Trailer Park Wives Part Three: The Triplewide Edition

By Denise Gwen

Well, okay, so everyone knows why Anne Marie did what she did, yeah, okay, it's gross that the step-father raped her, but whatever . . . things start to calm down in the trailer park, and a new family moves onto the lot where Anne Marie's trailer used to stand.
Deena's looking forward to becoming friends with the housewife . . . things just haven't been the same since Anne Marie died. But when the Bergen--or is it Snuffy?--clan moves in, Deena can't tell who's the wife . . . is it Roxanne Bergen, mother of eight-year-old twins Desiree and Max, four-year-old Makayhla, and her two-year-old foster child, Alex Witherspoon, or is it Adelaide, a hot mess and the mother of infant baby Joy?
No matter, Deena begins to discover things about this family that cause her concern, but there are other things going on in the trailer park, things that occupy the wives' thoughts and cares and concerns, which is just par for the course in Ohio's grimmest and ugliest trailer park.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005166847

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

Book preview

1

Monday, April 14, 3:39 p.m.

W hat in the world is that God-awful smell, Deena said, as she drove her kids home from the bus stop the second Monday following the fire. Ewww, she said, her nostrils flaring at the unmistakably acrid odor of death, "what in the world is that? "

What a stink, Desiree, her seventeen-year-old daughter said, clutching her nose.

Jesus, Ricky Junior, her fifteen-year-old son said, did someone run over a possum? Seated in the front passenger seat, he craned his neck over the rolled-down windowsill, checking to see where the dead rodent lay. A good boy, her Ricky, he’d walk back up the street later with a shovel and a plastic bag to scoop up the mess. Man, he said, shaking his head, I sure don’t see it none.

But it’s gotta be here somewhere, dontcha think? Deena asked.

And here I thought this lousy trailer park couldn’t smell any worse, Desiree said. I can still smell the fire from that lady’s trailer, way up on Daisy Drive.

Duh, Desiree. That happened, what, the weekend before last?

Oh, blow me, Ricky.

Gladly, dear sister.

All right, you two, Deena said as she pulled into the driveway of their snug trailer and threw the gear into park, knock it off.

Oh, Mom, Desiree said.

The fire smell, Deena said, sadly, will be with us for some time to come, but that smell of death, that’s a new one on me.

And it’s so close, Desiree said.

Yes, it’s much stronger than the fire smell. Deena shuddered. Was it possible, could it be? She counted it up in her head and didn’t believe it. Only nine days ago, Tammy Sue Blackburn’s charred body got hauled out of her trailer on a gurney as the firefighters finished spraying the neighboring trailers to make sure none of them burst into flames? The wrecked mess of Tammy Sue’s burnt-up trailer smoldered still, letting off little vapors of noxious stench and smoke. It’d be awhile yet before the charred hulk got hauled off, the lot scoured, cleaned up, scraped clean, and a fresh, clean trailer installed upon its moorings.

That is one fragrant odor, Ricky Junior said.

Maybe it’s the after-effects from the fire? Desiree asked.

All the way down here? Ricky Junior asked, then scoffed. That lady’s trailer sits clear at the back end of the trailer park.

This silenced them.

It’s the fire, Desiree said with certainty.

The fi-wehr, Clare said from her pumpkin seat.

The fi-wehr, Ian repeated, parroting exactly what his twin sister said.

As Deena glanced up into the rear-view mirror and gazed at her little ones, snug in their bumper seats, a thread of disquietude laced through her. Yes, sweeties. The fire.

In her mind’s eye, Deena re-lived a scene from her childhood. She walked down a country road, enjoying a perfectly sunny day, when her nostrils flared with the sudden, acrid odor of a foul being. The source of the smell revealed itself to her a few yards later; a desiccated raccoon, lying on its side in a ditch, blue-bottle flies feasting ecstatically on the rotting flesh.

This smell, this terrible odor, reminded her of that dead raccoon.

If you ask me, Ricky Junior said, "I think something died."

Died, the twins echoed in unison.

Ricky, Deena said, flashing him a significant look and nodding at the twins.

I know, Mom, I know, don’t curse in front of the babies. He scrunched up his nose with distaste. I’ll betcha some animal crawled up under Mrs. Russell’s trailer and died, ‘cause that’s exactly what it smells like, is Roadkill.

Yes, it does, Deena said.

Woadkill, the twins said.

Just like the smell, Ricky Junior offered helpfully, of a dead deer lying by the side of the road.

All right, honey, Deena said, her voice strained. That’s enough now.

Ricky, Desiree said. Mom’s telling you to be quiet.

Don’t tell me to be quiet, Des.

Okay, kids, Deena called out in a falsely cheery voice, here we are at home, all safe and sound. She pulled up into the two-car driveway, threw the gear into park, and killed the engine.

Desiree, sitting on the bench seat beside the twins, pulled open the sliding panel door and groaned. "Oh, my God, Mom. The smell is so much worse."

Oh, my goodness, Deena said as the sopping wet stink slapped her in the face. You’re right, that’s awful. Hurry inside, children.

She jumped out of her seat and walked around the front of the van to the sliding panel door as Desiree wrestled Ian out of his bumper seat. She climbed up and into the third-row bench seat to reach past Ian’s seat and grab Clare from hers. Ricky Junior walked to the back of the van and hauled in the groceries. They hustled inside the house and closed and locked the door and Deena cranked up the air conditioning. While Desiree gave the little ones a snack and parked them in front of the television, Deena put the groceries away, and Ricky Junior walked down the hallway to his bedroom to change into his work clothes.

Mom, that really is an awful smell, Desiree said.

Deena closed the refrigerator door and looked at her daughter. It is, honey. It’s an awful smell. I wonder what I ought to do.

Call the Fire Marshall?

Ricky popped his head out from the bedroom. Why do you want to call the Fire Marshall? It’s not a fire.

Call the management office, then, Desiree said. Call the cops. Call somebody, Mom.

The park management office, Deena said. I suppose I can do that. Yes, I suppose I can do that.

They’re not gonna do anything, Ricky said, and snorted. They do nothing all day long.

Ricky was right; the trailer park management office always proved less than helpful.

---

* * *

---

The woman who answered the phone listened to Deena’s narrative, then said, If it’s a dead animal on the street, the sanitation crew will come by tomorrow to clean the streets. They sweep the trailer park every Tuesday.

This is a mighty fine smell, Deena said. You’re telling me we have to wait till tomorrow to get this dead animal cleaned up?

The sanitation crew comes by every Tuesday to sweep the trailer park clean of street debris, dead animals, yard waste, and other items left out by our residents, the woman said in a flat, nasally voice.

I’m assuming the sanitation crew doesn’t keep you waiting, Deena said tersely, "when there’s an animal lying dead on your street."

I live in the village of Batesville, came the smug reply.

Oh, of course you do.

How can I send my children outside to play when the air’s contaminated with that God-awful smell?

The sanitation crew will be—

Making a sweep of the trailer park tomorrow, Deena said. I get it, I get it. Thanks for nothing.

And she hung up.

Coulda told ya, Mom, Ricky Junior said.

Oh, you be quiet, Deena said.

She sat down to think.

---

* * *

---

I think an animal wandered into the crawl space below Mrs. Russell’s trailer and died there, Desiree said.

Which means the sanitation crew won’t bother looking for it under someone’s trailer, Deena said. They only clean up the stuff they see, lying on the street.

Aren’t the residents supposed to keep their lots neat and clean and orderly? Desiree asked. Isn’t there, like, some rental agreement term or something?

Oh, Deena said, like how the residents are required to maintain their lots?

Hah, Ricky Junior said as he walked into the kitchen, That’s a good one.

Ricky Junior wore his red-with-black-trim-at-the-neck Frisch’s Big Boy uniform and apron, a pair of black pants, and a pair of black, rubber-sole shoes. He worked as a bus boy at the restaurant down the street after school every day. A hard-working young man, he’d promised Deena he’d keep his grades up if she let him take a job.

You don’t have time to check under Mrs. Russell’s trailer, do you, honey? Deena asked.

I can check real quick, Mom, but then I gotta scoot, or I’ll be late to work.

Okay, honey.

She unlocked the front door and walked outside and down the steps ahead of him, but instantly regretted it, for they both gagged and choked. Ricky turned back around and ran up the stairs.

Ricky, where you going?

Hold on a sec.

He returned a few seconds later with two damp washcloths. He handed one to Deena and put the other one over his face. She did the same. It helped, just a tiny bit.

Honey, I’m gonna make you late. Why don’t you just head on over to work and I’ll get your dad to look under Mrs. Russell’s trailer when he gets home from work.

Are you sure, Mom?

Yes, honey. Head on to work.

Here, take my washcloth.

She took it and placed it over the first washcloth over her nose and mouth, and watched as he climbed up and behind the wheel of her van, started the engine, backed out of the drive, and drove out of the trailer park.

I sure hope the dead animal smell didn’t soak into his uniform.

That’d be a bad thing, reporting to work at a nice restaurant like Frisch’s, smelling of Roadkill.

She squeezed the two washcloths close over her nose and breathed in slowly through her mouth, but it was no good, the dead animal smell filled her mouth. Giving up, she walked back up the stairs to her trailer and tossed the damp washcloths into the kitchen sink.

Did Ricky find it? Desiree asked.

No, I realized it’d soil his uniform if I made him grub around under Mrs. Russell’s trailer, and I’d make him late for work besides, so I sent him on.

Lucky guy, Desiree said.

Deena thrust her hands on her hips. Why, in Heaven’s name, did Irma Russell allow some dead animal to crawl up inside the skirting on her trailer, and then die there, leaving that God-awful smell?

Well, I’m assuming the animal was still alive when it crawled up under the skirting.

Oh, I know, I know. I just don’t understand how Irma Russell can permit such an abomination to exist on her property.

Maybe she’s got a head cold, and can’t smell it?

"A dead person could smell this."

Clare, seated in front of the television, turned to Ian and said, A dead person could smell this.

Desiree and Deena exchanged glances.

Deena turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen, grabbed the washcloths, and headed for the door. Keep an eye on the babies for me, will you, hon?

Sure, Mom. What are you doing?

Just checking something out.

She stepped out onto her front stoop, closed the door firmly behind her, and put the two washcloths up to her face. It didn’t combat the odor, for her eyes watered, but she soldiered on, walking down the steps and across Lettie’s yard, heading toward Irma Russell’s trailer.

The thought arose, unbidden . . . something bigger than a raccoon or an opossum died, that’s for good and sure.

She stopped short at the border between Lettie’s postage-stamp sized yard and Irma Russell’s; gave it one last good think. Irma Russell, the neighborhood snoop—the evil old woman who’d called in Deena to children’s services and gotten her twins removed, oh, what a horrible mess it’d been—did Deena want to mess with this old witch? Always a tidy homeowner, Irma cut her grass with scissors, that’s how fastidious a housekeeper she was. Irma Russell wouldn’t have tolerated a smell like this, not for one second. No, if Irma Russell had noticed a smell like this on their street, she would’ve hunted it down, scooped it up, dropped it into a plastic trash bag—no, make it two plastic trash bags—and thrown it away, and then she would’ve scoured the area of contamination with gallons of bleach.

For sure, that’s what Irma Russell would’ve done.

So . . . why hadn’t she?

A door opened behind her, followed by coughing. Deena, Lettie called out. What in the world are you doing?

Something died under Irma Russell’s trailer, and I’m gonna get rid of it, Deena said.

Heavens to Betsy, what is that smell?

Deena whirled around. Run a washcloth under the tap and put it on your face if you’re gonna come outside, Lettie.

Okay. Lettie disappeared for a few moments, then returned with a damp washcloth over her face. She walked down the steps with a heavy, lumbering gait, then waddled over to where Deena stood.

Be my look-out, Deena said. I don’t want Irma calling the police on me.

For sure, Lettie said.

Deena surged forward onto Irma’s yard and walked right up to the side of her trailer. When she reached it, she dropped down to her hands and knees, crawled up to the under-skirting, peeled a loose section of fiberglass board away, and peered under the trailer. I shoulda brought a flashlight.

Hold on, I’ll get one.

Deena crawled out from under the crawl space and sat down with her back against the trailer. Lettie returned, carrying a flashlight. She handed it down to Deena, who got back on her hands and knees and beamed the flashlight into the darkest corners of the trailer’s underside. Apart from the usual dry fescue grass, and a few determined weeds, she didn’t see a thing. She crawled back out and struggled to her feet. That’s funny, because the smell wasn’t nearly as strong underneath the trailer.

So you didn’t find a dead animal? Lettie asked.

No, I didn’t.

Lettie looked up, half-fearfully, at the trailer. I wonder what’s gotten into Mrs. Russell?

I know. It’s not like her.

Shall I call the police?

Give me a minute, Deena said, and walked up the steps to the front door.

Deena, Lettie said in a worried voice. I think this is a bad idea.

It probably is, Deena said, standing up on her toes to peer inside through the beveled-glass door. After the last thunderstorm swept through the trailer park, she’d considered buying a replacement door for her trailer with just such a door. She liked the way the beveled-glass glittered in the sunlight, but at six-hundred dollars, it’d been too expensive. Of course, Mrs. Russell owned the very door Deena wanted.

Do you see anything? Lettie asked.

No. She idly touched the door handle and started with surprise when the latch clicked and the door swung open. Oh. I sure didn’t expect the door to be unlocked.

For goodness sakes, Lettie said. What was Irma Russell thinking, leaving her door unlocked, and in this pit of a trailer park?

I know, right?

The only trailer in the park with an unlocked door and nobody robs the place, Lettie said, shaking her head with bemusement.

But Irma Russell’s such a mean old woman, such a vicious pit-bull of a person, who’d ever want to go inside?

And then a swell of shame washed through Deena.

Irma Russell’s probably dead.

And then, just like that, standing in the doorway, Deena smelled it. She smelled something bad, rotten, gangrenous and dead.

Do I want to walk in there?

Deena, we need to call the police, Lettie called out.

But Deena felt an irresistible urge to walk inside Irma Russell’s trailer.

Deena.

In a minute, Deena said, and with the short hairs on the back of her neck prickling, she walked into Irma Russell’s trailer.

2

Monday, April 14, 3:59 p.m.

Deena took first one step, then another, into Irma Russell’s trailer, and the deeper she stepped into the trailer, the more she realized something was terribly wrong. The door swung closed behind her and she froze; Irma Russell stood behind the door, pushing it closed, holding a knife by her side, ready to slit Deena’s throat. A scream trembled on her lips, Deena glanced over her shoulder, and shook with relief when she saw . . . nothing.

As the door swung shut, it reached appoint of equidistance and stopped just short of the doorsill, just a simple nudge would shut the door, and then an invisible puff of air pushed the door the faintest bit, and the latch clicked closed, taking with it the last little vestiges of light, and Deena stood all alone in the dusky gloom.

She swept the flashlight beam along the walls, searching for clues, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Huh.

As her eyes adjusted, the great room slowly materialized and she saw a tidy space, comfortably furnished. She didn’t know what she’d expected to see, but it oughtn’t to have surprised her. As tidy as Irma was with her yard, that’s just how tidy and neat she kept her home. It looked just like the kind of home a little old lady on a pension might keep for herself, what with the bric-a-brac adorning the plastic mantle over the faux fireplace, the tidy coffee mugs lined up on a shelf above the kitchen counter, the lace doilies at the head rests on every sofa and armchair.

But the bearskin rug . . . well, I must admit, that’s a bit tacky.

Irma had laid out a bearskin rug between the armchair and the television, and while that was certainly odd, Deena figured, perhaps Irma kept it for sentimental reasons. It sure needed stretching out, though, being all lumpy and bumpy . . .

She reached for the light switch and flipped it on. Nothing happened. She glanced at the television set. A blank screen. Holding the flashlight in front of her, she walked quietly to the kitchen. It looked tidy, but when she opened the refrigerator door, the internal light did not kick on and her nostrils flared at the odor of rotting food.

Everything was so eerily still.

What am I not seeing here?

Closing the refrigerator door, she walked out of the kitchen and back into the great room, and as she stepped onto the carpeting, her right foot squelched and sank down into the pile. Oh, what was that, she cried out as a gorge of bile rose in her throat and she lifted her right foot to inspect the sole and see if she’d stepped on something disgusting, a dead mouse, perhaps, or a rotting banana, but as she bent her right knee and looked at the right foot, she noticed the sole dripping with something wet and black and clotty.

Oh, my God.

Revolted, she put her foot back down and studied the carpeting and instantly noticed the difference. From where she’d entered the trailer, the carpeting was fresh and clean, a soft cream color, but over here near the kitchen, the carpeting had turned a brackish shade of gray and was sopping wet.

What seeped into the carpeting and soaked through and stained it?

Deena glanced at the back of the armchair, saw the small side table and the door to the little porch. Yep, sure enough, there were the binoculars resting on the side table, just waiting to be taken up and used to inspect the neighborhood goings on and tattle on the neighbors who weren’t looking after their children.

Deena studied the fireplace and a thread of envy laced through her heart. Well, my goodness. Irma’s got a gas fireplace. It stood to the right of the television, and there, perched on the mantle, stood an old-fashioned photograph of a smiling serviceman in military green. It shocked her to see how young, so very young, the serviceman appeared to be; why, he looked to be Ricky’s age. The photo had been taken a long time ago, perhaps even as long ago as the sixties, and as Deena studied the young man, she sensed his happiness, his pride. Young and handsome, off to serve his country.

In another photo perched on the mantle, she saw the same young man, dressed casually, as if for a barbecue. He wore a madras shirt, khaki pants, and those old-fashioned kind of penny loafers, the ones her father favored, where you put a penny in the front pocket fold of the leather.

When did people stop wearing penny loafers?

Deena studied the photo. With his left arm slung around the waist of a pretty, smiling young woman, and a long-neck beer dangling from the fingers of his right, he looked happy as he gazed into the camera.

Hesitant of the sludge, and yet deeply curious, Deena sidestepped the hideous stain soaking the carpeting and approached the mantle.

Yes, oh my God, if that isn’t Irma Russell as a young woman, standing with this handsome young man . . .

Irma, she said aloud.

With the handsome young man’s arm slung around her waist, Irma smiled.

Huh, Deena said sourly. "Didn’t know she could smile."

For sure, a smile had never graced Irma’s face in the time Deena had known her as a neighbor in this pathetic trailer park. Young Irma looked pretty and carefree and young. She wore a pretty, sixties-style sundress, and—oh, my God, hose, but yes of course, women in the sixties wore hose all the time, not to mention white gloves and hats—and a pair of matching espadrilles. She leaned into the young man as he held her close. Attending a picnic, a barbecue, perhaps, at a friend’s house; just a friendly evening out, for drinks and hot dogs and hamburgers fresh off the grill, and a friend snapped this photo of them and she’d kept it on her mantle forever after.

The bearskin rug shifted with an imperceptible sigh.

Deena swallowed down a scream and gazed down at the bearskin rug, only now, up close, she realized it wasn’t a bearskin rug at all, but a sodden lump.

Why, there you are, Irma Russell.

How the hell did she ever see Irma’s body as a bearskin rug? Perhaps her brain hadn’t been able to make the terrible connection earlier, but she sure saw it now. She held her breath and stared at the lump, trying to discern the resemblance of the woman who’d tortured her so much over the past many years, and she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t. Irma’s face—turned to one side, with the left cheek embedded in the carpeting, the right cheek slack, her tongue lolling out of her mouth and melting into the carpeting—looked as if someone had tossed a mannequin in a wax museum to the floor and just left it there.

That’s when she noticed the thousands upon thousands of tiny white maggots feasting on Irma’s flesh, her lips, her wide-open unseeing eye, and she also realized, with a sick wave of revulsion, what’d soaked the carpeting; Irma’s rotting organs, fluids, skin, and viscera, turned into goo, seeped into the carpeting and spread her bodily excretions all over the floor.

Deena sensed the shifting of weight on the trailer floor, cried out in alarm and grabbed for the mantle to support her.

Is the floor rotting? Am I going to fall through the floor with Irma’s rotting corpse?

Deena? Lettie’s voice, tentative, frightened.

Don’t come in here, Lettie.

The door swung open and a shaft of light shot across the floor