“This place is like a little gingerbread town built by gnomes,” Sara said. She eyed the numerous flagpoles and added, “Patriotic gnomes.”
“A lot of the people are from the American Legion and VFW crowd. My dad has one of the tallest flagpoles. He was in the Navy in World War II. The all-year Christmas lights became sort of a tradition a long while back.”
“Did you and Michael spend much time here?”
“My dad only got a week’s vacation, but Mom would bring us down for a couple weeks at a time during the summer. Some of the old guys taught us to sail, swim and fish. Things Pop never had time to do. He’s made up for it since he retired.”
He stopped the car in front of one trailer. It had bright Christmas lights and was painted a soothing, muted blue. His father’s Buick, with a SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE bumper sticker, was parked next to the trailer. Fronting the trailer was a bed of bulky plantation hostas. Next to the Buick was a golf cart. The flagpole in front of the trailer went a good thirty feet into the air.
Fiske eyed the Buick. “At least he’s here.” Well, this is it, John, no more reprieves, he thought.
“Is there a golf course nearby?”
Fiske glanced at her. “No, why?”
“So what’s with the golf cart?”
“The owners of the trailer park buy them secondhand from golf courses. The roads are pretty narrow here and, while you can drive your car to your trailer, you can’t drive it around the grounds. And the people down here are elderly, for the most part. They use the golf carts to get around.”
Fiske got out of the car with the two six-packs. Sara didn’t move to join him. He looked at her questioningly.
“I thought you might want to talk to your dad alone.”
“After everything we’ve been through tonight, I think you’ve earned the right to see it through. I’ll understand if you don’t want to.” He looked over at the trailer and felt his nerves slowly disintegrate. He turned back to her. “I could sort of use the company.”
She nodded. “Okay, give me a minute.”
She flipped down the visor mirror and checked her face and hair. She grimaced and reached for her purse, doing the best she could with lipstick and a small hairbrush. She was sweaty and sticky too, her dress clingy, her hair beyond salvation thanks to the rain and humidity. As trivial as worrying about her appearance seemed under the circumstances, she felt like such a fifth wheel that it was the only thing she could think to address.
With a sigh, she flipped the visor back up, opened the door and got out. As they headed up the wooden porch, she smoothed down her dress and fiddled some more with her hair.
Fiske noted this and said, “He’s not going to care how you look. Not after I tell him.”
She sighed. “I know. I guess I just didn’t want to look like too much of a disaster.”
Fiske took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited and knocked again. “Pop.” He waited a moment and knocked again, louder this time. “Pop,” he called out, and kept knocking.
They finally heard movement in the trailer and then a light came on. The door opened and Fiske’s father, Ed, peered out. Sara looked at him closely. He was as tall as his son, and very lean, although he had vestiges of the powerful musculature shared by both his boys. His forearms were enormous, like thick pieces of sun-baked wood. Sara was able to observe this because he had on a tank-top shirt. He was deeply tanned, his face lined and starting to sag, but she could see he had been handsome as a younger man. His hair was thinning and curly and almost totally gray except for small flecks of black at the temples. She fixed for a moment on his long sideburns, a holdover from the seventies, she guessed. He had on a pair of pants halfway zipped up, the clasp unbuttoned so that his striped boxers were clearly in sight. He was barefoot.