Carry Me Home (40 page)

She was out. Down for the ten count, down for the ten thousand count, down until ten o’clock tomorrow night.

But he was not. He was up, hard as stone, large as Coit Tower. He cuddled her, slid away, removed his clothes, cuddled her, laughed as he slid back and forth, hunched over her, whispering, singing, “‘Now my girl you’re so young and pretty ...’” it must have been on the radio on the way home, “‘but one thing I know is true ...’” singing silently to her in his mind, “‘you’ll be dead before your time is due. We gotta get outa this place ...’” Sliding back and forth, back, away, removing her undergarments—$56.40—sliding his hard-on across her hand, across Victoria’s palm grasping him, perfect palm—“C’mon sweet thing,” muttering, “arise, arise ...” kissing her gently, “arise, sweet angel ... arise, Snow White ... boy, am I fucked up ...” snuggling, cuddling, sliding on her thigh back and forth to ejaculation collapse but not asleep, not out, somber, angry, they arrested Jessie Taynor for setting a dumpster full of trash on fire before it could be brought to the incinerator ... my fat friend Jessie ... Granpa had a way with her ... “Responds to kindness,” he’d said ... why can’t they be kind? Why can’t you fuck me like you love me? You bitch. You bitch ... Only thoughts now, not even groans, not a muscle ticking, spent, flaccid, his eyes like hers shut, but his mind exploding with rage-accelerated images. Headache, pussyache, tired, too untired, antsy, any one of a hundred excuses. Fuck it. Let her fuck herself. I’m going, leaving. It poured out of him, in his mind, in his stupor. Up. Leave. I should just get up, get out. If she asks, I’ll say I’m going out to find someone who’s willing to love me! Boy, that’d bring down the wrath of God. But fuck her. Out. Give Stacy a call. Give Victoria a call. Fuck her. Victoria. With Gino?! What a mismatch.

For an hour he lay there, angry, unable to focus his anger except generally at Red. He settled back, listened to her breathing. Perhaps she was asleep, perhaps pretending. Slow rhythmic breathing. She doesn’t breathe like that. She snores. Not loud, but snores when she’s in deep sleep. She wasn’t snoring now. Well, fuck it, he thought. He began slowly fondling his penis. He didn’t want to wake her, didn’t want to make waves. What if he did? What if she said, “What are you doing?” Or more likely, “What the hell are you doing?” “I’m jerking off,” he’d answer. “I’m jerking off because I’m so low on your priority list you never have any energy left for me.”

As he fondled himself he could feel the pressure build. He slipped from anger to fantasy. They were driving, speeding down a little-used blacktop highway. Two lanes. A mile between houses. From nowhere the highway patrol car pulled out, chased them, lights flashing. He was getting too hot for details. The cops, two big guys, had them up against the car, spread-eagle, frisking them, her. The guy on him bashed him between the legs. His knees crumpled. The guy on her had his arms around her torso. He pulled open her blouse. “What we got here, sister? You carrying contrabands in your bra?” He grabbed her breasts, caressed them through the bra. “What’s this here? What are these hard things?” He rolled her nipples between his thumb and fingers. He ripped open her bra exposing her skin, her wonderful curves. Bobby rose, went to beat the shit out of the cop. He could see himself grab the cop, grab the cop’s gun. He went to blast ... No. He didn’t get the gun. The guy laughed at him, held his gun on him, ordered him to strip, ordered him to remove his wife’s remaining clothes. “Eat me,” she said to him. He was behind her, on the ground, his head between her thighs, kissing her thighs, her ass. She was naked, bent, groaning, sucking the cop’s cock, the cop that had ripped off her bra. The cop had a ten-inch dick. She licked and sucked and licked and sucked. “It’s beautiful.” She moaned between sucks. He was getting hotter, trying not to shake the trailer, his body tensed, his dick spat its juice. He sighed, deflated. He went back to the fantasy. Both cops were about to come, one in her mouth, one in her ass. He grabbed the gun, shot them. Fucked them up good.

Still his mind was not right, still his rage, his festering wound, oozed. Still she lay on his bicep. His arm ached. His hand had fallen asleep, felt numb, bloated, ready to burst. He chuckled quietly. “Should we amputate it, Sir?” The room was dark. There was moaning from the far side. “It’s pretty badly mutilated.” “Yes Sir.” “How many more are there?” “Eleven, Sir.” “As bad as ...?” “No, Sir. Maybe one. One’s a head case. We put him in the corner ...” “Hm. Too bad. Put her with him. Next.”

In the dark. In the cool. In the corner. He chuckled. His eyes lit. He could amputate it for her. He rose, grabbed the scalpel, grabbed the Ed. Wusthof Dreizackwerk butcher knife she’d bought, she had to have, needed to buy the best, the best steel, the finest blade, the highest price, grabbed her, lifted her, ran the back of the blade over her arm lengthwise, planning his incision, his shredding before lopping.

Now, no longer fantasy, he had the desire. He could cut her, slice her. He could amputate her hand, arm, heart. He opened his eyes wide. He wanted to kill her. He would cut her. He stared at the ceiling. Stared. Looking ... focusing ... looking in deep, through, beyond, into a deep dark tunnel ... deep, so deep, a tunnel into the past, into time gone, lost, into time measured by genetic traces. He sees himself, there, in deep but shallow deep, a child in darkness with but a glint of light. The tunnel does not frighten him. He peers in, intrigued. There is his father, his father’s face, in the dark, vague, smiling ... his grandfather’s face, warm, smiling too, at ease. Farther back there are others, vague, barely discernible yet radiating warmth, positive energy, a glow from the depths. He steps in, one step. They do not beckon him, yet they infuse him with strength, support him in his striving. Emissive rays, waves, telling him to search, to find, to advance the genetic progression ...

He rolled his head, glared at the back window. He focused on the light from the freeway ramp, forced himself to lie still, to let his hand, arm, puff and needle under the weight of Red’s head, forced himself not to move, not to get up, to stay away from the kitchen, the cutlery drawer. He was at the absolute limit of his drugged-brain self-control, aware the drugs had awakened repressed demons, aware that his thoughts, desires, were crazy.

Now he forced himself to think about his grandfather, about Brian and Cheryl, about Jessie Taynor, about Stacy. Slowly he rocked back to Red. Gently he raised her head, slid his arm from beneath, laid her head back down. He stumbled to the bedroom, grabbed a pillow, a blanket, returned, covered her. Josh had been watching them. He rose, followed Bobby to the bedroom. “Oh boy,” Bobby whispered to the dog. “Am I fucked up. Take me out of here.” Josh sprang to him, away. He raced to the kitchen, grabbed his leash, tossed it wildly anticipating a walk. Then, outside, cool air, the night glowing with freeway lights. Bobby had put on his suit pants, jacket and sneakers. In his jacket pocket he felt the card. He sat, stared at the freeway. Stacy, he thought. Stacy. Stacy! Stacy!!

S
AN MARTIN, MID-OCTOBER—“IT’S
a steal, Bob. Really.” Dan Coleman was on one end of the mattress. Bobbie carried the other. It was late morning, overcast, an omen of the coming rainy season. “You and Red’ll make out well.”

“You think so?” With his butt, Bobby pushed the front door open, stepped up, bent the mattress so Dan could get his end in.

“I do. And what do you have to lose? You’ve got nothing in it. The commission covered your closing costs, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “If it wasn’t such a dump ... Red’s already got every minute of my spare time spoken for, for the next three months.”

They worked their way through the tiny foyer, into the hallway, to the first bedroom, dropped the mattress among a pile of boxes. Behind them came Al Bartecchi and Tom Houghton, wrestling the box spring of the new California King Red had put on their Master Charge the day the VA loan was approved—and had had delivered to the trailer so the bill would come after they’d used it and Bobby couldn’t send it back. “But”—she had smiled so lovingly, twinkled so coyly—“we really need it. What if my parents come to visit? Or your grandfather?”

At the trailer Lisa Fonari helped Red wrap and box glassware. “This is really so nice of you ...” Red said again.

“Agh, packing kitchens is a pain in the ass.” Lisa’s brassy voice echoed in the mostly empty trailer. “Ever notice how the boys always zip through moving the big stuff. You watch, when they get back they’ll wonder why we couldn’t pack one little kitchen—”

“We’re almost done,” Red injected.

“They could at least of left the radio.”

“Do you—I like to listen to KFRC. That guy’s crazy. Richard says—that’s my new boss—he says—”

“Oh.” Lisa interrupted. “Talking about new! Did I tell you who Peter hired for your desk?”

“No.”

“Sharon something.”

“Is she nice?”

“She’s gorgeous. I mean
really
gorgeous.”

Bob and Dan unloaded Red’s dresser from the back of Al’s pickup, shifted the weight until it felt balanced, began the short walk to the door. “What’s she got in here?” Dan groaned.

“We shoulda taken the drawers out.”

“How can a tiny girl like Red have heavy clothes?”

“That’s exactly what Al said when we loaded it. Want to put it down?”

“Shit no. Let’s just get it in there.” Dan walked backward, into the door, up the step, into the foyer. On the street a few neighbors gathered, waved. For nearly six months Bobby had billed himself as the Martinwood Specialist. He’d already met half the people on Deepwoods Drive.

“Take it straight back,” Bobby said.

“Yeah,” Dan grunted. He backed into the living room, let Bobby swing in, then Bobby backed down the narrow hall to the large bedroom at the end. “Holy cow!” Dan said, as they set the dresser down. “I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah. Wanta stop for a beer?”

“Pheew! Yeah. Hey, did you hear about the zoning meeting?”

“When?”

“Last night. It was just like you said. P and Z changed the zoning of all the watershed. Just like that.”

“You’re kidding.”

Bobby opened the refrigerator they’d moved first thing. Second thing, he’d packed in a case of Bud cans. Al and Tom joined them in the kitchen. Sometime in the past the floor had been covered with indoor/outdoor carpeting that now emitted a sour odor. Bobby church-keyed four cans, passed them out.

“You’re talking about The Res, huh?” Bartecchi said.

“Yeah,” Dan answered.

“I called Roger last night,” Bartecchi said. “I thought he might have known about it but he didn’t.”

“I don’t think they can do it,” Dan said. “It wasn’t on the agenda.”

“Anybody call Peter?” Bobby asked. Dan and Al gave Bobby a silent
Really!
look. “Well, he probably knew.”

“He probably didn’t,” Al said, “but he’d be behind it all the way.”

“He’d be the first to buy,” Dan said. “Or try to sell it.”

“I’d like to live up there,” Tom said. “It’s a great spot.”

“That’s because nobody can live up there,” Al shot back.

“Some of these guys,” Dan said, “they smell blood, they go for the jugular.”

“You mean money,” Al said.

“Green blood.” Dan laughed.

Al laughed too, but he was serious about this business. “Fernandez says there’ll be a fight. Posting a few signs along Cataract doesn’t constitute public notice.”

They finished their beers. Dan and Al drove back to the trailer in Al’s pickup; Bobby and Tom in Bobby’s Chevy. “Did you see ...?” Tom asked shyly. “Hanoi’s rejected Nixon’s proposals.”

“What proposals?” Bobby asked.

“In Nixon’s speech last week. For a peace conference and cease-fire.”

“I didn’t see it,” Bobby said.

“That’s right. You guys don’t have a TV, huh?”

“Nope.”

“They, ah, one of the communist groups rejected Nixon’s thing and said there was an eight-point plan ...”

“You can’t negotiate with those bastards.” The subject brought instant, unexpected agitation.

“You were there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All this stuff about Calley and those guys ... Did that really happen? Do Americans ... I mean, you know, like toss prisoners from helicopters? Things like—”

“I guess,” Bobby answered quickly. “Some must. I’ll tell ya though, where I was ... I remember one night ...” Bobby shook his head. They were already crossing under the freeway, approaching Bahia de Martin. He slowed. “We’d moved into this position to set up for the night and it turned out to be an NVA base camp. They’d dee-deed but they’d left a rear element, which gave us some resistance and really, you know, it messed up the plans because we didn’t want them to know our location.”

“Dee-deed means what?”

“Skyed. Split. Left.”

“They weren’t there except—”

“Yeah. Just a few guys watchin over their camp. This is pretty deep in the jungle. This one NVA lieutenant comes walking right into our perimeter to surrender but we didn’t know and one of the men shot him. Not bad. In the foot. Shot him before we realized he was surrendering. You know, it’s jungle and it’s dark and you can’t see clearly.”

“Then what’d they do to—”

“Our medic patched him up. We called for a medevac with a jungle penetrator—a hoist. The bird came on station but it took fire so we canceled it till morning. In the morning my men cut an LZ, ah, a landing zone—hacked down all the trees and brush with machetes—and four birds came out, the medevac and three gunships. We got that lieutenant on the chopper and it lifted off and fifteen seconds later it exploded in midair. Took a direct hit from an RPG. Rocket grenade. Three of the crew were killed. The fourth was burned all over.”

“What about the lieutenant?”

“I don’t remember.”

“He was in the helicopter?”

“Yeah. Must of been thrown out.”

“Maybe your men killed him.”

“Maybe. Maybe his own troops did when they blew down the medevac.”

Bobby got out. He didn’t want to talk about Viet Nam. Red came out, greeted them, gave Bobby a quick excited hug. “We’re almost done. Lisa’s got sandwiches and chips—”