Carry Me Home (54 page)

Red’s pistachio Pinto was in the driveway. Josh was lying on the small porch, alert, ears up, smiling that happy Pennsylvania Husk-perd smile, his coat glistening in the porch light. Bobby’s mind flipped as if he’d not seen him in a long time, not seen him for what he was—not just a dog, not just a faithful friend who could at times be ignored, not even just a symbol of nature, but Bobby’s attachment to the world beyond himself, beyond the limits of human concerns, beyond money and bills and shelter and governments and self-promotion.

Bobby opened the car door, reached to gather his books, decided to leave them on the seat. Josh nudged him. He turned, still behind the steering wheel, massaged the dog’s ears. Josh groaned.

“Ya know, Little Brother,” Bobby whispered, “I’ve got a dream. I’ve got this dream of a community where you and I live, where people design and build in harmony with guys like you, ol’ buddy. Aw, I’m just getting stupid, Josh. C’mon. Let’s go in.”

Red was watching TV. She did not look up when Bobby came in, didn’t budge until Josh stepped with his front paws onto the living room carpet. Then she clapped her hands twice, glared. Josh backed up, lay down on the mat in the small foyer, his back to the living room, his legs stretched and straight as if rigor mortis had set in, his back and neck arched so he was watching Bobby and Red and the TV.

“What are ya watchin?”

“Ssssh.”

“Is it almost over?”

“SSssshH!”

Bobby walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, grabbed a can of beer. But he put it back. Instead he grabbed a glass, ran the tap, drank water. He went to the bedroom, to the closet, pulled out the Saucony running shoes he’d bought but had never used, decided—Tomorrow, I’m really going to start. Red came in.

“Good show?” Bobby asked.

“So-so,” Red answered.

“What was it?”

“Oh, it’s too complicated to go into. It was pretty good though. You smell like perfume.”

Bobby turned his head, sniffed his shoulder. “I do!?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm! I don’t know ... Oh. Maybe it’s from Olivia. She got a new listing and was so excited she hugged everybody in the office. I was on the phone with Granpa. Today was his birthday, you know. She came around hugging everybody.”

“Um.”

“Red.”

“Um.”

“I’ve been thinking ...”

“Um.”

“Maybe we should look for a different place.”

“A new house like the one on Tin Pan Alley? I’d love that. This is such a dump.”

“I was thinking ...”

“We could put in the offer they have to leave the dining room set. It’s absolutely perfect in that room.”

“No. I mean, I was thinking someplace else.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know where. Someplace that’s got more of a sense of community. Someplace that’s not so damn expensive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, like if we helped develop a community.”

“You’re not talking Pennsylvania!”

“No. Not necessarily.”

“If you go back to Pennsylvania, I won’t go back with you.”

“You won’t ... What the hell’s that suppose to mean?”

“I mean I won’t go back there. I hated it there, and if you go back, I’m not going.”

“What are you saying?” His voice spiked angrily. “You’d leave me?!”

Red backed up, sat on the bed. She eyed him warily. “I won’t go back. If you go back, you go back on your own.”

“Well, what if I do want to go back?”

“Go back then!” Her voice was hard, not loud. “Take Olivia with you. Don’t you think I know?!”

“Know?”

“Cheater! Don’t you think I know!” It was no longer a question.

“I haven’t cheated on you. I’ve never cheated on you.” Now his index finger, hand, arm were jabbing the air, pointing at her face, eyes, knocking her glare down. “Even though you’ve given me every reason to cheat,” he said loud, angry, “I haven’t.”

“I still won’t go back with you.”

“So what’s that mean? You want a divorce!” Bobby was livid, feeling self-righteous, abused, more attacked than attacking. Red did not utter a sound. She sat there on the bed, now more passive, eyes down, shoulders curled in. She sat there a victim, incriminating him with her victimization. “Well, fuck you,” he roared. Her silence angered him more than any words. “Fuck you. You want a divorce, you can have a divorce. There. Ha!” He stomped. Slammed the door. The entire wall shook.

Still she said nothing. Still she sat there, looking to him as if she weren’t a part, weren’t a cause, as if she thought she were totally innocent, as if she were the one who’d been abused, who’d suffered through their togetherness. He snorted, still seething yet closer to control. She looked at him. Mumbled something.

“What!?”

“We never should have gotten married,” Red said. Again she hung her head. Again he snorted.

Then he went to the phone, dialed, almost as if he were being guided by an outside force, almost without conscious will, as if in a dream:

“Hello.”

“Hi, Brian.”

“Huh?”

“Oh. Did I wake you?”

“Who ...”

“It’s Rob. I forgot about the time difference.”

“Robbie. Geez. It’s two o’clock or some ... You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry if I woke you. But I wanted you to know. Red and I are getting a divorce.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I’ll call ya tomorrow. Don’t tell Granpa, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Or Miriam.”

A
GRUNT CAN COPE
with monsoons, with leeches, with searing heat, suffocating humidity. The savagery of war does not strip him of his humanity. These things are external. They are not of the self. One does not say, “I am the pain of leeches.” One does not say, “I am a firefight.” “I am Manny’s death.” “I am an atrocity.” It requires a return to a civilized World to complete that dehumanization.

This became Bobby’s theory of the self. As you witness our destruction, you should have our criteria for evaluation. It was maybe six years ago that Bobby said, “In finding one’s self one loses one’s self and no longer needs to define one’s self because one simply is. That is the true self. When one no longer needs to define one’s self in terms of possessions, actions, or relationships, the self falls away, opening one up to actions and relationships. Losing one’s self frees one to do, to observe, to be observed, to interact without the constraints of looking at one’s self through others’ eyes, or even one’s own. Praise and criticism, real or imagined, block one from developing a value system based on criteria beyond the immediate, beyond the past, beyond projected opinions, polls, the people’s will, election results, resale values, net-net-net and myriad other less-than-ultimate criteria. Our problem is searching for ultimate criteria; interpreting actions and thoughts against those criteria; establishing a guide, a code, an ethic, that reflects those criteria.”

It was not new, but to him, to us, it seemed like something lost. It had been lost to “our people,” lost to our country; and our people and country were floating, a rudderless ship—the rudder voluntarily destroyed or purposefully disconnected in the name of criteria driven by the three great temptations: greed, lust, and power; insidious, manipulative forces like unseen toxins coursing through the system tripping, cutting, causing us to lose our way, to lose opportunities, to feel guilty for what might have been.

The bells of St. Ignat’s do not usually ring at this hour, at night, but they are ringing now, shaking me from my thoughts on self. It is day six of my fast. Owls howl. Bats scat. I’ve deluged my body with so much water it is running out of my pores and orifices and my ass is so sore. But it is nothing compared to my mind, my sense of self, at that time.

I want to be fair. Not all private or state or federal veterans medical facilities were as fucked up as Rock Ridge. And even those that were, including Rock Ridge, changed as the 1970s progressed. Change, however, did not necessarily mean improvement.

M
ILL CREEK FALLS, 1
February 1971—The dawn is winter gray, muted, as if everyone and everything has entered the first stage of a cryonics experiment to suspend animation until a cure is found. Uncle James, Aunt Isabella, Nonna all wear black coats over dark suits, dresses. Annalisa’s coat is deep beige but in the winter light inside St. Ignatius’ main hall it looks as gray to him as this new layer enwrapping his core, coating all previous layers, his new grayness.

Tony hangs on to Linda’s arm, his hand and wrist through her crooked elbow while Linda sits holding Gina, looking forward, listening to the young priest, rapt, attentive to his every word. Twice she has taken Tony to Rock Ridge Veterans Medical Center, twice she has tried to find out what is the matter, what is the illness, the diagnosis, the prognosis. She has talked to clerks, orderlies, secretaries, and the “pharmacist,” an orderly at GS-6. Dr. Jonathan Freiburg has not been available, has sidestepped making a firm appointment. The orderlies have told her Tony is a crazy vet. In the pew beside Linda is Jo. She holds Michelle, is as attentive to the young priest as is Linda but while Gina is asleep in her mother’s arms, Michelle is alert, twisting, wanting to crawl, wanting down, and Jo struggles in perfect dignity to subdue her without upsetting her. Next to Tony is his eldest brother, John, who does not touch him, and by whom, because he senses John’s revulsion, Tony does not want to be touched. Tony presses closer to Linda, his arm tightening in the crook of her elbow, she aware, stolid, solemn, cutting him no slack. Beyond John Jr. is John Sr. Jo has accepted Tony, accepted the fact that he is ill, infected with some alien virus that will be defeated and soon her son will again be healthy; but John Sr. has not accepted the illness, cannot help but think of a time when he had said to Tony, “God, I hope you handle it better than I did,” cannot help but be disappointed, ashamed at the countenance and behavior of his third son.

In the first pew is Uncle James, Aunt Isabella, Annalisa, and Maria Annabella—Nonna, 81 years old, solemn, stolid, dignified; by her presence in the first pew more in control of the mood of the entire congregation, 90 percent Pisanos, Pellegrinos and DeLeones for the first memorial mass, than the young priest at the altar. Uncle Ernie and Aunt May, Maxene, Patty, Julie have come from Rock Ridge, Aunt Mary from Wilkes-Barre, Uncle Frank and Aunt Jessie from Scranton. Even Uncle Joe from Binghamton has come, Joe who is Tony’s mother’s brother and thus not a “real” uncle of Annalisa and Jimmy but who is, was, will always be Jimmy’s uncle in that he will always carry that layer of being a Marine. And on and on back through the church, family, friends, neighbors, even old Pewel Wapinski, whom Linda has told of the service.

Tony clings to Linda. He has dreaded this moment, this day, dreaded it because it again smashes Jimmy’s death into his face; dreaded it too because it is his coming out, his first family reunion. He’d hidden in the apartment through Christmas and New Year’s and though Linda had told Jo and John Sr., they had allowed him to hide, had not mentioned him to the family, agreeing he needed time to adjust. Tony would like not to be sick but sick is the only justification, in his eyes and theirs, for his behavior. His eyes are red, swollen, sunken, dark. His mouth is dry. He keeps his head bowed as if to hide between his shoulders. He thinks it is better, here, now, to be perceived as a naughty child than as husband, father, cousin of the deceased, Marine. He wishes to leave, to hide. He does not look at his brothers, cousins, does not meet their eyes. Still the double dose of diazepam he has taken has taken the edge off; and clutching Linda, being close to her, bolsters him, bolsters not his spirit but his self-righteous feeling, unverbalized—if she, whom I have so betrayed, accepts me back, so too must all of you. And Linda, like Jo, like Maria Annabella, is stolid, solemn, dignified.

The young priest is preparing the Eucharist, praying over the gifts. Tony has never understood this—this mystery of faith, this essence of the religion in which he was raised. The congregation is singing “All Saints Hymn” but Tony’s mouth is too dry. He cannot even hum. “... may your soldiers, faithful, true, and bold; Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old....” He tunes out, thinks he cannot go to Communion, cannot consume the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ, with diazepam in his stomach. His thoughts flow quickly. He feels the change, the brain numbing, the shutting down. He is holding Manny, who is wounded. His mouth is trembling. He is telling Manny, “It’s cool, Man. It’s cool. Not bad. Grab your ass and haul it off for like six weeks of R n R. There’s a soul sister at the evac gonna do sweet nasties to your bod, Bro.” Tony jerks Linda’s arm. She jerks back, glares from the corner of her eye. He sees Manny’s chest erupt, feels the impact through to his abdomen, feels Manny’s splattering spittle and blood ... Linda jerks her arm again, first forward, then back, hitting him with her elbow. John Jr. glances, glares, pretends to ignore. Tony cowers lower. He can smell the dead gook, the rotten meat, the goo drooling on him as they pull the body, the club being jammed into his face, he is panting, diazepam or not, drooling from the corners of his mouth, dry mouth or not, and then they are outside the church.

“That’s incredible.” The voice is behind him, soft, sad, concerned. He’s not sure how, why, he heard it. Another voice. “He’s like a zombie.” “She said it’s the drugs. They’ve got him all drugged up.” Tony turns. It is Maxene and Annalisa. They turn away as he looks. The sky is light gray, winter overcast, yet to him, bright, making him squint. The words hurt, anger him, he who has protected Annalisa, he who has ... He cannot think. In deep, below the deadening, he is enraged and the ire splits layers like magma squirting through mantle cracks reaching the lower strata of crust but not breaking through.

More voices. John Sr. to Aunt Helen. “It’s a temporary phase. I went through it too.” “Not like that you didn’t.” Like fuckin hell. The words are in his mind, in his throat, trapped. If they acknowledge it, if they deny it, it makes no difference—both piss him off. “We’re working on it,” Linda says. More anger. Standing in front of the church on a cold, threatening winter morn as if it were some kind of party and not one of them speaking Jimmy’s name because that’s been left inside with the priest.