Carry Me Home (30 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen—” the band, Stevie and the Deceptions, all black, friends of Alvin Lewis, jazzed out a fanfare and drumroll, “the best man, Sergeant James Pellegrino, will now give the toast.”

“I—I—” Jimmy paused, the guests quieted. Tinkling of glasses and dishes came from the hallway. Then Jimmy blurted, “Tony, I gotta tell ya, you are marrying the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life. And Linda, you’re ... this guy you’re marrying ... this guy you married, I ... nobody up here seems to know who this guy is.” There was muted, good-natured laughter. “Anthony Pisano was maybe the greatest platoon sergeant the United States Marine Corps has ever known. Anthony Pisano is a ferocious fighter. Your husband, Linda, should have gotten a Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions at Dai Do, Quang Tri Province, the Republic of Viet Nam. He saved lives. He saved hundreds of lives. After two-four—Golf, 2d of the 4th Marines—after they ran out of ammo and while they were being slaughtered by an attacking battalion of communist soldiers, Tony Pisano stood up and with a machete in hand”—John Jr., Tony’s oldest brother had moved to Jimmy’s side; now he put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder trying to stop him, but Jimmy violently whipped his shoulder away, doubled his volume—“an entrenching tool in the other, he charged the NVA slashing and hacking until he had a pile of heads and bodies around him and they were beatin feet back north.... Geez, I can’t believe you don’t know.... That doesn’t include what he did out at Loon or—he’s a hero. A legend. My hootch maid, Li, she draws pictures of him because the villagers still revere him—”

“So let us lift our glasses,” John Jr. interrupted, lifted his glass, smiled brightly, put his free arm around Jimmy’s shoulder, “and drink a toast to the future, to happiness, to long productive lives, and maybe to some nieces and nephews.”

She had smiled at him, in class, English 101, smiled as if she knew, he thought, sitting there with her long straight black hair falling over the back of her chair all the way to the seat. And Tony had smiled back, sheepishly, then averted his eyes and attempted to listen to the instructor. He kept his head straight, shifted his eyes, trying to see if she might glance again at him, trying to determine her origin. He’d entered class late, just late enough to miss the role call, to miss her name. She was new.

“Pisano, Anthony?” the instructor, a part-timer, a fill-in in the department, had asked as Tony slipped into a seat.

“Yes Sir,” he’d answered. Several students had snickered as they always did at his brisk “Yes Sir” to professors or instructors, but she had glanced over, smiled, then turned her attention back to the instructor. Tony had been dazed. Not because she was pretty, which she was, or because she’d smiled at him, of which he was certain, but because she was Viet Namese.

“God, she’s really talented,” Linda said.

“Yeah.” Tony agreed. It was late night, mid-October. They were sitting on their bed, going through wedding presents, Linda writing quick thank-you notes. “I think she’s kind of the reason for him goin back.”

“You should write this one,” Linda said. She adjusted the drawing so the light fell on it at a more obtuse angle. It was an intricate pen-and-ink sketch of a jungle-uniformed Tony before a village home, holding a Viet Namese infant while a toddler hugged his leg. Leaning against the board-shanty in the background was an M-16 rifle and a machete.

“You write better,” Tony said.

“You know”—Linda huffed—“
these
are to you too! Especially this one.” Linda picked from the small stack the most masculine-looking thank-you note and handed it and a pen to Tony. “Is he going to marry her or something?”

“Marry Li?!” Tony chuckled.

“Well, you said that’s the reason he was going back!”

“Naw. No. He ...” Tony didn’t know how to explain it. Looking at the drawing made him nostalgic, made him feel as if he were missing something important, made him feel he too should be there—not for adventure but for meaning—made him feel as if “compare and contrast” essays were meaningless, and his present life self-indulgent and unjustifiable. “Li’s about twelve,” he said. “She’s blind in one eye and has a short leg because she walked into a mine. She’s a kid ... like she’s his kid. It’s not just her. It’s so many of em.”

“She’s twelve and she drew this!”

“Yeah. Pretty good, huh?”

“I think we should put it up in the front room.”

“Aw, no. I don’t think ... you know, it’s kind of inappropriate here.”

“Inappro—”

“Well, not inappropriate. It’s just really personal. You know, it’s not like McLaughlin’s poster of the guy with the artificial arms and legs that says—”

“‘The Army Builds Men.’”

“Yeah. You know, can you imagine the guy who’s in that poster—can you imagine him putting it up in his front room?”

“That’s different, Babe. This is really nice.”

Tony lay back, rolled to the side, put the card and pen on the floor. “I’ll write him later. I can’t send him a thank-you. I’ll write him a letter.” Tony rolled back, put his hand on Linda’s shoulder and massaged gently.

“Don’t do that,” she said sweetly.

“I can’t help myself.” Tony slid his hand down her back, under her sweatshirt, back up to her bra.

Linda shifted. “Not tonight, Babe. There’s too much to do and tomorrow ...”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you come with me to the doctor.”

“I really can’t miss another class. I cut two filling in for Carlucci.”

“Hm.”

“And I’d feel a little out of place....”

“Hm.”

“You know,” Tony pulled Linda down on the bed, “I’m going to love you forever. I’m going to be the best husband and the best fa—”

“It’s a pact then. Because I’m going to be the best wife.”

“You already are.”

“Tony, not tonight. I’m ... I’m really scared.”

“Pisano.”

“Yo.”

“See me when we’re done here.”

“Yes Sir.”

When only Tony and Ken Charnowski were left in the AmbuStar dispatch office, Charnowski, face averted, mumbled something Tony didn’t understand.

“Ken?”

Charnowski grumbled lower, still did not look at Tony.

“Hey, Ken! You called and I came. I’m cutting another class and you obviously don’t need a driver.”

“You finish the EMT course?”

“Yeah. Well ... I did all the work.”

“Did you pass the test?”

“I haven’t taken it yet.”

“Oh Boy!”

“Somethin wrong?”

“No. No. Remember that Storrow Drive accident in August?”

“Yeah.”

“You helped Pomeroy with the baby?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh Boy!”

“What?”

“Look kid, I ... you can’t work here for a while.”

“What?!”

“That baby’s father filed suit.”

“Filed ... Why?”

“You know that kid died?”

“Aw, no. I didn’t.”

“The father’s attorney claims we were negligent and—”

“NEGLIGENT!”

“Yeah. Negligent.”

“There’s nothin I could of done more than I did! Shit!”

Charnowski sighed. “I know. But you shouldn’t have even touched the baby. You weren’t certified. Attorney got the records.”

“But Pomeroy was.”

“You were only supposed to drive.”

“You gotta be fuckin shittin me!”

“That’s what the suit says.”

“What was I supposed to fuckin do? Let the kid bleed to death?”

“Listen ... we’ll beat this. I know you’re a good kid. I know you’re real cool and I know you know procedure. It’s not you anyway. It’s me. I shouldn’t have had you out there. I can’t let you work until this is settled. And kid, for God sakes, take the god damned EMT test.”

“I am pregnant.”

“Wonderful!” Tony had not told Linda that he’d been to AmbuStar, that he’d cut class. “Whoa-whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Wonderful!” He did a jig, leaped to her, wrapped her in his arms, legs, entire body curling about her. She let him hug her for a moment then slithered out of his grasp. Tony stood in place, running, his feet beating the floorboards like jungle drums.

“Tony!” Linda backed away, turned half away from him. “Tony, you don’t understand. I don’t want to be pregnant. Not yet.”

“Huh!” Tony’s face was a mix of fading smile and confusion. “I thought.... We agreed on wanting a family.”

“Just not yet. I mean I do. I really do, Babe. I want to have a big family with you. Just not for a few years. Damn. I’m still an LPN.” Tears formed in Linda’s eyes. “Tony, I’ve worked really hard for this. I really want to graduate. I want a real graduation. Not that phony bologna pat on the back.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. God! There’s ... you know. Nobody our age is having kids. You know, not yet, not with all the overpopulation. And we’ve been fighting ... you know, at the hospital, we’ve been trying to educate the minorities and the poor for zero population growth. It’s like this ... like this is immoral.”

“You can stay in school. They won’t throw you out for being pregnant, will they?”

“I don’t know. It’s ... The program goes on for sixteen more months. I’m two months along.”

“Don’t drop out.” Tony went to her, gently grasped her hands. “You can do both. Really. Fuck everybody else. Fuck what they think. I know you. You can do this. Really.”

“It’s going to be expensive. How can we pay—”

“You stay in school,” Tony said. “Let me worry about getting the money. Really.”

“But I want you to stay in school, too,” Linda said. “That’s really important. Maybe I should switch programs.”

“No. I know you’ve got this mission....”

“Or maybe ...”

“Maybe what?”

“I told my friend Cathy. She said, you know, ‘Like this isn’t the dark ages. You don’t have to go through with it.’”

“Linda! What the hell are you saying? You told Cathy?!”

“She was pregnant last spring. No one knows....”

“CATHY! GEEZ!! You tell her even before you tell me! Am I even the god damned father?!” Tony spun around, angrily stomped a foot.

“Of course ...” Linda began, but even as she said it her own ire erupted.

Her anger fed Tony’s. He was near the TV. Suddenly he thrust out a hand to the set’s side, pulled, shoved, violently lifting the set from its shelf, ripping antenna and power wires from the wall, shot-putting the TV halfway across the room where it crashed, then popped, the picture tube shattering. “Do whatever the hell you want! Cathy!” Tony stormed out, banged the door.

Two weeks had passed. Decisions had been made.

Linda lifted the lid of the big spaghetti pot. Steam billowed up, rolled in under the old, oft-painted kitchen cabinets. She noted the rolling boil, thought briefly that the old stove took an awful long time to heat eight quarts, then nimbly slid in one large lasagna noodle after another, stirred, thought about Tony’s return. The day was bright, crisp, clear—the first truly nice fall day of the year. Earlier, walking up to the Purity Supreme, she’d caught the change in the Commonwealth Ave. wind full-face, the change, the significance, the end of summer, the end of so much but the start too—yes the start too. She stirred the noodles. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge over Troubled Water” was turning in the living room. Variously she thought the music was like this fall day, like the cool clear breeze in bright sunshine; then she hoped Tony would make it back before nightfall; then how proud she was—no not proud, as if that detracted from the others—how delighted she was with the results of the Medical Care of Surgical Patients exam: highest mark in her class.

Linda set the timer, left the kitchen, sat in the study, began to reread, to smile as she read, the chapter on childbirth. It was exciting—scary but thrilling. It was her program, her emphasis. She hadn’t planned to be her own first patient but Tony had convinced her. How badly, how adamantly he wanted to have this baby! She did not understand it but she could not deny it. All week she’d worked doubles in the GWYN pool—the go-where-you’re-needed pool—floating to ICU, to the outpatient clinic and twice to maternity. How it excited her to hold the newborns, just to look at them in their Plexiglas bassinets, to watch the fathers come in, look, maybe touch. How it frightened her—not knowing what to expect of herself or Tony, physically, emotionally. And financially. She’d seen Tony buckle down. He’d put his studies first—reading, writing essays, copying notes, actually being ahead on assignments—and not once had he gone to AmbuStar! How mature he could be. And how boyish.

“Is that you, Tony?” Her voice had been soft. She’d cried, had been so frightened by his burst of rage, his smashing of the TV, his stomping out. Yet three hours after the incident of two weeks earlier, he had come back loaded like a packhorse. “Tony?”

“Linda.”

“Babe, I’m sorry I told Cath—”

“Geez,” he’d said. His eyes flashed, his face beamed with his most disarming, infectious smile. “You already cleaned up!” He dropped the boxes on the sofa, danced a little jig, then sang out like only Tony Pisano could sing out in his off-key baritone, “‘I want a good luck charm, hangin’ on my arm, to have, to hold, tonight.’”

Then he bent down, lifted a box and went to her. “Linda Lee,” he said mock mockingly, “whatever you decide is all right with me. And this is for you.”

“What is it? Not because—”

“No. Naw, not this.” He indicated the spot on the floor where the TV had shattered. “I’ll—I’ll—I’ve got to square that away later. I—” again the smile, “never got you a wedding present cause I just couldn’t think of anything, but when I went out it hit me. Open it.”

Linda hefted the box. Shook it. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

Gingerly she untaped the wrapping paper. “What is it?” Her brow furrowed as she looked at the picture.

“It’s a Bell Star.”

“A ... a helmet?”

“Two. I bought one for me, too.”

“A motorcycle helmet?!”

“Yeah. And look what else I got.” He went back to the sofa, brought back a large flat box.

“Tony?!” Linda couldn’t imagine what was in his mind.

“Open it.” He drew out the words.

Again she carefully unwrapped the paper, opened the box. Then she lifted out the jacket, “Oh! Oh, it’s so soft.” She held it up against her chest. “But ...”