The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living

by Martin Clark

  The Lord forgives us our sins, and he understands temptation and doubt. His own Son cried out on the cross, just for a moment, feeling the burden of uncertainty and the pull of evil. I have asked that He might forgive me, and I entreat you to remember me kindly in the coming months despite my transgressions. This letter is at once your absolution and your dismissal, my declaration of my love for you and my harsh departure from your wonderful countenance. I hope you will have it with you always, to make you complete, to present as your pardon, to use as your shield and to lay upon your bosom so that I can touch your heart.

  If you would care to write me, please address me at my new lodging: William Jennings Bryan, the Stanley House, 112 E Street, Washington, D.C. This address should find me for about another month. Again, I ask that you forgive me our misdeeds and continue to hold me in your thoughts. You are wise, preternaturally so, past your young years, heavenly and beautiful, a godsend. I hope that I have not disturbed any of that.

  Yours,

  William

  P.S. I am enclosing a small locket and have added several postage stamps to insure a speedy and safe delivery into your hands. I purchased the stamps this morning and observed that they were printed incorrectly—quite a novelty, I think, and perhaps somehow appropriate for this correspondence. All my best.

  “Shit,” said Evers. “William Jennings Bryan?” The air conditioner was blowing on him, the fan was on high and the car engine was running. He wiped the sweat off his lip. “What in the world?” He turned back to the first page and rolled the window up. He read the letter again and got hotter, then turned the vent so it was blowing air hard into his face. He began to fight with his breath; he couldn’t slow his breathing down, started gagging in air that never made it into his windpipe. Pauletta saw his expression—captured and panicked, his eyes wide, spellbound sights—and she put her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?” Pauletta’s speech was perfect and clean. “You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

  “I’m just hot and I’m—think about this, Pauletta, what this is. Think about it.” Evers’ lungs seemed scorched and constricted, squeezed together. “This is like being at the foot of an avalanche.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “The letter. It’s from William Jennings Bryan. Put this all together.”

  “Put what together?” She took her hand off Evers’ arm. “I’m a little disappointed, to tell you the truth. I’d hoped for Rasputin or Scott Fitzgerald, or at least a presidential candidate who’d won the election.”

  “It all fits,” Evers said.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Are you shocked to learn that a hypocritical old populist and itinerant pitchman for the Lord serviced a young girl and then blew her off with a lot of blandishments and silly flatland piety? You look absolutely sick. Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

  “You don’t get it?”

  “Get what? That it’s a good thing he wasn’t elected president? That he fucked a young woman while thumping the Bible—the world’s full of that. Should we contact his biographer? The National Archives, what? A Current Affair? It’s sad, it’s interesting, it’s good minor history, but so what? It’s hardly breathtaking.”

  Evers wiped his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s Ruth Esther. That’s why she wanted the letter.”

  “What?”

  “The letter is written to Ruth Esther, okay? It’s written to her.”

  Pauletta pulled back until she was pressed up against the window on her side of the car. She arched her eyebrows and pushed her chin into the top of her chest. “Have you lost your mind? What are you talking about?” She laughed. “You’re stoned, aren’t you? You went into the restroom when we stopped for gas and smoked dope, didn’t you? You sad motherfucker.”

  “That’s why she wanted the letter—she had the affair. It’s her letter.”

  Pauletta put her hands over her face for a moment. “The letter was written in 1918. That would make Ruth Esther something like ninety-five or a hundred years old. She’s not that old. She looks like she’s in her mid-twenties.”

  “Why else would she want it? It’s worth maybe five thousand dollars, and she gives up millions to get it. It’s addressed to her. She—”

  “It’s addressed to ‘Ruth,’ not ‘Ruth Esther.’”

  “She—the woman in the letter—loves cars.” Evers waved his hands to make his point.

  “So does John DeLorean. And Dale Earnhardt. And Mario Andretti. So what?”

  “She never eats. Never.”

  “She does eat, just not very much. Maybe she surfeits herself on Swiss Cake Rolls and chocolate milk when you’re not around.”

  “The alabaster tears? Explain that,” Evers demanded. He waved his hands again. Sweat started running from his temple to the bottom of his jaw, and he didn’t bother to wipe his face, just let the water go where it wanted to.

  “Your friend Doctor Rudy explained that to you. Don’t you remember telling me that when we were sitting in the woods with Pascal and your piece-of-shit shrine? You have a plastic top full of frozen pus.”

  “The wishes. I’m serious about this. Rudy gets a car. Henry wins the lottery. Jo Miller kills herself, and she had cancer—a double winner.”

  “And Pascal asked to go to jail. That was his wish, right?” Pauletta was still leaning against the door of the Datsun.

  “I think he wanted some piece of mind and equilibrium and a chance to square off his life. To do something for me. And that’s what he got. I already told you that. In a way, that was the start of all this, the first little glimmer, my brother being so good to me.”

  Pauletta studied him and didn’t say anything. He was still gasping and panting and perspiring. “So what, Evers, what? She’s a vampire, a goddess, some divinity? She’s a hundred years old? Oh. And this. Think about this. If she’s a child in 1918, or at least a young woman, how is she still the same age in 1980 when her mother took her to the shelter? She was a teenager when she turned up at Anchor House. And her mother is like a hundred and fifty years old? That’s your take on all of this, right?”

  Evers looked out through the windshield. Two men walked into Lester’s business. A man with a dog on a leash passed the Datsun and waved at Evers and Pauletta; the dog stopped and peed on the base of a parking meter. “Listen. You’re the one who constantly tells me not to mope and to believe in something, right? That the world isn’t just bingo balls popping around on compressed air?”

  Pauletta looked confused. Her voice came out in a high pitch, and she slurred her words. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “When did you figure this all out?”

  “Just now, when I read the letter. It’s not conventional, but it makes sense,” he added.

  “I guess that’s good, then. Good for you.” She watched him for several seconds. “So what do you think Ruth Esther is … what?”

  “A godsend. Just like the letter said. Think about this, and bear with me. All the pieces that go into this, the trail from beginning to end, how it worked out. This much coincidence and fortuity can’t just be coincidence, the way this all lies down together. I get Artis’ case, meet Ruth Esther, Rudy gets a car, my wife is wiped off the planet, my brother ends up with a chance to redeem himself and I get word that the world has a sense of order and get out of all kinds of muck and quagmire. And I meet you. You believe in the rightness of things—hard work, reward, subjugating chaos, that sort of thing. Plus we’re a good match for each other, whether you want to admit it or not.”

  “I think … that there’s a lot going on, and that the world’s hooked up to run in a fair fashion. I think everything carries its own weight. But you put happenstance, fate, luck, fortune, divine ordination and jackass schemes in a bag and shake them out and turn them over in your hand, and you can’t eyeball th
e difference, tell which is which. You can’t see behind the curtain, whether it’s full of cogs and wenches or dead solid empty.”

  “I thought that you were a little more spiritual than that.” Evers wasn’t panting as much; he turned the fan down.

  “You are a manic man, foolish. Zipping from one state to another. You go from thinking that the world’s a claptrap, ramshackle shit-storm to divining supernatural guideposts from irrational, impossible assumptions and half-assed references in an overwrought love letter. Sitting here in your car with four pages of copy paper. Sweating like a morphine addict, perspiration about to turn your collar a different color. All this sudden enlightenment, after years of bad decisions, bad living, flippant, cavalier attitudes and endless bellyaching. Just like that?”

  Evers dropped his head back and stared at the roof of his car. His breathing had almost returned to normal. “You’re right. But some good things can come out of tragedy of your own making, I guess. I can try to make amends. To do better. The cranks we turn, all the levers we pull. Oedipus ended up blind but sage … and Paul, Paul on the road to Damascus … and Nixon. Look at Nixon or …” Evers quit speaking, just stopped. “I don’t care. If you don’t think it makes any sense, I don’t care. That’s your business.”

  “Well, I’m happy that you’re uplifted, at least. A zealot’s nutty enthusiasm will certainly be more pleasant than all of your glum mumbling.” The disbelief had gone out of Pauletta’s face. “It’s your life. What will it be next week—crystals and pyramids, or Amway?”

  “I thought you’d be a little more encouraging.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s ask Ruth Esther. See what she says, get her reaction.” Pauletta flattened her feet against the floorboard and pushed herself up in the seat.

  Evers thought for a moment. “I’ll bet you she’s gone. I’ll bet she’s not at the car dealership, and that she’s moved. Disappeared. Vanished. We will never see her again.”

  “But you’ll always know she’s there, right? That’s the way the fable works. When you look into the sky on a cold, cold winter’s night and a star dims and brightens, winks at you, or tumbles and somersaults across the horizon, when you look up or feel down, she’ll be watching over you, moving you around with gentle nudges and heavenly reminders.”

  “I don’t know. Why not?”

  “And your shrine, your holy relic, is literally a few abnormal tears. Tears with some strange discharge in a liquor decanter. And these drops in a ketchup top are the key to the church, dilithium crystals for the engine, correct? It’s like E equals mc squared to physics, penicillin for bad throats and venereal disease. Am I on the train? Yes?” Pauletta was trying not to grin, her lips bunched up and straining at the corners.

  “Let’s go show her the letter; I think that’s a great idea. And you’ve seen the tears—they look like liquid marble. Don’t try to downplay that. And why in the world do we end up in Salt Lake City? Huh? With this big stone temple looking down on all this—how did Ruth Esther put it, that her money was ‘watched over’? I’ll ask about that, too.”

  “Okay. You do that. I hope we can find her though, get to her before she turns into mist.”

  “So you tell me why Ruth Esther gives up millions and pays thousands to get a letter worth a few grand and works like a Trojan to make sure she recovers it. You still haven’t answered that.”

  “That’s a valid point. But there are several explanations. And it assumes, of course, that Lester gave us the correct letter.”

  “I saw the letter in Utah. This is the same letter.”

  Evers drove the Datsun from Lester Jackson’s to the car dealership where Ruth Esther worked. He and Pauletta walked into the showroom and asked a receptionist at a switchboard where they could find Ruth Esther.

  “She’s gone,” the receptionist said. She had on a headset, and a small mouthpiece was in front of her chin. The mouthpiece was covered by a black ball of sponge. “Vaughn Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu,” she said into the air. “Please hold.” She punched a button and repeated the greeting to another caller.

  “I knew it.” Evers made a fist and hit the flat of his hand. “I told you.”

  “When did she leave?” Pauletta asked the receptionist.

  “Vaughn Ford-Lincoln-Mercury-Jeep-Eagle-Isuzu. I’ll connect you.” The receptionist looked up. “I’m not sure.”

  “I told you, Pauletta. Miss Naysayer, Miss Hypercritical Castigator of the Weak.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Pauletta wondered. “Or leave any kind of information that we could use to locate her?”

  “Is it an emergency or something?” The receptionist pulled her microphone away from her mouth.

  “Sort of, yes.”

  “Well, she and Chuck Lofton, one of the other sales representatives, went to a dealership down in Hickory to pick up a vehicle. We swapped a blue Grand Cherokee for a champagne-colored one. Ruth Esther had a customer who wanted that color with a couple of options, and we put it up on the locater and found it right off. They should be back pretty soon. They left this morning. Do you want me to call the dealership down there and see if they’ve left?”

  “Hickory, huh?” Pauletta said.

  “Yes. If it’s important, I can try to get her there or try her cell phone.”

  “If she’s due back soon, we can just wait.” Pauletta looked sideways at Evers.

  “She’s not here yet,” he stuttered. “She hasn’t walked through the door. We’ll see.”

  “Your prediction is looking very, very feeble, Judge Wheeling.”

  The dealership was full of people and banners and refreshments, and the showroom was noisy and busy. “What’s going on today?” Pauletta asked.

  “It’s all week,” the receptionist answered. “From Friday to Friday. It’s our Door-to-Door promotion. A really big deal. Help yourself to the food or drinks. And if you’re in a hurry or need something right away, I can get another sales rep for you.”

  “Thanks. We’ll just relax and wait for Ruth Esther.”

  The receptionist took them into Ruth Esther’s office and shut the door when she left. She came back a few minutes later with soft drinks and two green apples. Evers set his drink and fruit on the corner of Ruth Esther’s desk and didn’t touch them again. Pauletta left for a while and looked at cars and flipped through brochures. When she came back, she mentioned to Evers that there was a circus truck in the parking lot, getting ready to unload some kind of animal. Right after that, Evers saw Ruth Esther walk into the building. The receptionist said something to her and pointed toward Evers and Pauletta. Ruth Esther came into her office smiling and surprised. She grabbed Pauletta’s hands, kissed her cheek, then held on to her hands and took a step backward. When she let go of Pauletta, she hugged Evers and asked him how he was.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s so great to see both of you.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” Evers replied.

  “I’m afraid that our visit isn’t completely social, Ruth Esther,” Pauletta said.

  “Oh. What is it? I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “No. However, Judge Wheeling wants to ask you something. He has some questions left over from Utah.”

  Ruth Esther sat down behind her desk and started fanning herself with a magazine. “It’s still hot, isn’t it? I don’t think it will ever cool down.” She kept waving the magazine. “What else is there about our trip, Evers?”

  He bit his lip before saying anything. “Why did you want the letter so badly? I’m not asking to be, uh, prying or pushy or anything, but you gave up tons of money and took considerable risks to get it.”

  “Why do you think I did it?” Ruth Esther laid her magazine down and put her fingertips under her chin. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I wanted it because it was important to me.”

  “Why is it so important? That’s what I’m trying to find out. How much could a letter from William Jennings Bryan mean t
o you? And how do you get a letter from someone in 1918?”

  “What is it that you think, Evers? Tell me.” She glanced at Pauletta. “How did you find out who wrote the letter? Did you see that when we were at the bank?” Ruth Esther lowered her hands but kept her fingers together “It’s funny that you’d know and not say anything about it till now.”

  Evers looked at the floor. “Well, I … to tell you the truth, I bought a copy from Lester. I hope that doesn’t offend you, and I don’t think it will since I needed to find out about the letter anyway. See, I think it’s all connected. Strange, but connected. To answer your other question, I think you wanted the letter because it was written to you.” He picked up speed, blurted the sentence out. “I think that it was critical that you get it for a number of reasons. First, because it’s personal, you know, romantic, a love letter. And over and above that, it shows that William Jennings Bryan was a cad, a hypocrite and a masher. You need to have the letter to safeguard his reputation. And most importantly, it shows very bad failings on the part of two divine instruments, you and William Jennings Bryan, which would compromise and erode faith and order and decency even more than they’ve already been diminished. People don’t like to see their standard-bearers with their zippers down. Except me. I mean—I don’t care about the zipper part—I mean that for me, I’m probably the one person you could recruit who would find something good in all this. And that’s why I’m in the loop and dealing with this.” Evers put his hands, palms down, on the front of Ruth Esther’s desk and swayed forward. “That would sound silly to some folks, but you tell me where I’m wrong.”

  “Well, to begin with, I’m not a hundred years old or however old I’d need to be. Are you serious? I get the feeling you’re pullin’ my leg.” Ruth Esther’s lips were open just a little, and she blinked several times, as if something uncomfortable was under her eyelids. “The letter isn’t to me. It’s to my grandmother, Ruth. I’m Ruth Esther. That’s why I use two names. She’s the only tie I have, the only family I know about. My mother’s mother. My mother was … she was a little touched, sort of crazy. And she was a bad drinker. The letter and a few other things are all I have about my family. My real family. That’s all there is to it. Understand? I don’t have any family—except Artis—and don’t know anything about my blood and background except for this letter and a few pieces of furniture and some pictures. See, the Englishes adopted us—they weren’t our real parents. Everybody prizes different kinds of stuff, usually stuff that you don’t have or that’s hard to get. The letter’s like my family Bible or family farm or grandfather’s watch, you see. It means more to me than money. Some things you can’t put a price on. I don’t think that’s really your business, or else I would’ve told you to begin with. But now you know.”