Sins of Our Fathers. Shawn Lawrence Otto
On the right was a home with a mostly finished addition and a brown metal pole barn. On the left he found the lane the Whispering Pines rental agent had described to him over the phone. It climbed and then disappeared over a small hill. Her white Toyota pickup was parked in the tall grass beside the lane. He pulled off and parked next to it. Jorgenson had described this place as a trailer park, but when JW got out he only saw one trailer. It was a dilapidated blue one from the 1960s, and it sat under a stand of craggy burr oaks near the road.
The rental agent hopped down from the pickup. Young and blonde, she held a zippered key rack in one hand and a small tube of mace in the other. JW pretended he didn’t see it.
“As I said on the phone,” she said, shifting the mace to shake hands, “these are super-affordable. The nice ones are up in back, over the hill.”
“Oh, so there are more of them,” he said.
“Oh, yeah! The view is gorgeous! People just have a hard time finding them because this lane looks like a private driveway or something.”
“I see.” JW smiled.
She began to lead him up the hill into the sun, but he stopped and looked at the houses across the street, a little worried about his belongings.
“Is it okay to leave my car here?” he asked.
“Yeah, it should be fine.”
“Maybe I’ll just lock it to be safe. It’s all my stuff.”
She nodded, her expression clouding. “Okay,” she said, and tucked a fine wave of her sunny blonde hair back behind an ear.
As JW returned to lock the car, he was shocked to recognize Johnny Eagle in the yard across the road. He stepped behind his car, suddenly embarrassed to be there. Jorgenson had certainly done his research, and it made JW wonder what else he had planned. Eagle was walking with a boy, and they were arguing. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and the boy whirled away and yelled something inaudible at him. It suddenly occurred to JW that the boy resembled one of the Native kids he had seen Grossman roughing up at the convenience store. But he couldn’t be sure.
The boy stormed away up to the house and Eagle sighed and followed.
“Mr. White?”
JW turned to see the rental agent waiting, a quizzical expression on her face. He glanced back at the dilapidated baby-blue trailer down near the road. There was a sun-faded, red and white For Rent sign behind one of the windows.
“Let’s see this one,” he said, and started toward it.
“Okay…” said the agent. Her tone implied that she thought he was a little crazy, but she walked back down the hill toward him, and the two of them headed up a short path that led to the trailer’s grassy gravel parking spot.
“I don’t even know if I have keys for this one,” she said, opening her black zippered key rack. “Oh wait, I think I found one!”
She climbed up the two broad wooden steps—made out of some old two-by-twelves—and took out a dull pewter key shaped like a cloverleaf. She jiggled it into the stubborn lock and got it to turn, then stepped back and pulled the flimsy aluminum door open.
The interior was straight out of the 1960s. It was clean, but set up more like a camper than a house. He stepped inside and looked around. It wasn’t much wider than eight feet, and maybe thirty feet long. To the right of the door was a gold-speckled, chrome-trimmed kitchen table with woven blue bench cushions on either side. A band of windows ran along the front end of the trailer, beyond the table and above the bench on the door side. The opposite wall had a small bookshelf behind the bench, and next to it, across from the door, sat a brown faux-leather sofa. To the left of the door was a galley kitchen with more gold-speckled countertop and white-enameled cabinets, and an old O’Keefe & Merritt gas stove, chrome and white porcelain. Opposite the narrow kitchenette was a small utility closet, a built-in furnace and water heater, and a tiny blue bathroom with a pull-chain light hanging over a medicine cabinet and a small porcelain sink.
He pulled the mirrored door on the medicine cabinet open. There were two rippled glass shelves and a rusty slot opening into the wall. The words Used Razor Disposal were embossed in the metal just below the slot. It reminded JW of a similar one in his childhood home, which he had always imagined as some kind of strange portal into another dimension. He swung the door shut.
Behind him was a small frosted glass window over a mismatched blue toilet and a narrow shower stall with enameled pressboard walls that were painted to look like tiles. He stepped out of the bathroom and continued on.
To his right, the kitchen aisle ended at a door to the bedroom, which was at the opposite end of the trailer from the dining table. It smelled musty and was filled by a double bed with a thin blue-striped mattress. A high bank of windows ran around the bedroom, affording some privacy, he imagined, when lying down, but letting in a porch-like light. The narrow floor space before the bed contained a dark wooden nightstand in the medieval revival style of the early 1970s, and a narrow bedroom closet with a thin bifold door on the same side of the trailer as the bathroom. He measured the wall’s thinness at the edge of the doorframe. It fit easily between his thumb and fingers.
He turned and walked back into the kitchen aisle.
“I haven’t been in this one,” the rental agent said from the door. Her tone was apologetic. “The ones up over the hill are way nicer—”
JW looked out the kitchen sink window, and saw it afforded a convenient view of Eagle’s house and yard. He gave her a friendly smile. “This’ll be fine.”
She frowned and shrugged. “Why not?” She laughed and threw up her hands. “I’ll go get the lease!”
Alone, he ran his hands over the cabinets, taking in the aura of cheap nostalgia. Although everything in the trailer was decades old, on closer inspection it seemed surprisingly well-cared for, with little bits of epoxy patch here and a few replaced and glued handles there, as if it had been repeatedly fixed and maintained in crafty ways.
He sat at the small table with the rental agent and completed the paperwork. Then he walked her to her truck, and she departed. She seemed in disbelief at her good fortune to have rented one of the places out here, let alone the one JW had chosen. He turned back and took a deep breath as he surveyed his new home. It was a mission, like being in the army, he told himself. This was his barracks, and all that mattered was its utility. He opened his car, grabbed two of the lawn-and-leaf bags, and carried them toward the trailer. When he went back to get his suits, he saw the boy again, leading a big chestnut horse toward a railed-in riding paddock in Eagle’s side yard. The horse was planting its feet almost every step of the way. The boy, he realized, had little idea what he was doing.
He hung his suits in the tiny bedroom closet and sat on the flaccid mattress, testing it. It had a large tan water stain at the foot of the bed. Someone must have left the windows open in a driving rain. He looked out the windows to his right, over the lamp on the bedside table, and watched the horse running loose in the paddock. He watched as the boy approached and it galloped away.
JW snorted. Horses were a constant challenge, he reflected, a mirror of one’s own weaknesses. If you didn’t know how to work them, they worked you. He unpacked a family photo from a banker’s box and set it on the nightstand, followed by an old clock radio, which he plugged into a brown outlet protruding from the wall. Then he stood and went back into the main room to find the lawn bag that contained his bedding.
That night JW dreamed of his father for the first time in years. The dream had the quality of memory, for in it a flock of blue jays was attacking a cardinal in the grass. This had really happened. But in the dream his father stomped on the birds as if putting out a fire, and they flew squawking into a nearby tree. But one was left on the ground, fluttering around with a broken wing, near the dead cardinal. His father stomped on it, crushing it, and turned to JW with rabid