Trailer Park Wives Part Four: The Quadruple-Wide Edition

By Denise Gwen

When sweet little Alex Witherspoon, Roxanne Bergen’s foster child, wanders off during the opening night game of the village’s first minor league baseball team, everyone is frightened that a child molester may be on the loose. As everyone scours the town and the trailer park, searching for Alex, Lettie stumbles upon a terrible secret, one that will change everyone’s lives forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005417543

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

Book preview

1

A NEW YEAR DAWNS

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ANOTHER YEAR IN OHIO’S NASTIEST TRAILER PARK

2

Monday, February 23, 11:00 a.m.

Rex let her sleep in, as per her usual, and as she slept, he got the kids up, fed them their breakfasts, dropped them off at school, and came back home.

When she emerged from the master bedroom at her usual hour of eleven in the morning, she found him in the great room, watching a hockey game on the plasma screen television set. When he saw her, he turned the television off, got up off the recliner, and walked across the room to take her in his arms. He slid his right arm around her waist. She thought he wanted sex again, but no, he didn’t want sex.

Babe, he said, tracing his left finger across her left nipple, do you mind if we take a break?

Why? Samantha asked, understanding instantly as she adjusted an earring into place. You didn’t run out and git yourself a new girlfriend, did ya?

Not even. Rex chuckled heartily. It’s just that, I’m kinda worried about the kids. They’ve been acting strange lately, and all—and I don’t know if you realize this—but we’re fast coming up on the one-year anniversary since Anne Marie passed away.

Oh, wow. So soon?

Yep, it’ll be a year next week, on Thursday, March the fifth.

Are you fucking kidding me?

No, I’m not. The one-year anniversary of her death is next week, on Thursday.

She shrugged. You’re getting your facts wrong, Rex. Anne Marie killed herself on Ash Wednesday. Her funeral was the day before Easter. Easter’s not till next month.

Rex gave her a funny look. Well, Sam, if you recall, Easter came early last year. Easter fell on Sunday, March the ninth. Easter this year doesn’t come till April.

Oh, well.

"And the anniversary of the day Anne Marie killed herself is next week, on Thursday, March the fifth. She died on a Wednesday, on March the Fifth, but the fifth day of March falls on a Thursday this year."

Oh, well, I guess I don’t pay that close attention.

I know you don’t.

Something in his voice . . .

She looked at him with surprise, but he quickly smoothed out his features so he appeared as his usual, unflappable self. "I know you don’t pay attention to these things, Sam, but I’m their dad and I do notice things, and I can assure you, the kids are feeling it. They’ve been kind of edgy and out of sorts for the past couple of weeks now—"

Hah, try the past year.

And I guess you haven’t sensed it, but I sure have, and I thought maybe you and I ought to take a tiny break, give them a chance to regroup, hang out with just me, alone, for a little while.

Samantha stared at him for a long moment, but he gazed back at her unflinching. At last she looked away.

Samantha didn’t understand. She’d been a good friend of Anne Marie’s for years, and she figured she’d get past the one-year anniversary of Anne Marie’s death just fine. What was up with these stupid fucking kids? Under the best of circumstances, she didn’t care for children—truth be told, apart from Vicky, she didn’t love anybody, and she barely tolerated that repulsive little worm they’d scooped out of Vicky’s body.

She jabbed the other earring into her lobe and accidentally stabbed her ear. Ouch, she cried out. She gingerly touched the lobe and hissed in annoyance at the sight of blood.

Rex didn’t even pretend to notice, or even care. So, he said in a placating voice, is that okay, baby?

Sure, she said, not letting on much it angered her, not letting on how much it worried her. "I guess I could spend a couple of days with my own kid and her baby."

Rex looked suddenly uncomfortable, and as he released his grip from her and stood back, a tiny flickering of fear slid into her heart.

What’s wrong, Rex?

Honey, actually, I was kind of hoping you’d, well, I was kind of hoping you’d move out for a while.

What? she squawked. But I live here.

I know you do, he said evenly, but I’ve come to realize it’s time I started focusing on my kids for a while.

She must’ve looked pissed, because he held his hands out to her in a supplicating gesture. Sweetheart, you’ve got to understand. For the past year, I’ve been taking care of me only, and I haven’t been focusing on my kids at all.

"Rex, I don’t know how in the hell you can say that. You focus on your kids all the time. You take them everywhere. You take them to their all their activities. You take Brad to his Boy Scout meetings and you go camping with him on the weekends. You take Angel to piano lessons and you drive all over creation to find a pool for Crystal to drown herself in. Fuck, until she joined the swim team, I had no idea Cincinnati had that many pools."

He said nothing, but his eyes betrayed a flare of anger.

You do everything for those fu—kids of yours.

She stepped up close to him and put her lacquered nails up against both sides of his face and pressed his cheeks together. "You do everything for those kids. And it’s been my job this past year to take care of you, Rex."

Rex looked as if he might soften, and she was just getting ready to drop to her knees and give him the all-encompassing-all-soothing-heals-all-wounds-blow-job, but a sudden hardness filled his eyes. He gently, yet firmly, took hold of her hands and forced her to release his face, then forced her hands down to her sides. Sam, I really appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me, I really, really do. But it’s time, it’s past time, for me to focus on my kids. They need me, Sam. This coming week’s gonna be hard for them, re-living the week last year when their mother killed herself—

If you ignore it, they will too.

At Rex’s stricken gaze, she realized she’d gone too far. A cold, hard light filled his eyes. "But I don’t want to ignore the anniversary of my beloved wife’s death. I don’t want to ignore it, Sam. I want to celebrate Anne Marie."

She was a lazy depressive who took the coward’s way out.

Silence.

Rex, I’m sorry.

I know you don’t agree with how I want to do things around here.

You spoil those little assholes. The girls especially, they’ve got you wrapped around their little fingers, but you’ve got your head rammed so far up your ass, you can’t tell if it’s night or day.

And ignoring a problem may be your way to respond to a crisis, but it’s not my way.

Rex, I—

It’s okay, Samantha, he said, a little of his former warmth returning to his voice, but it’ll be better for my kids if we make a clean break of things.

Wait a minute. What the fuck’s going on here?

I’ll help you load up the van so you can take everything back to your trailer in one trip, but I need you to move out of my house . . . right now.

Horrified, she watched as Rex walked into the master bedroom. She followed him as he went to the walk-in-closet and pulled out a large suitcase. He carried it over to the bed and opened the lid. Why don’t you start packing up your things?

Rex, what the fuck’s going on here?

You can hang onto the suitcase, if you want. I’m not planning a trip anywhere, anytime soon.

He walked into the walk-in-closet and pulled out a large toiletry bag and hoisted this onto the bed as well. And you can put all your toiletry items in here.

He said it like he was offering her something wonderful.

Samantha stared at Rex for a long time in shock, then surprise, then anger. She wanted to say bad things to him. She wanted to curse him out, stomp her feet and throw a hissy fit, but . . . and this was the real sticking point, she wasn’t living in her own house and she sure as hell wasn’t a bit closer than she’d been last year to getting Rex to marry her.

And then she realized something even worse.

He’d never marry her.

But why was he behaving like this? Didn’t he know she had the goods on him? That, if she wanted to, she could go to the cops and turn him in? Tell them who killed Tammy Sue Blackburn?

But then it struck her as forcibly as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

Rex has something on me.

But what? What did he have on her?

She gazed at him, stupefied beyond belief.

Under ordinary circumstances . . .

Rex, she said in a low, dangerous voice, you do know what you’re doing, don’t you?

She let the question hang there in the air between them. He looked up sharply at her, then turned away. You blackmailing me, Sam?

Maybe.

Oh, yes, he knew exactly what she was talking about. But then his gazed shifted.

Yes, Sam. I know what you can do to me. But I do . . . I think, I really do think, we need to take a tiny break from each other. He gazed earnestly at her. For my children’s sake, Sam.

Oh, well, she said, suffused with a sudden, reckless anger, I suppose I can move back to my trailer for a while, spend some time with my daughter and her brat. Make up for my own lack of parenting time.

How is little Trevor, by the way? Rex asked pleasantly.

He looks just like his daddy. Butt-ugly.

Geezil Petes, Samantha, the little guy’s your only grandson.

I know, but I sure as hell didn’t tell Vicky to go out and get herself pregnant with that loser, Dwayne Menninger. That poor schmuck was so stupid he went and got his hairy ass kilt.

"When he went with you, to Hazard, Kentucky."

Samantha reared her head back, anger rippling through her. Fuck you, Rex.

Sorry.

I got news for you, buddy, Samantha said, stabbing a talon-like finger into his chest. I didn’t do nothin’ to get him killed. He was stupid, you understand?

Look, Sam. I’m sorry.

It’s okay, she said, suddenly deflated. If she ever hoped to get back into this man’s arms and into his bed, not to mention his gorgeous house and his awesome sports car, well, she’d better play it cool. She gestured to the suitcase and the toiletry bag. Guess I better start packing.

I’ll leave you alone.

He turned and walked out of the bedroom.

Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, she said, but softly, so that Rex didn’t hear it.

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* * *

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Dashing away the hot, angry tears splashing down her cheeks, she worked methodically through the room, yanking open the dresser drawers she’d taken over—and boy, did she take over a fair number—and grabbing her undergarments; G-strings, thongs, pasties, the stripping costumes, the nipple-showing bras, the all-body body stockings, the half-body body stockings, the crotch-less body stockings—Christ, did she own a lot of body stockings—and dumped it all into the suitcase, willy nilly. She did this with every drawer. Then she stomped over to the walk-in-closet and yanked all her clothes off the hangers, and tossed everything into the suitcase.

Then she studied the closed bedroom door.

What if . . . I helped myself to a few extras?

She walked over to Rex’s dresser drawer, pulled it open, and selected a few of his boxers, but only her favorites. She held up a plaid pair and brought them up to her nose and inhaled. Yes, she’d keep these boxers. She tossed in a few more boxers, then zipped the suitcase closed.

Next, on to the master bathroom. Their toiletry products had once lived together on the granite countertop in blissful contentment, but no more. Instead of picking through the products, separating out hers from his, she simply swept her arm across the counter and spilled all the contents into the toiletry bag. This included all of Rex’s Old Spice products, his beloved new Norelco 7300 rotary razor, not to mention his elaborate set of combs and hairbrushes and the expensive toiletries he’d picked up at Kohl’s recently; the Calvin Klein Shave Cream, the Calvin Klein Eternity Aqua cologne, the Calvin Klein CK One Eau de Toilette Spray, the Dior for Men cologne, the Bulgari Extreme Men’s Cologne, the Pierre Cardin after-shave lotion.

She took it all.

Fuck you, Rex, she said under her breath, zipping the toiletry bag closed. She hauled the toiletry bag out of the bathroom and to the bedroom door and opened it and peered out. Rex, sitting at the dining room table, jumped to his feet. Here, let me help you.

She went back to the bedroom for the suitcase.

Oh hey, Sam, don’t strain your back, hon. I’ll help you with that. Let me carry your suitcase for you.

Sure thing, Rex.

He ran the toiletry bag out to the van and came back for the suitcase.

As he hauled the suitcase out to the van, she grabbed her purse and followed him outside and stood on the front stoop. She dug into her purse for the cigarettes, pulled one out, reached for a lighter, flicked it, and inhaled.

Rex opened the back gate to the van and looked at her without speaking as she exhaled smoke through her nostrils.

Gonna say something, you rat bastard mother-fucker? Hm, didn’t think so.

He’d been getting after her for smoking on the front stoop—where the fuck else was she supposed to smoke, she wondered? And he used to get after her for leaving her cigarette butts in the front yard. But as she stood there, glowering, smoking the cigarette down to its nub, he did not utter one peep in protest. He strained to heave the suitcase into the van.

Mighty heavy, Sam. You got my good silverware in here?

She did not smile.

She stood there, smoking.

He slammed shut the back hatch and walked back up the steps to her. With a sheepish smile, he thrust his hands into his front jeans pockets.

Oh, err, by the way.

What?

I need my key back to the house . . . and to the Trans Am.

Christ almighty on a crutch. She fished the house key from her front right pocket and flung it at his face. He flinched, but did not betray any emotion or anger.

Okay, now the Trans Am.

I don’t got it.

Come on, Sam.

Oh, all right, she snapped. She yanked her key chain from her purse, selected the Trans Am key, and ran it through the prong until it finally released. She held the key in her closed right fist.

Um, uh, okay, he said. He stepped forward, reached for her fist, drew it up to him, slowly separated her fingers from the key tucked it into his front jeans pocket. Then he dropped the van key into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers back up. That’s the key to the van.

She flung her purse over her shoulder. Fuck you, Rex. You don’t know the first thing about me.

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* * *

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Samantha dreaded the reception she’d get when she dragged her sorry ass back home. As she heaved Rex’s suitcase in through the front door, she saw Vicky, seated at the kitchen table, nursing the spawn of stupid.

Irritation flashed through her as she took in the full extent of the transformation that’d been effected during her absence; the entire house was now baby central.

Vicky registered surprise when she saw Samantha. Hey, Mom. What’s up with the suitcase?

Samantha dropped the suitcase onto the carpeting in the great room and put her hands on her hips. The great room of her trailer fit into the foyer in Rex’s doublewide. Just standing in her own trailer made her feel cramped and uncomfortable. And Vicky was a neat-nick, no doubt about it, the girl knew how to clean; the place gave off a fresh, floral scent, and Sam smelled the peach-scented candles on the kitchen countertop before she saw them, but everything was so dad-blamed crowded. Baby toys, baby pumpkin seats, baby bathtubs, baby diaper-changing bags, baby accessories, baby food, and baby bouncing seats were scattered everywhere. Stacked neatly, of course, but the place was wall-to-wall baby.

But where was Blake’s Laz-Y-Boy recliner that Blake loved so much? It normally took up space in front of the television, and the leather sofa was still there, but every available cushion on the sofa was filled with . . . baby blankets, baby clothes, baby toys.

I ought to find my own place and let Vicky stay here.

Hey, kid, Samantha said. How you holding up?

I’m fine, Mom. I’d get up and help you, but I’m kinda busy here. Her brow furrowed. Um, the suitcase?

It’s a temporary thing.

Thankfully, Vicky didn’t seem upset by this news.

Okay.

Rex said he needs some time alone with his kids to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Anne Marie’s death.

Celebrate?

Mourn. Cry. Whine. Fuck do I know? Whatever he plans to do.

Okay, Vicky said uncertainly. Are you expecting to take your old room back? Cause I’ve kind of taken it over, with the baby and me.

Nah, I can sleep in your old room.

At least my kid’s letting me back in. I don’t know what I’d do if she said there wasn’t enough room for both of us and the spud monkey.

Thanks, Mom.

A silence.

So, it’s been a year already since Mrs. Whitehall died?

Ayuh. I reckon. Samantha walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Any beer?

Mom, I’m not legally old enough to buy alcohol.

Oh, crap, that’s right. Any wine?

There might be some in the cupboard, but I’m not sure, Mom.

I’ll look. Thankfully, Sam found a dusty old bottle of Merlot at the back of the cupboard. She pulled it out, found the wine bottle opener, and opened the bottle. Poured a generous glassful of wine and sipped.

How long you gonna stay here? Vicky asked.

Just for a week or two, Samantha lied. Rex wants to do this Kumbayah moment with his kids, lighting candles, crying like babies. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.

Vicky smiled wryly. "After all, Mom, it is your house."

It’s your house too, Samantha said generously, gazing around the trailer with distaste. Then she noticed something else missing.

Vicky got rid of the penis-shaped bar stools.

Christ almighty, this girl had taken over.

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* * *

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Monday, February 23, 7:00 p.m.

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So angry she didn’t know what to do with herself, she decided