Carry Me Home (44 page)

“That’s a fine way to say hello.” Red glared harshly. She and Ty had been in the kitchen making tacos, laughing, joking.

“Did you register—”

“I didn’t get down there.”

“Down where?” Red pushed one more meat-stuffed taco onto the cookie sheet, at the other end of the pan one taco seemed to jump out, then fell over spilling cooked, spiced hamburger crumbs onto the indoor-outdoor kitchen carpet. Red giggled.

“Aw Man, Ty ...” Bobby stopped. Shook his head. Decided not to pursue it.

But Red snapped at him. “What did Ty do? What’s your problem?!”

Ty put his hand on Red’s arm. “He’s right,” Ty said to Red. “I done somethin I knew after I started, I shouldn’ta done. I’m sorry, Man. I was thinkin I’d be helpin you. Get your name out en all.”

“You mean—” Red started the question looking at Ty, but as she spoke she turned to Bobby “—those pads? Those stupid dinky pads?”

“Hey look,” Ty said, “if I’m causin—”

“No,” Bobby said. “It’s okay. But tomorrow, or Monday, register, huh? I’m goina change.”

In the kitchen Red was in a huff. Ty tried to cool her down. “That man, Red, that man there, he can’t do no wrong in my book. He kept our shit together. You know what I mean? I bet there’re still brothers in the boonies remember Cap’n Wapinski. Remember he kept our shit together. Kept us from fuckin up.”

Later that night all Red would say to Bobby was, “Tomorrow.”

On Saturday, Red slept late. Ty remained in bed. Bobby, taking Josh with him, left early, went to the office, plodded through various papers. It was twenty days to Christmas, the slowest business time of the year. The only other person in the office was Lisa Fonari. Bobby went to her. “Can I talk to you?” he began and he told her of his dilemma, omitting everything about Stacy except that she introduced him to Red, omitting Red’s pregnant condition.

“I think you’d make a great soap,” Lisa answered in her brash yet sincere manner.

“C’mon. Really?”

“Hey, so you get married.” Lisa slid her legs out from under her desk, crossed them, her short skirt rising to midthigh. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always get a divorce.”

Bobby stared at her. She leaned forward allowing her blouse to come away from her shoulders, exposing more skin, knowing her body language was adding to his confusion. “Um,” Bobby muttered. “Maybe.”

His confusion was tremendous. He could not make a decision. He was at once excited about having a child, yet torn by Red’s reaction. And he wasn’t sure what having a child would mean. He still had not called Stacy, could not think of what to say. Suddenly he found that both Sharon and Lisa were exciting him more than Red ever had—maybe more than Stacy—and maybe it would be okay to be single for a while.

All day in his mind, interspersed with thoughts like—How did Everest Realty get that listing? I talked to those people only a month ago. And, I’m getting fat. Gotta take up jogging. Maybe run with what’s-her-name—he mulled his personal situation. By evening he was exhausted. Ty was again hyper. He’d already killed a six-pack, immediately handed Bobby an open can when Bobby walked in, opened another for himself.

“It was before Bobby came”—Ty continued what he’d been telling Red—“when I first put my hands out to pick up them mothafuckin dead bastards.” Ty’s eyes glowed like lamps, his voice was soft, eerie. “First time. I felt somethin that I never felt before in my life. And it jumped outta him and went inta me. Right then and there as soon as I touched the mothafucka’s arm ta drag him. You know what I mean? Throw im in the pile. That was the first gook I ever fuckin touched and that fucka was cold meat. There was nothin there but there was somethin that ran right through me. Second I touched that arm, it came. And the second time I touched him it was over and the more I got to fuckin touch em, different ones, knockin out gold teeth, takin a finger off to get a ring, dumb shit like that but I did it—even in Cambo started a ear necklace—but the more I did the more I backed off. Felt bad, yeah. Aint too many fuckin times I do, though. That first sucker, he never felt nothin. He died without knowin. Me too. I hope I die without knowin.”

Red’s eyes were watery. She couldn’t speak, could hardly move. Ty’s story evoked a flood of sympathy—more than anything Bobby had ever told her, more than Jimmy Pellegrino’s death.

That night Red went to sleep without talking to Bobby. When he retired he found she’d made herself a small bed on the floor, was curled up atop all their extra blankets, with all their pillows. Bobby lay on his back, hurt, seething. He could hear the TV, imagined Ty staring at the small tube steadily sipping beer after beer.

On Sunday morning Bobby woke early, walked Josh, made coffee. Ty and Red were still in their bedrooms. Bobby cleaned the living room, throwing the empty beer cans and cigarette ashes and butts into a separate bag that he immediately put out in the trash can because of the smell. He took three sweating, unopened cans from the sofa, tried to dry the cushion. Then he grabbed Ty’s boots, which were askew on the living room carpet, put them in the kitchen trash basket exactly as Miriam used to put Bobby’s scattered clothing or toys in the trash when Bobby was a boy. Then he left, got into the Chevy, sat. At noon he was to hold an open house with Sharon McGowan. It was only eight. He sat, tried to think, tried to reason. Nothing worked.

Bobby reentered his house. Still neither Ty nor Red were up. He went into the master bedroom, sat on the floor by Red. She opened her eyes, stretched, reached out, laid her hand on his knee. “You didn’t have to sleep down here,” he whispered.

“I needed to think,” she said.

“Hm.” He looked at her face, pushed a long errant strand back over her ear. To him she looked peaceful.

Red clutched a pillow, sat up. “You want to have a family, huh?”

“Hm.”

“And get married?”

“Hm.”

“Then ... I think ... Not now. Not yet. I want to have an abortion. As soon as possible. Then we can get married. And in two or three years we’ll start a family.”

He did not move, did not smile, did not utter a sound. What she proposed had no reality for him—not positive, not negative. It just didn’t penetrate at all. But her sitting there, clutching the pillow like a tiny child, looking so peaceful, moved him. He leaned to her, kissed her hair.

“It’s really best,” she said. “Really.”

“Okay,” he said. He kissed her hair again, then hugged her.

Red rocked back, rolled to her knees, smiled sweetly. “Now I’m going to bed. Geez! This floor’s hard. I didn’t sleep a wink.”

Again Bobby left. The Great Homes office was empty until eleven thirty when Dan Coleman came to pick up open house signs. Then Sharon came and Bobby and she left for the ticky-tack Riverside house where the asking price was only $29,950. Seeing Dan and Sharon made Bobby feel the world was okay. He told none of them anything but tried deeply to exude to them all his appreciation. Not a single curious neighbor or prospective buyer came to the open house—it was, after all, only a little more than two weeks to Christmas.

As Bobby headed up Deepwoods Drive in the fading light it hit him that his relationship with Red was over. Suggesting the abortion, then marriage, was an excuse, he thought, a way for her to get through this moment—for her to get his agreement before she split. He pulled in alongside Ty’s Caddy, surprised to see Ty loading his clothes into the trunk. “What’s happenin, Breeze?” He tried to be light.

“What the fuck, Man.” Ty did not smile.

“What the fuck?”

“Life goes on, Breeze.” Ty slammed the trunk, got into the Caddy. The car was packed with all his belongings.

“What’s goin on?” Bobby was befuddled. There were tears in Ty’s eyes.

“Fuck it, Man. Don’t mean nothin.”

“Ty, what are you doin? Where’s Red?”

“I don’t know. She split fore I got up.”

“Where’re you goin?”

“Jus goin, Mothafucka. I thought you was different.”

Bobby was beyond befuddled. Obviously Ty was packed, moving on, but why so suddenly? Why so hurt? Why angry? “Goin where?”

“On my own, Man. Sometimes ... sometime you whites are crazier then blacks. You know that?” Ty pulled the shift lever from park to reverse. The car rocked.

Bobby just stared. For a second he saw Ty’s leaving as a burden lifted from his shoulders, saw the expedience of it, but he did not understand it.

“I had pride when I was with you—once. I had pride, Mister. No matter you left three behind. I aint goina let you dump me.” Now Ty was openly crying and Bobby was completely upset and tears formed in his eyes too. “Next time jus tell me! Jus tell me!” Ty let the car roll back. “Jus tell me. You don’t gotta dump my shit in the garbage.”

The Caddy swung back onto Deepwoods Drive, the transmission clunked as Ty shifted, Ty muttering, “I’ll show im. I’ll show im all. Get my piece a the pie. This jigaboo spade gonna outdo im ... outdo them white fuckas ... outdo the Cap’n.” And he was gone.

On Thursday, 10 December 1970 Bea Hollands entered San Martin Canyon Hospital to have an “ovarian cyst” removed. Bobby was now sure their relationship was over except for the final separation. He still had not called Stacy—indeed, with each passing day it became more difficult for him to think of calling her; became more difficult for him to exert any control over his personal life. Yet by year-end, with the market slow and the season against him, Bobby managed to list one house and sell three more.

Mid-January 1971: How? he thought. How? How? How did I let this happen? How did it happen? He sat at his desk. Lisa Fonari was across the room at her desk, head down, diligently writing something. In the front office Jane Boswell had answered the phone, buzzed him on the intercom. Others were working at their desks. The call had shattered him but he could not, did not, let it show—but continued thinking, How? How?

“Hello.”

“Rob?”

“Stace!?” His heart had jumped, dropped.

“Rob? Yes. It’s me.” Her voice was soft, incredibly wonderful. Why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he stopped it? Red had announced it at his office Christmas party—not actually announced it but sweetly told Lisa and Liza and the two had immediately turned the party into a celebration of Bobby’s and Red’s impending nuptials. The good wishes and happiness had been intoxicating. And then Liza had taken charge of arrangements.

“Stace. You sound ... where are you?”

“In Mill Creek Falls. I haven’t heard from you and I thought ...”

“Stace ...”

“Rob, I can barely hear you.”

“I’m—I—Red and I got married.” There was a pause. He wanted to say, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Wanted to explain. But thoughts, words were agonizing. He couldn’t speak. He’d betrayed her—and himself—and he wasn’t even sure how.

“Oh. Oh, congratulations.”

“Stace ...”

“Rob, speak up.”

His stomach churned, tightened. He and Red had exchanged vows on Cataract Trail overlooking the Lower Res. Friends from Great Homes and from People’s Life and Casualty had huddled under umbrellas. Even Josh, held by Tom Houghton, had been there. And that night, not only had they not consummated their marriage but Red had gotten very drunk on champagne and by nine o’clock she was blubbering, sobbing, then shrieking to the few friends who’d remained at their house how the marriage was going to have to be annulled because she had been forced into it against her desires. Bobby had been more confused than ever. He had not even called his grandfather.

I
’M GOING TO MAKE
it. I’m going to make it, Man. I’m going to make it.

I’m still over the west ridge, hunkerin down on my daybed, night bed, trying to meditate, trying to see into this darkness, this true dark of true dark. What is it? What is evil? In the sixties we were taught there is no such dichotomy as good-evil. Only shades of gray. In the seventies even that became irrelevant. But how? How did civilization—American culture anyway—lose control? Lose sight? Lose insight?

What right do I have saying, I’m going to make it? I should have died at Dai Do, or at Loon, or on Storrow Drive. What I did to Linda and to my daughters is almost exactly what Bobby’s father did to him except where Wap’s old man was chased away by Miriam and whatever demons he had, I only had the demons—and Jimmy.

My daughters were one-day-old and I un-assed their AO. If Grandpa Wapinski hadn’t called my Pa, and then gone and seen Linda, told them both I was disturbed by the war, which I don’t know how he knew because we didn’t ever but that once talk about it, and if he hadn’t “paid” Linda all those wages I never earned, I’d probably never of come back, never of been allowed back.

I did leave Linda a note. I guess I’m trying here to justify what I did. I left a last adios that said something like:

Babe,

I’ve gone to get help. I’ll be away a while. I have to get my head together—not just for me but for you and those two beautiful girls you brought into the world. I’m afraid for you and them.

Maybe I didn’t include the last line ... but I wanted to. Maybe I didn’t write that note at all ... but I think I did.

S
EVEN AND A HALF
miles east of town, Sunday, 13 September 1970—It was very warm, very dry, dusty. In the ditches along the road’s edge Queen Anne’s lace bloomed to eight inches across. There was the smell of wheat, the smell of road-kill, of exhaust from two Kenworths pulling tandem rigs, of hot motor oil from the Harley, of his own sweat. The ride in had been fast, roaring through the night and into the dawn, moths and beetles splattering against the headlight and handlebars, forks and every front-facing surface they could possibly smash against. Oil had been seeping for weeks—typical Harley—but with dawn catching him from behind, a line or gasket had let go and hot oil had blown out, then back against his legs, boots, the cylinder heads, exhaust pipes, panniers. He’d stopped, fiddled, quickly realized he needed more than the scant tools he carried. The roadway was flat. He’d begun walking, pushing the 700-pound Harley. With the sun came flies and yellowjackets.

Tony had left another place, another job, had straddled the Harley, felt the guttural vibration, left. He had not looked back. Could not have cared less. For a week he had shoveled sand, stone and cement into the small mixer, hosed in water, mixed, dumped the heavy sludge into a wheelbarrow, grunted, snarled, pushing the wheelbarrow along meandering two-by-six planks to boxed sections of a meandering walkway, working like a horse, an ox, a machine. Working ten, twelve hours without breaks, “Just pay me in cash,” then collapsing with a six-pack and whatever food the woman brought to the “carriage house,” garage really, watching
Leave It to Beaver
,
Ben Casey
,
The Avengers
, avoiding the news, falling asleep to
Then Came Bronson
or
Hawaii Five-O
. Then rising early, starting the mixer, shoveling, trudging, one more odd job in a string of odd jobs that lasted hours or days or this one an entire week, then off with a bit of cash in his pocket, gas money, with a little more time behind him, a little less in front, off to the next town, standing outside the local Manpower office, whispering, “I’ll do it cheaper and better.” Working, moving. His hair grew long, curled, frizzed; his beard came in thick, coarse. In Ohio he’d had a run-in with some punk-nosed college jerk whose daddy had bought him a superhawk Jappo bike and probably a deferment as well. He’d kicked ass, taken the kid’s leather jacket with a Marine Corps emblem painted on the back, painted over with flowers, both emblem and flowers now cracking and fading from his harsh wear. In Illinois he’d crashed at a farm commune for three weeks, nice people, easy style, but he’d left because of lack of privacy, intolerance, lack of beer, of grass, of Darvon. He’d ridden south, then west, then north, then west again, stopping, working, gruff, rough, angry, trying to stay one mile ahead of his demons.