Carry Me Home (41 page)

“In a minute.” He brushed by her. “I gotta pee.”

By midafternoon the sky had cleared, their friends had left. Josh was out exploring the new neighborhood; Red was scrubbing their bath, making their bed; Bobby was in the small back bedroom sitting on his old footlocker, setting up the bill box and file box on an old table Al had given him. In the past month Bobby had been fortunate—had closed two more sales, one an expensive, custom-built home out on South Peak Road, near Gino’s, for $66,000: with bonus for earning over $8,000 year-to-date, a $1,188 commission. Still he was anxious, touchy about money and drugs. He’d refused any more brownies, had gotten angry when Red brought home a few joints. Red’s base pay was $94 per week, about $82 take-home. But her spending on the house, on clothes, on her car seemed to him to outpace their best fortunes.

He was agitated too by the letters and calls. He’d called Brian, he’d called his grandfather. They wanted him and Red to fly back for Thanksgiving but Red had refused, saying they should come out and see California. “I’ve really got to see my grandfather,” he’d said to her. “Then go see him.” She’d shrugged. “We’re not Siamese twins.”

He had written to Quay Le and to Captain Stephen Addison, whom he did not know. There had been no response.

And he had written to Stacy. He had not told Red. Stacy had written back, again sending the letter to Great Homes Realty.

... Jerry was really a great person in so many ways. He was brilliant, but kind of scattered. I really don’t want to say too much. It’s just not right. Besides, you know I don’t express myself very well in letters.... I don’t know how I fit into your life anymore, or into Bea’s. But I know that you are a part of my life. As is Bea. She was a good friend. Just thought I would tell you, you are the best lover of anyone I’ve ever known. I don’t tell you that for any reason other than—I’m not sure—it’s a compliment. Nothing more, nothing less.... Selling real estate!! What happened to the design process? To engineering? To your dreams? I still have the drawings you made of the gazebo/windmill that could play its own calliope. I keep it in my underwear drawer and when I’m feeling down I pull it out and fantasize about it. It’s so much fun—all your belts and gears and such detail.... I envy you and Red your relationship. Even if you say it’s mostly a financial interdependency. (Only a design engineer would describe a relationship like that!) I went out with a nice attorney from Williamsport a few times. I wish I could say I’m crazy over him, or even that I like him more than I do, but I can’t.... Why do you think Red won’t mind if I write you? If it were me, I’d flip out. You must make her feel very secure....

“Come in and see.” Red was beaming. He looked up. “It’s perfect,” she said. “At least for now. Until we paint.”

Bobby rose. In his hand he had a card his grandfather had given him in January;
Dear Lord, Please bless us
... He looked at Red. She was all smiles and giggles....
Forgive us our trespasses
... “You can’t see it from here!” ...
never give up.
He slipped the card into the bill box, swooped Red off her feet, kissed the top of her head, carried her sideways down the hall to their new bedroom. “Ooo-la-la!” she cooed.

“Wow!” he said, holding her. “This really is nice. Really.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re such a princess. You know that?”

“Be nice.”

“I mean it nice,” he said.

He kissed her nose. She let him. She giggled. Then she kissed him and hugged him and he laid her gently on the bed and she said, “Undress me.”

For two hours they hugged and caressed, massaged, made love. They showered in the sparkling clean tiled shower stall in their own bedroom and returned to bed and slowly loved as they had never loved. They napped, woke, ordered a pizza, ate, caressed and massaged each other, then just lay in the new California King, Bobby snoozing lightly, his thoughts romping, one instant certain he was in love with Red, the next fantasizing about Stacy or Victoria and then thinking what he and Red had was comfortable—two nice people, interdependent—was good, could last ...

“Could we build a wine cellar?” Red’s voice nabbed his wandering thoughts.

“Hm?”

“In the garage? I saw one in one house. They sell these special clay pipes that you stack up like ... well, like pipes. They keep the temperature from fluctuating. And we’ve got to replace that awful light in the dining room. Don’t you think it’s awful? I know just where we can go for chandeliers. And the kitchen flooring and—”

“Josh!” Bobby bolted up. “I forgot about Josh. He might be tearing the neighborhood apart!”

“Should we meet, ah, at the ... White Pines?”

“Sure.”

“What time?”

“Eleven?”

“Okay. Friday at eleven.”

“I’ll be there. I ... Rob, I’m really anxious to see you.”

“Okay. I can’t talk right now.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Mill Creek Falls, Thanksgiving Day, 1970—What stranger event could there have been? The Wapinskis, together, seven strong with Doug, at High Meadow, in the small, high-ceilinged dining room—Miriam attempting to be nonconfrontational, pleasant, matriarchal, seated at the far end of the table from Pewel as if she’d assumed the role of Brigita Clewlow Wapinski years ago, as if Pewel had accepted her in that role. Between them were Cheryl, two months along, looking plump and busty and oddly mysterious, and Brian, treating his wife like crystal. On the other side Joanne and Doug were politely disagreeing about women in the job force. “Really, Joanne, maybe you don’t see it, but women do run most of the companies around here.” “They do not.” “No? Even Kinnard/Chassion’s run by a woman.” “No it’s not. The CEO’s a man.” “But the owner’s a woman.” “That doesn’t count.” Between them Bobby, the prodigal son for whom the turkey was stuffed, cooked, basted until it was gleaming. “You could have let me do it,” he’d said to his grandfather after Linda had left. “She insisted,” he’d answered. “She’s like that.” “But she had to come out here at five thirty to put it in the oven.” “Maybe I coulda stopped her. But it’s good for her too.” “But I was here! She had to cart those two infants out here ... and then back to her family....” “It’s his family. Hers don’t want nothin to do with her.” “His then. He’s the one who thinned the sugarbush.” “Yep. Good worker. Reminds me of you.”

Robert Wapinski’s mind was not on turkey. He’d taken the Tuesday-night red-eye, arrived in Williamsport Wednesday morning, rented a car, drove to High Meadow, spent hours talking to his grandfather, telling him about California, about the new house, the good people he’d chanced to acquaint, about making money, and, with chuckles, about Red spending it. Then he’d walked the path to the pond, to the orchard, the knoll, across the spillway, through the woods, the sugarbush, to the edge of the gap. He had not descended into the chasm, had not climbed to the old Indian trail, but had instead checked his watch, had thought, forty-seven hours, had wondered if she would show.

During dinner, even when Miriam ground her teeth at Bobby’s “utensil noise,” he was not shaken. Not even Joanne got to him with her quips about Calley and when would they try
all
the baby killers. Perhaps had Josh been there it would have gone differently. Josh lived in the now, always brought him back to the now. Instead Bobby had covertly checked his watch and thought, twenty hours.

He parked the rented car. Smiled nervously. All the way down he’d thought of not showing, thought, she deserves it, thought, if she doesn’t show ... But he’d pulled in next to the ’66 British racing green MG her father had given her for graduating from Mill Creek High, and his mind fell into autopilot.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You’re on time!”

“Habit I got into in the army. You were early.”

“A little. Habit from modeling. Keeps the boob-gazers away. How’s your grandfather?”

“Wonderful.” His entire face was smiling. He couldn’t control it. He could feel it all the way back to his ears. “How’s my sweetheart doin?”

“Mom? She’s great. I told her you were home. She sends her love.”

Bobby sat on the stool beside Stacy. A waitress came. “Lunch or coffee?”

“Coffee,” Bobby answered. He didn’t want to eat or drink, didn’t want to sit at the bar. He wanted to face her, face Stacy, have her face him.

“You look ...” The door opened, the waitress rattled the cups, saucers and spoons, the people who’d just come in were talking. “... with you.”

He cocked his head. “I’m sorry. That’s my bad ear. Can we sit at a table?”

“Sure. I said, you look good. California must agree with you.”

“Yeah. We’re in a nice spot.”

“What’s with your ear?”

He paused. They’d seated themselves in a front booth. He looked out the window. It was such a long tedious story. He turned back, looked at her, shrugged. He did not want to spoil the mood. She’d meant so much to him. The instant he’d seen her he knew she still did.

“Tell me.” She was direct, not harsh. So he began. And he talked and talked. He told her about his tour, about things he didn’t know he remembered, about the sounds, the ignored ear pains, about being discharged. She told him about modeling jobs, about traveling to places she never got to see but only to be pictured in, then whisked away.

By the time they rose to leave the White Pines Inn Bobby was quaking inside. “Pick you up at seven?” His voice was soft. He’d been thinking of it tangentially for months.

“Really?” Stacy smiled.

“Yes.” Soft and firm. Could he break with Red? How could he break up with Red?

“You don’t think Bea would mind? Or your grandfather? You don’t have a lot of time to spend with him.”

“It’s okay. He’ll understand. And ... and I want to.”

As Bobby Wapinski sped back to High Meadow he was flying, laughing, planning what he’d wear, thinking he’d shave again, chattering to Josh who wasn’t even with him. He sang old tunes he somehow connected to Stacy even though he wasn’t certain of the exact words, the real melody, belting it out to the last of the late November light: “‘We laughed in the sunshine; We dee dee dee dee day-ay-ay-ed; We laughed in the sunshine; till I we-ent far-ar a-way-ay.’”

By nine they had eaten, touched, held hands briefly. What was happening, the chemistry, he would never understand, but he could not dispute its validity. They walked down the quiet main street of Rock Ridge. Christmas lights glowed in a few store windows. A crisp breeze buffeted their faces. Stacy clung to Bobby’s arm.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he continued the discussion they had been having over dinner. “When I left Mill Creek Falls it was more to move away, really, than to be with Red.”

“But you do like her.”

“Oh, yeah. Stace, it’s—I realized, when I got to California ... I didn’t love her. Particularly not that first month. That was hard. But as time went on, I ... it’s like I loved part of her more and more.”

“Then Rob, you should stay with her. I—I don’t mean you weren’t going to ... I mean, if you love her, don’t let anything, even indirectly, impose.”

They got into the rented car. Bobby started the engine, turned on the heat, but only sat. “Stacy,” he said staring at the frost on the windshield, “I’m always going to love you. I ... I love you now. I love what you were, what we were.”

“I don’t know what that was,” Stacy said. She was sitting sideways on the seat, facing him, her legs tucked up, red-blue-green light reflecting off her stockinged knees. “I’d ... I’d ... Rob, I’d die if ... if we got together again and you found the Stacy you loved wasn’t there anymore.” He turned, looked into her eyes. Her gaze dropped. “I really shouldn’t have said that.”

“Stace, there’s something really wrong with me and Red.” He shifted to sit sideways. “Really. I don’t know what it is. That’s why I said I love part of her. She can be very loving.”

“You’re an easy person to love.”

“I don’t know.” He raised his right elbow over the seat back, touched his fingertips to hers. “Sometimes she’s so shallow. She spends—”

“You don’t have to say it. Just like I don’t want to say anything against Jerry. But ... I think ... I’m really angry the war broke us up. We did have something.” Her tone changed. “Do you remember our plans?”

“Um.”

“You could always take a pile of junk and make it something.” She smiled. “That sounds terrible. I don’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” His smile crinkled his whole face.

“Really. Like the calliope. Your designs were always so much fun. You could do it better than anyone. With patience and ... ah ... How did you put it?”

“Patience and discipline.”

“Um. What happened to your plans, Rob? I mean, selling real estate! I just can’t see you, Mr. Design Process ... I thought you’d go back to school. We did have dreams, didn’t we?”

“It’s ... real estate ... there’s things I’m learning that complement it, complement design, make it possible to see design on a much larger scale.”

“Bigger than windmills?” Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated in the faint street light. He felt he could see into her thoughts.

“Much. As big as the land.” His voice was faint.

“That’s pretty big.” Stacy laughed softly and Bobby glowed in her approval.

“There’s a principle of real estate.” He said it seriously yet happy to have someone he cared about listen. “Land, privately owned or public, is still a public trust. One owns rights, the bundle of rights specified in the deed, but under the law no one ‘owns’ the land. See Stace, that’s where design comes in. If all land is public trust, the way it’s utilized, even at its highest and best use, must reflect long-term social gain—to protect the land, to ensure that no private owner does anything to the land that will keep it from rejuvenating.”

“Now you sound like the Rob I remember.”

“You bring it out of me. You always did.”

Stacy smiled, inched slightly forward, looked into his face, turned away.

“Remember ... I think it was The Turtles ‘Imagine me ...’” He laughed. He couldn’t carry the tune but he sang anyway, got to the part about being together when Stacy joined in, her voice tender, melodic. “‘Nobody ... you ...’” And together they sang, Bobby just whispering, feeling this shared joy, elation. “‘... together ...’”