Water

Early dawn.  An old travel trailer sits on a vast, red mud plain under a heavy rain.  The home is no longer mobile for it has two plywood attachments.  A covered porch has been attached in front of the door.  It is small, and when one faces the door, to the right, towards the pulling-end of the trailer, there is an alcove to protect firewood from the weather.  The rest of the porch is open at the front and side.  The porch roof slants to the left and a steady stream of water flows off, some of which is caught in three metal buckets.

Next to the porch, the metal trailer side is visible where light comes out of a large window.  Inside, on the table, sits a Coleman lantern.  The figure of an elderly woman moves past on the other side of the light.  Her head is cut off from view by the top of the window, but light can be seen on a dark green velvet blouse and warn, pale-blue skirt.  Light from the window reflects off the rain-pocked puddles out front.

Next to the window, towards the tail-light end of the trailer, is the second plywood extension.  It also has a window, but there is no light.  Water flows steadily off the roof in front of the steel colored glass beaded with blue droplets.

The only other modification to the old travel trailer is the stove pipe coming out of the roof.  Black tar has been coated where the metal stack sticks through.  Here a gray smoke rises against the blue-gray sky.  Around the trailer, tall, slender, sporadic pine trees rise out of the soaked red plain and either a long plateau or a low bank of clouds sits on the horizon.

The door opens, and the figure of the old woman comes into view again as she gets three pieces of split wood from the stack.   As she goes back inside, we see the small room with muddy, yellow linoleum.  Where the butane stove would have been, sits a small wood stove.  Corrugated metal roofing has been nailed to the wall behind it for fire protection, as well as against the ends of the cabinets.  The rest of the walls are a dark wood paneling.  When the woman bends down to open the stove door, her butt brushes against the table and the light from the lantern briefly rocks, setting the scene in visual motion.

Towards the back end of the trailer, an old man is propped up in bed in sitting position.  He is thin, with a narrow, stubbly face and a big nose.  His eyes are small, black and intense.  We see his wife feeding the fire in a scene reflected in his pupils.

Then we see the room through his eyes.  After she closes the stove door, she stands up, and puts her finger in a big pot of steaming water on the stove and quickly removes it.

“You alright,” he asks.

“Sure.  It’s ready though.”

She then reaches up to grab two mugs and a jar of Folgers instant coffee from the cupboard.  She quickly dips the mugs into the water one at a time and places them on the cupboard.  Her wrist is pink from the steam.  She puts in the Folgers and grabs the small pint mason jar of sugar that is on the counter next to a pair of work gloves.  She unscrews the lid, adds sugar and stirs.

She takes one cup to her husband.

 “That should warm you up.” 

He smiles in agreement.

She walks back to the stove, grabs the gloves, puts them on, and carefully lifts the heavy pot of boiling water from the stove.

 She walks back towards the man, but instead turns into the small plywood add-on.  It is lighter outside now and rain can be seen streaming off the roof on the outside of the window.  In front of the window sits a claw-foot tub on the floor, which is also plywood.  It is not attached to any plumbing.  She rests the pot on the edge of the tub, holding it with her left gloved hand, while she bends down and with the other gloved and hand places a rubber stopper in the drain.  She then stands up and pours the hot water.  It steams, barely filling the bottom.  She walks back into the trailer and smiles at her husband.

“One down, four to go.”

He smiles back.  “I tell you, it would be easier to shoot me.”

“You don’t expect me to argue that, now do you.”

“Well, that would be the polite thing, now wouldn’t it?”

“You knew I didn’t have any graces when you married me.”

He laughs.  “What do you mean, I thought you were the queen of England.”

“Ha!   I was out feeding Pa’s pigs first time you saw me.”

She walks past and drops her gloves on the counter as she passes the stove.  She then opens the door, steps out on the porch and rests the pot on the plywood floor.  She then reaches up to the first metal bucket, and slowly dumps the contents into her pot, stepping a step back as the water splashes up.  She kicks the partially full pot with her old black shoe a couple times until it’s under the second bucket, and then she repeats the process.  The pot is too full to kick towards the third bucket, so she bends down and jostles it over and finishes her task.

Then she carries the pot inside and places it on the stove, takes her mug off the counter and slides into the table bench, facing her husband.  She holds up her mug.  “I’m looking forward to this.”

“Nothing like a hot drink on a cold, rainy day,” he agrees.

She look turns and looks out the window.  Runs of rain blur the soggy landscape outside.  “You think it’ll ever quit?”

.   .   .  .  .

The old man sits in the tub in six inches of water.  His one leg is missing, a rounded stub just above the knee.  The woman kneels next to the tub, her skirted knees resting on an old pillow.  She scoops an empty Cool Whip bowl into the tub, brings the warm water up and pours it over his head.

“Hand me the shampoo and I’ll lather up what’s left of your hair.”

Outside the window, rain falls steadily.

© Steve Brown 2016