Santa Rosa, Fla.

A FEMA Trailer for Mother

By Sean Dietrich

“Honey, you should know I've filed for bankruptcy,” Mother said, shoveling sausage gravy onto my biscuit. Then she held up the pitcher. “More juice?” She topped off my glass without waiting for my answer.

Her words hit me like a slap with a baseball mitt. I stopped eating. “Mother, what'd you just say?”

“I asked if you wanted orange juice.”

“No, before that.”

Her face grew solemn, and she hung her head. "I'm bankrupt," she admitted. Mother collapsed in her chair and explained the entire situation. She told me about the credit cards, and her herculean IRS debt. And then, my silver-haired mother buried her face in her hands and started crying.

I suppose the first thing you ought to know about my mother is that she doesn't cry. She's an experienced optimist. In fact, I've seen her cry only twice in my entire life. Once, when a bumblebee flew into her ear canal and stung her eardrum. The other time was when Conway Twitty died.

My mother didn't even weep at my father's funeral. Oh, she could have, but she chose not to – for my sake. During his visitation service, Mother stood before the casket with a stiff spine, pumping every damn hand offered to her. And when they took him away, she remained composed while I cried into her skirt.

“The landlord is kicking me out,” Mother said.

“When?”

“Two days ago.” My mother wiped her tears and pushed her plate toward me. “I'm not hungry. You want my biscuit, honey? I made them fresh this morning.”

I stared at my small, red-faced mother, who was staring back at me. There were no two ways about it.

Of course I wanted her biscuit.

***

The Craigslist ad advertised a “Thirty-foot mansion with clean refrigerator and barely-used toilet. MUST SEE TO BELIEVE!” It was the lowest-priced travel trailer in three states. And after an all-night drive to New Orleans, I understood why.

The skinny man gave me the dime tour of his dilapidated FEMA trailer. He showed me the queen bed, the soft spot on the floor, and the mostly mold-free sofa. The mobile paradise had seen better days.

Finally, the man led me into the bathroom to demonstrate the flushing mechanism on the trailer's pièce de résistance. When he bent over, I noticed a handgun tucked in the waist of his trousers. I decided not to bargain on the asking price since pristine toilets were hard to come by.

When I drew up the bill of sale, I asked, "Do you have the official title to this trailer?"

"Lucy." He grinned his three teeth at me. "Her official title is: Lady Lucy of the Crescent City."

I glanced at his pistol and told him it was a lovely title.

After securing Lady Lucy to my truck hitch, I bid New Orleans goodbye and set off for home. I bounded out of the lowlands, watching the bayous zip past my windshield at 70 miles per hour. For the first part of my drive, things went well.

But when I hit Carriere, Miss., everything changed.

I heard an explosion. Immediately, my steering wheel jerked left, and I shot across the highway. In the heat of the moment, I tried to scream an ugly word, but all I could get out was, “Mother FEMA!” Muscling my truck onto the shoulder of the highway was like trying to land a wingless 747 without Jesus.

After spending the day in Pearl River County, mortgaging my liver to buy tires, I spent the night on Lady Lucy's musty sofa. It smelled like a robust bouquet of cat piss and Cheetos.

The next morning, I was back on the interstate with renewed energy. By the time I hit Enterprise, Miss., I felt more relaxed. I thought about Mother, how much she'd sacrificed during my childhood. I remembered the night shifts she worked, the clothes she made for us, and her biscuits.

By Greene County, Ala., I was singing along with Conway Twitty on the radio, the way Mother would've done. And it was during the second chorus of “Hello Darlin',” that something in the side mirror caught my eye.

I leaned in for a closer look.

A white FEMA-trailer door was turning somersaults behind me, in the middle of I-59. A chorus of screeching tires and blaring horns serenaded the door's magnificent journey across the highway. The airborne obelisk finally touched down beneath an oncoming sixteen-wheeler. I let out a sigh and did what anyone else in my position would've done.

I turned up the radio.

***

After three years, Mother's trailer still looks as god-awful as ever. But she likes it. And her backyard tomato garden is downright impressive. That's where she spends most of her time, with her vegetables. Her garden is made from tractor tires that pepper her lawn in a semi-circle.

There, Mother does battle with local squirrels over the legal rights to her tomatoes. Her defense is an old-fashioned pesticide made of Red Man chew and water. In the afternoons, you can see squirrels relaxing high in the trees, spitting.

The covered wooden porch that leads into Lady Lucy is six feet high. I should know, I built it. Mother has decorated Lucy's interior with curtains and frilly throw pillows. Somehow, she's managed to transform the ambulatory Katrina-shelter into a home fit for company. That woman.

With enough throw pillows, she could make the morgue look good.

Sometimes, Mother invites our family over for supper. We eat outdoors, by her garden. She can do more in her tiny kitchen than most people do with a thousand dollars and a Bible. She cooks butterbeans, pan-fried chicken and sourdough biscuits big enough to use in pillow fights.

If you wander into her bedroom, on her nightstand you'll see a photograph from the day of my wedding. In the picture, a tall, awkward groom stands next to her wearing a stupid grin. Mother is five feet high, able to fit her head into the notch beneath his arm. She's looking upward at him. He looks uncomfortable in that tuxedo.

Not much has changed. I still look bad in tuxes, and Mother still doesn't have any money. The truth is, she probably never will. But she's got me, damn it. And that's all I care about.

Well.

I also care a great deal for her biscuits.

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