wondered. “Why are you calling me? Is something wrong? How did—”

  “Believe this. I won the fucking lottery. I fuckin’ won. Close to two million.”

  “Bullshit.” Evers sat down on the edge of his bed.

  “Well, it’s really not two million. They say that it’s two million, but you get yearly installments. In my case about eighty-five grand a year for fifteen years. That’s after taxes.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I’m pretty happy. You guys want to go with me to Richmond to pick up the money? Suites and limousines, wine, rich food, decadence? Maybe try to spend it all in one day?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “All true. It was the smiling albino tear numbers, too. I played them a couple more times. We’re going to declare the pallid drops a relic.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. A smiling white talisman….” Evers still couldn’t believe it.

  “It is a good idea. We’re going to Kmart tomorrow and get a decanter to keep them in, some nice faux crystal. Pascal said that we can house them in his freezer; they’re at the hospital lab now—the charmed tears, that is, not Pascal and the freezer—where Dr. Rudy left them. I hope nobody’s thrown them away; we may ride over and get them tonight, just to be on the safe side.”

  “When you pick them up, see if you can pull some more strings and make my wife’s life miserable.”

  “I’ll see what we can do.” Henry laughed. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I’m using Pascal’s phone. He and Rudy went to get some chicken and beer. Took me five hotels to find you. I’m serious about sharing the money. Let’s all go together to cash in the ticket.”

  “Okay.” Evers started to hang up. “Oh, Henry. Henry?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “So Dr. Rudy actually analyzed them, to see what they are?”

  “You bet.”

  “So what is it?” Evers asked.

  “‘Human lachrymal secretions,’ to use Rudy’s words. How about that?”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “How’s that possible? Is it a disease or something?” Evers wondered.

  “I’m not certain. He … he … I think I hear them outside. Do you want to hold on? Want me to get him?”

  “Yeah. Yes, would you? Let me talk to him.” Evers heard Henry shouting Rudy’s name and then all three men—Henry, Rudy and Pascal—talking about how Pascal had forgotten the coleslaw and had left his hat on the take-out counter at Hardee’s. When Rudy came on the phone, Pascal and Henry were in the background debating whether to call the restaurant about the hat or just drive back and pick it up after they finished eating.

  “Dr. Rudy?”

  “Evers. What’s up? Greetings from your favorite motor doctor.”

  “Sorry to hear about the slaw.”

  Rudy laughed. “I think that next time we’ll call our order in from here and then go get it. It’s getting harder and harder to remember things.”

  “Tell me about the tears. Henry says you checked them out.”

  “I did. And that’s just what they are.”

  “How does that happen? I mean, is it a trick or something?” Evers could still hear Pascal and Henry arguing.

  “I don’t think so. You could probably control the color to some extent by failing to treat an illness or infection or by introducing some kind of drop into your eye. For instance, radiologists use something called a barium swallow to diagnose certain problems, and you drink a barium milkshake and you shit white for a couple days. Same principle here. But there’s really no evidence of any sort of dye or coloring agent. Of course I didn’t send it to the FBI lab or anything; I just did some tests myself and sent it to the local folks at the hospital.”

  “So why are they white?”

  “Well, the simple answer is that they have an unusually high amount of dead white blood cells and cellular debris mixed with the normal tear secretions. That would be pus, for those of you who didn’t go to medical school. But the thing that’s way out of the ordinary is that there seems to be an exceptional amount of aqueous humor fluid in the secretions you gave me. That’s hard to figure, and that’s what really sets the tears off and colors them up.”

  “What else can you tell me? Is that it? What is ‘aqueous humor’?”

  “Damn, Evers. You asked me to tell you what it is, and I just did. I spent an entire drug-and-alcohol-free day working on this at the hospital. I’m waiting for kudos and a Nobel Prize and your gratitude.”

  “Sorry. This whole thing has gotten me tangled up, and I’m not sure I’m following what you’re telling me.”

  “I’m not an ophthalmologist, but generally here’s the way your eye works. The space in front of your lens is filled with a fluid—usually clear—called aqueous humor. The aqueous humor fluid is provided by filtration from capillaries, and usually drains off into the blood vessels that supply the eye. Somehow, this woman has a leak or drainage problem, some defect or blockage or routing abnormality that allows this fluid into her tears. In her case, the fluid is white, there’s also a little pus present, and there you have it—white tears.”

  “Is it common? Have you ever heard of anything like this?”

  “Not really, no. The best I can figure is that she has some sort of chronic, low-grade infection coupled with a strange congenital duct and capillary connection. You can’t have constant, significant releases of aqueous humor fluid; your eye has to be kept under pressure, and this is the stuff that does it. On top of that, if the aqueous humor was milky, it would be hard to see … sort of like looking through fog or mist. The fluid should be a lot more transparent. This would certainly take the brittle edges off the world for you, though; you’d be peeking into gauze or a cloud all the time.” Rudy put his hand over the phone and said something to Pascal and Henry. “At any rate, you now have the benefit of my medical expertise. And let me add that I agree with Henry—I think the white tears are charmed. He wanted me to tell you that.”

  “Maybe he’s right. Although they’re sure not doing much for me. Thanks for looking at them, Rudy. That was good of you, and I appreciate the sacrifice.”

  “Sure.” Rudy chuckled. “Of course, the magic could be in the ketchup top or the clear tape, huh? I’ll keep everything intact.”

  “Good idea. I’ll see you guys soon.” Evers hung up the phone, put his coat on the side of the bed and leaned back against a pillow and the headboard.

  This seems like a nice enough place,” said Evers. Pauletta had met him in the lobby of his hotel, and they’d driven for about fifteen minutes—past a string of strip malls, a Wal-Mart, an electronics store (red neon wrapped around a Bauhaus box), a factory and three or four ramshackle stores and gas stations—to a bar on a narrow street in a crowded part of the city. The bar was called the Galaxy 2000, and the waitresses wore shiny silver skirts and hard, metallic lipstick.

  Pauletta and Evers sat down at a table and ordered drinks. Evers asked for a scotch and soda, Pauletta a gin and tonic. They talked—Evers enjoyed hearing her voice—and while he listened, Evers watched the condensation on his glass, the water balls falling down the side making clear paths that came to an end on a cocktail napkin. The napkin stuck to the bottom of the glass when he lifted it off the t
able. After two drinks each—and in the middle of a third—Pauletta asked about Evers’ wife. “Ruth Esther suggested in one of our conversations that you have a strained marriage.”

  “My wife is a radioactive shrew.”

  “So why are you with her?”

  “I’m not. We’re not together at all, not at all,” Evers said.

  “Then ‘strained’ seems like a very charitable way to put things.”

  “Why does Ruth Esther think she has so much insight where I’m concerned, anyway? I don’t even know her.”

  “You’re a well-known person in a small community, I guess.” Pauletta rattled the ice in her glass. “Who knows. I suppose you’ll just have to ask her.”

  “I will.”

  “If I could ask, what happened? I don’t want to pressure you if you don’t care to discuss it.”

  “Does it matter? I mean, well, does it make any difference? She’s not around, so basically that’s all there is to it.”

  “Do you miss her?” Pauletta leaned forward in her chair.

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s not all there is to it.”

  “It’s not something I like to dwell on,” Evers said. “I’d rather just not talk about it.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Evers paused. He looked to his left at the man and woman sitting next to them, then at Pauletta. “I didn’t mean to cut you off or anything. It’s just that I think it’s good to draw a line and forget about some things. It’s easier if—”

  “I understand. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. We don’t actually know each other, anyway. Some people like to talk about it, some don’t. It’s always hard to talk about someone you love, or someone who was close to you whom you miss. No matter what the circumstances.”

  “You say that fairly well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ever in love, Miss Qwai? Do you miss anyone?”

  “Sort of, I guess.” Pauletta’s enunciation was still immaculate, but her speech had slowed; she almost paused between words.

  “Sort of?”

  “It’s difficult to explain. To verbalize.”

  “Give it a try. You’re a lawyer.”

  Pauletta tapped her fingers on the table. “Well, for me, romance and love and everything else are much like reading a book. The intriguing parts are finding out about a person, his likes and dislikes, his background—his uniqueness. Especially with African American men. But that’s why it’s like reading a book. There’s only so much to know with one person, to do with one person, before you duplicate and begin to level off. We’re all sort of finite like that. Like a book, you see, only so many pages and you reach the end. Of course, some books are worth reading twice. But eventually you know everything and there’s nothing left to excite you, and the story’s over.”

  “So you just read them and shelve them, huh?”

  “Come on, Mr. Wheeling.”

  “Well?”

  “What’s better than the feeling-out part—the unwrapping, the discovery?” Pauletta asked.

  “Stability? Love? Certainty?” Evers was sincere.

  “Sure.”

  “And for you love’s a ream of pages?”

  “That’s why I think people with poor intellects are more prone to think they’re in love; they’re slow readers with weak memories. They keep finding new chapters or forget old ones, even when they’re dealing with folks who’re about six or seven pages long. Or sometimes they just stop in the middle of the story and start over. Look closely and you’ll discover that children and handicaps and madmen are the most devoted to love. Ever go to a lunacy hearing? Hear all the crazies talk about how they love everyone from their doctor to the trashy relative they just tried to stab with a kitchen knife? Love does better with simpletons.”

  “Jesus. That’s a pretty sorry attitude.” Evers shook his head.

  “No it isn’t. Not at all.”

  “Lots of bright people fall in love. I’ve been in love.”

  “For how long, though? I’m not saying that you don’t fall in love, just that it comes to a close. It decelerates, Judge Wheeling—fades and wanes and flickers and goes away.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Oh, maybe not. Maybe not. Too many drinks make me overly cynical. Maybe that’s all it is.”

  “Are you saying all this because of my wife?” Evers asked.

  “How could I? I don’t know you or your wife.” Pauletta smiled. “Don’t act paranoid.”

  “I see. So are we in our unwrapping stage now?”

  “No. No, we’re not. No rooms at the inn, Jose.” She smiled again.

  “No?”

  “Never fuck your clients, Mr. Wheeling.”

  “And if you do, then don’t stop, right?”

  “Exactly,” she said, still smiling. “Have you ever made love to a sister?”

  “That would be incest.”

  “You know what I mean. At least I hope you do.”

  “Why do you talk like it’s 1968? Why do all glib African Americans talk like it’s 1968? I like Benjamin Hooks and all the old-timers who still call people ‘colored.’”

  “I’m sure you do. So have you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “No.”

  “Good guess. Of course I haven’t. I’ve never even thought about it.” Evers laughed. He bent over his glass and blew air through the small straw, caused his drink to bubble. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.”

  “Blowing off steam?”

  “Have you ever done it with a white man?”

  “‘Done it,’ Judge Wheeling?”

  “I don’t like the term ‘make love.’ It’s stupid.”

  “Yes, I’ve fucked white men.”

  Evers and Pauletta talked some more, then Pauletta asked him to dance. During the first two songs, fast songs, Evers just shuffled his feet and shook his arms by his side; he was uncomfortable about dancing—even though he was almost drunk—and unsure about dancing with Pauletta, who was black. Pauletta was very active, springing and circling around Evers and twisting toward the floor until her knee and thigh came out of the split in her skirt—a blue cotton skirt, with several buttons undone along the split side. The third song was slow and old, the Commodores’ “Three Times a Lady,” and Evers and Pauletta danced together, touching each other.

  “Ever slow dance with a colored girl at Woodhill Forest?”

  “Woodberry Forest.” Evers and Pauletta had talked about schools and vacations and places while they were driving to the club.

  “Woodberry Forest?”

  “No. It was an all-boys school. We didn’t admit colored girls, you see.”

  “Didn’t even think about it, I’ll bet.”

  Evers and Pauletta sat down after the song ended. Evers stood behind her chair and pulled it out for her to sit. “We learned good, courtly manners at Woodhill Forest.”

  “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Wheeling?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Your illness.” She looked at him.

  “Oh. I’m almost over it, like I said. I really am embarrassed about what happened this morning.”

  “What was going on with that, Mr. Wheeling?”

  “Maybe you should call me Evers. I’ll call you Pauletta.”

  “Maybe not. So what was the story with you this morning?”

  “Just a balance problem.” Evers smiled.

  “I’ll say.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  “It’s not concern,” said Pauletta.

  Evers ducked his eyes and rubbed his brow with his thumb and middle finger. “Just a lot of weird shit going on in my life. Stress and so forth. I’m really not taking medicine.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Wheeling?” Pauletta didn’t show any reaction to Evers’ admission.

  “Yes. Yes I am.”

  “Good.”

  “So tell me about Ruth Esther English.” Evers tried to soun
d casual.

  “She’s a client and a friend. And I safeguard my clients’ confidences.”

  “How does a white car salesman from Winston-Salem end up with a black firebrand attorney from West Virginia?”

  Pauletta didn’t answer for a moment. Evers thought she hadn’t heard him.

  “I have no idea. She just called me one day. Out of the blue,” Pauletta finally said. “I have no idea,” she repeated. “I’ve known her for two years now.”

  “And you’re acting as middleman in a bribery scheme?”

  Pauletta ignored Evers. “She’s a very compelling woman. Very compelling.” Pauletta took a drink and kept the glass in her hand. “I take it that you don’t know anything about her either.”

  “No. I’d never—”

  “You know, she rarely eats. Did you know that? I’ve been with her for two or three days at a time, and she rarely eats. She drinks bottled water. Picks at a salad.”

  Evers looked around the bar. “Miss Qwai, is this some sort of sting or scam?”

  “It is not. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “So a highly principled black female attorney, who deplores injustice and unfairness in the system, is offering me a bribe to fix a case?”

  “The system, Mr. Wheeling, is a venal, nasty quagmire. You know that. You’ve let a defendant go because you hunt with his lawyer, or you don’t like the cop in the case because he gave your cousin a speeding ticket. You’ve convicted a twenty-year-old black kid because his pants hung too far down on his butt even though his mother swears he was home in bed when the crime happened. You’re right. I do believe in the system—I believe that it’s frail and full of foibles, that it’s rigged and crooked, and that most of the time poor people and minorities are shot out of a cannon for sport and to make sure that people who read the paper know that you guys aren’t asleep at the switch.”