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.”
Ty chuckled. To Red he said, “That from a man who made me sleep in a foot a mud fer—” Then to Bobby, “How long were you with us, anyway?”
“I’ll make up the bed,” Red said. “We really want you to stay. Besides, you’ve got to write down the recipe ...”
“Honey.” Ty plopped a hand on the table. “Ketchup. Worcestershire sauce. Orange peel. Bay leaf.” Then he laughed. “I got so much more to tell ya. We’re goina be good fer each other. Bobby, we’re goina be good fer each other. I could help ya. Help ya run the whole shee-bang. I’m a good troop.”
“I’m going to make the bed.” Red stood. To Bobby she added, “Then I’m going to bed.”
“I had pride, Cap’n Wapinski, Sir,” Ty said drunkenly. “I had pride when I was with you, Sir. I had pride then. Now, what I got? Goddamn, Sir. What I ... When I got home, Sir, there a dude in my bed. My baby, year en a half, call him ‘Da-dee.’ Like that. ‘Da-dee.’ What I got now?” Ty leaned back, laughed, blurted loudly, “Mothafucka, how I s’pose ta know? I swear my own brother set me up. Said she was eighteen. Fourteen! Oh, but she was sweet. Swee-eet! Statutory rape! How was I s’pose ta know?”
In the morning Bobby woke, dropped his feet to the floor, slumped, braced his head with his hands. His head banged, his eyes felt swollen. Then from the kitchen he smelled coffee. Red came from the bathroom. “I had something important to tell you last night.” Her tone was controlled anger.
“Um.” He looked up. She looked pretty in her nightgown. “So tell me.”
“With him”—she wagged a finger at the bedroom door, her whole body shook—“in the house?”
“Yeah. I guess. If it’s important. What—”
“I think I’m pregnant.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
He sat up straighter. His face furrowed. A smile began to form on his face. He mouthed the word pregnant, stood, the smile re-forming, spreading.
She did not look at him but turned her back, cold, annoyed. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at ten.”
“I’ll take—”
“I can drive.”
“How far along—”
“Six weeks, I think.”
Bobby wrapped his arms around Red even as she stood facing away. He kissed the top of her head. Her hair tickled his face. Behind his smile his head was still banging. “I love you,” he whispered.
She turned in his grasp, pushed away. “But I don’t love you,” she said. “I’m going to shower.” With that she went into the bathroom and locked the door.
Again Bobby worked a full day. Red went from the doctor’s office to People’s Life in Larkspur and she too worked late. Ty moved a few things into the guest bedroom, grocery shopped at the Safeway, drove past Great Homes, returned, parked his Caddy in the driveway instead of across the street, cleaned the kitchen, readied dinner. The evening was a repeat of the one before—perhaps with less beer, but with more talk—current talk and continuing stories—Wap asking about various operations, about what had happened at Firebase Ripcord. What had happened to the 1st of the 506th? How did the company commander get killed? Was it on Ripcord or on an adjoining hill? To much of the Ripcord stuff Ty Dorsey just shook his head, stammered, “Ya know, what the fuck, over.” “Yeah,” Bobby agreed not realizing, and Ty not volunteering, that he wasn’t with the 1/506th anymore when Ripcord was overrun—indeed had been released to an administrative holding company while awaiting trial for possession of a controlled substance and insubordination to an officer.
“They both was bad mothafuckas, Bobby. Ah, but life goes on! Life goes on! Time to pick up a piece a the pie. Aint no pie at home.”
“Yeah. I didn’t come home to pie either.”
“Yeah.”
Later, in the back bedroom, alone, Bobby and Red barely spoke. “What did the doctor say?”
“I’ve got to call them tomorrow.”
“Red ...”
“Hmm.”
“I’m sorry about Ty being here right now. I’ll try to get him a room....”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I know you like your privacy and—”
“He’s okay. He’s nice. And he’s a good cook. It’s nice having somebody else cook. I just wish he wouldn’t drop cigarette ashes all over.”
“I’ll mention it to him.”
“And put a coaster under his beer. He’s leaving rings everywhere.”
“Um-hmm.”
“And his boots go in his room, not in the living room.”
“Okay.” For a long time they were silent. Bobby tried to picture Stacy but it was as if a wall had been erected in his mind preventing him from seeing to last week. Instead he saw Sharon McGowan. She was nice. Safe. She had a boyfriend. They could be friends—no overtones. Bobby rolled to Red, kissed her. She did not respond.
On Thursday Bobby called Red at work but she was out. She didn’t return his call. At three, Ty walked into the Great Homes office. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive gray twill suit, black wingtip shoes, a gold watch and gold wedding band. He’d had his hair cut, shaped into a medium-length naturally rounded do. At slightly over six foot one, strong and slim, he looked like a professional athlete about to sign a major league contract.
Liza Caldicott was on floor duty. In her loud, challenging voice, “How can I help you?”
“I would like to buy a house.” Ty’s voice was deep, full.
“Oh!” Liza was stunned. Seldom did buyers walk in and straightforward announce such intentions. At the same time Liza wasn’t sure she wanted a black buying into great-grandfather Martin Caldicott’s legacy. “How much do you want to spend?”
“Not over a hundred,” Ty said seriously.
Liza gulped. She’d never sold a home costing more than fifty-four five. “We’ve got some in that range.” Ty began to snicker but controlled it. Liza continued—she still had not even asked him his name. “Can you put twenty percent down?”
“Yes ma’am,” Ty answered.
“An eighty-thousand-dollar mortgage”—she pulled out her blue-book—“runs five thirty-two a month. Your monthly salary should be above two thousand.”
“I don’t have a monthly,” Ty said.
“But you make twenty-five, thirty thousand a year?”
“Hell no, ma’am.”
“Wait a minute. Ah ... how much do you make?”
“Nothin.”
“Nothing?!”
“Nothin.”
“Then how are you going to buy a hundred thousand dollar home?”
“Hundred thousand?” Ty smiled wide. “I jus said hundred.”
“Hundred what?” Liza was really upset.
“Dollars, ma’am. In America our currency is dollars. Unless you find somebody willin to take pesos. I could pay in pesos.”
“Now wait a minute, Mr....”
“Dorsey. Mr. Dorsey. Quality Control and Sales Investigation, main office, Concord. You flunked. Is Mister Wapinski in?”
Liza was totally flabbergasted. She stood quickly, her thighs banging against the desk. She stumbled back, fumbled for words. “I’m—I’m sorry Mr. Dorsey. I ... ah ...”
“Please, just call Mr. Wapinski for me.”
Thirty minutes later in Peter Wilcox’s office with Peter and Bobby, Ty said, “Mr. Wilcox, you’ve got people here who couldn’t sell ice to soldiers in a rice paddy. I could sell it to Eskimos. I just need a chance.”
“You still have to get a license. That’s normal procedure. State law. Get your license, then come back and see me.”
“Let me help while I’m goi
ng to school.”
“We don’t have any nonsales positions....”
“I’m a good worker. I was a good troop. Ask Bobby....”
“There’s no doubt about it. But Ty—” Bobby felt Ty had put him on the spot, “why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have arranged—”
“I did, Bob. Las night. Don’t you remember?” Bobby just looked at him. “You was explainin how to establish a real estate listin farm. I told you I’d like to do that.”
“You did. You’re right. We just talked about so many...” Bobby’s voice tapered off.
Ty said to Peter, “Besides, you don’t have any minorities, do you?”
“There’s not many that live in town.”
“See? I could bring in a whole new segment of the market. But jus right now, I’m short a funds. I need your assistance.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “Let me think it over.”
“It sure would help—” Ty said, “to have an answer now.”
Peter stared at Ty. Ty gazed back but didn’t speak. Bobby fidgeted slightly. Peter and Ty remained locked eye to eye. Finally Peter said, “Get your license. If you can sell me on this, you can sell anything.”
That evening Ty was hyper. He had a hundred plans, a thousand things to do. All involving Bobby in one way or another, all for Bobby’s benefit. Red was somber, more pleasant to Ty than to Bobby. Red and Bobby retired early. Ty knew nothing of the possible pregnancy. He remained up, watching Red’s new television (“It’s only a cheap portable and certainly we need to watch the news!”), drinking beer, working on his schedule, his strategy to gain a piece of the pie.
“Ten weeks,” Red answered.
“Ten. I thought you said maybe six.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Red ...” He did not know what to say. Part of him wanted to call Stacy, tell her of Red’s pregnancy, tell her he was going to marry Red. Part just wanted out. He did not know how to approach it—getting married or getting out. He didn’t want to hurt Red, didn’t even want to upset her. He eyed her, sitting on the California King, her hands folded in her lap, her head down, and he thought he should stay with this woman who’d been his partner for sixteen months, thought how much he liked her, could like her, how beautiful her face was, how content he was, now, this very moment. Then he thought he’d write Stacy, explain in detail, but ... but that he should hold off for a few days, let things settle. This thing, he thought, this thing of Red’s, “But I don’t love you.” What does that mean? “Red ...”
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