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12 minute read
Two Trailers (fiction).. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Dunham
TWO TRAILERS
wo weekends after Myra ’ s old neighbors vacated the trailer next to hers, this man and his bony brown Lab pulled in with all his furniture tied down in the bed of his pickup. His and Myra ’ s two trailers sat on either side of a broad driveway, fronting a small thicket of trees nested deep by hills of rolling corn. Myra introduced herself, and he shook her hand with a big grin and eyeballed her breasts.
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“Very pleased to meet you, ” he said. His name was Booker.
A day after moving in, he tacked a confederate flag beside his front door, and after a week of waking early to his truck revving and revving, Myra gave up on sleeping as late as she used to. She slid from under her covers. When her feet touched the cold bathroom floor, she tucked her hands under her arms, sat on the tub’ s rim, and squeaked the hot water faucet. She was accustomed to men looking at her the way Booker had; she was twenty-five and waitressed at Hildebrand’ s, where Nancy, another server, had once told her, “Myra, you could land any man you wanted. ”
But Myra had never wanted men, and since last year, when Tracy left, she hadn ’t wanted many women either.
After breakfast the air hung blue and misty when she locked the trailer behind her. In Booker ’ s back yard, his Lab pined at her over its shoulder. In the past week she ’d once seen Booker out there threatening his dog with a stick, charging, then hiding the stick behind his back and calling sweetly again. She smiled at the pooch and ducked into her Chevette.
She followed the line of telephone poles that ran with the road into town. As a kid she had often seen her father working the tops of poles like these. Standing way up there in the unfolded arm of his cherry picker, he ’d salute her in his hard hat as she walked to school. Now she drove this route five days a week, past barns and silos and the treecovered mountains she never tired of looking at. She pictured herself as an old woman, still living in this valley in the middle of Pennsylvania. She climbed the mountains often, whether alone or with
t
a girlfriend, and had found the hidden cliffs, ridges, and pockets, secrets between her and the landscape. The view of it had been what sold her on the trailer, besides her limited means.
When she moved in four years ago, the Levis, a retired couple, invited her to dinner in the other trailer. During the
Winter Sun by Janice Hayes-Cha © 2012
summer she helped with their yard work and sat outside with them, their two trailers quiet. They ’d been good neighbors.
As she neared downtown, the scenery turned to brick row houses, sidewalks, and stoplights. She parked behind Hildebrand’ s and walked in under the second story porch in the back. The hot kitchen smelled like hash and coffee.
“Happy Tuesday, ” said Norma, the owner, as Myra tied on an apron. Norma had freckles and a hint of crow ’ s feet, and a red braid that swung between her shoulder blades when she walked. “That neighbor still waking you up early?”
“He says he revs the truck to warm it now that it’ s getting chilly, ” Myra said. She breathed in the steam and warmth from the stove, and watched Norma crouch in front of the counter until she was eye-level with a dish, adjusting the garnishes until it looked just so.
“Baloney, ” Norma said. “He likes to hear that engine roar. ”
Myra checked her apron pockets for her pen and pad. Though she mostly waited tables, Norma talked to her over many lunches about refining recipes and developing new ones, and Myra helped cook sometimes now, too. Not long after meeting Norma, her enthusiasm catching and charming, Myra brought garlic and olive oil home to her trailer and tried things she ’d never made before. She moved on from the canned soups and boxed macaroni she ’d habitually made for dinner, staples from when she lived alone with her father, growing up.
Myra pushed open the wobbly door from the kitchen and went out, serving her breakfast patrons a wide and trusting smile. They were all regulars, happy to be up, people she would see and say hi to when she went shopping. Dr. Kingsboro started his practice at eight sharp, and Gracie Stoltzfus opened the thrift across the street at eight-thirty. Myra laughed and traded news of the valley while bringing them their sausage and orange juice, and the morning was over before she bothered to look at her watch.
At lunch, tables and booths grew crowded. Guests barked over each other and forks clinked on plates. Myra sweated as she bustled with meals from the steaming kitchen and cleared piles of napkins and morsels left behind. Her neighbor walked in today, wearing coveralls, thumbs hooked in his pockets. He sat in a booth and looked around at the vintage advertisements and postcards on the walls. When Myra went to him, he grinned.
“I’ll have a black coffee. ” The skin on either side of his moustache crinkled. “And Myra ’ s a pretty name. ”
“Thanks. My mother thought of it. ” She gave him the imitation smile she gave all the men who looked long at her nametag. “I’ll have your coffee right out. ” Mentioning her mother to him felt bitter, like the dregs he ’d leave in his mug. Her mother had been dead since Myra was six, her father now single and full of stories. She put the coffee down in front of Booker.
He ordered a burger, too, and took his time eating. When he finished, Myra found the tip wedged under his plate. She stood there and held the folded five in her hand. Fifty percent.
That night she stood at the counter dicing potatoes, when she heard a knock at the door. She cracked it open partway, the chain still in place, and held the paring knife in her apron pocket. “Can I help you?”
“Howdy. ” Booker had put a denim jacket on over his coveralls. His Lab sat on a leash beside him. “Thinking about taking my grill out this weekend, having a few beers. I thought since you ’ re alone out here you might want to come over awhile. ”
She gave him the same waitress smile from before. “I can ’t. I’ m visiting my father this weekend. ” That was a lie. She looked down. “Handsome dog you have. ”
“Thanks. I keep her trained pretty good. ” He ruffled the dog ’ s neck. It blinked at him, licked its lips. Myra still stood behind the chain. Booker said, “Feel free to stop over. There ’ll be plenty of food on Saturday. ” He turned and crunched across the gravel, unleashed his dog into his back yard.
Myra closed the door and slid the deadbolt into place. Leaving town for a day or two didn ’t sound bad. If she called her father and asked if he ’d like her over, of course he ’d say yes.
Two days later in Hildebrand’ s, after helping a pair of wrinkled women in hats, she turned and almost smacked into Booker ’ s chest. She had to look up at him, that grin growing repellent the closer it got.
“Hi, ” she said. “Just pick whichever seat you like. Nancy will be over to take your order in a second, okay?” She carried her load of dishes to the kitchen, and the door swung shut behind her. She stayed out of sight of the little window and waited for him to sit down or leave.
Norma looked over her shoulder from cooking. “You all right?”
Myra smiled her waitress smile. “Catching my breath a second, ” she said. Booker left without ordering.
After work she drove home as the sun set behind the mountains. The slope of them on either side rose gentle but firm, cradling the valley. Their green turned to warm gold in the light. Soon she walked behind her trailer, through the thicket to the edge of the corn. The stalks were brown and would be harvested soon, but for now they stood shielding and tall. On summer days she would get lost in them, the green leaves brushing her arms until she found a hollow and shade to sit in.
She held herself in the wind and watched the shadows creep up the hill. The last tip of sun sank out of sight, and she was cold. She went inside and called her father, said she ’d drive up on Saturday for lunch. He said her old room was always ready.
On Friday, after stopping at the supermarket, Myra saw Booker in his yard in a lawn chair, Bud in hand, wearing a white tank top and baseball cap. He
faced her trailer like he was lounging at the beach, waiting for a wave to roll in.
“Afternoon, ” he called, raising his
beer can.
“Hello, ” Myra said. She carried two paper bags of groceries, and felt him watching her backside as she turned and climbed the steps. Inside, she put the chicken in the freezer so it wouldn ’t spoil on the road tomorrow. She made dinner standing by the sink, and kept glancing out the window above it to see if Booker had gone. After eating, she packed clothes into a shoulder bag. Booker finally went inside when it got dark, and his windows glowed.
She shut the curtains and sat in the easy chair her father gave her when she moved into the trailer. The cushion had a hollow in it six inches deep now, and the snugness made her think of when she ’d still been with Tracy. Of the comfort in a woman holding her, of curling against a smooth back before sleep. On the weekends, they had sat at a patio table in Myra ’ s back yard, thicket on three sides, trailer along the fourth. It gave her the safety she ’d felt in the clearings in the woods and on the slopes where she ’d taken girls in community college. Back then she still lived with her father, and none of those girlfriends ever saw her house. Once, her father twisted his face at two women holding hands on the street, and she ’d never forgotten it. After two years full of brief relationships, she finished her Associate ’ s in History and decided she needed space. With what she made in tips, the trailer was all she could afford.
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Myra ’ s father waited on the porch where they ’d read and talked and on warm nights listened to frogs and crickets when she was a girl. As always his gut stuck out, and she ’d forgotten how gray his hair had gone. A grin cracked his face, and the boards creaked as he treaded down the stairs to meet her. He gave Myra a bear hug as she stepped from the Chevette. It was good to be in his arms. When he let go, he left his big hands cupping her shoulders.
“It’ s good to see you, ” he said.
She walked to the house with him. “Want to see what I’ ve been cooking?”
Her father sat at the table while she put together a chicken sandwich with sautéed mushrooms and peppers. He told her about preparing to retire from the phone company after thirty-three years. It was hard for her to picture him without his gloves and tools, the driveway next to the house empty of his cherry picker. She asked him what he would do.
“Bill next door ’ s getting a group together to fix old hiking trails, ” he said. “It might take all next year. They say being outdoors helps you live longer, and now ’ s no time to stop. ”
Myra tried never to spend a day all indoors either. She had hiked with her father a lot, and he ’d even taken her shooting once or twice.
“You should tell me when you start, ” she said. “I could go along. ”
“You bet. ” He watched her cook, got quiet, and looked at his lap. “I was also thinking I’d get more involved at church. I always felt it’d be right to give a bit more. ”
She thought of the chair back at her place, the silverware set, and other furnishings he ’d bought for her when she paid for the trailer. For most of her childhood she ’d gone with him to the Baptist church three blocks down, though when high school and weekend homework rolled around, she stayed home. On the Sundays when she was free, she slept late. Readings like Paul’ s letter to the Romans talked about women lusting for women, and she felt like whoever read them looked straight at her, small in the pew, even though she hadn ’t told anyone she liked girls. On the way out of worship it unnerved her to shake the pastor ’ s
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