“Hm. And I’d be a millionaire,” Coleman had quipped at an office meeting, “if I could keep all my income and somebody else paid my bills.”
Bobby had wanted to add, I’d be rich if Red didn’t ... but he’d censored himself.
He passed the cascades and switchbacks of the upper San Antonio Creek, reached the base of the next staircase. On the first step he saw a bit of fur, on the second a few drops of blood, on the third more fur. He squatted, pinched a small clump between thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrowed. The fur evoked not Josh’s triumph but a poster he’d seen a month after—he did not know exactly, had kept an even keel, hadn’t made waves—a photograph showing the tips of an adult’s fingers holding two teeny legs, the bottom of two teeny feet with ten perfect toes facing out. The cutline read: 10 WEEKS: The structure of the human body is completely formed.
Bobby flicked the fur from his fingers, wiped his fingertips on his sweat-soaked shirt. His quadriceps quivered. He whistled for Josh, lost his breath. Josh bumped him from behind. Bobby jerked. The dog too was panting. Bobby stroked his head. He couldn’t tell if Josh had caught the rabbit.
“C’mon ... Little Bro.” Bobby puffed. “Let’s go ... back. We’ll ... try again ... later.”
As they walked back thoughts leached from data banks to consciousness. Trapped. In his thoughts he spoke to Josh. Trapped, Little Brother. I wonder if she feels it too. I wonder if she’s trapped ... or screwing around.... Even in his mind he couldn’t admit to that. She’d written their wedding vows, designed and defined their relationship. “Robert, in entering with Beatrice into this marriage, will you honor the commitment to a new reality of joint decision? Will you respect Beatrice for who she is, and nurture her growth as she becomes the woman she wishes to be? Will you be faithful to her through changing climes, and trust her faithfulness to you?”
Trust? Joint decisions? How he craved a loving wife. How badly he wanted her to grow beyond her personal problems. How had he ended up with a woman with so many hang-ups she was incapable of being loving? Trapped. As much as if he were physically restrained by wires, by slow-hardening concrete, by thick layers of fat. Nothing more than a meal ticket!
By the time they were back to the shore of the Lower Res, Bobby’s heart rate had settled down and he’d caught his breath. His thoughts changed and the ones of Red, of their wedding and home life, vanished. He thought instead of Mill Creek Falls, of High Meadow, of Grandpa—thank God he’s got that lady and her husband and all that maple syrup, ha!; of Brian and Cheryl, whose child was due in six weeks; of Stacy, Miriam, Joanne. He could never go home again, never, not after what he’d done.
He reached the steps beside the lower dam, plunked down the first, second, third, fourth.
“Hi.” She startled him. She was powering up the stairs, looking fresh, strong. “Wondered when I’d see you here,” Victoria said.
“Oh, hi.”
“Can’t stop.” She passed him. “Maybe see you next time,” she called back, crested to the trail, vanished.
“Yeah,” he called. He tightened his stomach muscles, sucked in as much as possible, jogged down, his stomach heaving and dropping.
“That’s bullshit.”
They had been arguing for more than an hour, though most of the time they’d simply stewed in silence in separate rooms, Bobby in the den with the new desk and file cabinet Red had purchased and had had delivered for his birthday, and Red in the kitchen listening to KGO until Bobby came in to refill his coffee cup and she’d exited through the dining area, gone into the living room and plunked down on the sofa with an issue of Glamour.
He did not recall the exact onset. He’d been in the den, paying bills, fantasizing about Victoria. He’d only run that once, had let six days pass, had told himself on six consecutive mornings he’d go tomorrow—but he hadn’t. His fantasy jumped from Victoria to Red. “You never ask me to make love anymore,” she said to him within his mind. “I’ve given up trying,” he responded. “Why?” “Do you read the comics?” he asked. He was melancholy, maybe pathetic. “The comics?” “Peanuts,” his inner voice said. “You know, Charlie Brown. Every fall, every football season, Lucy holds the ball for Charlie Brown. Every year ol’ Chuck runs to kick it and every year just as he’s about to connect Lucy pulls back. Well, I feel like Charlie Brown. But not anymore. I’m not going to try anymore. If you’re interested, you instigate it.” Could he say that? Could he actually lead her through that exchange? Their sexual relationship wasn’t just flagging. It was dead. She didn’t seem to care. Could he get her, he’d thought, to ask the first question? Or would the hiatus build its own momentum, have its own life. She never initiated sex. It was not her role, not her responsibility. He felt unloved, rejected.
He opened the last of the bills, prioritized them, totaled their debt, their minimum due, reread the offers for new cards, more credit. “What crap,” he blurted aloud.
“What is it?” Red had been in the hall.
“These credit companies! What a scam. Did you see this pitch from that new store at North Bay?”
“You mean Empress House?”
“Yeah. What crap.”
“They carry a very high quality line of merchandise,” Red said. “I applied at the store.”
“Oh geez. Don’t you have enough ... Damn it! Look at this!” Bobby grabbed the stack of bills, pulled out the BankAmericard statement, the I. Magnin statement, the Emporium, Roos Atkins, Hastings of S.F., and Saks Fifth Avenue statements ... “‘Women’s bras and girdles,’” he read aloud, “‘is ninety-one twenty-six! Petite sizes: one hundred forty-two fifty! Cosmetics: forty-three fifty-eight!’ Look at this one. ‘Custom file cabinets—three hundred sixty-seven ...’”
“Humph!” Red made a face. “It’s my money. I earn it. Nobody’s going to tell me how to spend it!”
“That’s not the point.” Bobby’s ire rose more quickly than he could ever remember. He was on the verge of leaping at her.
“And that file cabinet was for you!” Red stood in the doorway, feet shoulder width apart, hands on hips, leaning forward at the waist, all ninety-five pounds of her ready to tackle him.
He gritted his teeth, paced his words. “The point is we can’t spend more than we take in. The interest on these cards alone—”
“Well, escuuuuussse me! I’ll have them come for the desk tomorrow.”
“Geez. Let me finish.”
“Humph!”
“We make just so much. If you want something, let’s make the money first—”
“Fuck you!”
Bobby almost fell from his chair. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or lash out.
“Fuck you,” Red repeated. “I’ll open my own accounts. Pay my own bills.”
Bobby stared at her. Then he quietly said, “Okay.”
“Good.” Red straightened up.
“I’ll pay the mortgage and utilities, okay?”
“And your car.”
“And my car. You pay groceries, your car, your charge cards.”
“Fine. But you buy your own clothes.”
“Sure. You got it. What about medical ...”
“You’re covered under my People’s Life policy. Don’t you remember?”
“Right.”
“See! I’m good for something.” She turned away.
The freeze continued through dinner, through her watching TV, folding clothes, ironing; through his finishing with the bills, checking oil and radiator levels and tire pressures on the cars. It thawed slightly at bedtime. Neither apologized. Bobby showered, grabbed his fat rolls, felt disgusted with himself. Red was already in bed, reading.
“If we sold this place,” Red said sweetly, “would we have enough for a down payment ...”
“Did you see something?”
“You know the house on the cul-de-sac that backs to the country club?”
“Lead End?”
“No. Farther in.”
“Tin Pan Alley?”
“Yes.”
/>
“The Everest Realty listing?”
“I think so. I was just thinking ...”
“We couldn’t afford it right now.”
“What if I asked my father for—”
“I don’t like this idea.”
“It was just a thought.”
“Someday.”
“Good night.” Red turned off the bedside lamp, lay back.
“Good night,” Bobby said quietly. He lay down wishing he could love this woman but certain he’d be rejected if he tried—especially after their money talk.
“Oh,” Red said. She did not turn toward him. “Did I tell you? Richard and Kathleen are getting a divorce.”
“The Townsmarks?”
“Um-hum.”
San Francisco, mid-May 1971—He had seen her before though she had probably not seen him, not noticed him. He stood in the aisle, as he usually did, stood hanging on to the overhead chrome bar as the bus turned from Van Ness Avenue onto Broadway. She sat in front—sat always in the same sideways seat behind the driver. He did not know where she got on but he thought it must be at the very start of the run for her always to get the same seat. Neither did he know where she got off because he got off first. But every workday for three weeks, since he’d started the route, he’d seen her, long straight hair, long straight body, bony knees, long fingers, gaunt facial features as if she’d been starving herself—a woman in her midthirties, tired, alone, white. The bus stopped. People shuffled. Ty moved forward. He wanted to be closer to her, wanted to let his eyes penetrate her, take her in, bony knees, straight body, all. He liked her hair, long, dull blond, straight, clean, falling indifferently to the green vinyl seatback, dropping in ribbons to her shoulders, down her chest to her waist. He was neat, clean, professional in appearance among the throng of denim-clad mods and working-class stiffs. Again the bus stopped. People shuffled. He moved closer. She pulled her long narrow feet back against the seat base, momentarily glanced back, then turned forward, faced forward though she sat in the sideways seat. For two weeks he’d meant to check out her face as he boarded. Every time, with people shoving, shuffling on-off, with him trying to situate amid the crowd of straphangers, he’d missed. Now he saw her eyes. They were light blue, lighter than he’d ever seen, the color of rinse water from a watercolor brush dipped but once. Again the shuffle. Again he moved up. He held his left arm cocked at the elbow, his hand by the bottom of the lapel of his suit jacket, his little finger with a fourteen-carat gold and 0.6 carat diamond pinky ring twitching, trying to catch her attention. His eyes were intense upon her, upon her hair, her thin face, her bony knees. He wanted to speak to her, determined that today he would at least nod, get her to acknowledge him. Again the shuffle. One stop to his. He stood less than three feet from her, his eyes burning, his pinky twitching. The bus lurched. He rocked back. From behind someone hit his back with a forearm. Ty turned. “Ah, excuse me.” He thought he’d maybe knocked the person behind him when the bus had lurched. A white man, maybe thirty, glared at him. The man was shorter than Ty, stockier, dressed in an Oakland Raiders warm-up jacket. Ty turned forward. Gazed at the thin blonde. They came to his stop. She did not glance at him, did not acknowledge his nod as he moved past. He stepped down, grasped the handrail, stretched to take the long step to the curb. “Uuuff!” A shove from behind toppled him. The white man, before a dozen people, fell on him, whispered, “Stay away from her,” stood, backed apologetically, offered Ty his hand, loudly, seemingly horrified by his fall on Ty, roared, “Oh my gosh. I’m sorry. You okay, buddy? I’m really ...”
Ty held up his hands. With quiet dignity he said, “I’m fine.”
He rose, brushed himself off, walked up Davis Street to Vallejo, then to The Embarcadero. The hotel was mold-blackened brick. He entered. The lobby was small, the front desk a counter no more than six feet long. Ty did not look at the concierge, a young lithe white man in a spotless sleeveless undershirt. Ty walked tall, stiff, to the stairs. Very properly he climbed with minimal upper-body movement. The concierge watched him until he made the twist to the second flight.
The stairs narrowed. He climbed to the fourth floor, walked past half a dozen prune-juice brown doors, unlocked his own. Most of the guests were long-term residents, the hotel more a rooming house than a wayfarer’s inn. Ty entered, relocked the door, threw the deadbolts, placed four empty bottles on the floor against the stile—an alarm to scare off intruders. The room was small, perhaps eight by ten. To one side was a twin bed, to the other a wooden three-drawer dresser. Against the far wall, beside a narrow window opening to an interior light shaft, stood a two-door sheet-metal locker. The walls were beige, the floor beige, the locker beige. The room was clean—the bed made, the sheets starched—all neat and clean yet dim and dingy. Four books were propped on the dresser. One was on real estate finance; one a guide, How to Sell Anything; one on expanding one’s vocabulary; one on speech and diction.
Ty surveyed the room. He was satisfied. Everything he needed was here. He was ready. Able. Raring to go, to advance. Very carefully he removed his suit, inspected it for damage from the bus incident. Hell with that broad, he thought. I don’t need the hassle. There was a small tear at the right knee. Tomorrow he’d take it to Li Wong’s in Chinatown, have Mr. Li stitch, clean and press it. He removed his tie and shirt, hung them in the locker. Removed his ring, gently laid it in the small wooden jewelry box beside his wedding band. In only his underwear and socks he sat quietly on the bed, listened, intent on absorbing the activity of the building. Dropping through the light shaft were sixteen-inch pipes—garbage chutes. From the upper floors came the accelerating Doppler of descending waste. From the central bathrooms came the clang and flush of old pipes and fixtures. Through the walls came muted conversations, the soft lilt of music played at volumes that respected other residents’ right to privacy.
Ty slid from the bed to the floor, lifted the thin mattress, worked his hand into a pocket he’d cut and sewn his first night. His hand seized a folded kit bag he’d made from one of the hotel towels. Ty laid the mattress back, unfolded the kit on the neatly made bed, removed the contents. There was $4,000 in cash. He’d sold “his” hot Caddy, the fake plates and forged registration, on the black market—to increase his stake money. He’d added a few dollars from his job as a delivery-service runner (the only one to wear a suit—he’d tell surprised secretaries, attorneys, businessmen, that several of his runners had called in sick so he, the proprietor, had come himself). Had added a few dollars from side deals. With the cash was a letter he’d begun writing to his brother Randall, plus two vials.
Methodically Ty opened the pages. “Ran-Ran,” he’d written, “times are a little tough but I’m getting my stuff together, eeking out an existence. I don’t need much. Don’t eat much. If I had a little more money I’d be able to live in a better neighborhood but I’m okay. Have you seen my wife or baby?”
He hadn’t written further.
Ty rose, went to the locker, removed a pack of Kools. He moved back to the floor beside the bed, took two cigarettes from the pack, gently rolled first one, then the other, between thumb and forefinger, loosening and unpacking the tobacco from the thin paper tubes, letting the tobacco pile up on the letter to Randall. Then he opened a vial of skag. He’d purchased one in Hunter’s Point for $42; had cut it fifty-fifty with quinine, had a dude on Haight Street lined up to buy one vial for $45. Now he sprinkled just a portion of the heroin from his vial onto the tobacco. Carefully he stirred, coating the dry shreds with the soft powder. Then he repacked the cigarettes, carefully tamping in the tobacco, carefully cleaning the paper of every remnant. Ty repacked the kit, raised the mattress, replaced the contents in the secret slit. Now he smiled, lit the first Kool, inhaled deeply, relaxed. He was so careful, so controlled, he knew, just knew, he could handle it. He inhaled the thin blue line of smoke rising from the tip. He felt pleased. Two years earlier he’d been sliding on the muck of Hamburger Hill, getting his ass shot. One year earlier he’d been at
Prek Drang, Cambodia, being eaten by mosquitoes, scared shitless, unable to eat or sleep, stepping into a punji pit. Man, Ty thought, I owe this to myself. I missed the fun but I ain’t ... No, Man. Talk right. Words are important. I am not going to miss it now. One skag-arette made him mellow, not particularly high. Just nice. Ah, but a little H. A little heroin. What a lovely word. What a strange, beautiful word. There, inside it, was hero. He smiled, felt warm. He’d been a hero. He’d always wanted to have the hero within.
“Mr. Dunmore,” said Peter Wilcox, “this is Ty Dorsey. He’s the man I was telling you about.”
Ty took in all of Lloyd Dunmore’s demeanor as he produced his business card, handed it to Dunmore with his left hand, his pinky flashing the gold-and-diamond ring. Ty smiled, extended his hand, which Dunmore grabbed robustly and held as he read Ty’s card aloud:
“Mr. Dorsey, it’s my pleasure to meet you,” Dunmore said. He was an older man, late fifties, heavyset but hard. “I was telling Peter—I’m going to be very frank with you—I didn’t understand all this civil rights stuff when it started and I don’t understand it all now. I’m a Christian, Mr. Dorsey. I don’t care if you’re black or white or green. But the government cares and I do understand how maybe society has been structured to keep coloreds out. But I don’t care about your color. If you can do the job, if we can work together, that’s all I want.”
“And Mr. Dunmore,” Ty said respectfully, “I don’t care about your color either. If you can do the job, and Peter’s told me of your track record, that’s what I’m concerned with. The bottom line. Hey,” Ty winked, “ya gotta eat. Ya gotta make money.”
Carry Me Home Page 40
