Flynn closed the calculator and replaced it in his breast pocket. “Twenty dollars a square yard, including installation and takeaway.”
“Is that good?”
“I dunno. Did you give me a good price on my vans?”
“I did the best I could.”
“Me, too,” said Flynn.
“When can you put it in?”
“Early next week.”
“Perfect,” said Nicolopoulos.
Out in his van, Flynn called in the order to the mill. He phoned Chris, who was still in Bethesda with Ben, and checked on the status of the job. The two of them were slow, but Chris was conscientious and did decent work. Flynn tried not to lose patience with Chris, though sometimes, depending on his mood, he did become agitated. The trick was to avoid comparing Chris and Ben’s work to that of Isaac and his crew. No one was as fast or efficient as Isaac, but in general Chris and Ben were fine.
Which wasn’t the case with some of the other ex-offenders Flynn had tried to help. At the urging of Chris’s friend Ali, he had hired, at various times, several men who had once been incarcerated at Pine Ridge. A couple of them, genial guys named Lonnie and Luther who had been in Chris and Ali’s unit, had issues with drugs and alcohol, rarely reported to work at an acceptable time, and dressed inappropriately. Another, a large man named Milton, could not grasp the mechanics of installation. Flynn ran a business that grew and was perpetuated by referrals, and who he sent into his clients’ homes made or broke his reputation. He had to let them go.
There was one guy, a quiet, polite Pine Ridge alumnus named Lamar Brooks, who Flynn had hired and who had acquitted himself well. Lamar was ambitious, had his eyes wide open, and quickly learned the trade. After six months he bought a van and tools, went out on his own, and started an installation service, subcontracting for small carpet retailers in the Northeast and Southeast quadrants of the city. Flynn saw the failure of Lonnie, Luther, and Milton as insignificant in the face of Lamar’s success. And though Chris did not verbalize it, Flynn sensed that Chris appreciated his efforts on behalf of his friends, and that alone had been worth the aggravation a few of these young men had caused.
“So you guys are almost done?” said Flynn into his cell.
“Should be out of here in a half hour,” said Chris.
“What are you doing tonight? You want to come to dinner?”
“Can’t.”
“You have plans?”
“Yeah.”
“I met a young lady named Katherine today,” said Flynn. “Works over at TCFI?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you seeing her?”
“A little.”
“Don’t be so effusive,” said Flynn.
“I’m busy here.”
“What’s her story?”
“I gotta get back to work, Dad.”
“All right. Come by for dinner sometime; your mom misses you. I’ve got a book to give you, too. Guy named Paul Fussell.”
“I’ve read Fussell.”
“Have fun tonight,” said Flynn.
“I need to finish this job… ”
“Go.”
Flynn headed home. It had been a decent day. No serious fires, no major mistakes. Not too busy, but he had closed a couple of deals, and there would be steady work for all his people in the coming week.
Inside his house, he greeted Django, an adult Lab-pit mix they had adopted fully grown from the Humane Society at Georgia and Geranium after Darby’s death. Django had gotten off his circular cushioned bed that sat beside the couch in the den, and met Flynn at the door after hearing Flynn’s van pulling into the driveway, the distinctive sound of its Triton V-8 jacking up the beast’s ears. Django’s tail was spinning like a prop, and Flynn rubbed behind his ears and stroked his neck and chin. Django weighed eighty pounds and was heavily muscled. The pit in him was most visible in his blockish head.
Amanda’s car was out on the street, so Flynn knew she was home, despite the utter quiet in the house. In the early evening she liked to pray the rosary in their bedroom. She would be up there now, making the sign of the cross, reciting the Apostles’ Creed, touching the crucifix and then the beads as she proceeded into the Our Father, the three Hail Marys, and the Glory Be.
He had come to accept Amanda’s devotion to Catholicism and Christ. He no longer thought it was square or weird, or a Stepford wife phase she was going through, as he had when she became deeply religious in the early days of their marriage. He was thankful for the comfort that religion gave her, even as he was unable to buy into it himself. He had learned to share her with the one he had once called “Uncle Jesus,” whom he thought of as an unwanted relative who had camped out in his home, and in turn Amanda had stopped trying to convert him.
Flynn grabbed the plastic wrapper from that morning’s Washington Post, which Amanda saved daily, off the kitchen counter. Django began to bark, knowing that the plastic container was no longer a protective cover for the newspaper but was now a shit bag for his nightly walk.
“Let’s go, boy,” said Flynn, and ecstatically the dog followed him down the hall to where Flynn grabbed his harness and leash off a peg.
They walked their usual route through Friendship Heights, Django stopping at the houses where he knew other dogs lived, barking excitedly at the canine faces that were barking at him through doors and windowpanes. When Amanda walked Django, she stopped to talk to neighbors and occasionally strangers, but Flynn was not gregarious that way and politely nodded or said hello but kept up his pace. He was a workingman in a neighborhood of what he thought of, rather archaically, as professionals and yuppies, and as an adult he felt he did not fit in here, despite the fact that this had been his home almost his entire life. Sure, he ran a successful business and cleared six figures every year, but to his knowledge he was the only homeowner in Friendship Heights who drove a cargo van to work, and he believed that people looked at him and saw a guy who was not as educated as they were, not as accomplished, and, on some level, not in their class.
This was largely in Flynn’s mind. In reality, most of the neighbors liked Thomas and Amanda Flynn and had never been anything but friendly and inclusive. Flynn knew this, yet he could not keep those feelings at bay.
He stopped, as always, at the rec center and playground near their house. There in the grass Django sniffed about, found a spot he liked, and commenced to take a crap. Flynn looked at the playground, where young parents stood talking to one another while their children played. “I’m going to enroll Emily in the French-immersion program,” and “Skyler loves science; we’re taking him to the Smithsonian tomorrow,” and “Dylan is strong at soccer; we’re looking at a sleepaway camp for him this summer. Maybe he’ll get an athletic scholarship someday!”
Enjoy it now, thought Flynn. There’s nothing but heartache ahead. Okay, some of you will be luckier than I was. But not all of you. So enjoy your dreams.
Flynn made a glove of the plastic bag and scooped up Django’s shit.
Amanda was standing over the granite kitchen counter, chopping a red onion for a salad, when they returned. Beside the cutting board sat a ziplock bag containing chicken breasts in a marinade of salad dressing. Flynn guessed he would be grilling the chicken shortly. His plan was to pour himself a bourbon over ice and take it out on the deck while he worked.
“Good day today?” said Amanda. Django pressed his nose into her thigh by way of hello.
“Not bad,” said Flynn, going to the sink. He pushed down on the plunger of a liquid-soap dispenser, turned on the faucet, and began to wash his hands. “You?”
“I had to pay the insurance for our guys. But a couple of receivables came in, too.”
Flynn ripped a paper towel from a roll and dried off. “Our son’s got a girlfriend, I think.”
“Yeah?”
“She works in the office at the warehouse. Nice-looking girl. I doubt she’s educated… ”
“Don’t be such a snob.”
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t go to college. You saying you have regrets?”