John Lutz - Flame

The mobile-home court spread for a mile or so north of the main highway. The highway itself seemed to be its southern boundary. Carver steered the Olds in beneath the cypress BEACH COVE COURT sign that dangled on plastic chains from an arch framing the main entrance. Found himself on Beach Cove Drive. Where else?

Most of the mobile homes were double-wides: two trailers joined side by side so they created a semblance of a medium-sized house. They were all fairly new and well kept. In front of each was a neat little square lawn with very green grass. The undercarriages were disguised by wood latticework, but on the mobile homes facing the opposite street, Carver could see license plates mounted on rear walls. In Florida, if you licensed your mobile home as a vehicle, there was no need to pay real-estate taxes. Many of the homes had small front porches or carports built onto them to make them appear even more permanent. Some had screened-in “Florida rooms” attached to the rear. Palm trees lined Beach Cove Drive, and there were smaller palms in some yards, and here and there a struggling sugar oak or citrus tree. Beach Cove Court, Carver decided, was a pleasant lower-middle-class retirement community, exactly the sort of place he’d imagined the retired railroad man Renway living in, marking diminishing time and coping with inactivity and expenses. Frank Wesley’s beachfront condo, exclusive-label clothes, and late-model Cadillac must have seemed like quite a step up for Renway. Stairway to heaven.

Beach Cove Drive wound back toward the highway. Carver finally saw Little Cove Lane, Renway’s street, and made a sharp left turn. Many of the trailers were singles in this part of the court, and not so well kept up. At this slower speed, without the wind rushing through the cranked-down windows, the sun was cooking Carver.

Renway’s was the last place on the street, not more than a hundred feet from cars and trucks swishing past on the sun-baked pavement. His home was a neat white double-wide with trim the color of egg yolks. A gleaming maroon Ford Escort was parked alongside it, in the deep shade of a carport with a slanted yellow-and-white fiberglass roof held up by white curlicued metal posts. The mailbox out front was black and supported by a thick chain welded together so it looked as if it were snaking up out of the ground and defying gravity in the manner of an Indian fakir’s rope trick. Stenciled on the box in white was THE RENWAYS. Renway hadn’t changed it after his wife died. What was her name? Ella. Maybe Renway and Ella were together again. Maybe the moon was Bailey’s Irish Cream.

He parked the Olds behind the Escort and climbed out, feeling the back of his sweat-soaked shirt peel away from where it had been plastered to the vinyl seat. Leaned on his cane in the heat. No one was visible on Little Cove Lane, and he’d seen no one on his drive through the court other than a couple of teenage boys in swimming trunks climbing into an old pickup truck with surfboards in the bed. The late-morning July heat was keeping almost everyone nailed indoors in their air conditioning. Looked like the mobile-home court had been struck by a neutron bomb; buildings standing, but no people.

Noticing the grass needed mowing, he limped to the metal steps leading to Renway’s front door. For appearance’ sake, he rapped on the aluminum door with the crook of his cane.

There was no sound from inside. Perspiration stung Carver’s eyes and dripped off the tip of his nose. After a moment he climbed the two steps and peered inside through the door’s window. Saw dark carpeting, a dollhouse kitchen with white appliances. Nearer to him, but in dimness, were a recliner chair, console television, and a corner of a plaid Early American sofa. Everything was precisely placed and there was no clutter other than a magazine folded over the arm of the recliner. As if someone had been interrupted reading and would be right back. Renway the widower had been a neat housekeeper.

Carver left the metal steps, then the concrete walk, and limped across sandy soil to the back of the mobile home. The sun was hot on the nape of his neck, and he could feel sand working its way into his moccasins. Had to be careful where he planted the cane, too, in this soft ground. Didn’t want to take a tumble.

The back door was locked. And glaringly visible from homes fronting on Beach Cove Drive. Through the line of mobile homes he saw a blue station wagon flash past. He waited, but the car didn’t turn onto Little Cove Lane. He caught a glimpse of it beyond the corner of Renway’s mobile home, speeding down the highway.

He’d planned on slipping the lock and letting himself in through the back door, but that didn’t seem wise, considering its high visibility. And he’d spent enough time snooping around. Might have attracted the attention of some of the cooped-up neighbors, just looking for ways to help pass time and temperature.

He rattled the doorknob, to show whoever might be watching that he was above-board and not sneaking around. Then he backhanded perspiration from his forehead and limped around the wide aluminum structure and back to the street. Then up the grease-stained driveway of Renway’s only close neighbor. Willa Hataris, according to the name on the mailbox perched on a rotted cedar post.

The Hataris home was a single. Blindingly white like Renway’s but with pink trim and in disrepair. Its front square of lawn was brown in spots, and a stunted orange tree was slowly expiring from heat and lack of water. Brilliant red bougainvillea grew lush and wild along the side of the place, though, loving the sun and twining thick tendrils into the peeling lattice. The white latticework in front, on each side of the door, also needed paint, and was broken here and there as if someone had kicked it. The pink-and-white-striped metal awning over the front door was rusty and canted at a sideways angle.

Carver started to ring the bell but saw there was only a rust-rimmed hole where the pushbutton used to be, so he knocked three times with the crook of his cane. The rapping sounded muffled and distant in the sultry air. He felt dizzy for a second, his ears buzzing.

The woman who opened the door was about forty, overweight, with bushy, carrot-colored hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. A large wart thrived on the left side of her nose, just above the nostril. She seemed almost to have expected Carver to knock on her door; must have seen him roaming around the Renway trailer. Her eyes took a trip down him, saw the cane, then peered into his eyes curiously and intently. Hers were infinitely sad eyes, deep with self-pity and defeat and yearning. Are you one of us? The world’s victims have a quiet understanding and recognition of each other; they’re resigned to fate and to permanent membership in the losers’ club. They want pity from each other. Mock understanding. Most of all, they want to be reassured that it wasn’t their fault, any of it. It was somebody else’s fault. Or it was bad, bad luck. I’m not one of you , he screamed at her with his eyes. I haven’t given up and never will! She got the message, he could tell. A flicker of respect, then her eyes became shallow and concealing ponds of blue, her features set.

He said, “I was looking for Bert Renway. Know where I can find him?”

“Not if he ain’t home.”

“You Mrs. Hataris?”

“ Ms. Hataris.” She drew it out, pronouncing it “Mizzz.” The rancid odor of stale perspiration hit him. It was hot inside the trailer. Getting hotter as she stood there with the door open.

“I’m Frank Carter, an old friend of Bert’s.” Carver smiled at her. He had a beautiful smile for such a fierce-looking man, and she seemed to relax somewhat. Her fleshy body, clad in shorts and a white halter, appeared to become a few inches shorter and much heavier as the tenseness left it. Had she thought he was a salesman or bill collector? He wasn’t selling aluminum siding, that was for sure.