Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “My heart bleeds,” came Lisa Fonari’s brassy retort. “Tell her to clean the place up.”

  “She doesn’t have the money,” Bobby had countered.

  “Tell her I’ll clean it. She can pay me in escrow.”

  “Sure,” Liza Caldicott charged. “You’ll clean her out.”

  “I get along well with old people,” Lisa had snapped back.

  “People!” Wilcox had stopped them. “Let’s move on.”

  In August Bobby had himself offered Mrs. Angelina Tomassino full price if she was willing to sell VA—that is, to pay the points and other Veterans Administration required fees (almost $2,000), and to put up with the uncertainty and potential problems of VA appraisal and structural inspection. She reminded him of his grandmother—and of his grandfather, living alone, widowed, who would be entering his eighty-second year in one week. Bobby wanted to help, wanted to be fair. And he wanted out of the flimsy trailer. Mrs. Tomassino had accepted. To avoid potential repair costs, Bobby and Dan Coleman had done an informal termite inspection and Bobby returned, cleaned, replaced and repaired every bit of damage he suspected might be called. Now, in mid-September, with no word from the mortgage company except to verify receipt of his certificate of eligibility, it was a matter of waiting, hoping the VA approval would arrive before the loan points rose further.

  Bobby took out the vacuum cleaner he’d purchased secondhand. Quickly he ran the machine over the gold shag of the aislelike living room, then through the bedroom. Strands of Josh’s finest hair floated and glittered in the sun. He put the machine away, grabbed the broom, swept the galley kitchen. Most of the pile of dirt was mud Josh had dragged in. He pushed it into the dust pan, opened the back door, dumped it on the gravel under the trailer. Josh was out, roaming. Cars were zipping down the off-ramp. Bobby bit his inner lip. If the Deepwoods home came through, he’d be able, he thought, to let Josh run in the grass and glades of South Peak.

  Bobby returned to the kitchen. He washed the dishes, the sink, the countertop. There was something wrong, he thought, living the way they did. Not just he and Red. There were things there, too, but he was thinking more about Bahia de Martin and all the eastside developments and even much of Martinwood and Golden Vista—something wrong with living on the land versus with the land as one does when one lives in the hills. All the subdivisions were on cleared and leveled land—decent farmland. Developers with big cats had come in, stripped the land bare, removed the topsoil, poured concrete slabs on the denuded clay. Houses had risen as if they were not even part of the earth. Then the developers had sold the topsoil back to the new homeowners who could afford it. Flatlanders, Bobby thought. Versus hill dwellers. But even that wasn’t true because these people weren’t flatlanders in the traditional sense of the flatland farmer, but simply people who never touched the earth because they went from house to paved walk to paved drive to car to roll on air-filled rubber balloons over paved streets with concrete curbs to concrete freeways to concrete offices and shopping malls and suddenly Bobby wanted to walk the path around the pond at High Meadow, to descend into the gap and rise to the old Indian trail and walk through the cathedral of virgin eastern hemlocks. He could see it, feel it. He wanted to sit with his grandfather.

  The Res, the upper creek, the Upper Res, Dong Ap Bia, A Shau—hills, valleys, mountains—he’d grown up in the hills. He belonged in the hills—even in Viet Nam he’d been comfortable with the mountains of I Corps. Now he bit his lip hard enough to hurt, hard enough to chase the thought away. Gotta eat. Gotta pay the rent—soon, hopefully, the mortgage on 506 Deepwoods Drive—506, his old battalion number, near Highway 101, his old division. The numbers were special to him.

  Bobby returned to the table, closed the bill box, opened the newspaper. He had established a real estate “farm” in Martinwood, a block of 336 homes to which he mailed a monthly newsletter and in which he’d managed to knock on every door twice, first leaving a plastic litter bag with his name and the Great Homes logo, then leaving refrigerator magnets. He needed to compose his next letter, bring it to Gloria Spencer, the office secretary, for typing, then to the copy center. But first he wanted to read the newspaper, something he seldom did anymore. He skimmed the headlines. He rose, emptied the last of the coffee into his cup, saw Josh bouncing happily up the street between Mrs. Lewis’ and Mrs. Stewart’s perfectly maintained, rock-gardened double-wides. Bobby went to the back door, whistled his specific signal. Josh came scampering around, one furry side coated in mud, the other full of foxtails. “C’mon, little brother,” Bobby whispered. “C’mere.” He grabbed Josh by the collar, slipped a MilkBone between his lips, hooked him to his chain. “Can’t go in like that. I’ll bring the paper out.”

  Now Bobby did read the paper. The 101st was in the news again, near a firebase called O’Reilly, “much like Firebase Ripcord which the 101st abandoned July 23d ... but this time most of the ground action is between the besieging NVA and the defending ARVN....” Bummer, Man. Bummer. He skipped around. In the entertainment section there was a short opinion piece on Hair, which was onstage at the Orpheum in San Francisco. Tonight, he thought. Boy, will she be surprised. Tonight he was going to take Red to an early dinner at The Cherry Flower, a Viet Namese restaurant in the city on Columbus Avenue, and then to the Orpheum. He’d had the tickets for two weeks—a present from Great Homes for being July’s Salesman-of-the-Month. He had told her only that he was going to take her out, for her to be ready early.

  He flipped back, forth, back, forth, avoiding the financial news, reading the sports section. The Giants were more than twenty games back. There was an article on 60-year-old Norman Bright who’d won the 6.8-mile Dipsea race ... 60! oh, a handicap race, fifteen minutes at 60 years old, in 44:46. Geez, still, 59:46 at 60, up and down that mountain! Bright had held the absolute course record since 1937 when he’d run a 47:22, but the record had been broken by one minute.... Bobby looked at the pictures. He had not taken up running, indeed had been putting on love handles, getting heavier by perhaps two pounds each month. He peered into the backgrounds of the photos. He had not seen Gino or Dawn or Brandon or Victoria since that first time. Now he searched the pictures hoping to catch a glimpse of Victoria ... nothing ... flip. More on the slaying of Judge Haley and three others in the Marin County Courthouse shooting—more on the alleged linkage of Angela Davis ... flip. What’s this? “Land Classification Changes: Sacramento—The State Department of Public Health made public an order Friday afternoon downgrading the classification of San Martin Water District property from protected watershed to ...

  “Ho!” Bobby sat up. Josh lifted his head. Bobby tore the page from the paper. He decided he’d show it to Coleman and Bartecchi. He’d been becoming better and better friends with the two of them, and with brassy, off-the-wall, stressed-out Lisa Fonari. Tom Houghton, too, though eight years older than Bobby, was becoming a friend. And Roger Fernandez had gained Bobby’s respect. He would ask each what they made of it.

  Three hours later, Bobby was in the office giving Gloria his farm-letter copy. Pete was in his private office interviewing a potential saleswoman. Jon Ross was pulling floor duty, on the phone, two lines waiting, one ringing. No one else was in the office.

  “I can’t do it today,” Gloria said. “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” Bobby answered. “Tomorrow’s fine.” He stepped out from Gloria’s office to a floor desk, grabbed a phone, “Great Homes Realty. May I help you?”

  “I was calling about, ah, a house you have, ah, in the paper. Advertised.”

  “Yes. Which one would that be?”

  “The three bedroom ...” Bobby began waving at Jon Ross, caught his attention—“Where’s that located?”—repeatedly pointed to the ceiling indicating it was an up, or prospective buyer, call.

  Ross, a phone receiver jammed between ear and shoulder, pen in hand, tapped the side of his head with both hands then flicked his hands out. “Ma’am,” Bobby said into the receiver, “I’m not sure which home that is, but th
e representative for that area is Jon Ross. He’s on another line at the moment. Can I have him call you right back?”

  “No!” The woman was emphatic.

  “Could you hold for him, then?” Bobby cupped the air trying to pull Ross off the other line.

  “I can call Everest,” the woman said. “I’m sure they’ll give me the address.”

  “Ma’am, Mr. Ross is right here.” Bobby purposefully chuckled. “He’s holding up a finger indicating one minute. Would you like to hold one minute or would you rather try Everest?”

  “Oh—” the woman said, “I’ll hold. One minute.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Bobby immediately pushed the hold button. Ross hung up on the other line. “Hey”—Bobby flashed him a thumbs up—“she’s tougher than a trout, keepin her on the line.”

  “Thanks. There’s mail here for you.” He held out a small stack, raised the receiver, pushed the flashing button, “Jon Ross speaking.”

  Bobby took the envelopes from Jon. “Tomorrow,” Gloria called out to him. “Thanks,” he called back. He left the office, got into his Chevy, examined the envelopes. There was a fat one from his brother, three pieces of junk mail, a small envelope without return address. He quickly dispatched the junk, opened the letter from Brian. It contained a letter and another envelope.

  Dear Mr. Wapinski,

  It is with Great Pleasure that I take this Opportunity to inform you that your Lease-on-Life has been transferred to Our account, that is The First Church of Monstrous Miriam and The Two-Dollar House of Worship. Kindly remit one half of the outstanding balance on your account or we shall be forced to collect in FULL.

  Your Great & Kind Benefactor,

  God

  Hey Rob, it’s me. This letter came for you a few weeks back—just getting around to forwarding it. Rob, things really have gone downhill here since you left. I was up at Grandpa’s yesterday. He seems old. He never seemed old to me before. Miriam’s been in a total rage for two months. I think she’s nuts. Even Doug’s having a hard time putting up with her! Cheryl and I were talking about you the other night. We’ve both got good jobs. Lots of guys here have been laid off. The economy’s really turned to shit. Even I might be out of work soon. Cheryl thinks they’re holding it together until after Election Day and then the bottom’s going to drop out. Anyway, we’ve been thinking of moving. Don’t tell anyone. If Miriam heard we’d never hear the end of it. But we’ve got some $ saved and I’m anxious to dump this place and start new. How’s the job climate out there? Do you think I could sell real estate? Cheryl really knows insurance but we’re thinking of trying for a baby again and I wouldn’t want her to work if we had a baby. Hey, how’s Red? Are you two going to get hitched? If you are, make sure you invite Grandpa. He said he’d fly out. Can you imagine Pewel getting on a 707? Is it expensive to live out there?

  Your brother (and fellow sufferer of M-M)

  Brian

  P.S. Joanne’s a bit weird but she’s okay. Really.

  P.S.S. or is it P.P.S.—ha! who cares? A bit of local news. The cops arrested fatso Jessie Taynor again. She’s a real nut case. They say she set fire to the dumpster behind the White Pine Inn because they threw her out. Grandpa’s new girl—she’s a nurse, I haven’t met her yet but he hired her to come out occasionally to cook and clean. He says he doesn’t need her but she needs him and she’s got two little girls. He told her he can’t see the dirt anymore—anyway she told Grandpa Jessie needs psychiatric help, not to be arrested. I think Jessie needs to be in the sideshow.

  Bobby sat for a moment, thought about Jessie, about Mill Creek Falls, about his family, about Grandpa. He thought about his grandfather needing help, about him hiring someone to cook and clean. He’d seen the dirt the old man had left because he really couldn’t see it—just like old Mrs. Tomassino—and Bobby felt guilty.

  He fingered the second envelope. It was written in pencil. It came from Bobby’s old interpreter, Quay Le.

  Dear Captain Wapinski, Robert:

  How are you and your family? I hope you are well. I must ask you a favor. Please write Captain Addison who is replaced Captain Thompson who you let use the refrigerator you gave me until he DEROS. You gave me the refrigerator in your hootch when you leave. You remember? You said Captain Thompson use it until he DEROS then I can take it. Captain Stephen Addison says it is his refrigerator because it is in hootch that he lives in. I say you gave it to me and Captain Thompson only have it on lease until he leave which is many months ago now and then it is mine. Please write Captain Addison. You remember my wife. She is so happy when I tell her you give me refrigerator. Now she is very angry. It is not like the good old days when you are here and we go up to Camp Carroll and down to 1st Brigade and all over. I wish you very good life in America. Please write Captain Addison so I have a refrigerator. Thank you my old friend.

  Quay Le

  Geez! Wapinski thought. Can’t they give the poor guy the fridge? It was a dinky little box anyway. Humph! Yeah, Quay, I’ll write em. Soon as I get home. Bobby opened the third envelope. It contained only a small folded card.

  Dear Rob,

  Hello! How are you? I hope you are fine and doing well. Oh Rob, I made such a mistake. I’m getting a divorce. Jerry and I separated six weeks ago. I’m living back home with my mother. I wanted to call you but I didn’t want to upset you. Or Bea. That’s why I’m sending this note to your office. I’ll understand if you don’t call or write back.

  Love,

  Stacy

  It was the first time she had tasted Viet Namese food, his first Southeast Asian cuisine in more than sixteen months. They sat across the small table from each other, occasionally peering down from the second-story window onto Columbus Avenue, Robert Wapinski and Bea Hollands, smiling at each other, commenting about oddities in the street scene; about the food—Red had ordered roast crab, Bobby, the imperial roll with prawns sauté and rice—about Brian’s letter and Jessie Taynor—Red, “They should lock her away for her own safety”; about the Deepwoods Drive house, the VA lender, and their anxiety about the loan’s approval. Bobby did not mention the bills, Red’s spending, the state of the trailer, Stacy’s news. Red did not mention having to share their cramped quarters with Josh, the enthusiasm of Richard Townsmark, her new boss, or Bobby’s ramblings about High Meadow.

  Red looked terrific. She’d had her hair done (Done? Bobby’d thought—she was now wearing it straight, and to him “done” meant washed and combed) and she’d bought a new outfit—a chambray blue knit dress that clung to her thighs and ass and tiny waist; had purchased matching purse and shoes, and a silver necklace and bracelet. She’d been ready and waiting and looking wonderful when he returned from Great Homes with the three letters. He’d cleaned up, changed quickly and not said anything about the incredible mess Red had made in the kitchen. “It’s a surprise. I’ll show you after dinner,” was all she said.

  “So, what’s my surprise?” Red asked.

  “You tell me mine first.”

  “I asked first,” Red said. “But I’ll give you a hint. It’s magic!”

  “Magic?” Bobby pondered. “Hmm, magic?”

  “Now you have to give me a hint.” Red’s eyes were twinkling, dazzling in a way he’d not seen in a long time.

  “We have to go to it,” Bobby said.

  “Well, of course.” Red laughed.

  “I could have it here.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “Matter of fact, I do.” He smiled, slid a finger in, touched the edge of the tickets, then thought, horrified, perhaps she thinks its a ring. “It’s just for tonight,” he said quickly. “And ah, you watch it.”

  “Watch it?” Red squirmed like a charmed child. “In your pocket?”

  Bobby took out the tickets, held them out, splayed them, smiled sheepishly. “Hair ...” he began.

  Red’s eyes flew from the tickets to his face. She gasped excitedly. “Tonight!”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Ooo, this is really fa
r out. But what time. We’ll be late. We should eat up....”

  He raised a hand. “We still have a good hour before we need to be—”

  “But I’ve got something special, too. Dessert.”

  “Dessert?” Red opened the flap of her new purse, flashed him the contents, an aluminum foil–covered block, closed the flap. “Hmm?”

  She leaned across the table. He leaned in. “Magic brownies,” she whispered. “I got some hash from Gino.”

  From the restaurant they walked north on Columbus Ave. to the small green before St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s. It was still light, clear, a perfect San Francisco September eve. Bobby bought two cans of Coke from a street vendor and he and Red sat on a bench, ate magic brownies, washed them down with cold soda.

  “How much did you put in these?” Bobby asked quietly.

  “All of it,” Red answered. “They taste terrible, don’t they?”

  “Sweet and bitter. How much was that?”

  “I don’t know. I gave Gino fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty!!!”

  “Ssshh!” Red cuddled into him. “You’ll see.”

  “Should we catch a taxi?” His voice was sober. Fifty bucks. Everything Red did made him angry, yet still, so much of what she was, how she looked, talked, smiled, he liked. He liked her. She was a nice person. And he wanted her to have the things she bought. He wanted her to look beautiful. She looked so good to him right then and there he wanted to consume her. But he felt betrayed. Not at this moment, but generally—betrayed by promises made in love letters a year old.

  “Let’s ... Where did we park?”

  Bobby stifled a giggle. Very seriously he said, “On Kearny.”