Cynthia’s trailer is at the very
back of the park, like a wild animal waiting for you to look away so it can
disappear into the trees. One of its
wheels is missing, replaced by a pile of crumbling bricks too high to keep it
level with the ground. The windchime
hanging from the screen door careens to the left. As I near the wreck, a dog barks, and a
massive old Rottweiler comes roaring around the corner, white saliva flying
from its lips. It runs to the end of its
chain and stops with a jerk, canine warnings sounding fury against the Louisiana sky.
I start back before it can get too
close to me, but it’s a damn good guard dog, and I can’t get within twenty feet
of the trailer. I sort of circle around,
trying to get to the back side, but it scampers around the other way and keeps
on glaring at me.
I’ve never liked dogs. I’ve never been fond of any sort of pet
animal. Flashbacks to third grade and my
neighbor Mrs. Faris’ Dalmatian shoot through my head as I slowly start backing
up, and I glance around myself for some sort of stick to defend myself with.
“Shawny!” A hoarse voice snaps at the dog and it turns
in surprise. A skinny woman with a blond
poof of hair is leaning out of the trailer, the hand holding her cigarette latched
on to the screen door. “Stop botherin’
the poor kid.”
I take a hesitant step forward and Shawny growls again. “Hey!” the woman shouts again. She takes a giant step down from the door and
marches over to the dog. “I told ya to stop
barking, you little shit,” she says as she grabs its collar. Shawny lets out a grumbly whine and falls
silent.
I adjust my jacket and mutter
thanks. “Are you Miss Redmond?”
The woman nods uncertainly, eyeing
my tie. I was told she doesn’t care for people
in suits, and it reflects on her face. “You’re
the one I’m expecting?”
I nod again. “Yes, I’m here about—“ My words are cut off as she grabs my wrist
and starts hauling me back towards the trailer.
Shawny barks in indignation as Cynthia drags me within inches of his
face, and my testicles retract in fear. Cynthia
doesn’t seem to notice her dog and pushes me through the front door.
She takes a milk-bone or something
from a box on the counter and throws it out into the yard. Shawny bounds after it and she slams the door
behind us. “Not a good idea to go
talkin’ outside,” she mutters. She takes
one last drag on the cigarette and stubs it out. “You never know who’s listening. Sorry about my dog,” she adds. “He don’t like strangers.”
“I noticed.” Hesitantly, I take a seat at the kitchen
table and pull my suitcase onto my lap. This
place gives me the creeps—the lights are out, and the splintered blinds only
let in a dim, milky glow. Everything is
filthy: the Formica counter, the twenty
or so bottles of murky liquid gathering dust on the table, the rows of…stuff…hanging
from the ceiling. Broken glass, fabric
scraps, bits of plants, bones. I think I
can make out a frog’s corpse among the clutter above me.
It feels like years since I’ve been
in a place like this. For the most part I
can’t wait to get this over with and get back to the hotel, but there’s a small
corner of me that missed the sharp scents of chlorine and candle wax. I pick at a dried splatter on the tabletop
and wonder if these smells will ever lose their meaning.
Cynthia is standing in the kitchen
as if she had forgotten what she went in there to do. She scratches at her hair and examines her
shirt. “I kinda just woke up,” she
apologizes. She gestures at her pink
jogging shorts, her dirty wifebeater. “I’m
not exactly dressed for company.”
“Company?” A fat man emerges from the bedroom, a greasy
paper plate folded up in one hand. He
stops and eyes me suspiciously. “Who’s
this?” he asks.
Cynthia moves past him, into the
bedroom. I can see her digging through the
dresser, rummaging for clean clothes. “He’s
the one I told you about. Carol sent him
to me. I guess he has some questions for
us.” She finally chooses a few items and
ducks behind an old paper screen.
“Questions?” The fat man narrows his eyes at me. “What the hell is he askin’ questions for?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Cynthia retorts. Blue jeans are thrown
over the screen’s frame and fabric rustles out of sight. She stands up on tiptoe to look at me. “This is my husband, Paul Haywood. Go ahead and talk. Whatever you have to ask, he can hear it.” She ducks out of sight again and the jeans go
with her.
Paul opens the fridge and pulls out
a can of beer. I can see what looks like
jars of algae next to the Bud Light. I pop
the latch on my suitcase and clear my throat.
“I’m here to ask about L.A. ”
Those words seem to hit pause in
the little trailer: Paul freezes, half
in and out of the fridge; Cynthia has stopped rustling behind the screen. Even the clink of Shawny’s chain outside is gone.
Slowly, Cynthia steps out from
behind the screen. Her white t-shirt is still
bunched up around her waist, and she pulls at it absently, her eyes fixed on
me. “L.A. ?” she says warily.
Paul stands up and the fridge
swings shut. “What’s L.A. matter to you?”
I pull a photo from the smaller of
the suitcase compartments. Me and
Lindsay, at the Dodgers Stadium. Her
blond hair pokes out from under her hat, casting shadows across her grin. “My sister was there. I can’t get hold of her.”
Two large, sweaty hands grab my
collar and I am hoisted up from my seat.
“Who are you?” Paul hisses. His
breath smells like rotten pizza and stale beer.
“Paul, let him go,” Cynthia says. Her voice is nervous, but dominating. She sits down across from me as Paul
retreats. “Now, what’s your name,
honey?”
“Dave. Dave Ashford.” I return to my seat and set the picture down
in front of her.
Cynthia nods and tilts her head to
look at the picture. “And your sister?”
“Lindsay.” I drop the rest of the case’s contents on the
desk: Hair clippings. Vacation photos. One of Lindsay’s old bracelets. “I talked to her about two days before they
sealed everything off. She was going to
come visit me in Arkansas ,
but the airport was shut down the next day.”
Cynthia gestures something to Paul
and he retreats to somewhere in the trailer.
“And you’re sure she didn’t get out before then.”
“I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t be here.”
“I guess.” Cynthia grimaces. “So you want me to find her.”
