George Pelecanos: The Way Home

The smile in the sketch seemed to mock him, and Chris turned his back to it. He stared at cinder blocks and felt nothing at all.

Thomas Flynn’s business was called Flynn’s Floors. Despite the name, which he’d chosen because of its alliterative effect, the majority of his work was actually in carpet. He avoided wood flooring jobs, which were prone to costly error, and for the same reason he turned down work that involved ceramics. “I prefer not to deal with that,” he’d tell customers. “It’s outside my comfort level in terms of expertise.” To builders and subcontractors, he’d simply say, “I don’t fuck with tiles. You can fix a carpet mistake. With ceramics, you screw up, you’ve got to eat it.”

He catered primarily to the residential trade, with a smattering of commercial work in the mix. Much of his business came from referrals, so he spent a good portion of his day calling on potential clients in their homes, checking work that his installation crew had already done, and putting out any attendant fires. Amanda handled the paperwork end of the business-inventory, bills, receivables, payroll, insurance, and taxes-from the office they had set up in the basement of their house. Flynn was a good closer and could mother his crew and talk dissatisfied clients down, but he had no interest in the clerical aspect of the business, while Amanda was efficient in paperwork and the collection of moneys. Their talents were complementary and they knew their roles well. Take one of them out of the equation and Flynn’s Floors would not have been a success.

Flynn drove a white Ford Econoline van with a removable magnetic sign on its side, advertising the company name and phone number. His crew, headed by a hardworking El Salvadoran named Isaac, rode around in an identical van that Isaac drove home at night and parked on the grass of his Wheaton home off Veirs Mill Road. Chris, when he was still speaking to his father, called the vans the Flynn’s Floors fleet.

Like many salesmen, Flynn did not believe in showing up at a client’s house looking like he made more money than he needed. He felt that it was prudent to look humble and hungry. His work clothing was plain and square, Dockers from Hecht’s, polo shirts bearing the company patch when it was warm enough, long-sleeved cotton-poly blends in the winter and fall, Rocksports on his feet. For a while he had gone through the Vandyke phase, in the rebel yell manner of a white Major League baseball player, but he saw too many guys with double chins doing the same thing, and it screamed middle-age desperation when in fact he wasn’t there yet. Amanda said it made him look pleased with himself rather than honest or smart. He shaved it off.

Flynn looked in the mirror and saw what others saw, a guy who went to work every day, who took care of his family, who made what would always be a modest living, and who would pass on, eventually, without having made a significant mark.

He had been fine with this in the past. His aim was to instill values, work ethic, and character in his son, and to see him through to adulthood, when he would become a productive member of society and in turn pass this along to his own children. That was what he felt he was here for. That was how all of this “worked.” But when Chris jumped the tracks, Flynn’s belief in the system failed. There just didn’t seem to be a point to anything anymore. He knew that this attitude, this inability to find purpose in his daily routine, was a sign of depression, but knowing it did not restore any sense of meaning to his life.

It was true what some folks said: When your kid is a failure, your life has been a failure, too.

Still, he continued to go to work. He had bills and real estate taxes, and the responsibility of maintaining employment for Isaac and his crew, who had families they were supporting here and family members they took care of in Central America as well. “It” hadn’t worked out for Flynn, but that didn’t mean these men and their loved ones had to suffer, too.

And then there was Amanda. Flynn loved her deeply, though he often spoke to her dismissively and they were no longer the friends they had once been. They communicated, and occasionally they came together in bed, but for Flynn the dying of their friendship was the most awful result of the troubles with Chris.

“I got a call from the superintendent,” said Bob Moskowitz.

“Yeah?” said Flynn. “What’d he have to say?”

Flynn and Moskowitz were at the bar of the Chevy Chase Lounge on Connecticut Avenue, Flynn’s neighborhood local. Flynn was drinking a Budweiser. Moskowitz was kidding himself with a Bud Light.

“He said that Amanda has been calling him fairly frequently.”

“And what, he doesn’t like it?”

“Colvin’s a good guy. But he’s got, like, two hundred and seventy-five boys he’s responsible for in that facility.”

“He’s busy.”

“Yes. The thing is, Amanda’s not calling him with any significant problems or queries. After visitation, she calls Colvin and says stuff like ‘I saw Chris and he looked a little thin,’ or ‘Chris sounded congested.’ I mean, they’re feeding them out there, Tom. If those boys get sick, they care for them. Guarantee it.”

“You’re saying Amanda has to stop with the bullshit calls.”

“They’re not going to release Chris just to get his mom off their back. And it’s not helping his case.”

“Colvin and them aren’t used to parents who give a shit.”

“They aren’t used to parents who nitpick everything,” said Moskowitz. “I understand she’s scared for Chris. Outraged, too. But I think she needs to, you know, deal with this in a more internal way.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to her.” Flynn had a pull off his beer and placed the bottle back on the stick. “Did Colvin say how Chris is doing? Or did he just phone you to crap on my wife?”

“Colvin’s all right. And Chris is doing okay, too. Maybe too resigned to his incarceration, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“He doesn’t seem to care one way or another about his situation, and that’s problematic, because he’s got a level meeting coming up. I’m going to advise him to, like, sit up straight in his chair. Tell the review board that he recognizes and regrets his mistakes and that he wants to better himself. That he will better himself and is looking forward to the day he’ll be released.”

“That’s good, Bob.”

“You could do the same when you see him next.”

“He doesn’t really speak to me much. Mostly he communicates with his mom.”

“I’m saying, you could speak to him.”

“Right,” said Flynn.

Speak to him. That’s what the shrink, Dr. Peterman, said in their weekly meeting. And Flynn would nod and say, “You’re right. I should try.”

Dr. Peterman’s office was in Tenleytown, on the corner of Brandywine and Wisconsin, over a beauty parlor, where Mitchell’s, the sporting-goods store where as a teenager Flynn had bought his Adidas Superstars, used to be. Flynn wondered if the high rent was added into his tab. Like many men, Flynn did not care to talk about himself or, God forbid, his feelings. He continued to go to their sessions because it made Amanda happy, but as a concession he made sure that he complained about the impending visit on the drive to the man’s office. Predictably, he called the shrink “Dr. Peterhead” when speaking of him around Amanda, and brought up more than once the fact that the doctor had a copy of I’m Okay, You’re Okay displayed on the bookshelf behind his desk. “What,” said Flynn, “is that the fountain of knowledge from which Dr. Peterhead drinks?” And Amanda would say, “Please don’t be sarcastic when we get there, Tommy.”