The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

“Shit.”

  “Who is it?” Pauletta pulled her chair closer to the table.

  “Un-fucking-believable.” Evers drank some more of Pascal’s beer.

  “Who is this guy, Evers?” Pascal asked.

  “It sounds a lot like Warren Dillon. He’s a police officer, in Winston-Salem. Shit. Remember this morning, when I told you I was so whacked out that I thought I was hearing things? I stopped to buy something to drink at one of those sidewalk booths, and I thought I heard his voice. I think he was trying to hail a cab.”

  “Why would he be here?”

  “You’ll love this. He’s the cop who arrested Artis on the cocaine charge. He’s also the cop who stepped all over his dick at trial and made it ridiculously easy for Artis to walk.”

  “Damn.” Pascal laughed. “We’ve been hoodwinked by Artis and Sasquatch.” He laughed some more. “By two fucking monkeys. Sub-humans. Marginal primates.”

  “You don’t think he’s after us, do you?” Pauletta asked Evers.

  “Hardly. I doubt he’d be robbing people if he were here on legitimate police business.”

  “True.” Pauletta was quiet for a moment, thinking. She scratched off part of the label on her beer. “That makes sense; you’re probably right. I guess that’s the good news, huh?”

  “So why did you give those two idiots our money, Pascal?”

  “Because the tall, bearded one had a gun. That’s easy.”

  “A gun?” Pauletta seemed surprised.

  “Yeah. Evers’ policeman friend walked right through the door and pointed it at me.”

  “No shit?”

  “And when he pointed it at me, I told him where the money was. They would’ve found it anyway.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Evers. But you know, when I looked, it was just Artis, and I did look before I let him in. And he couldn’t have done anything to me by himself. The other guy just came out of the room across the hall so quickly, and I wasn’t going to test his resolve, you know? When I saw the gun, I gave him the money. Sorry.”

  “I don’t blame you for that, not at all,” Evers said.

  “I don’t either,” Pauletta agreed.

  “I wonder …” Evers stopped. “Where’s Ruth Esther? You didn’t see her, did you, Pascal?”

  “Nope. She left with you guys, remember?”

  “She wasn’t hungry, though. Pauletta and I ate by ourselves. She said she was going to walk around the city some.”

  Pauletta’s expression changed, her face tightened. “I would hope you don’t think she participated in this.” She was looking at Evers, hard.

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “You still have your bag of stones, don’t you, Evers?” Pascal asked.

  “Yes. I do.”

  “So why would she take your money? Our money? We’re protected either way.” Pascal slid forward in his chair.

  “And the rest of the money belongs to Artis and to Ruth Esther,” Pauletta pointed out. “It’s hard to steal from yourself.”

  “What about you, Pauletta?” Pascal wondered.

  “None of the money belonged to me.”

  “So Artis basically took his fifty thousand, stole his sister’s twenty-five and our twenty-five. I wonder if he knew that Ruth Esther gave Evers the gems to hold?”

  “I doubt it,” Pauletta said. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t have cared.”

  “What if the gems aren’t real?”

  “Didn’t you have them appraised?” Pauletta asked Evers. “I gave them to you well in advance so you could. And I know they’re genuine, that much I can promise you—I helped buy them, remember? I am—”

  “I’m sure they’re real and worth what you say,” Pascal interrupted Pauletta. “I don’t doubt that.”

  Evers’ head started to ache. “If the stones are fake, then we’re out twenty-five grand.”

  Pauletta folded her arms across her chest. “If the stones were fake, why the fuck would Ruth Esther even bother to bring you out here? Why would she come to your brother’s home, open the clues, meet you at the airport and fly to Utah, and then have her brother take your pitiful little twenty-five thousand? Once she got Artis out of jail, she didn’t need to see you again. She didn’t have to do a damn thing for you the instant Artis walked out of court. You’re the most paranoid, pessimistic, faithless man I have ever met. And I resent your questioning my word.”

  “I’m prudent and healthily skeptical. It’s my personality type that got us off the flat-world theory and discredited the medicinal use of leeches. As for your word, I believe what you’re telling me; it’s just that you’re not a jeweler.”

  “You are a blindly cynical man. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Pauletta picked up her beer. “You really should,” she said after she had drunk some of the beer and set her glass down.

  Pauletta, Evers and Pascal stayed at the table drinking and smoking and talking for another hour or so, until Ruth Esther came into the lobby. She waved at them and walked into the bar. Before she could sit down, Evers explained that Artis had stolen their money and that he was most likely gone.

  “Did he really? Did he?” Ruth Esther was still standing. She put her hand over her mouth.

  “He did,” Pascal said. “He and another man.”

  “He took your money and our money, too?” Ruth Esther asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who helped him? You know he had to have help.” Ruth Esther caught the top of a chair and slumped forward, held herself up with her palms and straight arms.

  “Judge Wheeling thinks it was the police officer—Dillon? Is that his name?—who arrested Artis.” Pauletta cut her eyes at Evers. “And, of course, the judge has been curious as to your whereabouts.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ruth Esther sat down. “I am so sorry. No one was hurt, though, right?”

  “Right,” said Pascal.

  “Well, certainly you’ve done your part, Judge Wheeling. You should just hold on to your payment from Pauletta.” Ruth Esther put her hands over her face and dragged them down until just the tips of her fingers were touching her chin. “I am so disappointed in Artis. And this policeman, what’s he doing here taking our money?”

  “Imagine that,” Pauletta sneered. “A cop on the take.”

  The four of them sat there, quiet and thinking, sipping beer, looking around, smoking cigarettes, watching the waiters, the door and people at other tables, until Pascal started to grin and then laughed. Evers smiled some, too.

  “Who the fuck knows?” Pascal said, and started laughing harder. “What a funhouse trip. You were right, Ruth Esther—we travel across the country with strangers to a dandy city with the biggest lake I’ve ever seen, find a treasure, get stung by two half-wits, end up without our money and still aren’t sure what happened.” Pascal picked up his cigarette from an ashtray.

  “You have a good attitude, Pascal. Thank you.” Ruth Esther touched the top of his hand.

  “And we still have another day here, correct? We were supposed to go to the bank tomorrow, then leave the next day, right?”

  “Yes.” Pauletta nodded.

  “Great. Then I guess we just need to enjoy the rest of our road trip, chew what’s left of the party feast right down to the bone.”

  “I agree,” said Pauletta. She held up her glass. “To the trip.”

  “I’m glad everyone is so damned ebullient,” Evers said. He sat back in his chair.

  “I think things will work out for you,” Ruth Esther said.

  “I do, too,” Pauletta volunteered. “And I couldn’t help but notice that you were smiling a little bit a moment ago. That’s good. Everything will be fine.”

  “I hope so. It’s nice of you both to say that.” Evers held up his glass, and everyone toasted and drank. Pascal left soon afterward, headed back to the desert, looking for the woman with wild hair. Evers went to the fron
t desk and asked about a bus tour and the This Is The Place Monument; he brought some flyers and brochures back to the table.

  About twenty minutes after Pascal left, Pauletta noticed something peculiar about one of the waiters, noticed that he had come out of the kitchen empty-handed, turned left toward the guest elevators and never returned to the bar or restaurant. She whispered several sentences to Ruth Esther, and both women put their purses in their laps and covered them with their hands. She told Evers what she’d seen, and about ten minutes later the man reappeared. All of them, at just about the same time, recognized Lester Jackson goose-stepping back to the kitchen in a tuxedo shirt and black pants; his hair was dyed black, and he had a mustache glued to his lip.

  Evers shouted at him just as he went through the door. “Lester. Hey, Lester! Couple more Buds and some bar nuts, please.”

  Lester looked over his shoulder before the doors swung shut, but he didn’t stop or come back out.

  “What a fucking dunce,” Evers said. “Does he think we’d just leave the money in our rooms unattended?”

  Pauletta and Ruth Esther started laughing. “Oh, goodness,” Ruth Esther said. She and Pauletta laughed harder, until they both were gasping and sputtering and wiping their eyes. “He looked like Charlie Chaplin!” Ruth Esther barely got the words out.

  “Actually, I thought he looked sort of like Johnny Depp in that stupid Don Juan movie,” Evers said. “And you know—you just know—that he has trashed our rooms, gone through everything we own and thrown our clothes all over the place. One more pain in the ass, huh? But I’m glad you guys think this is all such a riot.”

  Evers could not decide what to do with Pascal’s clothes and luggage, whether he should take them with him or leave them at the hotel. Since leaving everyone to go to the desert two days before, Pascal had not returned to the hotel, nor had he called. Evers finally decided to take Pascal’s belongings with him. Evers himself had barely unpacked; he had worn the same shorts every day, most of the time with the same shirt, wandering around impaired and ratty.

  Pascal was not at the airport thirty minutes before time to leave, and Evers began to worry. He called the hotel, but there was no word from Pascal. Evers finally saw his brother after about half the passengers had been loaded onto the plane; Ruth Esther and Pauletta had waited with him until their seats were called to board, leaving every few minutes to check the bar and other gates. Pascal was wearing shorts and cheap plastic flip-flops he’d bought in Salt Lake, and his eyes were red.

  He walked up to Evers but didn’t sit down. “I forgot what time we were going to leave. Shit.”

  Evers grinned. “Today. Now.”

  “I tried calling all morning, and they said the fucking room phone was out of order. How about that?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I figured it was time to go when they said you’d checked out.” Pascal rubbed his hand through his hair.

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “I had a good time,” Pascal said. “I hope you didn’t get worried about me.”

  “I knew you were fine.”

  Pascal spent a good portion of the flight back to the East asleep under a fuzzy yellow blanket; Ruth Esther and Pauletta put on headphones and watched the movie. When dinner came, Evers didn’t wake Pascal to let him know that it was being served. Cheese, butter, hard rolls and grapes. Evers drove his plastic fork into the top of the roll and said, “Now the bread is sporting a turret.” The man to his right looked at him, then at the bread and fork. Evers realized that the statement was strange, and that the passenger beside him probably thought that he was crazy or drunk.

  The plane landed in Atlanta, and while Pascal and Evers were walking toward their connecting flight to Greensboro, Evers told his brother that he didn’t like the airport, started rambling and hawing, shaking his head as they went along.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, Evers?” Pascal was looking at a blond woman in front of them. “You’re just going on about nothing.”

  “I don’t know. Sorry. I have a weird feeling.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Shit. What do we do now that we’re back?” Evers asked.

  “I don’t know. What I’ve always done. Pretend I’m a pro bowler, a blithe vagabond, a swallowtail on a dandelion breeze.”

  “Things are not good. I’ve fucked up. I’ve been fucked up, and going to Utah didn’t change a whole lot. Jo Miller is still screwing a stranger, and my life is in total upheaval. Pascal, I don’t know if I can get away from this. I can’t really live like you, be like you, just let things go. And I tried, I did—I tried for the last couple of days.”

  “But you didn’t fuck anybody while we were gone. Good for you. That’ll help you with the gods.”

  “Did you sleep with the cigar woman?”

  “You know I did. Of course.” Pascal kept walking, looking ahead. “I’d fuck just about anybody.”

  “How about Jo Miller?” Evers asked.

  “Sure. I think she’s attractive.”

  Evers looked at his brother. “Have you fucked my wife?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course.” Evers suddenly had a dark, numb feeling. “Of course it does.”

  “Well, I haven’t.”

  Evers slowed down but didn’t stop walking. “You’re lying. I can tell. You are.” He felt sick and thought about sitting down.

  “What does it matter?” Pascal asked.

  “It does matter. You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Swear it. Swear you haven’t.”

  “I swear,” Pascal said.

  “You’re fucking lying. You’ve never lied to me before, and now you’re lying.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Tell me about the sinister airport again.” Pascal tried to change the subject.

  “I can tell you’re not being honest.” Evers shook his head. He felt wasted, tired. “I guess it doesn’t make much difference anyway. Not now.” He looked at his brother. “I wonder if she did it just to irritate me?”

  “You’re my brother, Evers, okay? She’s your wife.”

  “I can’t believe you fucked my wife. I can’t believe you would lie to me. Jo Miller has managed to poison and fuck up about everything in my life, and this is the coup de grâce.”

  “Evers, I don’t know why you think I slept with Jo Miller. You’re a good brother; I wouldn’t do anything to cross us up.”

  Evers didn’t say anything.

  Pauletta and Ruth Esther caught up with the brothers at the Greensboro gate, and Ruth Esther offered Evers a Tums tablet. “You look a little peaked,” she pointed out.

  He took one of the tablets and crunched it up in his back teeth. “I may have to go to the toilet before we get on the plane. I’m just about ready to puke.”

  “Let’s get aboard, Evers,” Pascal said. “Come on. You can just use the john there. Let’s go home.”

  SIX

  ONCE HE GOT BACK FROM UTAH, ON A THURSDAY, EVERS WENT to see his wife. While he was driving to Durham down Interstate 40, Evers thought about Jo Miller, and how the two of them had been separated—a sad, sorry and unexpected division he was still unaccustomed to. About ten miles away from her farm, in the middle of familiar turns and looking out at signs, barns, stores and ponds he knew by heart, Evers thought about reconciliation, about putting this behind them, and then he got angry and boiled and seethed again, hurt bleeding into pride around the edges.

  When Evers walked into the house, Jo Miller was sitting in the kitchen reading a hardback book. She was in a small, straight wooden chair, and one of her cats—Steinem, the oldest—was sleeping on a rug in front of her. Jo Miller looked up at Evers and smiled some. “Hello, Evers.” He’d called her before he left Norton, told her that he wanted to ride down for a visit, asked about her family and if she’d finished painting the guest bedroom.

  “Hi.”

  “You loo
k good.” She sounded sincere.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Think we could talk again for a minute or so?” Evers was nervous. He felt dizzy and flushed, and could taste the spit in his mouth.

  “Sure.” Jo Miller put her book down.

  “I’m sorry things have deteriorated so much,” Evers said.

  “So am I. I don’t want us to get to the point we got to when you called from Utah. I’m sorry; some of that was my fault.” She didn’t look at Evers.

  “I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have blown up like I did.”

  Jo Miller paused. “Certainly you don’t think I’ve been a bad wife, or that I shouldn’t be treated fairly.”

  “What I wish is that our marriage had worked out and … do you think if I tried … that maybe we could get back together?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Jo?”

  “Evers, I’m not trying to be cold or hard or a bitch, but I don’t think so. I don’t want us to be as bad as we were when this all started. I want us to be decent to each other, but I’m happier now than I’ve been in two years. Too much time and space wore us down.”

  “So, I mean …” Evers closed his eyes for a few seconds, and everything went black.

  “I’m not sure what else to say.”

  “So you’re choosing that fucking farmer over me?” Evers’ voice was low; he bit his lip when he finished talking.

  “It’s not a question of choosing you or him.”

  Evers noticed that Jo Miller looked thin. She coughed when she finished speaking, put her head down and her hands over her mouth. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It’s just my seasonal cold; they hang around for a while.”

  “Are you sure about us, Jo Miller? This is what you want to do?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Evers hesitated, looked at a bowl of apples on the counter and fingered the plastic lighter in his pocket. “Well, why can’t we put this behind us, at least? Work something out?”

  “I want to,” she said.

  “Do you still want half of what I own?”

  “I do, Evers. I do. And I think that I’m entitled to it and to alimony, also.”