when am I psychic?” a woman responded.
The trailer’s door opened. A woman stood in the doorway in dark-gray sweatpants and a light-gray sweatshirt that Stokes knew had once been white. She was in her early thirties and not too unattractive, despite the fact that her looks had passed their expiration date, which had come earlier for her than for a lot of women who didn’t live life as hard and fast as she did. When she saw who had knocked on her door, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped.
“Who’s there?” the man repeated.
She hesitated before blurting, “A neighbor.”
“What’s she want?”
“It’s a he, and why don’t you gimme a second so I can find out?” The look of surprise on her face was replaced by anger and confusion. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” she said, keeping her voice low. “My husband’s home, for Christ’s sake.”
“Relax, Joyce,” Stokes said quietly. “I’m not here for that. I need a car.”
“What?” Her face screwed up in greater confusion. Her eyes were squinted, and her mouth distorted into a squashed oval. Looking at that mouth, Stokes felt a moment of revulsion at the things he’d let it do.
“I need to borrow your car, OK? I’ll have it back by morning.”
“My husband’s here, you moron.”
Had she been this charming around lunchtime last Wednesday, while her husband was at work? If she had been, he hadn’t noticed.
“Look,” Stokes said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
The husband spoke again, his bass voice rumbling. “Joyce, who the hell is at the door and what does he want during my dinnertime?”
Looking at Joyce, listening to her talk, listening to her husband talk, Stokes realized that they should be on a poster somewhere for trailer trash. Most of the residents of the park were nice, decent people, people who had good, steady jobs, kept their homes neat, their little patches of lawn tidy, people who were just like most other people in their little neighborhoods full of houses—the main difference being that these people’s homes could be hitched to a truck and driven away. But Joyce and her husband were walking punch lines of a hundred different trailer park jokes. Actually, that was why Stokes had taken up with Joyce in the first place. He couldn’t have gone to any of the other reasonably attractive residents of the park for what he went to Joyce for. Stokes now saw a hard truth staring him down—he was far more like Joyce and her husband than he was like the more decent people in the park.
“Listen, Joyce,” Stokes whispered, “I don’t know anybody else here that well and I really need a car. It’s an emergency, OK? What do you say?”
“It’s Bobby’s truck, not mine. You know that. I can’t let you take it.”
She’d been letting him take a lot more than that at least twice a month going on half a year now, but Stokes didn’t point that out. He was about to ask again when footsteps sounded in the trailer. Bobby came around the corner. He stood about five five and wouldn’t crack 140 on a scale with his pockets stuffed with rocks.
“Stokes?” he said. “It’s late.” His freakishly deep voice was as amusing as always, coming out of the tiny little mouth in his tiny little head.
“Yeah, sorry about that. But listen, Bobby, you got a truck, right? A pickup? I’d like to borrow it.”
Bobby looked like he was trying to decide whether to just shut the door in Stokes’s face or whether to laugh first. Before he could decide, Stokes spoke again.
“I’ll give you forty bucks if you let me use it.”
That got Bobby thinking. “I need that truck for work in the morning. Suppose you aren’t back with it by then.”
“I will be.”
“Suppose you aren’t.”
“I will be. I’ll be back by two this morning, three at the latest.”
“Suppose you aren’t.”
Stokes wasn’t sure what else to say. Bobby’s record sort of got stuck on a groove
The trailer’s door opened. A woman stood in the doorway in dark-gray sweatpants and a light-gray sweatshirt that Stokes knew had once been white. She was in her early thirties and not too unattractive, despite the fact that her looks had passed their expiration date, which had come earlier for her than for a lot of women who didn’t live life as hard and fast as she did. When she saw who had knocked on her door, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped.
“Who’s there?” the man repeated.
She hesitated before blurting, “A neighbor.”
“What’s she want?”
“It’s a he, and why don’t you gimme a second so I can find out?” The look of surprise on her face was replaced by anger and confusion. “What the hell are you doin’ here?” she said, keeping her voice low. “My husband’s home, for Christ’s sake.”
“Relax, Joyce,” Stokes said quietly. “I’m not here for that. I need a car.”
“What?” Her face screwed up in greater confusion. Her eyes were squinted, and her mouth distorted into a squashed oval. Looking at that mouth, Stokes felt a moment of revulsion at the things he’d let it do.
“I need to borrow your car, OK? I’ll have it back by morning.”
“My husband’s here, you moron.”
Had she been this charming around lunchtime last Wednesday, while her husband was at work? If she had been, he hadn’t noticed.
“Look,” Stokes said, his voice barely above a whisper, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
The husband spoke again, his bass voice rumbling. “Joyce, who the hell is at the door and what does he want during my dinnertime?”
Looking at Joyce, listening to her talk, listening to her husband talk, Stokes realized that they should be on a poster somewhere for trailer trash. Most of the residents of the park were nice, decent people, people who had good, steady jobs, kept their homes neat, their little patches of lawn tidy, people who were just like most other people in their little neighborhoods full of houses—the main difference being that these people’s homes could be hitched to a truck and driven away. But Joyce and her husband were walking punch lines of a hundred different trailer park jokes. Actually, that was why Stokes had taken up with Joyce in the first place. He couldn’t have gone to any of the other reasonably attractive residents of the park for what he went to Joyce for. Stokes now saw a hard truth staring him down—he was far more like Joyce and her husband than he was like the more decent people in the park.
“Listen, Joyce,” Stokes whispered, “I don’t know anybody else here that well and I really need a car. It’s an emergency, OK? What do you say?”
“It’s Bobby’s truck, not mine. You know that. I can’t let you take it.”
She’d been letting him take a lot more than that at least twice a month going on half a year now, but Stokes didn’t point that out. He was about to ask again when footsteps sounded in the trailer. Bobby came around the corner. He stood about five five and wouldn’t crack 140 on a scale with his pockets stuffed with rocks.
“Stokes?” he said. “It’s late.” His freakishly deep voice was as amusing as always, coming out of the tiny little mouth in his tiny little head.
“Yeah, sorry about that. But listen, Bobby, you got a truck, right? A pickup? I’d like to borrow it.”
Bobby looked like he was trying to decide whether to just shut the door in Stokes’s face or whether to laugh first. Before he could decide, Stokes spoke again.
“I’ll give you forty bucks if you let me use it.”
That got Bobby thinking. “I need that truck for work in the morning. Suppose you aren’t back with it by then.”
“I will be.”
“Suppose you aren’t.”
“I will be. I’ll be back by two this morning, three at the latest.”
“Suppose you aren’t.”
Stokes wasn’t sure what else to say. Bobby’s record sort of got stuck on a groove
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