Back in seventh grade I rode along when Mom would drop off Stacey after LeeAnne got home from her double shift. A lot has changed in the years since. The trees used to hide the trailers from the service road, but when the Supercenter went in, they bulldozed everything right up to the creek and built a wall to block noise and light. Now, instead of oaks and maples, the back row of mobile homes is bordered by cinder blocks, and the creek is on the Walmart side.
The darkness is punctuated by random porch lights. Cats scamper beneath parked cars, eyes glowing like sentinels. Several times I hit the brake as two boys and a girl on bicycles weave on and off the main drive through hard-packed dirt yards. The girl is six years old at most and wears a camouflage tank top. The boys might be a couple years older, but one of them is wearing flip-flops, and the idea of having bare feet makes me shiver a little right now. The three of them look like they’re racing to the beach even though it’s been overcast and in the fifties again the past few days. I wonder where their parents are. I never saw the backside of eight thirty p.m. until I was in junior high. Don’t these kids have a bedtime?
I slow down as I approach the row where Stacey’s place sits one in from the corner. It’s set back against the wall that now skirts the whole trailer park.
Park.
That word generally makes me think of wide-open spaces, filled with green: grass, trees, life in general. It is clear that in this park the term refers to a vehicle that has come to a stop. There are scores of them here, trailers anchored beneath the alien glow of the Supercenter parking lot. The light spills over the high wall and casts a weird lavender haze into the sky over Coral Creek.
I pull Dad’s truck over on the side of the main drag and turn off the engine and the lights. Stacey’s trailer looks exactly as I remember it, only it may be painted a different color. The whole place is tidy—standing in stark contrast to the neighbors on both sides. At the trailer to the left, a broken screen door flaps in the breeze, banging against the paneling every few seconds. At the place on the right, there are several giant stacks of tires, overgrown with weeds that obscure the steps leading up to the door.
I slip out of the truck, close the door, and lean against it for a moment. A little white picket fence rings Stacey’s front yard. As I click open the gate, a Doberman in the trailer next door heaves himself against the window, snarling and barking, jaws snapping, claws against glass. I jump what feels like a foot in the air, then remind myself to breathe.
Relax.
You’re just stopping by to say hi to Stacey.
To check on her.
To see how she is.
I tell myself this as if it weren’t crazy, as if I did this every day. As if I have ever done this even once since seventh grade.
There’s a covered porch that stretches along the front of Stacey’s place, and a flag on a pole is bracketed to one of the upright supports that holds up the roof. It’s not an American flag, but one of those seasonal flags. It’s got spring flowers and a bunny on it. Hopeful. It won’t be Easter for another month or so, but it did feel like spring last weekend. There are lights shining through the curtains in the front windows, and I can hear someone talking. As I reach the door I make out the sounds of a competition reality show.
A plaque next to the lit doorbell button reads LORD, BLESS THIS MESS! and I smile. Whether it’s the Lord or Stacey’s mom, it’s working. This is the nicest place in the neighborhood.
Pressing the glowing orange button yields a classic ding-dong. I hear new voices over the sound of a pop star telling a contestant that she’s “got what it takes!” then everything goes quiet.
The door swings open a few inches, and LeeAnne Stallard peers out through the glass and screen of the closed storm door. Her hair is wet, and her tired eyes become bare flint the moment she sees me.
“Yes?”
“Hi!” I say it too brightly, like I’m selling something. “It’s Kate. Kate Weston?”
LeeAnne nods her head, slowly. “I know who you are, Kate.”
I blink at her, trapped in the high beams of her derision. She waits, daring me to speak again. I swallow hard.
“Is . . . Stacey . . . home?”
A short, sarcastic laugh escapes her lips. “Where else would she be?”
The children on bikes I saw earlier go clattering by behind me, shrieking and laughing. The Doberman next door sounds the alarm.
LeeAnne doesn’t move. She doesn’t open the screen door.
“Just wanted to come by and . . . check on her,” I say.
“Oh, did you?” It’s almost a sneer. I search for more words, LeeAnne’s steely eyes making my insides twist and squirm. Is she enjoying this?
“Do you think I could see her?”
“Stacey isn’t really taking visitors right now,” she says.
I nod, too quickly, too agreeably. Oh! Oh yes. Yes, of course. How silly of me. “Well, if she ever needs to . . .” My voice is shaking now, and I can’t finish the sentence.
“Needs to what?” LeeAnne is determined to make this painful.
“If she ever needs to . . . talk or anything, I just wanted her to know that I’m . . . around.”