Carry Me Home (59 page)

Got a dollar in my pocket, got your letter in my shoe,

Fresh out of the infantry, and tryin to find you.

Old 43 is slowin down, the road around the bend,

I’m on my way to see you again.

He couldn’t get it out of his mind. He’d heard it on the radio late on a foggy night, a distant station bouncing signals off the clouds, maybe Reno or Phoenix or Albuquerque. They’d played it twice by request. He’d stopped everything to listen to it the second time, but before it was over the clouds shifted and the signal fell elsewhere.

I think it was in April but it might have been in May,

I got on board my Freedom Bird, leavin Cam Ranh Bay.

I was nearly left in Tokyo, when I couldn’t find my plane,

I was on my way to see you again.

—static—

This time I need more than just a friend ...

—static—

Woman don’t you know that I am not a settled man,

And life don’t seem the same to me since leavin Viet Nam,

Somehow this time it’s different like it’s never ever been,

Now I’m on my way to see you again.

On my way ... again ...

Honey please don’t ask me where I been,

From Maine ... where between ... see you again ...

Who was this guy? How did he know? Bobby took solace in the song, the lively honky-tonk lilt, the references. He pressed on in a daze, sang the lines over and over to himself in his monotone, singing it as if it were a marching song. He thought about writing to Stacy, about calling, letting her know. He sent a silly “Missing you” card much like Red had sent him when he’d remained at High Meadow. No response.

His new place was on Old Russia Road, a road that predated all the subdivisions of San Martin, stood in a cluster of six cottages on the slope of North Peak mountain. He’d rented Number 101. It called to him the day he saw the data sheet in his multiple listing packet. Hillside, view, remote, the number—it was in his blood. He had taken Olivia Taft there and made love with her on the living room floor before the unlit fireplace, had made love to Olivia who was very beautiful, very sensual, who never smiled. He had sold the Deepwoods Drive house, paid himself the realty commission, split the equity fifty-fifty, the check his last note to Red.

Birds sang along Old Russia Road. Flowers grew wild. The sky was clearer, closer. He broke out his running shoes, found a way to run from his cottage to Cataract Trail, then up the dam steps, those damn steps, and back—a seven-mile loop. He ran daily with Josh, sweating like an overstuffed pig, dropping from 208 in May to 195 in September to his 178-pound target weight by late October. While he ran he composed lines in his mind. When he returned to the cottage he scribbled them down, scribbled them as the sweat from his hand and forearm soaked into the paper and the pen skipped and he’d get frustrated and scribble on the page edge until the pen wouldn’t write there either.

Dear Stacy,

By now you have probably heard from Bea and you know we are divorced. I [scratched out]. Things are going well for me, and I pray for you also. Our divorce was amiable....

How could he include that? He put it aside, thought about running, planned his assault on the Cataract Trail New Year’s Day Run. That would be his first. Then the Bay to Breakers, then the real Cataract Race which attracted top runners from all of northern California, and next year’s Dipsea and dozens of 10-Ks between. He planned meticulously, studied training literature. He took a large desktop calendar, plotted the weeks, designed daily workouts, projected weight, times, courses, to New Year’s Day, to RACE ONE.

He knew the course, as much as anyone could with the construction, the benching, blocking and stripping of the land in total contrast to the spirit of cluster-house development. Mud, silt, and gullies from the first rains of the wet season were already destroying sections of the trail, making the run more steeplechase than trail race.

Bobby’s pants had begun falling off his hips, he’d had to buy new clothes because even his old clothes from when he was 178 didn’t fit. He ran, composed lines, scribbled notes, worked, loved Olivia on occasion, ran, the hog transforming into the gazelle. He listened to the radio, listened for that song, heard that Medina was acquitted of the My Lai massacre. It meant little to him.

Dear Stacy,

By now you have probably heard from Bea and you know we are divorced. Although it was mutual the transition has been more difficult than I expected. My emotions swing from elation to depression, from rapture at being alive to loneliness—though not for Bea. I’m exhausted, though I think stronger and wiser. I pray things are well with you. I’d love to be there for autumn, I miss the colors, I think of you. I’m sorry for this past year, for what happened, but I cannot tell you all because the secret is Red’s as well as mine.

Bobby stopped. Reread the last line, decided to leave it.

I once had a dream. You remember? I still have it—expanded. I dream of a community, exactly where I don’t know, but a community of friends, clear thinkers, hard workers. A contrast community—set apart but not isolated—apart from the callous, chaotic and corrupt world which I see about me. A community
designed
to exact the best from the individual and the whole. Most people are either unable or unwilling to take responsibility for themselves. People are capable of thinking. The problem arises from lack of motivation, from the near universal desire to get something for nothing, from the corporate mind-set of selling nothing packaged as something. Daily my apprehensions rise as to the ability of this country to avert a major economic crisis. Talent and materials surround us, but the desire to produce seems to have died.

Is it possible for a loose community of individuals to be responsible for what they produce and what they consume? I think it is.

Please tell me what you think. Help me.

Love,

Rob

He had mailed it, gone for a run, bested his previous record on the Old Mine/Cataract Trail loop to 49:49 or 7:07 per mile. His weight dropped to 174.

San Martin, California, Friday 26 November 1971—He sat at the dining area table. Josh lay in the living room before the fireplace. Bobby glared out the sliding glass door, over the small deck, not conscious of the gold-brown fields dropping away, the clumps of tree-green in small draws. On Wednesday he’d received a note from Red. “The time we had together was for the most part enjoyable,” she’d written. “We’re just finished with those episodes and moving on to a new series....” Bobby thinking, like we were a damn TV show. “My therapist says we shouldn’t judge our time together by the last few months ...”

That had put him in a funk but nothing like the letter that had just arrived.

Dear Robert,

I do not know you. You don’t know me. It is difficult to harbor ill feelings toward you, but wake up. Stacy and I are very much in love, we’re planning on marriage, we don’t need or want love letters from an “old flame.” You’d agree if you were in my shoes.

You have recently separated and are divorcing. I sympathize with your emotional swings, but you must direct those emotions elsewhere. Stacy assures me you are “no threat” to us. Still you are an unwanted intrusion. Maybe someday we’ll all be friends but in the meantime I hope you understand our feelings and respect them.

Sincerely,

Harlan LaFacetie

He read it, reread it, erupted, gripped the table, banged the two legs on his side on the floor like a pile driver trying to smash through. “I am such a fucking fool.” He sat, jerked up again, his lap crashing the table against the glass door. He punched his face, raised a lump on his cheek. One year from the weekend with Stacy, he thought. “HOW in Hell did I LET this Happen!?”

Montage: A client’s home. She was divorcing. Her husband had moved out. “I’d really love to cook this for you someday,” she said. He smiled. Their business over, they had turned to cookbooks, South American cuisine, photos of the ruins of the Inca empire. The conversation seemed unique. “Have another glass of sherry,” she said. By the gods, he thought,
she’s
trying to get
me
drunk. She leaned forward, kissed him, grabbed his hand, lead him to the living room, seduced him.

Later, on the drive back up Highway 101, one hand over one eye to keep his drunken vision single, he thought, the old Wapinski charm still works. Then his monotone bellowing, “‘I think it was in April but it mighta been in May, / Got aboard my Freedom Bird leavin Cam Ranh Bay. / I was nearly left in Mill Creek, when I couldn’t find my dame, / I’m on my way to find some again ....’”

The land war continues to make news. Yesterday [2 Dec ’71] North Viet Namese troops overran government forces at the central Cambodian city of Baray, killing perhaps half of Lon Nol’s 20,000-man force....

Numerous nights, numerous bars, singles’ bars, looking for Miss Goodbar, looking really for ... He didn’t know. He laughed, smirked, downed his scotch, flipped another sawbuck on the bar. Behind him ladies cruised the floor. One pinched him. “You got a nice ass.” She moved on.

Work was going well. At the company Christmas party he met an agent from Concord. They compared sales, incomes. She made more than he so she took him home, fucked his eyes out, told him to leave.

He lost more weight as if breaking through his target pulled the floor from beneath him. He crashed uncontrollably to 166, to 164, to 162. He was too sick on New Year’s Day to run the Cataract Trail race.

Senator Hubert Humphrey today threw his hat into the presidential ring, declaring, “Had I been elected, we would now be out of this war.” Humphrey, a presidential candidate in 1968, added that it is taking President Nixon longer to withdraw American soldiers from Viet Nam than it took the allies to defeat Hitler.

U.S. troop strength in Viet Nam is 159,000, down 70% from its peak three years ago. Last week Nixon announced the planned withdrawal of 25,000 to 35,000 more Americans.

“He’s a Husk-perd,” Wapinski said into the phone. “They’re really a great breed and he’s best of the breed.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s a lovely animal,” Mrs. Closson said. It was the first he’d spoken to her. She lived at 103 Old Russia Road. “But Tabitha is scared to death of Husk-perds. Do keep him away from her, please.”

“Oh! Certainly.” Bobby bit his lip, stared at Olivia who’d just come into his office. “And, ah, if you could keep Tabitha out of our yard too, that’d make it easier.” Bobby hung up. “Bitch.” He looked at Olivia who’d come next to him, leaned back against his desk.

“The Klemenchichs listed their house with Everest Realty,” she said.

“Bitch.” He ground his teeth. He didn’t need them. Business was good. He looked at Olivia’s legs, raised his eyes to her hips, waist, breasts, face. A testosterone tingle elevated him.

“Not this week,” she whispered.

Bitch, he thought.

Stresses built. Bars were out. He couldn’t take it, told himself he was more selective. He bought a new car—a sexy California-poppy yellow Capri. He paid cash. He bought new clothes. He spent money on expensive restaurants, on trinkets and trash. He took one woman up to the wineries in Napa (my bed or yours?), one to dinner and films (do you like to be on top?), one to parties (your body is sooo warm), one to a jazz club. He was getting good at being single.

“Robert, we can do better than that.”

“Well, Mr. Everest, I’m not exactly sure.”

“Read it over,” Everest said. He handed Bobby the papers: Everest Realty—Manager’s Employment Agreement. “You wouldn’t be working in the shadow of Peter, anymore,” Dirk Everest said. “You’d take over completely. Build it how you want. Bring some of those salespeople with you. You’ll have my complete backing.”

Bobby scanned the top sheet. “Manager shall receive an override on each closed escrow in the amount of $80.00, which will be paid ...” He suppressed a smile. Double his Great Homes deal. “Let me get back to you, Mr. Everest.”

“Dirk,” Mr. Everest said. “Call me Dirk.”

President Richard Nixon arrived in Peking today [21 Feb ’72] declaring this “the week that changed the world.” The president met with Prime Minister Chou En-lai and the two leaders predicted an early peace in Viet Nam. North Viet Namese officials in Paris voiced exception to both Chinese and American statements. Analysts believe the North Viet Namese fear that China, which recently doubled its military aid to Communist Viet Nam, will make a deal “behind closed doors.”

Other news: Efforts to halt plans for the development of North Peak Condominium World failed today when state Water Resource officials misfiled their Application to Review with the state Department of Environmental Protection. Also spraying of Atlantic-Pacific timberlands in Sonoma and San Martin counties with herbicides designed to kill broadleaf vegetation was declared the “only economically feasible method to promote fir seedling growth,” corporate officials said today on conditions of anonymity.

“Rob.”

“Yes”

“Brian.”

“Hey, Brian, how—”

“You gotta come home.”

“What? I can’t just—”

“Granpa’s in a real bad way. He must a fallen last week and broke his hip or something. They didn’t find him until this morning.”

He did not stop to see his mother or brother but drove the rented yellow Mercury Capri—exactly like the one he’d purchased except this yellow was more banana than poppy—directly toward Grandpa’s. As he motored past the Episcopal church, the cemetery, past Third Street, up Mill Creek Road, he muttered, “Screw the bitch. I’ll call from up there.” Then the lyrics from the Turtles’ “Happy Together” wafted into his mind and he said to himself, “Together. We should be together.” He gritted his teeth, wanted to turn it off. He passed Lloyd’s Autoland and Franklin GM, passed the dump road, slid the Capri through the icy esses by the falls and the Old Mill. Snow was packed in berms at roadside, salt and sand splotched the road.
I should be lovin you
... It was dusk, 4:15 Leap Year Day 1972.