“Yes, I guess he did smile that night,” I answer Lucinda. “Once. Less than an hour before he savagely beat one man and shot another point-blank in the face.”

“So he did actually smile!” Lucinda says, clapping her hands together over her big belly as if she didn't hear the rest. “What did it look like? Does he have all his teeth? A few of the other girls were wondering since none of us have ever seen them.”

“Yes, he has all of his teeth that I could see,” I answer carefully.

But I don’t tell her that they were straight and white and pretty well taken care of for a man who apparently never smiled. I also don’t say anything about all the times Waylon smiled at me while handcuffed to my bed. This conversation is already strange enough without me adding in those details.

But I have to ask, “Does he really never smile?”

“Never smiles. Never jokes. Doesn't really seem to like anybody,” Lucinda answers. “If you want to know the truth, we were all very, very surprised when he came back from Delaware and told us he was starting a town. But I am grateful for this opportunity, you know. Crazytown was so upset when he found out I was pregnant with his baby, and I cannot make a good living with maid service now. I needed a place where I could come live for not too much money.”

I’m happy for her but a little confused. “Wait, isn't Crazytown Meemaw’s man? I thought he was dead, not her….” I scan the much younger Latina and decide to go with a neutral, “…ex.

Meemaw’s story about never having children with her former man who’s on the “other side” takes on a new soap opera turn. Did she mean on the other side of the trailer park with a much younger girlfriend?

Lucinda laughs. “Oh, I can see why you could get confused about that. Crazytown Sr. was her old man. Crazytown Jr. is his son by another lady, not Meemaw.”

A shadow dampens Lucinda’s smile. “We are not together-together. He never wanted any children. I live two trailers down from Meemaw, and he lives in that trailer right over there.”

“Got it,” I say, somewhat relieved as I look in the direction she’s pointing toward a nondescript white trailer. It’s not a pop-up, but it doesn’t exactly scream year-round living either. All the lights are out with no signs of anyone moving around inside like the other trailers on the dirt lane.

“Where is Crazytown, and, like, every other guy who lives here?” I ask. “I’m only seeing women.”