Russell Banks - Trailerpark

“How come you making it so fancy?” Terry Constant sneered.

Merle looked up from the floor where he was screwing down the new two-by-eight-inch plank flooring and saw the black man silhouetted darkly against a milk white sky so that his features couldn’t be seen. He wore an orange parka and Navy watch cap and was chewing a toothpick. Merle said nothing and went back to work.

“You win the numbers, like they said?”

“Yup.”

“That’s how come you’re making it so fancy, then.”

“…”

“Luxury!”

“…”

“Who’s gonna see it, a little fish-house? I coulda slapped this thing together in half the time for half the cost outa plywood.”

“…”

“This thing’ll last longer’n you will. You realize that? You’ll be dead a hundred years and this thing’ll still be sitting here by the lake.”

Merle picked up a new plank and with a stubby plane started shaving blond, sweet-smelling curls off the wood. Then he lay the board against the first, cast his gaze down its length, retrieved it and gave it another half-dozen smooth strokes of the plane, until finally the plank fit snugly, perfectly, into place.

“Well, it looks good, anyhow,” Terry said. He shifted his toothpick, and placing one foot onto the high sill, dropped his right forearm onto his thigh and leaned forward and into the close, dim, resin-smelling interior of the bobhouse. “Say, Merle, I was wondering, see, I’m outa work, ya know. Marcelle’s all done winterizing the park, so she don’t need me anymore until spring or unless the pipes burst or something, and you know there ain’t no work in this damn town in winter, especially for a black man, so I was wondering if you could help me out a little, ’til I could get some more work.”

“Sure.”

As if he hadn’t heard him, Terry went on. “I was thinking of maybe heading south this winter, getting some work in Florida. I got a cousin in Tampa, but it’ll take some bucks to do it. You know, for bus fare and after I get there, ’til I get a job.”

“What about your sister?” Merle asked without looking up. “She’d be pretty much alone here, without you. Being black and all. Come spring you could get work again, maybe for the highway department or something. You don’t want to leave her all alone up here.”

“Well, yeah…” Terry let his glance fall across the oak framing of the structure, noticing for the first time how it had been notched and fitted together with pegs. “But I can’t take any more handouts from her. Maybe if you could loan me enough to get through the next three or four months…” He said. “I got problems, man.”

“How much?”

“Five, six hundred, maybe?”

“Sure.”

“Seven would be better.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll pay you back.” He stood up straight again and stepped away from the door as Merle got slowly to his feet and came out to the yard.

“Sure,” he said. “Money’s in the house.”

“Okay,” Terry said almost in a whisper, and the two men crossed the yard to the trailer.

There were other loans: Bruce Severance, the long-haired kid in number 3 who sold dope, needed $300 fast, to get a very heavy dude off his back, he said; Noni Hubner, the college girl in number 7 who was then recuperating from her first nervous breakdown, wanted to do what her mother had so far refused to do, buy a proper gravestone for her father’s grave, which, since his death two years ago, had gone unmarked; and Leon LaRoche, the bank teller in number 2, said he needed money to help pay his sick mother’s hospital bills, but it came out (only as a rumor, however) that his mother was not ill and that he was spending money recklessly to support a young man supposedly going to college in Boston and whom Leon visited every weekend, practically; and Claudel Bing, who was no longer living at the trailerpark but still had friends there, and after having lost his job at the Public Service Company, needed money to pay for his divorce from Ginnie, who was living with Howie Leeke; Tom Smith was dead by then, but his son Buddy somehow heard about Merle’s good luck and wrote from Albany asking Merle for $500 so he could pay off the debts he claimed his father’s burial had left him with, and Merle mailed the money to him the next day; Nancy Hubner, Noni’s mother, insisting that she did not want the money for herself, explained that she had got herself into an embarrassing situation by pledging $1000 to the Clamshell Alliance people and had only been able to raise $750; Captain Dewey Knox, in trailer number 6, who certainly seemed affluent enough not to need any of Merle’s money, suddenly turned out to owe three years’ back taxes on the last bit of land his father had owned in Catamount, a rocky hundred-acre plot on the northern edge of what had been the elder Knox’s dairy farm, and to keep the Captain from losing that last connection to his sanctified past, Merle loaned him $638.44; and then, finally, there was Marcelle Chagnon, the manager of the trailerpark, living in number 1, and needing money to protect her job, because the Granite State Realty Development Corporation was billing her personally for the cost of replacing all the frozen pipes in trailer number 11, then vacant, which Marcelle had neglected to drain last August when the previous tenants, a pair of plasterers from Massachusetts working on a new motel over in Epsom, had left. And then, well — then all the money was gone.

By mid-November the sun was setting early and rising late, and the daily temperatures rarely got above freezing, the nights often falling to zero and below. Except for where the water rushed across the weirs, the lake was frozen over entirely. The bobhouse was ready, and Merle’s tip-ups, lines, jigs and chisels were repaired, cleaned, oiled and packed neatly into the bobhouse. First thing every morning Merle pulled on his cap and mackinaw and trotted from his trailer down to the shore to read the ice. It was going to be a good winter for ice — no snow so far, very little wind, and lots of steady, unbroken cold. A Canadian high had moved southeast in late October and had hunkered over northern New England for two weeks straight, so that, with clear nighttime skies, the ice had formed, spread and thickened several weeks ahead of schedule.

So far as fishing went, winter or summer, Skitter Lake was Merle’s. Three sides of the lake adjoined the Skitter Lake State Forest, which made it fairly inaccessible from the road, except through the trailerpark, and people, strangers especially, were reluctant to drive through the trailerpark and stop their cars before the short, sandy beach at the end of the peninsula, get out their gear, launch their boats, canoes or bobhouses and commence fishing. It was a little too public, and also a little too private, as if the trailerpark were actually a kind of boarding house with all the tenants watching you cross their shared front yard to get to their shared fishing place. The same went for ice-skating and swimming. The residents of the trailerpark skated on and swam in Skitter Lake, but other people went elsewhere, which wasn’t much of an inconvenience anyway, since in town there was the mill pond, and throughout the surrounding countryside there were dozens of small, accessible ponds and lakes where the fishing was as good as, if not better than, the fishing at Skitter Lake.

As a result, when at the end of the first week in December Merle decided that the ice was thick enough to support the weight of his bobhouse, he made the decision alone. He couldn’t wait until someone less cautious or patient than he had dragged his bobhouse safely out to the middle of the lake. He couldn’t even wait until schoolboys from town, eager to play hockey, had crossed and crisscrossed the lake a dozen times the way they did down at the mill pond, whacking the ice with hockey sticks and listening to the cracks and fault lines race away from the blow rather than down, revealing in that way that the ice was now thick enough to support the weight of large human beings.