Carry Me Home (42 page)

Then they kissed. Then Stacy pulled away. “Rob. Bea’s my friend. I—I can’t do this ... this ... Rob.” Tears came to her eyes. “I made such a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you.” He moved to hold her but she held him back. “No. I do love you. But you’re going back to California. To Bea. I—I couldn’t share you ... if I loved you. And I do. But I can’t.” She moved back. “I care about you. And about Bea. I don’t want to be responsible for putting a strain on your relationship. But even more than that, Rob, I care about me. I made a mess of what we had. And what Jerry and I had. I always compared him to you. Just in thoughts. But I made a mess of it and it really hurts and I don’t want to hurt anyone again. Including me.” He looked at her with sad, puppy-dog eyes, but he did not speak. “Rob, I need ... I know I need a lot from a relationship. I need to love and to be loved, and—Rob this frightens me. You love Red. You live three thousand miles away. You’ve bought a house. You’re into your job. I’m not sure we should even have seen each other.”

“I—”

“No. Let me finish. If—if we ... loved ... I mean, you’re leaving again. You’re going back to Bea.... I can’t share you, even though I love you.”

“Then don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“You don’t have to. It’s much too ... Stacy ...”

“Tell me.”

“Stace, I’m learning so much out there but I’m ... I don’t think I’m going to stay. There’s too many people out there, too many doing nothing, being paid to do nothing. And too many double-dealing. I keep thinking about coming back—but with more knowledge and more money. I’m not going to come back and mooch off anybody. I’m never doing that again.”

“I don’t ... Rob, what are you saying? Are you and Bea going to move ...?”

“She likes it there. She knows I ...” He paused. He was describing these emotions not simply to Stacy, but for the first time, clearly, to himself. “To me there’s something wrong with ... not the land, but the people. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve met some really super people. I’d like them anyplace. Maybe it’s that life is too easy. People aren’t properly hardened. It’s like they’re vulnerable. Their values ... That doesn’t make any sense. It’s me. I’m incompatible with that environment. I’m there to learn, to get established financially. That’s what Bea likes. Money. She won’t come back. We don’t have a future.”

“Rob!”

“She’s a great kid, Stace, but she really is a kid. That’s why she fits there so well.”

“Then—” Stacy’s voice was low “—say—” her face was turned to the windshield “—it.” Christmas lights glittered in her eyes.

“Granpa.”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry I’m calling so late.”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Fine. It’s just that the roads have gotten kind of icy and this rental car doesn’t handle worth manure.”

Pewel chuckled.

“I’m”—Bobby said, grinning—“going to stay in Rock Ridge tonight.” When he hung up he handed Stacy the phone. “Your turn.” He laughed.

Tuesday, 1 December 1970—It was not a good way to go to work in the morning. There were too many things on his mind. Stacy. Red. Stacy. Red. On the flight back he’d decided to tell Red. Not out and out. Softly. He didn’t want to hurt her. He’d tell her he was going to return to Mill Creek Falls—not immediately, but that that was his definite plan. Grandpa needed him. And with a grubstake from working in San Martin, he’d be able to set up an office in Pennsylvania—maybe concentrate on farms and rural retreats, maybe build a few houses incorporating some of the California design features he admired. She’d say something about it being impossible to leave Richard Townsmark and People’s Life and Casualty, and they’d begin their separation by him moving into the small bedroom. On the surface they’d be a couple, until later, when they’d sell the house and he’d move back and ...

The thought had stayed with him through picking up his bag, finding the Chevy sedan in the lot, driving north on 280 past the barren hills with boxy implants that made the ticky-tack houses of Creek’s Bend look like carpenter’s cream, up Nineteenth Avenue with its jammed-up traffic. Through the Presidio, over the Golden Gate and into the Marin Headlands, his attitude had softened, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from the beauty of the area. The closer he’d come to San Martin the more dubious his ploy seemed, and when he’d pulled in before the Deepwoods Drive house—his house, his first house that he’d worked really hard for—his resolve had puddled and Red and Josh had jumped out and greeted him and Red looked wonderful, and she hugged him and kissed him and chattered about having sold her first “set” of life insurance policies to a family of seven—Dad, Mom, and all the kids—and she didn’t even shoo Josh away, and there was a black guy by yesterday looking for you—I think he was a Jehovah’s Witness—and Richard helped so much with the sale—People’s is such a quality company—and Peter wants you to call the moment you get in, he said he’s got great news for you, but first I ... hug, kiss, hug, kiss ... She’d brought him to the bedroom and she’d jumped his bones on the new satin sheets and satin pillowcases over new down pillows and to him her tiny breasts seemed full and ...

He did not drive directly to the office but instead followed Bruce Road to Miwok, then took a left and motored past the high school, the Lower Res, up to South Peak Road where he drove slowly by the driveway of the second-to-last house on the left—four driveways up from Gino’s—trying to see through the foliage to the $118,950 listing that Dan Coleman got the day before Bobby left for Pennsylvania. On South Peak it was drizzling. Bobby turned on the wipers, turned into the driveway. He did not wind in through the trees, could see only a single corner, the trim painted cream, the cedar shingles weathered gray-brown. He backed out, turned around, drove to town, to Great Homes. There, for a moment, in the small lot behind the office with humidity condensing on the inner surface of the sedan’s windows, he tried to collect his thoughts. He’d had no intention of getting carried away with Red, but, he thought, like the first time ... But that was not now the case and he knew it.

As he sat pretending to sort and reorder his briefcase, he pictured Stacy, saw her eyes, every detail, every sparkling fleck, saw her legs, the Christmas lights glistening on her stockings as he held the car door. He grabbed his briefcase, held it on his lap, grabbed the door handle, just sat. A sickening feeling swept over him as if what had happened in Pennsylvania was a reentry into the past, as if he’d made love to someone who had died.

“Can’t sell houses sitting there.” The voice was sharp, loud. Bobby turned. Lisa Fonari smiled, wiggled her fingers in a quick wave, spun and strutted toward her car. He hadn’t noticed before, not really noticed, what legs she too had, great calves, smooth, meaty, sparkling.

“Ya-di ya-di,” he called getting out. She smiled, drove off.

Inside, moments later, Bobby was stunned. “What about Coleman? Or Al?”

“I offered it to them.” Peter Wilcox, erect, loose, as poised and natural in his expensive suit as Bobby felt only in old dungarees and a sleeveless sweatshirt. “The bottom line is they’re not interested. But I’m going to need an assistant if I’m going to establish this network.”

“Offices in Petaluma, Santa Rosa and Sonoma?”

“Concord wants us to expand. They want another office in Marin, too. Maybe two. North and south of San Rafael. I’ll become the regional manager. We’re really on the move.”

“Ah, Pete. Whoa!” Bobby slapped the top of his head. “Me? Really?”

“You’re good. Yes. You. Bartecchi and Coleman are too busy with their clients. Schnell’s got some major development plans. Everybody else who’s qualified is commercial/industrial.”

“Well, there’s Tom. And Jon Ross. They’ve been here longer than—”

“They couldn’t handle it. Never learned the art of being successful.”

“What about Lisa? Or—”

“Come on!”

“Jane. Jane’s been here a lot longer, too. And she’s very good.”

“Bob, this is between me and you.” Peter leaned forward. Bobby nodded. Peter whispered. “No women managers.” He said each word distinctly. “It just doesn’t work.”

“Pete—” Bobby sat back in the chair, looked at the desktop, “I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes.”

“You’re not. You’re the most qualified. Jane’s never expressed any interest in it. But you’re a natural. And, you know, Hal and Sal really liked Red. That helps. That’s in your favor, too.”

“Mr. Woodhouse and Mr. Cugino? They don’t know....”

“Sure they do. As you move up it’s important to have a stable home. And actually, it’s better she’s selling insurance.”

“We’re not—” Bobby began.

Peter cut him off. “We’ll supplement your experience with the Great Homes’ Managers Training Course.”

Now Bobby smiled. In the back of his mind he pictured himself as a manager, not of a Great Homes Realty office but of an RJW Real Estate: Sales-Designs-Construction office with headquarters in Mill Creek Falls.

“As assistant you get twenty-five dollars per office closing after we’ve closed ten per month. You’re going to free me up for expansion. Okay?”

Bobby nodded. “Okay.”

“Fantastic!” Pete rose, virtually pulled Bobby up, shaking his hand. They stood close, grasping hands, Pete’s left hand on Bobby’s shoulder, Pete saying, “Hey, by the way, don’t get involved in that water district flap right now, okay?” Again Bobby nodded but he meant it not as agreement but as acknowledgment. “We don’t want Great Homes associated with protestors,” Pete said. He turned, opened his office door. “By the way, I want to introduce you to our new salesgal.”

Pete led Bobby past Gloria’s desk, gave the secretary a thumbs-up while simultaneously clapping Bobby’s shoulder—Gloria already knowing, smiling, offering congratulations, Pete prodding Bobby out onto the sales floor where a young woman was arranging blank prospect cards and estimates of value forms on Red’s old desk. “This is Sharon McGowan,” Pete said. Sharon looked up. She had long blond hair with a natural wave, brown eyes, a stunning smile. “Sharon, this is Bob Wapinski, our assistant office manager.”

Bobby pulled into the driveway of the Deepwoods Drive house. It was six thirty, dark, overcast. He’d spent much of the day on the phone reestablishing links with prospective buyers and sellers, or with Sharon—who in heels was as tall as he and who was delightful to be with—taking her to new listings that had come out on MLS while he’d been away, making her pretend he was a prospective buyer.

Bobby collected his papers, MLS books, opened the car door. It weighed heavily on his mind that he should call Stacy, should call her now, tell her about the assistant managership. He put one leg to the ground and immediately Josh jammed his muzzle into Bobby’s groin. “Oh geez, you’re all wet.” Bobby pushed him back, held his head away as Josh leaned into his hand, squirmed his head forcing Bobby to massage his ears. “C’mon,” Bobby said quietly. “Let’s go in.”

At the door Red wrapped her arms over Bobby’s shoulders, as she’d never done before except the day before, kissed his cheek, whispered, “There’s a black guy in the living room.”

“What?!”

“Get rid of him. I’ve got something important to tell you.” She let Bobby go.

“Cap’n Wapinski. Sir.” Bobby looked up. The foyer was dark. He heard the deep, pleasant voice, saw the dark form, couldn’t see the man’s face. Bobby shuffled in. Josh pushed past Red into the living room, braced his legs wide. “Goddamn, Sir, you are a sight for sore eyes. Hot damn, Niner-niner! Seein you’s better’n hot grits on a firebase. Better’n a heavy pink team bustin up Charlie’s butt.”

“Oh shit!” Red shot by both men. “He’s going to shake. Out! Go into the garage!”

“Bro Black!” Tyrone slapped his own chest. “Whoo-weee! It sure’s hell took some searchin to find ya.”

Bobby still searched the man’s face. He didn’t recognize him.

“Blackwell, Cap’n. Tyrone Blackwell. Hamburger Hill. You remember that bad mothafucka. You remember me, don’t ya, Sir? You sent them letters for me.”

“Oh, holy shi—Bro Black from the Sugar Shack.”

“You got it, Niner-niner. Cept now I’m Ty Dorsey. Took my mother’s name, cause ... aw that’s a story. Sir, if you got the time, I brought the beer.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Bob. Or Bobby. I’m no ‘sir’ anymore. Just a PFC—like you?”

“Bet chor sweet ass.” Ty laughed. “Proud Fuckin Civilian, Sir.”

They moved into the living room. Bobby loosened his tie, removed his jacket. Ty held up a power-fist salute. Bobby came to him, smiling, held his fist up for Ty to tap, then clumsily (white guys and officers never did get it very well) he and Ty did a dap, tapping fists, clasping hands, sliding, ending with a four-hand embrace. Then Ty opened a beer for Bobby and handed it to him. “That’s one fine-lookin missus you got there, Sir. Bob.” Ty laughed. They both sat. “Bob,” Ty said again, laughed again. “She told me they just put you in charge of the whole shee-bang.”

“Huh? I haven’t even told ... How’d you know?”

“Some dude, Peter, called. I went out and got us a bottle a champagne.” Ty bowed his head. Quietly he said, “Bea said I could stay for dinner, if that’s okay with you. I was showin her how to barbecue chicken like my mama used to.”

“Of course! Of course. Where are you staying? When did you get here?”

Red came back in, wiped up Josh’s footprints and the splatter of rain and dog hair he’d let fly as he’d begun to shake. Then she put coasters under Bobby’s and Ty’s beer cans. Finally she joined them as they began recapping surface details of the overlap time to their tours, and Ty told Bobby about a few of the guys who left country after Bobby DEROSed, and about a few more who’d been wounded. They drank more beers. Red played the attentive mate, finished making dinner, served the two men, listened without much comment, smiled often, finally yawned a long gape-mouthed yawn. “Oh, excuse me,” she said.

“I gotta be goin,” Ty said. There were a dozen empty beer cans on the table before them (a half-full one before Red) and more empties in the living room.

“Where you stayin?” Bobby demanded.

“Jus in my car.” Ty belched into his hand.

“We’ve got the extra bed,” Bobby said more to Red than to Ty. “You can’t sleep in your car.”