Under all is the land. Upon its wise utilization and widely allocated ownership depend the survival and growth of free institutions and of our civilization.... The interest of the nation and its citizens requires the highest and best use of the land.... the creation of adequate housing, the building of functioning cities, the development of productive industries and farms, and the preservation of a healthful environment.
—The Preamble to the Code of Ethics of the National Association of Realtors
SAN MARTIN, CALIFORNIA, Sunday, 14 June 1970—It was cool, wet, already the wettest June on record and June not even half over. It was barely five A.M. Wapinski parked his Chevy sedan on Aaron Road, just out of town. He’d driven from Bahia de Martin Mobile Home Community, under Highway 101, north on First Street, west on Miwok Road—The Strip—driven in the rain past the darkened downtown stores, past “his” office, Great Homes Realty, to Aaron Road where he turned right and descended to the small gravel parking area and trailhead by San Antonio Creek.
He was vaguely aware of the overcast, of the smell of Josh’s damp fur, of this anniversary date. He got out, opened the back door. “C’mon Josh. We don’t have much time.” Bobby checked his watch: grabbed his vest, rod and reel, bait can and hat. It was less than half a mile up Cataract Trail to the first dam and lower reservoir, maybe three-quarters of a mile to the hole he wanted to try first before he worked his way up the north side of The Res, as everyone called it, to the upper section of creek where he’d been told by Coleman there was decent trout fishing. Wapinski had in mind he would meander along the upper creek to the Upper Reservoir and fish that small lake too before he headed out at ten thirty to be back by noon to be cleaned up and to his open house—his first listing—by one P.M. “C’mon Josh! Get the lead out.”
Away from the road the trailside quickly became dense with fir, pine, scrub oak and beech, a stand of redwood, more pine and oak cloaking the slopes from the river up to North Peak. In the stream the water was high. The rain came steadily, not hard. Bobby crushed his hat down on his head; Josh lagged a dozen paces back.
Before the first dam there was a picnic area and the trailhead for Gold Mine Trail which ran away from the creek and into the glades and grassland on the east slope. In February Bobby and Red had followed Gold Mine for a hundred yards, then fifteen feet to the side into a small secluded clearing where they’d made love. He paused, reflecting on that one time which now seemed long ago. When he and Red had returned home they’d found the envelope without return address and the obituary of James Pellegrino, and Red had cried and Bobby had tried to comfort her but she hadn’t wanted his comforting. Instead, she’d discarded the article. That night Bobby’d picked it from the trash, reread it, filed it in the bill box, then gone out and walked to town, to Miwok Road where he’d watched kids in Camaros and Firebirds and Bonnevilles cruising The Strip, older people with older sedans pushing cartloads of groceries from the all-night Safeway, two officers in a police car, barely older than the kids they tailed. For a moment that night he’d hated it all. For a moment he’d thought he did not belong there, did not belong in a town or a city or with people, but belonged in the hills, in the woods, alone.
Bobby climbed to the base of the dam. The gates were high. Four-inch-thick water crested the concrete barrier, shot down the slides, roiled and foamed at the base.
The morning after they’d learned of Jimmy’s death, Red had been up early, off to work before Bobby realized she wasn’t taking the day off. That night she’d worked late. The next day was the same. And the next ten.
“Please don’t be upset if I work seven days a week,” she’d said. Perhaps it was early March when he’d suggested another hike. “Just right now I have to. You’ll have to share me with my work.”
“All work and no play ... you know,” he’d said apologetically.
“Really,” Red had answered as she’d donned her new suit jacket, “when I get home.” She’d come to him, kissed him. “Maybe I should have kept working for that friend of my father’s but he was, you know, just creepy. And besides, it was only ten thousand. If I make only one sale a month I’ll have more take home....” She hadn’t finished but had checked her watch and said, “I’ve got to go. My appointment.”
Quickly he climbed the trail stairs beside the dam. He breathed deeply. Three flights and he had to rest. Their loving had returned for three days straight, then subsided again: yet because of it he believed that the hiatus had been an aberration, a temporary result of heavy work schedules, initial adjustment to their reunification, and the shock of Pellegrino’s death. Now he did not analyze the long chasms at all.
Wapinski topped the dam shoulder, struck out briskly for the three-tree deadfall overhanging The Res and the hole he wished to try. The Res trail was raked gravel, in places at water’s edge, elsewhere meandering into the trees. Bobby set his bait can on the trail, removed a fat night crawler, worked the hook into the soft body below the radial ring. The worm squirmed, elongated, thinned to the diameter of ten-gauge wire. “C’mon you little slimehead,” Wapinski muttered. The hook tip broke through the worm’s side. The rain increased in intensity. Josh nuzzled Bobby’s hand. “Not now,” Bobby snapped. He backed the hook tip into the worm’s seeping side then manipulated the skinny body over the barb, around the curve, until the entire hook was concealed. Josh shimmied, throwing mud droplets from his coat, covering the side of Bobby’s face. “Geez!” Bobby lurched, the rod slipped, fell, pulled the line, the hook tip broke through the worm and stuck in Bobby’s finger. “Ow-ooo!” He pulled it out. Shot a glance at the dog, then at his watch—twenty to six—then back at Josh. “Just sit there. I’m goina go down and get us some fish.”
Day broke gray. The rain increased. Bobby stepped off the trail, slipped, caught himself, gritted his teeth. All he wanted to do was fish but his mind wasn’t with it. New thoughts, half thoughts, rushed in, on. The nation’s economy ... another sharp increase in the jobless rate ... sharpest continuing climb since 1958 ... California jobless rate up to 5.9 percent ... real estate market tightening ... his first listing, a twelve-year-old four-bedroom home in the Martinwood subdivision with pool for $41,500 ... $4,000 overpriced ... never sell it ... eating nothing but raw rice and the office’s coffee-service sugar cubes ... like being socked in without resupply ... Cambodian Incursion elation, Kent/Jackson State depression ... fuck em all I gotta eat, I gotta sell ... anniversary of Hamburger Hill come and gone without my notice except Coleman and Bartecchi mentioned something ... 1/506th at a place called Ripcord ... Grandpa’s letter ... knee-deep in maple syrup?
Wapinski flicked the rod tip aiming under the deadfall. The worm arced in low, just nicked a twig, caught, then whipped around a branch wrapping the line tight. “You slimehead,” Wap growled. He pulled. He yanked. The rod bent, the branch swayed, the worm remained tangled. “Shit. First damn cast!” He reeled in as much as possible, grabbed the line beyond the rod tip, pulled until it snapped. He tied on another hook, impaled another worm. The rain came harder. He cast again, timidly, the bait falling short of cover. He let the worm sink, reeled in, added a split shot eighteen inches up the line, recast and caught the same branch as on his first cast and again couldn’t dislodge the hook. His ire multiplied. Again he reeled in, snapped the line, tied a new hook. One fuckin year, he thought. One fuckin year home. No dough. Lots of bills. Living off Red, who’s intermittently frigid ...
San Martin considered itself to be a canyon town, a perfect all-American community, a municipality with well-kept homes, manicured lawns, excellent schools, and state-championship quality tennis, golf and baseball teams. That very little of the town actually stretched back along San Antonio Creek into the ravine—it wasn’t really a canyon at that point but a pass between South and North Peaks—made no difference to anyone.
Highway 101 through San Martin was a four-lane limited-access highway. Driving time to San Francisco at midnight was thirty minutes, up to triple that during commute hours. Radicals may have been burning Carl Street in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco; Native Americans may have been in their thirtieth week of occupation of Alcatraz; UC Berkeley Professor Angela Davis may have been fired by university regents because of her proviolence, pro-communist rhetoric; and two lovely blondes, tall and thin, may have been walking hand in hand with a bearded dwarf on Market Street—all three naked—to protest the war in Viet Nam; but in San Martin the main concerns were still family income, the price of groceries, the high-school baseball team’s record, and the proper length of one’s lawn. Indeed, the most controversial issues in town were whether eighth grade girls should be allowed to wear strapless gowns to the Moving Up dance, and whether town fathers had the right to ban municipal workers from wearing crotch-high miniskirts. The 1970 census placed the population of San Martin’s perfect All-American community at 22,646, of which 98.6 percent were white.
Bobby got a hit, just a tap, yanked immediately, hard, pulled the bait out of the fish’s mouth, the worm, line and sinker snapping back, overhead, tangling in a bush behind him. He did not turn but stood rigid. Jilted by Stacy one year ago ... Jody-ed Pellegrino ... He checked his watch. It was six thirty and he’d barely had his line in the water. Again he reeled in, now following the line to the bush and untangling the snarl in the leaves. On the trail a man and a woman jogged by, oblivious to him and to Josh, who had sought silent refuge under a bush.
For another half hour Bob Wapinski fished the hole under the deadfall catching but two sunnies. The rain abated. Two more joggers went by. Wapinski followed the shoreline rushing his casts, not concentrating, thinking he and Red should move south into Marin County, work Tiburon where four-bedroom condominiums with views of San Francisco were selling from $55,000, even $60,000. Or Belvedere with homes in the $80,000 range. Now there was a commission! And those people were buying! He bit the inside of his cheek, thought, We’ve got no plan, no future, just two nice people living together, trying to make some money. A third set of runners appeared on Cataract Trail. One saw Bob, waved, called out, “Fishin’s better at the Upper Res.”
Now Wapinski passed from the Lower Res into the ravine of the upper creek. The trail here was much farther from the water. He slowed, watched the fast water, the pools. Fishing currents was different than fishing lakes or even slow water holes in streams. One can catch fish in still water without concentration but fishing riffles and rapids requires intense focus. Wap climbed the bank, studied the stretch. Water cascaded over a series of large boulders about five hundred feet upstream, then eddied into the bank, dumped and narrowed into a deep channel. He descended toward a switchback, approached the water cautiously, squatted, added a heavier split shot, edged forward. Now he cast across and upstream. As the current propelled the bait downstream he reeled in, then let out as the worm tumbled by. He reeled in, cast again, this time closer to the opposite shore. Now he was fishing. Now there were no thoughts of women, of money, of politics. He worked the far bank dropping his worm at one-foot intervals up the creekside, missing a few casts, recasting before moving up, always working the bait downstream after the initial upstream toss. He felt a hit, a light tap through the line, the rod, into his wrist. He paused, counted ... four, five, six ... flicked the tip. In still water one lets the fish take the bait because the fish isn’t in a rush. In rapids a trout will dart from an area of protection to the rushing bait and back to its cover in the snap of your fingers, perhaps still not taking the bait but certainly testing it, moving it, mouthing it. Wap reeled in, replaced his worm with a fresh one, recast toward the exact same spot, missed it by two feet. Again he reeled in, recast, aiming, hitting the spot, the bait dropping into the current, then Tap! Pause. Pause. Flick! The line came alive. Wap raised the rod tip, kept the line tight, not really interested in playing this fish, his first real fish of the day, wanting to have one in his creel before chancing a play. The fish tugged, leaped slapping the water surface, tail-walking, a beautiful spotted pink, gold-green rainbow flashing, then under, dashing downstream slackening the line, Wapinski reeling like mad trying to keep tension, trying to keep the trout from throwing the hook, adrenaline rushing. Ten feet away Bobby raised and reeled and lifted the trout and flicked him up on the bank where the fish flopped wildly and did throw the hook and fell back toward the water as Bobby dove into the bank grasping, fins and hands flashing until Bobby clutched the trout in both hands, laughing and smiling and estimating it was at least thirteen inches which he was certain was huge for the San Antonio and wait until he showed it to Coleman in the office on Monday.
Every fish is a thrill to catch but none as thrilling as the first trout of the year caught in rapids. He pulled two more, smaller ones, from that spot, then worked up to the eddy below the large boulders and caught a brook trout, then another rainbow which he played until the fish was exhausted, then carefully brought it in, unhooked it and let it go.
Now he again checked his watch. It was 9:50. He had not made it to the upper reservoir, had never been there, decided he’d push on then speed up his return. Near the upper dam he climbed back to the trail, clambered up the steep staircase to the top and beheld a lovely, seemingly secluded mountain tarn. He thought to check his watch but purposefully decided against it. Quickly they set out.
A quarter mile up the narrow trail, the trail several hundred meters from the small lake, he smelled smoke. Just a whiff. He glanced back, up, left and right. He stepped off the trail, glided smoothly, silently into the thick stand of fir, listened. From the lake he heard voices. Josh sensed his caution, stepped close, quiet, glancing curiously with that furrowed brow, head atilt. Bobby put his hand lightly on Josh’s head, ran his fingers to the back of his ears, massaged softly, slowly. Quietly they moved through the trees toward the tarn. There was radio music playing very low, the voices of a man, a woman, the giggle of a child. He could not see them. The radio ceased. Back on the trail he heard the footfalls and heavy breathing of another jogger. The jogger passed. Wap could not get a fix on the voices. Slowly he and Josh descended through the forest. Through branches he saw a hint of fluttering cloth. He stopped, crouched. Through the lower, less dense foliage the image was clearer yet he was still uncertain. He discerned a dark plane—interpreted it as the roof of a tent. He was about to reverse his course when he saw a whitish cloth move and realized it was a woman’s dress. He focused on her as intensely as he’d focused on the cascades, connecting her to the tent, the other voices, imagining her movement pattern as he’d imagined that of the unseen trout, attempting to devise a means of happening upon her. Again voices. They were quiet, nearly camouflaged. He suspected they were hiding, squatting illegally on water district property. He backed out, coaxed Josh back, then penetrated the woods fifty yards down trail and noisily worked his way to lake edge. There he saw a young man attempting to fish clear water with white string and a branch.
“You’re more apt to get a hit under those branches—” Wapinski began.
“Wha!!!” The man startled. “Where’d you come from?”
“Just walked in.” Bobby smiled attempting to set the man at ease. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Christ no! You a goddamn warden? I didn’t catch nothin.”
“Geez, no.” Wap rested his pole on the ground, held his open hands out, palms down. “Just came to fish. You catch anything with that string?”
“Not trying to catch anything. Just watchin the lake. Julie wants to document who’s ... ah, I mean ... nobody comes up here but those idiots preparing for the Dipsea or the Cataract Trail Run.”
“The Dip ...?”
“Dipsea. The race. Like the Cataract Trail, except down in Mill Valley. Starts with like seven hundred steps.”
“Mill Valley?” Wap played dumb. He flicked his worm into the lake, glanced peripherally at the young man, thought he’s eighteen, maybe nineteen.
“You’re not from here, are you?” The young man stood. He looked shabby.
“No. From Pennsylvania. Just out here—”
“If you’re thinking of moving out here”—his voice was defensive—“don’t. And don’t get caught without a license.”
“Eh?” Wap reeled in, cast farther out, let his worm sink.
“You want to help us?” The young man’s voice changed.
“Help you do what?”
“You’re not a developer, are you?”
“Me! No way. I’m just—”
“Why don’t you talk to Julie and Presnell. We could use a little help. I’m sick en tired of this. I’m Baba.”
“It comes down to this—” Presnell said after Baba had led Bobby into the fir thicket of the small camp, and Presnell and Julie were comfortable that Bobby was neither a politician nor a developer, “last year the federal government ordered the town to install like this really expensive filtering system on the reservoir water.”
“Here?!” Wap was surprised. The lakes, especially the Upper Res, seemed pristine. He continued to assay the camp. The setup was shoddy. All four people, the three adults and a small child they called Natasha, looked gray, damp, undernourished. Presnell was particularly gaunt.
“We’ve been up here three months,” Presnell told Wapinski. “We drink directly from the lake. I record our daily intake. Look at Natasha.” Presnell gestured toward the child. “Perfectly healthy. But the town, instead of filters—”
Julie finished his sentence. “They drilled six wells into various levels of the aquifer.”
“That’s cheaper?” Bobby asked. He wanted to ogle Julie—dirt-coated, gray, thin, she was still attractive—but he turned back to Presnell.
“That’s how they sold it,” Presnell continued. “But this is what’s really going down. San Martin officially abandoned the reservoirs except the other side of the Lower Res, which they designated open space.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“No. Now the state Department of Public Health can change the land classification—no more protected watershed. This happens all over. That’s what we’re protesting. When the state approval goes through, the zoning can be changed. Then the Water District can sell the land. And the lake! Then it’s open to development.”
“Wait a minute.” Wapinski dropped his gaze, shook his head. “The people I’m here with, they’re real estate agents. I don’t think they know anything about this.”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not?”
“Where’re you from, Man? The moon? Wake up. The politicians, Man, and the developers already have options on the land. But they don’t want anyone to know. We’ve got people who can prove this.” Presnell leaned close to Bobby, then in conspiratorial tones added, “Options like the land’s worthless. Undevelopable. Cheap, Man. They’re stealing it. That’s the way it goes. Look out there. There’ll be roads coming right up here. A bummer, Man. We’re in somebody’s backyard. On top of their septic system. There’ll be a dock right there. And fuckin real estate agents and open houses inviting everyone—”
“Holy shit!” Bobby checked his watch. It was already noon. “Ah, I gotta go. But I want to talk more. I want to know about this. Presnell, wasn’t it?”
“Right on, Brother.”
“Okay. I’ll be back. I’d like to help.”
“Good. They sell it all off, it becomes private. No fishing.”
“You want some fish?” Bobby opened his creel. “To eat?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah! Thanks.”
“Victoria, Timmy’s sister,” Red said. “I guess you never met her. She moved in with Gino before you came out.”
“I thought, you know, we’d just go out and eat.” They were in the bedroom of their trailer on Bear Flag Place in Bahia de Martin. It was warm, windy, nearly six P.M. “Just us. To celebrate. It’s my first commission.”
“Oh Bobby, I’m so proud of you.” Red knelt coyly on the corner of the mattress where Bobby sat. The mattress lay on the floor. They used it as bed, couch and study/work/reading area. “I know you’re going to be a great salesman. Peter’s really impressed. They all are. But I told Victoria we’d come. Can we go to dinner tomorrow?”
“Ah, sure.”
“Please-ee.” Red moved closer, swayed her shoulders.
“Yeah. I said it’s cool. It’s—it’s—you know, only ... If we go to their place, we can’t really invite them here. We don’t even have a kitchen set.”
“We don’t have to. They’ll understand.”
“Well, you know. It’s nice to reciprocate.”
“We will. When we can. When we have a sofa and end tables and ... I saw the grooviest lamps at the mall. They had a tarnished brass sculpture as the base ...”
“We should buy a house first.”
“Oh Bobby, that’ll take ... well, even with both of us getting commissions ... the down payment would take ...”
“I could use my VA entitlement.”
“Really?”
“That’s what it’s for.” Red nuzzled her face into Wapinski’s neck, kissed him there, worked her lips up to his ear. He wriggled, backed away a few inches, put his arm around her, pulled her onto his lap.
She resisted, backed off. “Maybe later.” She winked. “Let’s go to Victoria’s. She said Gino had a hot tub installed.”
For two and a half months, with the exception of the one small fishing excursion, Bobby Wapinski had immersed himself in the business of real estate. And his efforts were paying off. By July 3, 1970, he had listed two homes, sold and closed on a third, had a $39,000 counteroffer out to clients of a Golden Hills Realty agent on his $41,500 Martinwood listing, and had another sale in escrow. His conversation with Julie, Presnell, and Baba was all but forgotten.
“So you’re the new man who’s doing all the business at Great Homes?” Bobby and Victoria were in the kitchen of Gino’s home, an isolated custom-built structure way out on South Peak Road. They were there ostensibly to get more crackers and another bottle of chardonnay. Red was on the deck with Gino and Brandon. Dawn was already in the hot tub.
Bobby laughed uneasily. He felt out of his element. Gino was wealthy, his home beautifully appointed. “Not all,” he said. He did not look at Victoria but pretended to read the wine label. “I’ve been pretty lucky. Especially for this market.”
Victoria moved closer to him. She had on a white lace camisole and long denim skirt. She raised a hand to his face, pushed back a blond lock. “Let your hair grow,” Victoria said. “It’s too short.”
They had eaten dinner, Mexican, had consumed five bottles of California chenin blanc and chardonnay, had smoked a few joints. Red was giddy, flirtatious. Dawn had withdrawn, become serious. Victoria had removed her vest letting Bobby and Brandon behold her bosom through the lace camisole while Gino shifted his attention to Red. After another joint and another bottle of wine Dawn had stepped up to the elevated deck about the redwood tank, had unabashedly stripped and dropped into the dark steaming water.
Bobby looked up, pushed a hand through his hair. “This is about the longest I’ve ever worn it,” he said.
“Are you always so quiet?” Victoria asked.
“No,” he said. She grabbed his hand, squeezed, then pulled him toward the deck.
“Far out, Man,” Brandon teased.
“Well I think I could.” Red’s tone was intoxicated, slightly defensive yet buoyant.
“Then why don’t you?” Gino laughed.
“Why don’t you what?” Bobby and Victoria joined them.
“I think I could run that office better than that dildo who’s running it!”
“Than Peter Wilcox!?” Bobby blurted. Red flashed him a hurt glance. “I mean, you just started and ...”
“Not that office.” Red turned from him. “I mean,” she continued to Gino and Brandon, “Myra had Pauline and me completely convinced we were totally inadequate.”
“Oh! Before ...” Bobby tapered off. Victoria was by his side. She leaned into him, put an arm about his waist. He responded putting his arm about hers, feeling her long straight blond hair on his arm, looking momentarily into her upturned face. Her face was lovely, her eyes deep blue, her mouth sensual, her chin and cheekbones sculptured. Only her nose, he thought, was too large. In all he felt her enticing. Then he looked away, shook his head as if to shake off the spell.
“Idealist-ti-cul-ly,” Red stuttered. “That’s a hard word to say.” Gino and Brandon chuckled with her. Gino’s hand made a small, light circle on her back. “I-deal-is-took-ca-ly.”
“Ideally,” Bobby said from behind her.
“Whatever!” Red giggled.
“Isn’t anyone else coming in?” Dawn called. “Brandon, come in here with me.”
“Are you embarrassed?” Victoria whispered in Bobby’s ear.
“No,” he said softly. “I just wasn’t expecting ...”
“You don’t have to feel self-conscious,” she said leading him toward the elevated deck. “Even if you get a hard-on. I’d feel hurt if you didn’t get a little excited.”
“I’m already a little excited.” Bobby stifled his laugh.
Dawn turned as they approached. She was very tan except for the points of her breasts which were white and barely submerged. “Did you hear KFRC this morning? The DJ was telling jokes about that state supreme court ruling. I think he’s indecent.”
“Me?!” Brandon was a step behind Bobby and Victoria. He smiled broadly. “Me? Indecent? I think”—he said as he removed his shirt, dropped his pants, tossed his clothes to the side—“I’m very decent. Don’t you think so, Vikki?”
Victoria patted his chest. “Yes,” she said. “Kinda decent.” Facing Brandon she unsnapped and dropped her skirt. Her panties were of matching lace to the camisole: her legs were smooth and muscular. Again she patted Brandon’s chest but now slid her hand to his abdomen. “A bit of a gut, though.” She pushed Brandon toward the hot tub. He stumbled back, caught himself, climbed in, and stood next to Dawn, smiling up at Victoria.
“Not like you, eh, Vikki?” He teased. “What legs! Whooo-wee!” He turned to Wapinski, said, “She gets those legs from running that Cataract Trail.”
“I was talking about that ruling,” Dawn said, “that killing an unborn fetus doesn’t constitute murder.”
“Come on, Hon.” Brandon shook his head, sat beside her. “Let’s not get into that. Nobody wants to talk about that stuff.”
Victoria gracefully removed her lingerie, stepped into the tub, moved to the far side. Red and Gino stripped and slid in next to each other on the near side, and Bobby, feeling lost, removed his clothes quickly and dropped into the only space left—between Red and Victoria. For a moment everyone ooohed and aaahed as the air jets blasted the 101-degree water onto knees and backs and shoulders.
“You know,” Dawn began, seriously again, “they were also talking about that crazy guy in Burlingame who the police shot.”
“Give it a break,” Brandon said lowly. To the others he said, “She gets a little distant on grass.”
“He was a former army captain who went nuts because his wife didn’t come home one night and—”
“God!” Brandon snapped. “If you’re going to talk about it at least get it straight. It wasn’t Burlingame. It was Burlington. Burlington, Connecticut.”
“Hey, did you hear the one about the newlyweds”—Gino overpowered the tiff—“who didn’t know the difference between Vaseline and putty?” Red put her hands to her face covering a shriek. In the water Bobby could feel Victoria’s calf and foot caressing his. Gino finished, “All their windows fell out!”
Red laughed, coughed. Brandon handed her the bottle. She took a short swig, passed it back.
“How come no one wants to talk about real stuff?” Dawn did not look at them but kept her eyes on the bubbling water. Unseen, beneath the dark roils, Victoria’s fingers lightly brushed Bobby’s left thigh.
“Do you really run Cataract Trail?” Bobby asked Victoria, trying to control himself.
“We could talk—” Red began, blushed, finished, “about women’s orgasms.” Brandon’s foot stretched across the middle of the tub, brushed by Bobby’s and Victoria’s knees on its way to Red’s legs. Suddenly Red shot up with a loud, “Ooooo!” Then she laughed and settled back in.
“I try to do at least a race a month,” Victoria said to Bobby. Her hand found his cock and began stroking it. “I’m getting ready for the Dipsea at the end of August. Do you run?”
“We could talk about Charles Manson and that new crucifixion stance of his....”
“Dawn, Honey, we’re naked. We’re not going to talk about those things.”
“A little,” Bobby said. Her hand felt wonderful. Careful not to show the slightest movement of his left shoulder, he moved his left hand between Victoria’s legs and slowly allowed his middle finger to nestle between her labia. “I did a lot of hiking but lately I’ve done nothing but sit. Either in the office or in my car.”
“We need more wine,” Gino said. “I’ll be right back.” He got up and left, and Red stood, her small breasts red from the hot water. “I’ve got to sit out for a minute,” she said. “I’m getting light-headed.” She raised one foot to the seat to step out, swayed. Brandon popped up, grabbed her shoulders. “I’ve got you,” he said gallantly as he pressed the front of his body to her back. “Just lay down right there.” He indicated the deck. “Sometimes the heat gets to me, too.”
Red lay on her stomach, her legs together, her hands under her chin.
“Take a few deep breaths.” Brandon continued to help her. He sat beside her, gently rubbed the small of her back.
“Oh.” Red sighed. “That feels much better.” She arched her head back then pushed up with her arms, raising her torso from the deck. She inhaled deeply, held it, slowly let the air escape and lowered herself to the deck—seemingly oblivious to Victoria and Bobby though cognizant of Brandon, and of Gino who now knelt by her with the chilled bottle and let her hold it to her forehead before she took a swig.
“I’m too hot, too,” Dawn said. She stood exposing her large breasts. “Did you hear about the hippie protestors up by The Res?”
“Ah, no.” Gino eyed her, expecting a joke.
“They busted their asses—” Dawn giggled, “for smoking grass.”
After the hot tub party Bobby and Red had returned to their trailer, in silence; had made love without talk, Bobby, so stimulated, ejaculating only seconds after penetration, and Red, still intoxicated, in no mood to give him a chance to recharge before falling asleep. In the morning they had had their first full-blown argument.
“You didn’t tell me Gino and Victoria were so classy.”
“What’d you expect?” Red snapped. She jammed an orange juice carton back into the refrigerator, slammed the door.
“Well ...” Bobby paused. He was not ready for her anger. “You know, I thought they’d be like Tim and Suzie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“C’mon, Red. You know.”
“What?”
“Suzie was a slob. That house was filthy, and like, you know, half the stuff she had in the refrigerator was covered with gray fuzz.” He opened the refrigerator, removed the O.J., poured himself a coffee cupful. “I couldn’t wait to get out....”
“Well, you could have cleaned it up.” She turned her shoulder to him.
“Aw ... that’s not the point.” He stood over her, sounding like a father lecturing a thirteen-year-old. “I just wasn’t expecting, you know, last night.... Such a nice place. I thought they’d be more like ... hippieish.”
“You certainly seemed to be getting along with Victoria. She was hanging all over you.”
“Me! I didn’t even know we were going to take our clothes off!”
“What do you think you do in a hot tub?”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think ... For one thing I didn’t think you’d let those guys rub your ass.”
“Like you and Victoria weren’t playing footsie in the hot tub!”
“I didn’t start—Geez, you went up there to get naked with those two guys. I don’t think we should go—”
“I didn’t do anything but have a good time. And I don’t have to justify that to you!”
His voice rose. “I’m not saying you’ve got to justify it. Just tell me first.”
“Why?! Do you own me?”
“Oh geez!” His hands flew in the air. Orange juice splashed from the cup. “Wouldn’t it be common courtesy—”
“You just want to piss on my fire. If I break out, even a little....”
“Aw hell”—he flicked the back of a hand at her—“break out all you want.” Wapinski stalked off toward the bedroom, grabbed a towel, stomped to the bathroom, snarled, “I’ve got the Pierces coming in today at one. I’m showering.”
“On July Fourth?!”
“Yeah. On July Fourth! He doesn’t get a lot of days off.”
For the next six hours Wapinski had again concentrated on the needs and capabilities of “his” buyer, on the availability and suitability of MLS homes. By seven he’d shown John and Joan Pierce a dozen homes—four the Pierces could afford but didn’t like, four that would be a stretch, three they could afford only if John’s father gave them the down payment, and one in Golden Vista which was out of the question. Joan Pierce wanted the home in Golden Vista.
Bobby had returned to the trailer exasperated and drained. He’d met Red returning from North Bay Mall with a new kitchenette set tied to the roof of her pistachio-colored Pinto. The incident at Gino’s was sidestepped, repressed.
He sat there, not actually surveying the conference room table but feeling the presence of each individual, feeling the positive charge of their interaction, sensing them as a team, a platoon, almost as a family. At the head of the table was Peter Wilcox, Great Homes Realty’s dynamic, nearly manic, office manager. Then eleven salespeople including Bobby and petite, bubbly Bea Hollands.
Bobby listened as various conversations went on around the table, caught bits and pieces, lost most because his damaged hearing could not sort out single voices amid cacophony.
Alfred Bartecchi and Dan Coleman were evidently against it but Ernest Schnell argued, “I hope they do legalize gambling here. Why not? Why should all the money go to Nevada? Imagine how much this building’d be worth if it were a casino.”
“Yeah, but imagine what would happen to the properties if every place along The Strip had one-armed bandits.”
“Value is determined by the amount of income the property produces—” Ronald Colson chimed in.
Coleman cut him off. “San Martin’s desirable because we don’t have a bunch of ticky-tack. You bring that trash in here ...”
On the other side of the table stocky Lisa Fonari was baiting Tom Houghton, using her impressive cleavage to befuddle him. “I’d strike too if they sprayed that poison stuff on me while I was working,” she said.
“It’s harmless and it controls the weeds. Those sixteen in Tulare ...”
“They sprayed it to kill bugs, not weeds.”
“I think it was that 2,4,5-T stuff. Weed killer.”
“If it’s bad enough for them to ban it, they shouldn’t spray it. They should destroy the remaining stock ...”
“... I think they got sick from food poisoning. They leave their lunch bags in the sun ...”
“Yeah. That’s what the growers want you to believe. Ya-di ya-di ya.”
Beside Bobby, Red conversed with Peter Wilcox. “Really, I think it would be wonderful to live in San Francisco. In the Marina. I love it there.”
He patted her hand. “Then you should go for it,” he said.
“Or maybe Sausalito,” Red added. “I think that would be exciting.”
“There’s nothing holding you back.” Peter looked deeply into her face, smiled his perfect smile.
Bobby glanced over the unsigned deposit receipt he’d prepared for John and Joan Pierce, but he did not read it. “Okay, people,” Peter began. The conversations spurted as the salespeople attempted to get in their last phrases. “Come on, quiet down. We’ve got a lot to cover.” Bobby glanced past Jane Boswell to Dan Coleman. For a week he’d been meaning to ask Dan if anyone in the office was going to run the Dipsea. “Let’s go over the status of our listings.” Peter began with the standard agenda. Over and over again the listers lamented, “No action,” or “Not even shown,” or “I could use some help on this one.”
“Listen people,” Wilcox finally said. “I know there’s a lot of talk about the recession reaching us but don’t believe it. You bring in a deal and I guarantee you we’ll get the financing.” Wilcox eyed each salesperson. “You’ve got to realize we’re in the demand path. People have to buy. People have to sell. When they can’t buy in Marin they come up here or go to the East Bay. Great! Send them there. Set it up with Concord or Danville or Livermore. But put it through Concord. The central office has to know for you to receive your referral. You all know how it works, right?”
Red raised a shy hand, one finger extended, about two inches above the table. “I don’t,” she said sweetly.
“Lisa—” Peter Wilcox turned to Fonari who screwed her eyes up toward the chandelier, “will you go over that with Red?”
Lisa clicked her tongue. “Why not?” She smiled, waved an arm bedecked with bracelets at Red. “Don’t get frazzled over it, honey.”
“Look, people,” Peter continued, “we should be in a warm-weather blitz. Into the home stretch before school starts. People are moving. We’re better priced than Marin. We’re closer in than Sonoma. First-home buyers can’t buy into Marin. Nor can people who need bigger homes. Get em up here. Sell em on San Martin. Let the San Rafael office list their home. Twenty percent referral. Twelve hundred and five homes sold in our area last year. We did twenty-one percent of that. But, damn it, this year, of five hundred seventeen closings we haven’t even been a part of ninety. Eighty-seven for thirteen salespeople! That’s less than seven each in seven months! Jon, can you live on six thousand a year?” Jon Ross lowered his eyes. Wilcox fixed his eyes on Liza Caldicott. “What about you?”
“Henry makes enough for us to get by.” Her voice was loud, miffed.
Wilcox gasped. “Some of you aren’t even paying for your desk space.”
“Pete—” Al Bartecchi challenged the office manager, “cool it.”
“Damn it, Al. You guys have got to sell. Sell! Sell! Maybe you, Dan and Ernie are doing okay but I want you all to be rich. Money!” Wilcox rapped the table. “Money! Money! Money makes the world go round. Listen people, I’ll get your buyers financing. Just bring in somethin reasonable. We’ll make it fly. Okay?” No one answered. Red nodded. “Okay, that’s that. Anybody have anything else?”
No one spoke up. Those with pads and pens began gathering them. A few comments wafted between the salespeople.
“Ah—” Bobby Wapinski stuttered. He wasn’t certain if he, the new guy, should ask, should change the subject. “What’s going on up at the reservoirs? I’ve heard the town’s going to open them up for development.”
“Who’d you hear that from?” The question shot from Ernest Schnell’s mouth.
“No way!” Lisa Fonari squawked. Then she laughed. “My great grandfather would roll over in his grave.”
“There’s been rumors about that for years,” Peter Wilcox said. “Just talk. By the way, did the Pierces sign the deposit receipt on that Golden Vista place?”
“No.” Bobby picked his pad and pen from the table. “His father drew the limit at six thousand. They’re asking her mother for four more.”
Peter collared Bobby. The others cleared the room. “I’ve got an old client up there who’s been thinking of selling. If I can get them to put the house up, say for forty-four—”
“Pheew! I’m stretching them at forty-two five....”
“But listen. If it’s our listing, there’s a twenty-six hundred and forty dollar commission ... let’s see, that’s about eight hundred to Concord ... that’d let us give them back eighteen hundred as a hidden second. Particularly if the sales price is forty-two thou but we get Hinderman at S. M. S. & L. to appraise it at forty-four. We can make this thing fly.”
“You mean ...”
“Yeah. The extra two grand covers their closing costs, plus they get our eighteen hundred. At twelve percent.”
“I don’t know if they’d go for that. They’re pretty straitlaced.”
“See me on it tomorrow, Bob. I’ll make a few calls. Tell em the other place—who’s got it, Everest?—tell the Pierces Everest took a deposit on it.”
He had not expected any of it: the charge card bills, the articles, the letters, the magic brownies, his own bizarre reaction. It was a bright, clear, beautiful mid-September morning. Sun rays filtered through the sheer curtains Red had bought—“but they were on sale”—and hung over the large window. Wapinski was preoccupied, serious, exhausted, attempting to work through it. He sat at the new table in the single-wide trailer in Bahia de Martin Mobile Home Park. Sunlight bathed the bill box and personal financial files Bobby had spread out. He’d ignored so much the past few months it was imperative he take the day off, re-entrench.
Since July he had sold and closed two more homes, and had listed and had sold by others three. His commissions to date totaled $6,930, a yearly rate, if he could keep it up, of nearly $17,000. And he had thus far managed to avoid—on the advice of both Coleman and Bartecchi—the pitfalls of taking commissions as hidden second mortgage notes, or helping buyers create financing beyond their means. Unfortunately he had not avoided the pitfalls of preferring the comfort of self-deception to the anguish of truth.
Wapinski sorted the stack of bills. On the back of an envelope he listed each: rent, Red’s car payment, auto insurance, medical insurance. When he came to the credit cards he listed total balance and minimum due—thinking it would be best to pay the minimum due, except that the mortgage company might pick up unpaid balances—still $125 to the Emporium ... What the—? What’d she buy? He pulled the statement from the household receipt file: Estée Lauder—$43.58; women’s undergarments—$56.40; cutlery—$37.50. He pulled the BankAmericard statement: Le France Boutique—$109; Mitchell’s Jeans and Tops—$86.50. Crocker Master Charge: Sausalito Food Factory—$36.80; S. L. Davis European Design Furniture—$266.67. Goddamn it! We’re supposed to be saving!!! He bit his lip, fumed beneath his breath. “Necessities!” He growled. He wrote out minimum checks, filed the receipts, suppressed his anger.
Red was out shopping, again. She was no longer associated with Great Homes, no longer in the real estate business.
“That bastard,” she’d seethed one August evening.
“Who?” Bobby’d asked.
“Wilcox,” she’d stammered. “He told me I could make twenty thousand a year. That’s like forty sales. More than three a month! Nobody can do that! I bet even Schnell doesn’t make that.” Bobby had been silent, empathetic. “I can’t even close one every other month.” Red had plopped down on their study-work-reading mattress. “And once you do sell one, it’s over for five years.”
“Well, you build up a clien—” he had begun.
“I’m going to sell insurance. I talked to the most wonderful man. At least in insurance the commission comes in every time people renew. And you get a base salary.”
It was her fourth job in ten months. Red was now training across the bay in Richmond with People’s Life and Casualty. By October she’d be working out of the Larkspur branch office, fifteen miles south. Today, however, she was playing hookey, out shopping—out, Bobby prayed, only window shopping—for items for their “maybe-new-home.”
Bobby rose, poured himself another cup of coffee. Dishes from breakfast, from last night, the night before, were all in the sink. The trailer needed vacuuming, dusting, a general pickup. It seemed to him the more time Red spent in the trailer, the messier the place became.
In July Bobby had listed a fixer-upper at 506 Deepwoods Drive in Martinwood Estates for $29,900. For a month he’d held open houses, advertised, prodded other salespeople to show it. He’d even offered a fifty-dollar bill—on Peter Wilcox’s suggestion—to any agent bringing in an offer. “The owner’s old,” he’d told all during an office meeting. “Eighty-two. She’s not in good health. And she needs the proceeds to get into a nursing home. She really needs help.”
“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 the 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 far 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.”
“Let’s walk to the lot,” Red said. She too was trying to keep from laughing. “Then we’ll get a taxi.”
They walked hand in hand, meandering over to Broadway, chuckling at the flashing neon bust of Carol Doda, at the lewd calls from the strip-joint barkers, at the even funnier people on the sidewalks. They strolled to Kearny hugging each other’s waist, skipping, suddenly breaking out into a dashing chorus from a song from The Wizard of Oz, flying over the concrete, laughing, singing, “Follow, follow, follow, follow ... follow the Yellow Brick Road!!” Before either knew it, they were in the pistachio Pinto, kissing, squeezing each other, Red’s skirt up to her waist, Bobby driving, laughing, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge—the tickets, the Orpheum, Hair completely lost to mind, flying, floating, sailing the broken lines, feeling the canyons between stripes, the lunging climbs the Pinto made over each painted dash on Highway One Hundred and First Airborne All the Fucking Way Sir ... Red: I’ve got to pee ... Bobby: I’ll hold it for you ... tears splashing like buckets of laughter, flooding the car, vaudeville clown buckets of—SPLASH—confetti, a million colored dots, dashes, coming at them ... how’d we get here ... Not now Josh, ha! ha! ha! Oooo! The gold shag soft as warm cooked spaghetti enwrapping her giggle, smile, help me off with the chambray blue knit, not yet, just, giggle, hold, titter, me, snore.
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!!