Trailer Park Wives Part One: The Singlewide Edition

By Denise Gwen

Why, oh why, did Anne Marie Whitehall take her own life, swallowing away her pain and her grief with a handful of Nembutal capsules and a bottle of Merlot? Does Samantha Jacobs, the red-haired vixen, grinding away on a pole at the Revue, know? Or perhaps Deena Cook, harried mother of four, and a regular visitor at Children's Services? Or does Cierra Maldonado, mother of two children by two different men, not receiving a penny of child support, and working as a cocktail waitress at a chi-chi club in downtown Cincinnati, know why? Or perhaps Lettie Robinson, a four-hundred pound housewife of three healthy and hungry little boys, who knows the meat display at Wal-Mart better than the inside of her own trailer, know? Well, someone knows why Anne Marie Whitehall committed suicide, but she isn't talking. And everyone wants to know who the raven-haired, glacially thin woman is who's walking around the trailer park and sending secret notes to certain dear--and dearly departed--friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005524401

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Saturday, March 8, 8:55 a.m.

---

Oh, come on, God-dammit. How many more times is this gonna take?

I dunno, the trick said. I guess I drank too much.

Ya think? Samantha shot back. Oh, ya think?

Give me another chance, he said, digging his greasy fingers into her hair. I’ll cum, I promise.

Okay, but this is your last shot, buddy, Samantha said. Groaning from the pain in her knees, she leaned forward and placed her lips around the goon’s semi-flaccid cock. Mmmm, she murmured under her breath. Mmmm.

He uttered an unintelligible sound, and, Samantha sensed, things were finally starting to look up. His cock hardened in her supple mouth and she rode him all the way down his shaft to his balls, then back up again. The cock stiffened, then shuddered, and in the next moment, she was swallowing down his cum.

Dear God, finally.

She leaned back on her haunches, performing her signature Samantha loving herself some cum act, complete with a satisfied, lip-smacking smile, and a growl of approval, establishing for her customer she’d just tasted herself some fine cum, some mighty fine cum. She ran her tongue across her teeth. There. All done.

The trick—was it Bob, or Rob, did he say—fell back and sat down, hard, on the toilet seat. Wow, oh, wow, I mean, wow.

Yep. I’m that good. She placed her hands on his thighs and used him to help her struggle to her feet. She gazed down distastefully at the floor, cringing at the sight of the discarded, bloated, blood-soaked tampons, a couple of used condoms, a piece of chewing gum stuck to the metal rim of the toilet paper canister, and some viscous substance lurking behind the toilet. God almighty, this place hadn’t been cleaned in ages.

Better wash your hands real good when you leave here, she said. This bathroom floor looks like it could give someone a good case of herpes or some viral infection.

Oh, he said, gazing blankly at her.

I wish now I’d worn my jeans to do this job. Now I’m gonna have to wash my legs before heading out. She picked a piece of grit out of the indentation in her left knee. Fuck me, she said.

You want to go to my camper? the man asked.

Nah, she said. I’m running late as it is.

He tucked his cock between his legs and peed.

She turned around, flipped the knob, and walked out of the stall.

He farted.

Thanks a lot, you fucker.

Sorry.

She studied her reflection in the mirror as she bent over the sink and ran water over her hands. She pushed her fingers against the soap dispenser . . . and nothing came out. Oh, that cheap-ass bastard.

How hard was it to keep the soap dispenser filled?

The toilet flushed and the goon walked out of the stall, zipping up his jeans. He headed for the door.

Oh, fuck me, she said. Wash your hands, you dirt-bag.

She shuddered. He’d rubbed his hands all over her head. And too bad for her, she didn’t have time for a shower.

He smirked as he pulled open the women’s restroom door and left.

What a piece of shit, she muttered, running water over her knees. She inspected herself in the mirror as she ran her fingers through her flame-red hair, fluffing it out. Oh, well, this is the best I can manage. She hurried out of the restroom, stopped in at the dressing room.

Ginger, one of the new girls, sat at the illuminated mirror, tears creeping down her cheeks.

Rough night last night? Samantha quipped. She plopped herself down into her chair, grabbed a kohl eyeliner pencil, and used it to rim her eyelids.

Why doesn’t he love me? Ginger wailed.

Aw, honey, you’re going about it all wrong.

Ginger turned to face her, black spiders of mascara trailing down her cheeks.

You’re ruining your makeup, kiddo.

Oh, Sam. What am I gonna do?

Sam reached for a tissue, dipped it in eye makeup remover, and handed it to the girl. Here. You go on in five, better get yourself cleaned up.

How do you do it, Sam?

Honey, Sam said, applying a coat of red matte lipstick across her mouth. It’s work, is what it is. And no matter what shit you walk in the door with—your boyfriend beat you up last night, your kid was up all night puking, whatever—you gotta leave it behind you, or you won’t survive.

Okay, Ginger snuffled. She dabbed the tissue against her cheek.

Gotta go, Samantha said. She bent down, ran through the combination on her locker, pulled out her purse. She stood up, gave herself one last, dismissive look, then turned on her heel and walked to the door.

Where you going, Sam?

Oh, Samantha said, one hand on the door, the other waving around distractedly, my good friend killed herself and today’s her funeral.

How awful, Ginger said. Oh, Sam, how awful for you.

It’s pretty bad, Samantha admitted, but at least I ain’t going six feet under. For now, anyway. She flashed a wide grin. Knock’em dead today, kid.

Bye, Sam, Ginger called after her as Samantha let the dressing room door bang shut after her. She sauntered through the club, nodded at Reg, the DJ and manager of the Revue, then pushed on the heavy-handled door into the bright morning sunshine.

Christ, Anne Marie, Samantha said as she headed for her car. What a fucking day for a funeral.

10:31 a.m.

---

Lettie Robinson sat in the second row of mourners at the Gallatin Brothers Funeral Home and Crematorium, unable to tear her gaze away from Anne Marie Whitehall’s bloated, waxen face.

My face looks like that when I wake up every morning.

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back. They refused to be contained and crept down her cheeks.

Why, Anne Marie, why? Lettie whispered.

I been asking myself the exact same thing, a soft voice said beside her.

Despite the tears blurring her eyes, when Lettie turned to look, she recognized the face of her dear friend, Deena Cook. Oh, Deena. There you are.

Yes, Deena said. Here I am. She grimaced. I almost didn’t make it.

Oh, how come?

Babysitter didn’t get to the house till ten-fifteen. I was pert near ready to strangle her by the time she finally showed up.

Oh, Lettie said, smiling sympathetically, that girl sure is unreliable, ain’t she?

Yes, she is, Deena said. I’d fire her, but she’s the only girl in the trailer park I can trust.

And even then, Lettie said, and shrugged.

You’re so lucky, Deena said, a trace of envy in her voice. You got a husband you can leave your kids with.

I don’t know so much about that. Joe acts like I’m setting him on fire every time I ask him to watch the kids.

Yeah, but at least he’s their dad. Dads love their kids. Teenage girls love only themselves.

Lettie chuckled. Amen to that, sister.

Deena shook her head. I almost didn’t come.

Lettie reached over and patted Deena on her right knee. It’s good you’re here.

Yes, Deena said helplessly, I suppose so. She looked around with a furtive manner, then ducked her head close to Lettie’s. I heard she swallowed down a handful of pills and washed it all down with a bottle of Merlot.

Yes, Lettie said softly. A bottle of Nembutal.

Oh, dear, Deena said. A hundred-count bottle?

Think it was closer to a three-month supply, so we’re talking ninety pills.

Dear God.

She did it on Wednesday, Lettie said.

In the morning, Deena agreed.

On clearance, Lettie said.

Deena glanced at her. What?

I saw Anne Marie at the Wal-Marts the day she bought that bottle of wine.

Oh, Deena said. Well.

She bought the wine on clearance. I think it cost only four dollars and ninety-nine cents.

Who knew? Deena said with an ironic smile.

What?

How easy it is to die.

Yes, Lettie said, nodding at the elegant oak casket, but so expensive to be buried.

Yes. I’m sure this is going to put Rex in a financial pinch.

Poor guy.

Poor Anne Marie, Deena said.

I wonder, Lettie said, then stopped.

What?

I wonder . . . why she did it?

Took her life? Deena snorted with derision. Let me count the ways. We live in the worst trailer park in Gallatin County. We’re all of us living paycheck to paycheck. Why wouldn’t any one of us want to slit open her veins?

Honey, Lettie said softly. Are you all right?

Oh, don’t mind me, Deena said. I’m just feeling dark and disgusting today.

I understand, Lettie said, although inwardly, she did wonder.

What was the matter with all her friends?

Look, Deena said. They’re getting ready to start the service.

Lettie looked up and watched as the mortuary director approached the casket. He pulled his lips back into a grinning rictus of a smile as the last mourner peered into the casket. He then went to the front of the casket, to where Anne Marie lay, and then, slowly, and with great deliberation, closed the casket lid.

I gotta go, Deena said.

Oh? You can’t stay for the service?

No, Deena said. The babysitter said she’s leaving at eleven sharp. Some class she has to take, or something.

Okay, then, Lettie said. Take care, babe.

See ya, Deena said. She rose to her feet and walked toward the exit. As she neared the now-closed casket, she slowed to a stop. She stood for a long moment, then, slowly, eased away and out of the funeral home as the minister stepped forward to the pulpit and began the funeral service.

Dearly beloved, he intoned. We are gathered here today—

Lettie bowed her head and prayed.

10:49 a.m.

---

Her eyes brimming over with tears, Deena hurried out of the funeral home and stumbled into the parking lot. What in the world had Anne Marie been thinking, killing herself on Ash Wednesday, during holy week, and four days before freaking Easter Sunday? And besides all that, who’d dreamed up the notion of holding Easter in March, anyway? Easter was springtime, tulips blooming, sweet little bunny rabbits, decorated eggs; Easter was most certainly not sleety rain, bitterly cold weather. As if to demonstrate how utterly wrong it felt, she closed her eyelids and turned her cheek to the bright-yet-strangely chilly sun. The tears creeping down her cheeks grew icy. The temperature hovered in the low twenties.

Way too early for Easter.

She found her faded blue Buick LeSabre, fought the key into the lock, opened the door, and collapsed behind the wheel. Only then, outside of the stultifying confines of the funeral home, did she release her grief. Why, she gasped between sobs, why, Anne Marie? Why’d you do it? It all came as such a shock, such an horrific blur. She still didn’t quite grasp it all, the finality, the dread reality of what Anne Marie had done to herself.

She gasped out one last sob, then reached for a box of tissues and blew her nose. She found it all so hard to believe; why, just last Saturday, she and Anne Marie took their little ones to the indoor pool at the YMCA to check out the water-slide in the newly reconstructed children’s pool. A multi-million dollar investment in their pitiful, hillbilly YMCA. The kids had enjoyed themselves thoroughly, screaming as they tobogganed down the water-slide, splashing as they fell into the water.

The kids loved it.

Everything seemed just fine.

And yet, and yet.

She’d sensed something wrong.

Every time she’d glanced over at Anne Marie—whenever Anne Marie didn’t know Deena was looking at her—Deena had noticed a glimmering of sadness in Anne Marie’s eyes.

And when she did smile, well, she smiled broadly, but Deena detected a strain at the edges of Anne Marie’s smiles, a tremulous terror.

Why, oh why, didn’t I say something; ask her what was troubling her?

She’d said nothing, absolutely nothing. Breathed not a word to her friend. And, to her regret, her enormous shame, she completely forgot the tension in Anne Marie’s face as she bade Anne Marie goodbye, put her children into the car, and drove home.

Why didn’t I say anything? Why didn’t I ask her, ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ If I’d shown the tiniest bit of care, would Anne Marie still be alive today?

It shamed her.

I could’ve saved her, Deena whispered, her eyes focused on the tiny plastic bobble-head Dalmatian perched on the dashboard. The dog bobbled its head at her but wisely said nothing.

I was her best friend. She should’ve told me.

The bobble-head dog merely nodded at her, a faint smile curving at the corners of his painted mouth. He knew better. Oh yes, he knew better.

Ah, but you did nothing, didn’t you, Deena? You did absolutely nothing, even though you sensed something wrong. Well, good for you, Deena. And now your dear friend lies dead in her casket, and the wheels of life rumble along as if she’d never set foot upon this earth. Strange, isn’t it, how it works? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how quickly we’ll all forget you when your time comes?

It’s not fair, Deena repeated, her eyes blurring with tears. Anne Marie was the best of any of us.

Ah, but she is no more.

And I don’t know why she took her life.

Would it really have made a difference, if you’d known? If you’d managed to get it out of her, wouldn’t she still be lying in her casket? Wouldn’t she, Deena? Of course she would. But let’s not fret on the subject any longer. It’s time to make like a nail and press on. Go home. The babysitter’s waiting. Not so patiently, I might add.

Deena turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. And so it goes, she said to the bobble-head Dalmatian, but he said nothing. He merely nodded.

He knew.

10:53 a.m.

---

Deena pulled off Old Highway twenty-three and turned right onto Rose Petal Lane, the main drag of the Batesville Lakes Mobile Home Park. Rose Petal Lane. Hah. What a joke. A flash of bitterness swelled in her throat. No rose petals ever graced this miserable dump of a trailer park.

She and Anne Marie used to laugh over the ridiculous street names. Deena’s, Lettie’s, and Anne Marie’s mobile homes, located on Tulip Trace, resided to the west of Rose Petal Lane; Cierra’s and Samantha’s trailers, parked on Daffodil Drive, ran to the east .

Stupid, stupid. But at least it was a tiny bit better than using faux English names. Deena once lived in a mobile home park where the streets carried the oddest names—Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Kensington Gardens—and she’d wondered at the time, what did the real places in London look like? Probably nothing like the miserable trailer park she found herself in. She’d never been to London—probably never see it, either, not in this lifetime, at any rate—and she seriously doubted any Londoner would recognize these American streets as anything resembling the real thing.

She turned right onto Tulip Trace, drove past lot number 2354. There. If ever Deena needed a reminder of the sheer numbing nullity of death, then here lay the proof. She winced as she saw the vacant lot where Anne Marie’s doublewide trailer used to stand. The shed Rex built was still there, at the back of the lot. No doubt, Rex would haul it away too, when it grew closer to the beginning of the month, and when the lot rent came due.

Unable to resist, Deena slowed her car down, drew to a stop, and stared. The bare lot looked so vacant, so stripped, so harrowingly empty, so devoid of life. The only proof that a happy person by the name of Anne Marie Whitehall once lived at 2354 Tulip Trace, evidenced by the bursting bloom of her springtime garden. The neat rectangle of ground she’d so painstakingly and lovingly cultivated, a few feet from her front stoop, brimmed over with the first fresh buds of spring. The purple crocuses, so velvety soft in the sunlight; her bright pink, red, purple and yellow tulips, a veritable riot of color. Anne Marie’s purple flox, already blooming, spread a radiant glow of tiny purple flowers across the border she’d set up to contain the garden. But the flox refused to be contained; flox never did. It stretched curly tendrils of wispy, flower-covered vines into the yard. When Anne Marie first planted this garden, she’d planted a patch of flox in a neat little square, from a flat she bought at a nursery, and with every successive springtime, the plants spread further and further, stretching their tendrils, creeping out, covering up more and more ground, until finally providing a gorgeous, glowing ground cover. In the hard, bright light, the fragrant purple flowers glowed with an eerie luminescence.

And now, abandoned.

Gazing absently at the raw patch of ground where the trailer used to sit, and which now eerily resembled a grave site, a sudden thought darted into her mind.

What secret are you covering up, Anne Marie?

The bobble-head dog nodded approvingly.

Yes, now you understand. Good girl, you suspect something. Just like that flox covering the ground at 2354 Tulip Trace, Anne Marie’s secret has been covered over as well. She’s buried her secret. But what, exactly, did Anne Marie bury? What secret did she take with her to the grave?

A cloud scudded across the sky, obliterating the sun, casting it in a sudden curtain of shade. A chill rising in her heart, Deena pulled her gaze away from Anne Marie’s garden and drove to her own trailer.

As she eased toward her trailer at 2350 Tulip Trace, her vision shifted, then jumped, as a child wearing only a diaper darted across the street.

Oh, dear God!

A bright, sunny day in March to be sure, but still, twenty-seven degrees. A second child scampered past, dressed in a dirty t-shirt and a sagging diaper. For God’s sake, she muttered under her breath. What the hell’s the matter with these people?

It rankled at her, it really annoyed her no end, the class of people who lived in this trailer park. She considered herself and her friends above the riff-raff, but the neighborhood did possess a certain element, a certain class of person, that simply could not be ignored. Drug dealers, prostitutes, career criminals, addicts, alcoholics. All these miserable, sodden creatures engaged in noisy congress with one another on a daily basis; and, in varying ways, and at varying times, these animals also engaged with Deena and her family, despite her best efforts to repel them.

In her heart, she knew, she was losing the battle against the rising tide of criminality and corruption. She considered her snug single-wide as her fortress against the world in general, and against these wretched people, in particular. Ian and Clare, her three-year-old twins, still immune, immersed as they were in their infancy, had not yet reached the age of worry, but she fretted over her older children, Desiree, age seventeen, and Ricky Junior, age fifteen. Thus far, she’d been fortunate, so very fortunate. She hadn’t yet detected the odor of marijuana on the breath of her teens; she hadn’t yet borne witness to their eyes turning glassy and vacant from the effects of some other, nameless drug, but she dreaded the moment, and it would happen, this she knew—as her pastor thundered down at them from the pulpit—all in the fullness of time.

Travis, her present husband and the father of her twins, kept telling her she was being paranoid. They might live in a trailer park, but it didn’t mean her kids were destined to turn into drug addicts, drug dealers, prostitutes or porn stars. It didn’t mean that, just because some of her kids’ friends were already sliding down that slippery slope toward misery, despair, and a lifelong addiction to drugs and crime, didn’t necessarily mean her children would follow suit.

But still, she fretted.

The bobble-head dog nodded in agreement. Yes, you ought to worry. You ought to worry a whole lot.

Her thoughts still preoccupied, she drew closer to her trailer.

And then her heart froze in her chest.

Ian! She screamed. Clare!

Even with her car windows rolled up tight, the children heard their mother’s voice clearly. The twins stopped, turned around, and gazed at Deena with open, vacant smiles. How did she fail to recognize her own infants, running around in the street, nearly naked? As she sat there, stunned, a Mack truck flew around the corner from the opposite side of the street. The driver gunned the engine, shifted gear, and gained speed.

Oh, wait! She thrust her hands up against the windshield, as if she possessed some kind of superhuman strength to stop the truck. A useless gesture. Like so many things in her life, one useless gesture after another.

The truck lurched, the driver shifted again, and the truck gained momentum. The driver, utterly heedless, bore down upon her children.

Oh, dear God, wait!

The truck sputtered diesel fumes, roared, and tore down Tulip Trace. At the last possible moment, the driver saw the children.

And Deena saw her children’s lives flashing before her eyes.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!

With a herculean effort, the driver swung the wheel, hard, to the right, swerving around the children as they stood in the street. His front left front tire rumbled past Clare so close, bits of grit and rock dusted her blonde hair and she twirled her head as if she were a model filming a shampoo commercial.

Now the truck drew alongside her. If she were to take one step in the truck driver’s direction, she’d put her tiny body into the path of the truck’s back wheels.

She took one faltering step toward the truck.

Clare!

Clare looked up, noticed her mother, smiled. She took one step toward her mother.

The truck, spraying diesel exhaust, dust, and gravel, sprayed Clare’s and Ian’s faces as they stood there, stupidly, vacantly, watching the truck grind past. Still trapped inside her car, Deena screamed with frustration as the truck rumbled past, its weight and bulk so massive, her car rocked from the force of it.

The truck driver reached the corner, screeched to a stop. He yanked open his driver’s side door, gazed back up the street. You stupid fucking bitch! You almost got your fucking kids killed! He slammed the door closed, threw the truck back into gear, turned right onto Rose Petal Lane and rumbled away out of the trailer park.

The bobble-head dog nodded with a weary resignation.

Yep, a close one, that. That one ranks right up there with the greatest of the great close calls.

She clutched the steering wheel and screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed until she’d screamed herself hoarse.

Waves of sickness washed over her. She fought back the bile rising in her throat.

If I hadn’t called out Clare’s name at the last possible moment, she’d be a blood pancake right now.

She shuddered with revulsion, gazing at the spot where the tires rumbled down the street, and the spot where Clare would be right now, at this moment, if she hadn’t made a precipitate step toward Deena.

There. That spot, right there. She’d be a puddle of gore and broken skull and mashed up baby—

Deena threw her hands to her mouth, attempting, and failing, to stifle the horrific image from her mind. But no, she couldn’t.

And yet, she saw the image. She saw the moment when the truck’s back wheels first rolled over Clare. A look of surprise filled her eyes, then exquisite pain, as the wheels pulled her under, flattening her, but the pain did not last long, for in the next moment, her little head fell to the pavement and, as they say—

Stop it.

When the rubber hits the road—

Stop it now. It’s over. She’s safe. She didn’t die.

She watched as Clare’s pretty little head cracked open like a fresh egg and her eyes burst out of her skull and her tiny body convulsed into just so much Roadkill below the truck’s wheels.

The bobble-head Dalmatian nodded with a sagacious smile.

You are one lousy mamma, ain’t you?

Yes, she whispered. I am.

Her head swam. She fought back tears. Oh dear God, she moaned. Oh, dear God.

A soft scratching at the outside of the driver’s side door bestirred her. She rolled down the driver’s side window and peered over. Ian stood below her. He stuck his right finger up his nose and beamed.

See? He’s right-handed, all right. The nursery school teachers at Head Start are dead wrong.

Streams of green and yellow snot erupted from his nose, pouring down his finger, down his cheeks. He’d caught another cold. Clare trotted over to the car as well, and Deena saw a brown smear creasing Clare’s filthy pajama shirt. Her diaper, filled to overflowing, looked ready to explode. Her children, her precious children, running around, naked and filthy, out on the streets of a trailer park on a cold day in March.

Wonderful. Simply wonderful.

She couldn’t kid herself any longer, she couldn’t pretend she was a better person than anybody here. She’d become the cliché, a neglectful mother in a trailer park.

That was it. She’d had it. Without even bothering to get her car off the street, she threw the engine into park and reached over the windowsill to pluck Ian off the street, depositing him on the floorboard of the passenger-side seat. Clare staggered up to the door and raised her arms to be lifted up too. As Deena grabbed her and hauled her off the street and into the car to stand beside her brother on the floorboard, her diaper exploded.

11:06 a.m.

---

What the hell do you think you’re doing?

Bree, the twins’ sixteen-year old babysitter, jumped up from the overstuffed couch where’d she been lying, half-naked, beside a forty-year old man. Shirtless and with his jeans pulled down to his knees, he fumbled with his underpants as Bree grabbed her shirt from the back of a chair and buckled her jeans closed.

Deena gazed at the man’s skanky, skinny ass. An enormous tattoo danced across his butt cheeks. In black ink, a gigantic rat with a cartoon bubble above his head, declared, Shit!

Well, if that didn’t just sum it all up.

With Ian on her left hip, and Clare, diaper-less, dribbling poo, on her right, Deena glowered from the doorway of her mobile home. She gazed at the man with a look of cold hatred. Still reclining on the couch, the man shimmied his jeans up to his ass and tucked his dick back inside.

Get out. Get out before I kick you out!

Bree buttoned up her blouse and grabbed her bag. She flung a look at the man. I told you this was a bad idea. I told you I’d get in trouble.

Ah, love.

The man took his time rolling up to a standing position. He slouched off the couch, pulling his jeans up to his