Trailerpark (13 page)

“Be careful,” the girl said. “We'll run aground in a minute.” She watched the bottom nervously.

The man looked over her head and beyond, all the way to the shore and the trailerpark. The shapes of the trailers were blurred together in the distance so that you could not tell where one trailer left off and another began. “I wish I could just leave you here,” the man said, still not looking at her.

“What?”

The boat drifted silently in the smooth water between a pair of large rocks, barely disturbing the surface. The man's dark face was somber and ancient beneath the turban that covered his head and the back of his neck. He had leaned forward on his seat, his forearms resting wearily on his thighs, his large hands hanging limply between his knees. “I wish I could just leave you here,” he said in a soft voice, and he looked down at his hands.

She looked nervously around her, as if for an ally or a witness.

Finally, the man slipped the oars into the oarlocks and started rowing, turning the boat and shoving it quickly away from the island. Facing the trailerpark, he rowed along the side of the island, then around behind it, out of sight of the trailerpark and the people who lived there, emerging again in a few moments on the far side of the island, rowing steadily, smoothly, powerfully. Now his back was to the trailerpark, and the girl was facing it, looking grimly past the man toward the shore.

He rowed, and they said nothing more, and in a while they had returned to shore and life among the people who lived there. A few of them were in the water and on the beach when the dark green rowboat touched land and the black man stepped out and drew the boat onto the sand. The old man in the white bathing cap was standing in waist-deep water, and the woman who was the manager of the trailerpark stood near the edge of the water, cooling her feet and ankles. The old man with the cob pipe was still chipping at the bottom of his rowboat, and next to him, watching and idly chatting, stood the kid with the long blond hair. They all watched silently as the black man turned away from the dark green rowboat and carried his fishing rod and tackle box away, and then they watched the girl, carrying her yellow towel, magazine and bottle of tanning lotion, step carefully out of the boat and walk to where she lived with her mother. It was very hot, and no one said anything.

I
T WAS MID
-O
CTOBER
. The leaves were already off the trees and were leathery brown on the frozen ground, and in the gray skies and early darkness you could feel winter coming on, when one afternoon around four-thirty a blue, late model Oldsmobile sedan with Massachusetts plates slowly entered the trailerpark. It was dark enough so that you couldn't see who was inside the car, but strange cars, especially out-of-state cars, were sufficiently unusual an event at the trailerpark that you wanted to see who was inside. Terry Constant had just left the manager's trailer with his week's pay for helping winterize the trailers, as he did every year at this time, when the car pulled alongside him on the lane, halfway to the trailer he shared with his sister, and Terry, who was tall, wearing an orange parka and Navy watch cap, leaned over and down to see who was inside and saw the face of a black man, which naturally surprised him, since Terry and his sister were the only black people for miles around.

The car stopped, and the man inside rolled down the window, and Terry saw that there was a second man inside, a white man. Both looked to be in their late thirties and wore expensive wool sweaters and smoked cigarettes. The black man was very dark, darker than Terry, and not so much fat as thick, as if his flesh were packed in wads around him. The white man was gray-faced and unshaven and wore a sour expression, as if he had just picked a foul-tasting substance from behind a tooth.

“Hey, brudder,” the black man said, and Terry knew the man was West Indian.

“What's happening,” Terry said. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets and looked down from his full height.

“Me wan fine a particular youth-mon, him cyall himself Seberonce, mon. You know dis a-mon, me brudder?” The man smiled and showed Terry his gold.

“Bruce Severance?”

“Dat de mon.”

“He ain't here.”

The man smiled steadily up at Terry for a few seconds and finally said, “But him lib here.”

“Yeah.”

“Where him lib, tell me dat.”

“That trailer there,” Terry said, pointing at a pale yellow Kenwood with a mansard roof. The trailer sat on cinderblocks next to a dirt driveway, and the yard was unkempt and bare, without shrubbery or lawn.

“Okay, mon, many tanks,” the black man said, still smiling broadly, and he rolled the window up, stopped smiling, backed the car into the driveway of the trailer opposite, and headed slowly back out to the main road.

Terry stood and watched the car leave, then walked on, turning in at his sister's trailer, which was dark, for she wasn't home from work yet, and made to unlock the door, when he heard his name coming at him from the darkness.

“Terry!” A blond, long-haired kid in a faded Levi jacket stepped around from the back end of the trailer and came up to him.

“Hey, man, some dudes was just looking for you.”

“I know, get inside,” the kid said urgently, and he pushed at Terry's shoulder.

“Take it easy, man.” He unlocked the door and stepped inside, and the skinny kid followed him like a shadow.

“Don't turn on the lights. No, go back to your room and turn on one light, then come here. If they know you were coming here and then no lights go on, they'll figure something's up.”

“What the hell you talking about? You high?”

“Do it. I'll explain.”

Terry did as he was told and came back to the darkened kitchen, where the kid, Bruce Severance, was standing at the window peeking out at the entrance to the trailerpark. Terry opened the refrigerator, throwing a wedge of yellow light into the room.

“Shut that fucking thing!” the kid cried.

“Take it easy. Want a beer?”

“No. Yeah, okay, just shut the door, will you?”

“Sure.” He took out two cans of Miller's and shut the refrigerator door, dropping the room into darkness again. Handing the kid one of the cans, he slid onto a tall stool at the kitchen counter and snapped open his beer and took a long swallow. Across the room by the window the kid opened his beer and started slurping it down.

“I thought you was down in Boston,” Terry said.

“I was, but I came back up this morning.”

“Where's your van?”

“I put it someplace.”

“You put it someplace.”

“Yeah. Listen, man, there's some heavy shit going down. When's your sister come home?”

“Around five-thirty,” Terry said.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, and then Terry said in a low voice, “Your deal came apart, huh? That's your Jamaican out there, and his friend, right?”

“Right.”

“They didn't want to buy your New Hampshire homegrown? Good old Granite State hemp grown wild in the bushes ain't smoke enough for the big boys. Funny.” He paused and sipped his beer. “I'm not surprised.”

“You're not.”

“No. When those kinda guys set something up and it's running smoothly along like it's been doing, with you doing the dealing and them doing the supplying for as long as this setup's been working, they get mad if you try to change the rules. But you, I guess you know that now.”

The kid said nothing. A minute passed, and then he said almost in a whisper, “If you're not surprised, how come you never said anything?”

“You wouldn't have heard me.”

“They just said they didn't want to buy, they wanted to sell.”

“You let 'em try some smoke?”

“Yeah, sure. We met, just like usual. In the motel in Revere. And I gave them both a joint without telling them what it was, you know?”

“And first whack, they knew you had something they didn't sell you, right?”

“Yeah. But they didn't believe it was hemp. They thought I was dealing for somebody else. They knew it wasn't red or gold or ganja or anything they'd smoked before, but they wouldn't believe this shit is growing wild all over the place up here. I told them all about the war, and the stuff about the Philippines and the government paying the farmers to grow hemp for rope back then and how the stuff went wild after the war, all of it! But they thought I was shitting them, man.”

“I wouldn't have believed you, either.”

“But you know it's true! You've seen it, you even helped me dry the damned stuff and brick and bale it! You even smoke it yourself!”

“No more, man. The shit makes me irritable.”

“It makes you high, too,” the kid said quickly.

“So how come those dudes are up here now?”

“I told them I have five one-hundred pound bales of the stuff,” the kid said in a low voice.

Terry sat in silence, took a sip of his beer and said, “You're stupid. Stupid. You oughta be selling insurance, not dope.”

“I thought it would let them know I was in business for myself and not dealing for some other supplier, if they knew I had five bales of my own. The Jamaican, Keppie, he just looked at me like I wasn't there anymore and said I should go to California, and I knew the whole thing had come apart. So I left them at the motel and drove back up. My van's parked on one of the lumber roads in the state park west of the lake. I walked in through the woods, and then I saw them. I was coming to get you,” the kid added.

“Me! What do you want me for? I wouldn't touch this with a stick, man!”

“I need to get rid of the stuff.”

“No shit. What are you going to do with it, throw it in the lake?”

“We can lug it into the woods, man. Just leave it. Nobody'll find it for months, and by then it'll be rotted out and nobody'll know what the hell it is anyhow.” After a pause, the kid said, “I need you to help me.”

“You're strong enough to carry one of those bales five times. You don't need me.” Terry's voice was cold and angry. “You're an asshole. You know that?”

“Please. You can take your sister's car and we can do it in one trip. It'll take me all night alone on foot, maybe longer, and someone may see me.” He was talking rapidly, like a beggar explaining his poverty. He whined, and his voice almost broke with the fear and the shame. He was a nice enough kid, and most people liked him right away, because he enjoyed talking and usually talked about things that at first were interesting, organic gardening, solar energy, transcendental meditation, but he tended to lecture people on these subjects, which made him and the subjects soon boring. Terry hung out with him anyhow, smoked grass and drank in town with him at the Hawthorne House, mainly because the kid, Bruce, admired Terry for being black. Terry knew what that meant, but he was lonely and everyone else in town either feared or disliked him for being black. The kid usually had plenty of money, and he spent it generously on Terry, who usually had none, since, except for the occasional chores and repair work tossed his way by Marcelle Chagnon, the manager of the trailerpark, it was impossible for him to find a job here. Outside of his sister, who was his entire family and who, through happenstance, had located herself here in this small mill town in New Hampshire working as a nurse for the only doctor in town, Terry had no one he could talk to, no one he could gossip or grumble with, no one he could think of as his friend. When you are a long way from where you think you belong, you will attach yourself to people you would otherwise ignore or even dislike. In that way Terry had attached himself to Bruce Severance, the kid who sold grass to the local high school students and the dozen or so adults in town who smoked marijuana, the kid who drove around in the posh, black and purple van with a painting of a Rocky Mountain sunset on the sides and the bumper stickers attacking nuclear energy and urging people to heat their homes with wood, the kid who had furnished his trailer with a huge waterbed and Day-Glo posters of Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan, the kid who, to the amusement of his neighbors, practiced the one hundred twenty-eight postures of T'ai Chi outside his trailer every morning of the year, the kid who was now sitting across the darkened kitchen of the trailer owned by Terry's sister, his voice trembling as he begged Terry, four years older than he, a grown man despite his being penniless and dependent and alone, to please, please, please, help him.

Terry sighed. “All right,” he said. “But not now.”

“When?” The kid peered out the window again. “They probably went back to town, to drink or for something to eat. We should do it now. As soon as your sister gets home with the car.”

“No. That's what I mean, I don't want my sister to know anything about this. This ain't her kind of scene. We can go over to your place and wait awhile, and then I'll come home and ask her for the car for a few hours, and then we'll load that shit into the car and get it the hell out of here, and you can tell those dudes you were only kidding or some damned thing. I don't care what you tell them. Just don't tell them I helped you. Don't even tell them I know you.” Terry got off the stool and headed for the door. “C'mon. I don't want to be here when my sister gets home.”

“Terry,” the kid said in a quick, light voice.

“What?”

“What
should
I tell them? I can't say I was only kidding. They know what that means.”

“Tell them you were stoned. Tripping. Tell them you took some acid. Beg.”

“Yeah. Maybe that'll cool it with them,” he said somberly, and he followed Terry out the door.

Keeping to the shadows behind the trailers, they walked to the far end of the park, crossed the short beach there and came up along the lake, behind the other row of trailers, until they were behind the trailer where Bruce lived. “Go on in,” Terry instructed him. “They couldn't see you now even if they were parked right at the gate.”

The kid made a dash for the door, unlocked it and slipped in, with Terry right behind. When the kid had locked the door again, Terry suggested he prop a chair against the knob.

“Why? You think they'll try to break in?”

“A precaution. Who knows?”

“Jesus, maybe we should've waited out in the woods till your sister got home!”

“No, man, forget it, will you?” Terry walked through the room, stumbling against a beanbag chair and giving it a kick. “You got any beer here? I shoulda grabbed a couple of beers from my sister.”

“No. Nothing. Don't open the refrigerator. The light.”

“Yeah,” Terry said, his voice suddenly weary. He sat down heavily in the beanbag chair, and it hissed under his weight. “Jesus, it's cold in here. Can't you get some heat into this place?”

“I can't make a fire. They'll see the smoke.”

“Forget the fucking stove, you goddamn freak. Turn up the damn thermostat. You got an oil heater, don't you?”

“Yeah, but no oil. I only use wood,” the kid said with a touch of his old pride.

“Jesus.” Terry wrapped his arms around himself and tried to settle deeper into the chair. He was wearing his orange parka and knit cap, but sitting still like this had chilled him. Bruce had gone down the hall to a window from which he could see the entrance to the trailerpark.