Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1) (9 page)

Friday: Outward Signs of Madness

23

When the alarm went off, it took me a moment to realize where I was and what I was doing there. The fairy tale continued. I had Abba in my head today. Mom was getting a bit cheesy: “Mamma Mia” was the message of the day.

In the song, she had a broken heart, she left, she thought it was a game, mamma mia! She didn’t think it meant forever!

Although the lyrics were sad, I was glad my mom was there. She kept me grounded. But I didn’t have time to decode today’s message.

I had a pile of crap to deal with.

We ordered room service. An amazing continental breakfast. “Get it in you before the Germans take it,” as my grandma used to say. The crazy times were still rolling.

But I needed to get a move on.

Time to go on the attack. After dropping the rug rats off at daycare and school, I headed toward city hall.

It wasn’t open yet, so I waited for more than half an hour.

I was then sent from office to office until I finally got a hold of the right person. I was livid. Shouting like a nut job. Screaming that I’d heard they were going to build a casino on the same spot where I had my trailer. That it was scandalous. And why had nobody said anything to me about it? Where was I going to park my trailer? What were me and the cubbies supposed to do now?

Finally, I was sent to see a stunningly attractive black woman. She had huge eyes, but her expression was stern as she stood in front of a filing cabinet, sorting through papers.

Despite her age—around thirty-five?—and her aloof manner, she had a radiant look about her, her face lit up from within. Her eyes sparkled with a fiery passion, her cheeks invited you to give them a quick peck, her sensual mouth would have men dropping like flies, and she had the body of a goddess: tall, thin, and slightly muscular. For an older chick, she had it going on.

Weirdly, she looked like she was trying to pass for a man. As if she wanted to hide all her assets. Short dreadlocks. Not even a hint of makeup. (The total opposite of me. I wouldn’t be seen dead without my war paint.)

She wore nondescript clothes: a white polo shirt and light-blue jeans. The only bits of jewelry she had on were a huge charm bracelet and a delicate but sturdy diving watch on her left wrist.

She turned to fully face me and went back to her seat behind her cluttered desk. She didn’t take her eyes off me once. She walked like the Queen of Sheba.

I set off yammering again, in an excitable tone, with my list of complaints.

The look in her eyes was surly. “Please don’t speak so loudly. I can’t stand shouting.” I was just about to respond when she added, “Take a seat. Tell me what the trouble is.”

Her authoritative tone straightened me out and I sat down.

I started from the beginning.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “You’re Rose Maldonne. You have two children.”

I didn’t bat an eyelid, though I wondered why she knew that. I didn’t want to get into a load of trouble about Emma. I had an official agreement with child services and everything, but that was before I’d moved into the trailer, and I didn’t want them to come looking too close to home right now.

“You live on the land next to the station. In a trailer. You have no legal right to be using that property.”

“I’ve always lived there.”

“When you say ‘always,’ you mean less than two years. That’s not long enough to have any claim to the land. We sent you notice to leave the premises a month ago.”

“I didn’t receive anything.”

“Yes, it was returned to us unopened.” She held a registered letter with
Return to Sender
stamped across it in red.

“Ah! It was registered post.”

“Of course. It’s mandatory.”

“I never go to pick up my registered post.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s always bills.”

“Did you know that if you don’t pick up registered post, it’s recorded as having been received anyway?”

“Even if the address is wrong?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous. What jerk decided that was a useful law to have? I’ll just send a ton of registered post, shall I? To anyone I like? That’s unbelievable.”

“If that’s how you get your kicks, go ahead.”

“So what was in this letter, exactly?”

“Do you give me your permission to open it so you can take a look?”

“No. Hand it over.”

“No. I can’t. It’s been filed now. It’s under my responsibility.”

“But I don’t want you reading my mail. This is total nonsense.”

“It was me who wrote the letter.”

“Oh. Right. Sure. You can read it again. In fact, don’t even bother opening it up. You can just tell me what you wrote.”

“Fine. City hall needs you to leave those premises as soon as possible, because work is about to start exactly where you’re camping. The very same spot.”

“I’m not camping. It’s a real house.”

“That’s maybe not the exact term I’d use. Anyway, there it is. You’re going to have to move on.”

“Oh. Great. You’re like the Mafia down here. City hall mafioso. Right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me. You know exactly what’s going on. The casino! One-arm bandits! Isn’t that why you want me out of there?”

“Please calm yourself. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. The idea is to have a library in the station once it’s been renovated.”

She looked to her right, then left, then scribbled something on a business card which she handed to me discreetly. She said in a much louder voice, “That’s enough—I told you I wouldn’t tolerate yelling in my office, so if you don’t mind, I have work to be getting on with.”

As she spoke, she motioned to the card with her chin, and put her index finger to her lips. It took me several moments to realize what she was getting at. Not because I’m a dimwit, but because I was thrown off guard by her behavior. I mean, this was city hall. You didn’t expect intrigue from some snippy public servant.

I lowered my head to read the card:

DON’T SAY ANOTHER WORD. MEET ME AT THE CAFÉ CRYSTAL AT 12:35 P.M.

I reacted quick as a flash. I wanted to be the one in control of the situation. I crossed out
CRYSTAL
and wrote
SÉLECT
in big fat letters and shoved it under her face. She nodded impatiently as if to say,
Let’s not quibble over something unimportant like this.
She wanted to take the card, but I snatched it from her hands. I exited the office, saying, “It’s not going to go down like that. I’m going to go and see my social worker about this.”

She let out a contemptuous snort, but I knew it was just for show. “Fine! Go ahead.”

24

This whole business had left me feeling stunned. What had gotten into that old broad? Was she coming on to me or what? That was some insane shit. I’d gone there to complain about them building a casino on my site—as if my complaints would have done any good anyway—and found myself caught up in some state secret, and with a mysterious date to boot.

I called Gaston on his cell. I needed to get into action. “So, are we going to buy a trailer or what?”

“Give me five minutes, my sweetheart,” Gaston replied.

It was about time I showed these crooks that I wasn’t giving up that easily.

Gaston said he’d pick me up in his Jaguar outside what was left of my Caravelair.

I rushed down there, looking over the card again. The public servant was Ismène Jourdain.
Environment Office, City Hall.

As I neared the trailer, I slowed down. I found myself a hiding spot. They sometimes come back. When I was sure the scene was clear, I went over and sat on the steps in front of the door and waited for Gaston.

I had no intention of going inside. I didn’t think I could handle it. The major stress of it all.

I heard a noise from inside the trailer. I didn’t move a muscle. I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard a thing. And then a voice I recognized called out to me, “Cricri! It’s me!”

I jumped. It was fucking Michel. I went inside.

“Michel, what the hell are you doing here?”

“What happened to your trailer?”

I shook my head. “What about you?”

My question was justified, seeing as his face was covered in dirty Band-Aids, he had a black eye, and a greasy bandage was wrapped around his wrist.

“I had an accident.”

“What do you want? Where’s Véro? Did you hear what happened to Pierre?”

It turned out I shouldn’t have said that, because he dissolved into wailing like an injured puppy. “My Pierre. It’s not my fault, I swear, Cricri. It’s not my fault. I couldn’t stop her . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

“Véro! When she found out I was demanding access, she went crazy, screaming in the street, and stormed out of there. She didn’t take the stroller, the kid . . .”

“What are you saying? And why haven’t you told the police any of this?”

“Told them what? That she left her kid on the sidewalk?”

“Yes, exactly that. And what about you? What did you do?”

“I ran after her—”

“And left Pierre on his own?”

Michel dropped his gaze.

“I just can’t believe Véro would do that,” I said.

“She didn’t seem her normal self.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes filled with hatred. He looked right though me. All of a sudden he threw himself at me and began smacking me like someone demented, screeching, “Bitch! Whore! You think I didn’t know you’d never believe me? You’ll always be on her side! You’re always ready to blame shit on me! It’s always me! If you don’t help me out this time, you’ve had it, bitch! You need to do as I tell you!”

Good thing we were at my place, where I knew where everything was. I managed to grab hold of a stainless-steel pan that was lying by the side of the sink—it still had some leftover chicken in it from the other day. I cracked him right across the head with it. It was a hard hit and it sure shut him up.

He slowly fell to the floor, ending up spread-eagled across all my stuff.

A line of blood trickled from his hairline down to his neck.

I heard the sound of a car approaching. Crap. Gaston.

I quickly straightened my hair and walked out of the trailer, keeping my fingers crossed for Michel. Hoping that the jerk-off wasn’t dead.

I didn’t even have time to check his pulse. I don’t really know what it is you’re supposed to do to check if someone’s dead or not anyway. The heart, the pulse, put a mirror in front of their mouth to check for breath? All that stuff. I’ve even heard some people bite the big toe to check for a reaction, but that all sounds too
True
Blood
for me.

Gaston, if he noticed anything unusual in my behavior, didn’t comment. I climbed into the car and we slowly drove off, away from the scene of the potential murder I’d just committed. Neither of us uttered a word.

When we turned the first corner he said, “You shouldn’t have gone inside, Rose. It’s knocked you for a loop.”

I looked at him, smiling. “You don’t know me too well if that’s what you think.”

“Oh, Rosie, Rosie. You’re such a brave little soldier. Take it easy, OK?”

“Gaston! Gaston! Lay off me!
OK?
And I like to be called Cricri.”

He fell into a fit of laughter. That’s what was cool about him. Even if we didn’t have much to talk about, as soon as I opened my mouth, he peed his pants laughing.

I rummaged through my purse and pulled out a Mika CD. I slipped it into the player. We listened to the music without talking until we arrived at the trailer showroom.

25

I decided to go for something really over-the-top. I thought maybe someone from child services would be coming down to check on how I was bringing up the kids. I had to make sure, as much as I could, anyway, that the trailer was up to all the latest standards. That meant no more than two babas to a room. So, rather than my sleeping on a fold-down bed that I had to lay on top of the living-room table every evening, I needed a master bedroom and two smaller rooms for the kiddies. It would be great if the living-room couches could also be used as beds, just in case we ever had friends over. That would be the height of luxury for me. A guest room. I’d always dreamed of having one.

Being rich is amazing. You can buy everything you’ve ever dreamed of. I know wishing for a guest room sounds dumb, but some of us dream small. That’s just how it is.

Anyway, I decided I’d go with the best trailer they had. If Gaston couldn’t pay for it all, I could always come back the next day with my stacks of cash.

So I ended up with the best the world of trailers had to offer. An Ambassador. The sales guy had that particular model at the factory with an extra bedroom. It had been ordered by a traveling circus. The client still hadn’t paid for the order, and so the sales guy was free to do what he wanted with it. So it was a new and improved Ambassador. Exactly what I needed. All mine.

When it came to writing out the check, I thought we had run into a problem. Gaston hesitated. He took me to one side and said, “How are you going to tow it, Rosie, my dear?”

“Well, they’ll bring it to my site, won’t they?”

Just as I said that, a shiver went right through me, thinking about Michel’s dead body waiting for me back home.

“That’s fine for now, sure. But what about later? What if you have to change sites? You need a car, my sweet.”

“A car?”

“Yes, a car.”

“You mean wheels?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. Wheels!”

“Oh no, Gaston. Don’t start again. As soon as I say yes to one thing, you go ahead and add on something else. Buying me a ride just wouldn’t be worth it, I’m telling you.”

“And why not, my darling?”

“Because I don’t have a license, my darling.”

He cracked up. “Oh! Is that all? Well, that’s something we can arrange right away.”

“Oh really, my darling? And how’s that?”

“Well, you take the test, Rose. Take the test!”

He went over to the sales desk to sign the check. As we weren’t leasing, the sales guy was extremely suspicious of us and wanted to phone the bank.

I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to lunchtime, and I had a meeting at Sélect. I wondered how I was going to manage to get rid of Gaston for a couple of hours without looking impolite.

I realized that after what he’d just done—bought me a huge new home—that I couldn’t
not
have lunch with him. So that was that. That’s how you buy someone’s freedom. That’s where being nice gets you. You end up stuck. You think you’re doing a good deed. You think you’re doing someone a favor and boom. You’re not free to do what you want any longer. It creeps up on you. Nobody forced anyone to do anything here, did they? It’s just how it goes. Being polite. Returning a favor. Being grateful.

The showroom guy told us that there were a few modifications left to make, but that the Ambassador would be ready on Monday.

“What time would you like to pick it up?”

It was then that Gaston showed how much business sense he had. Without paying an extra cent—well, at least I think not—he managed to arrange for the sales guy to not only drop off the new trailer next to the station, but to take away the old one to the scrapyard.

Good work, Gaston.

We drove back down to the city center. I asked him, my heart racing, if he wanted to come have lunch with me at Sélect.

After all, that Ismène Jourdain could say whatever it was she had to say in front of Gaston. What difference would it make whether there were two of us there or just me?

To my great relief, Gaston said he couldn’t make it. He had a meeting in Sweden.

Well, well, well, this Gaston fella sure was something else.

He’d be away for a few days, unfortunately. He was so sorry he had to leave me in the lurch like that. He’d call me on Sunday evening or Monday morning—as soon as he was back in town. And on that note, he dropped me off just in front of the coffeehouse.

It was strange, but as soon as he left, I felt really alone. Orphaned. Abandoned. Defenseless.

We soon get used to being looked after. I had to pull myself together, fast.

I took a deep breath and opened the door to Sélect.