Carry Me Home (53 page)

The next day, before dawn, he’d been awakened by the pain, waking in only his underwear on the fat fag’s sofa, as horrified by what might have transpired while he was in la-la-land as he was by the stabbing, pulsing realization that his finger had been ripped off. He’d stumbled out, nauseated, scared, stumbled to the stairs, descended the two flights, retched dry bile heaves, only then realizing he didn’t have his pants, his keys, wincing, climbing back, knocking for the fat fag, begging for his clothes, the man so sweet, so concerned, begging him to come back in, to let himself be taken care of until Ty became ornery, then enraged, and the man gave him his clothes and tried to help him but Ty shrugged him off and the man followed him a cautious three or four paces back until Ty opened his own door and slammed it. For three days he suffered, alone, afraid, smoking all the dope he’d bought for resale, ingesting nothing but Coca-Cola from the glass bottles he’d purchased to use as additional alarm bottles at the door-stile if and when he ever drank the contents.

“He’s going to China.”

“Who’s going to China?”

“Nixon.”

“Nixon’s going to China?!”

“Don’t you listen to the news? It was on the news last night.”

“I—I didn’t watch it.”

“The paper?”

“Haven’t read it yet.”

“Bobby!” Sharon began to laugh, not cruelly, not with the least bit of reproach, but with mirth and amusement. “You know, this is really a big story.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is. He said he’s going to seek normalized relations.”

“Who?”

“Nixon.” Sharon smiled, shook her head. “I think it might mean the end of the war.”

“Oh.” Bobby screwed up his eyes, his nose, pursed his mouth, knowing it would make Sharon laugh again. “Really?”

“Oh.” Sharon jabbed him on the shoulder. “You knew it all the time. Stop pulling my leg.” Bobby glanced down at Sharon’s legs. She was wearing pants. Still she fidgeted playfully. “I bet I do know something you haven’t heard,” she said.

“What’s that?” His mind had not assimilated, processed, projected anything about the China news which he had not previously heard.

Sharon moved closer. “That big turkey that Peter listed and sold ...” Her voice was conspiratorial.

“You mean the Victorian way out on Miwok?”

Sharon moved even closer. “Um-hmm.” She whispered, “The town’s seeking an injunction against the new owner.”

“Why?” Bobby had not heard this either.

“They were fixing it up ...” Sharon began.

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “It certainly needed it.”

“... but they were also expanding it and keeping the apartments. I think Peter made a deal with the building inspector that it could be fixed but the inspector said okay only if they stayed within the existing foundation. Lisa says they pushed out the back about twenty feet for four more units.”

“That’s zoned single-family ...”

“Hm-hmm.”

“I bet they get away with it.”

“I don’t know.”

Bobby didn’t answer. He looked Sharon up and down, looked away. He wanted to compliment her, wanted to tell her how much he admired her, her smile, her pleasant approach to life. He fantasized about her on and off, but had always remained perfectly proper. In some fantasies she had left her boyfriend, Red had been killed in an auto accident—something very clean and very sad—and an appropriate amount of time had passed. They were in the office, alone, exactly as they were now.

“Anyway,” Sharon caught his wandering mind, “I think if you get the listing on that old Third Street duplex, I’ve got an investor who’d be interested.”

“What perfume are you wearing?”

“Hmm?” Her whole face lit.

“Ah ... it ... it’s really nice.”

“It’s just Chanel,” she said. “Nothing fancy.”

“It’s really nice,” he repeated.

“Thank you,” Sharon said. Then she laughed and smiled. “You’re losing weight, aren’t you?”

“A little,” Bobby said. “I can’t believe how fat I’ve gotten. I’ve never been fat.”

“You’re not fat.”

“Fatter than I should be. But I’ve cut out drinking beer with dinner. I think it’s the beer doing it.”

In August the Klemenchichs got their house. The widow, Mrs. Watercross, was delighted. Bobby had listed her property for three thousand dollars more than he (and she, too, after seeing the comparable sales list Bobby had prepared) believed was top dollar. Then that lovely young woman had brought her a full-price offer with a thirty-day close. Together, Bobby and Olivia Taft showed Mrs. Watercross how she could have the best of both immediate cash plus income. Mrs. Watercross adored Estelle Klemenchich. She was happy that Estelle was thinking of raising a family in the same house that she herself had raised her own children. Bobby too was thrilled. The commission broke his dry spell. He was back on track. He had money in his pocket. And luck upon luck, he’d just “made” another ten at North Bay Mall, “the easiest ten bucks I ever made” is how Al Bartecchi quoted him when Al told Dan Coleman later that afternoon.

“Naw,” Dan had said. “Wapinski wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what he told me.” Al flipped a dispirited hand, grunted.

“He didn’t say anything?!”

“Nope.” Al was disappointed. His feelings infected Dan.

“You mean he knew the store undercharged him and he—”

“He was bragging about it.”

“Maybe he’s been around Peter too long.”

“Maybe. I mean he was
really
happy.”

“What’d you say to him?”

“Nothing at first.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, Jane was there. She likes him, you know.”

“What’d she say?”

“Nothing. But I don’t think she liked that either. When she left I asked him.”

“Same as you did with Peter that time?”

“Yeah. I said, ‘Bob, what did you just sell for that ten dollars?’ He looked at me kind of puzzled. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Yes you did,’ I said. I said, ‘You sold your honesty for ten bucks. Isn’t it worth more than that?’”

“What’d he say?”

“You know. What could he say? I pressed him though. I said, ‘Didn’t you just sell your integrity for ten bucks?’ He said, ‘It was Sears! They were probably overcharging me anyway.’ I said, ‘Probably. But that’s not the point. What they do to themselves doesn’t concern me. What you do to yourself ...’ He said, ‘Aw, cut the crap. It was a lousy ten bucks,’ I just dropped it.”

“Well, let it work on his head,” Coleman said.

Al chuckled. “Just like you did it to me.”

Bobby hated the summer nights of 1971, hated going home, avoided the Deepwoods house like hemophiliacs avoid razors. But he did not know what to do. Occasionally he entered additional thoughts into his journal.

4 July: In the whole time we’ve been together, I’ve never asked her to do anything because whenever I have she resents it.

17 July: If I look at Red as a woman she thinks I’m lewd and disgusting. If I don’t look at her as a woman she thinks I don’t love her.

3 Aug: What I say I want for her, I want for everyone, and I want it badly for her and me. This world is going nuts. There’s got to be a better way.

14 Aug: I want to leave her. I don’t love her. I do love her but she doesn’t love me. I love her but I don’t need her. She doesn’t want to be married. Cramps her style. She can’t fuck around. She doesn’t really want me. Not how I want to be wanted.

I bully her. Tell her she’s not doing it right. Shoddy. Half-ass. Never finishes anything. Richard Townsmark has been transferred to L.A. Without him, she’s in trouble at work for not following through. I love her but I can’t live with her like this. If she gets fired ...

Occasionally he called home. “Happy Birthday, Granpa.”

“Bob. Where are you calling from?”

“My office. Did I wake you?”

“Nope. Jus watching the news. Australia and New Zealand say they’re goina withdraw all their soldiers from Viet Nam by year’s end. You’re workin late, eh?”

“It’s, ah, only eight ten. How are you?”

“I’m doin jus fine. My friend Tony’s not, though.”

“Tony? Who’s Tony?”

“Linda’s husband.”

“Oh! You mean your housekeeper ... with the two babies?”

“Yep. Cept the babies are toddlin all over the place now. How you doin?”

“Fine. Great. I’m sorry I don’t call more often. I’m making good money though. I can afford to call more if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. You could write, too. Stamp’s only eight cent. Eleven cent air mail.”

“Well, I can afford the calls now. Really. I’m sorry I haven’t called more. How are you doing?”

“Good. I get a crick in my hip. Sometime it jus gives out but mostly it’s okay. When Tony’s here he helps. He turned and planted the fields and was doin the barn roof but ... Ah, well.”

“Um.”

“How’s that little lady a yours doin?”

“She’s fine. She might be changing jobs again.”

“You two goina come back for that celebration I promised?”

“Not quite yet, but ...”

“Maybe Thanksgiving? Like you did last year.”

“Maybe. We’ll have to talk about it.”

“Hard to leave all that sunshine, eh?”

“Oh, it’s not that. As a matter of fact, sometimes I think I should just pick up and leave.”

“How come?”

“You know. There’s a certain craziness to this place. Like up at The Res, the local lake. It was all pristine forest and watershed. Then some developer bought it and got permission to put in a subdivision. Wouldn’ta been so bad if he did it like the plans said but instead they just clear cut everything. I called them, tried to get an exclusive right to market their units but they’ve got their own sales division. Sometimes I wish ... Sometimes I wish I could design a community where this stuff doesn’t happen.”

“You can,” Pewel Wapinski said. “But you have to start with yourself. It’ll come. That was a nice card you sent to Cheryl. Yer brother’s been smilin like the cat who got the canary for the whole past month.”

“Why’d they call him Anton? That’s kind of an odd name, isn’t it?”

“Brian said it was Cheryl’s idea. She heard it on a soap opera she was watchin before he was born and she fell in love with it.”

“Yeah, but
Anton!
Don’t they think kids’ll make fun of him when he starts school?”

“Maybe. Maybe less than if he were named Pewel. Then he’d really have to fight.”

“Oh, ah ...” Aside, “One second.” Then back to the phone, “Granpa, I’ve got a client just walked in. I’ll call next week. Happy Birthday, again.”

Bobby hung up. Olivia rested her buttocks on his desk, her stockinged legs, feet together, slanting down beside his chair. “Granpa?” Olivia teased.

Bobby chuckled self-deprecatingly. “My grandfather. He’s eighty-two today. I didn’t know anyone else was in the office.”

“Just me,” Olivia said. She lifted one foot and crossed it over her other. Her calf muscle bulged. The ceiling fluorescents glowed ambient but the curve of the bulge still formed an accent shadow that caught his eye. “I heard from Estelle, today,” Olivia said. She did not smile but looked sad, serious.

“Klemenchich?” Bobby said.

“Uh-huh. Rod had an accident last Friday.”

“Oh.” Bobby could barely think with Olivia next to him like that. “Is he okay?”

“It’s not life threatening,” Olivia said. She uncrossed her legs, put her weight on the one that had been on top, lifted and pointed the other foot, stretching the ankle, rolling it slightly.

“They still like the house ...”

“Oh. Estelle loves it. But Rod ... I guess he slipped with a large sheet of metal. Estelle said it split his right palm right to the bones. Almost cut his hand off.”

“Ow!” Bobby squirmed in his seat, almost could feel the metal slicing his hand. He twisted toward Olivia.

“Estelle said he had to have major surgery to reattach the tendons or something and that he might not be able to use it for an entire year. She said he might not ever get the use of his fingers back because of nerve damage.”

“Oh! The poor guy. He’s got insurance though, right?”

“She’s got major med that covers him. And there’s workman’s comp. But they don’t think they can keep the house. Could we sell it for them for three thousand more—”

“Three—!”

“To cover the cost of selling—”

“We already boosted the cost.”

“I know.”

“They’ve only been in there, what, a month?”

“That’s what I told her.”

“I don’t know. In this market ... we could try, but ...”

“It’s okay, Bobby,” Olivia said. She slid closer. He had one hand on his desk by her hip, the other at the back of his chair, opening himself to her. He leaned back slightly, looked to her face. Slowly she bent, put a hand to his face, kissed his lips. For a moment they remained close, still, their hands met, softly pulled, they kissed again, gently, softly. “I—” Olivia began, stuttered, “I don’t want you to do anything to upset your wife.”

“She—” Bobby also stuttered, but then blurted, “she doesn’t care.”

“She doesn’t?” Olivia’s tone was sad, empathetic.

“No,” Bobby said. “She ... we don’t have very much of a relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s—it’s all kinda for show.”

“My marriage was like that too.”

“That’s why you divorced.”

“Um-hmm.” They kissed again. Olivia slid further along the desk edge until she was in front of him. He stood, kissed her again, again softly, gently, their bodies barely in contact. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” Olivia said. “At least not until you settle things with your wife.”

Confusion continued to reign. Nothing was right. The world was out of kilter and Bobby was perpendicular to the slant, knew he was tilting, knew he’d fall. Half of him didn’t give a fucking flying leap. Half of him dreamed on, worried on, bemoaned his lot, his fate. He loved his job, he detested it. It was exciting—the hunt, the tactics of list and sell—but he was not interested, not committed. It was for show. Each time he thought of quitting he’d told himself he would again become engrossed in this business when the commissions became larger. But the opposite was true. He worked for his commissions, worked hard, but whenever he had enough to pay his bills he slacked off. On the drive home he thought of Olivia, of Sharon, of Jane. Even of Lisa Fonari. He thought maybe he wouldn’t even go to the office if it wasn’t a matter of seeing them. What in hell he was doing with Olivia he didn’t know but it was exciting and pleasant and thrilling and everything he could want it to be and everything it wasn’t anymore with Red. And yet he knew that he’d rather be with Sharon. Or Victoria. Or Stacy. Aloud he said, “For ten bucks I would sell my integrity if I could undo ...”