Carry Me Home (58 page)

Holbrook pitied Tony. He cared. He truly wanted to help. This was his first job. He wanted to be good at it; he dreamed of great breakthroughs. Tony did not answer him. “Do you get drunk all the time?” Holbrook asked. Tony shrugged. He was in the detoxification program, not the psycho-schizo-borderline-personality program. They had given him lithium carbonate, not the strait jacket. His past RRVMC residency record had not yet caught up with his new admission. “Why do you drink?” Holbrook asked.

“I ...” Tony garbled his words, felt isolated, claustrophobic in the tiny office.

“Please. Speak more clearly.”

“I got a case of the ass.”

“Hmm?”

“I get drunk so I can go to sleep.”

“Um-hmm.”

“Go to sleep. I don’t want to be conscious.”

“Go on.”

“That’s all.”

“When you say, ‘a case of the ass,’ that means angry?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you angry?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re angry at somebody?”

“I guess.”

“Um-hmm.” Holbrook paused, wanted Tony to fill in the gap but Tony remained silent. “Who makes you angry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you angry at your mother?”

“No.”

“Your father?” Tony didn’t answer. Holbrook remained silent. Tony shifted. “Your father?” Holbrook repeated.

“My enemies,” Tony said.

“Who are your enemies?” Holbrook said. He mentally chastized himself, thought he should have simply fed back the words as the question.

“I don’t know.” Tony felt that Holbrook was becoming impatient. “Maybe my father.” For a few minutes he told Holbrook about Aunt Helen, about the suspected affair, about how it seemed it was all a misunderstanding, nothing more than his father’s joy at his return.

“Have you confronted your father with this?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t care anymore. It wasn’t true.”

“Then why be angry about it?”

“I’m not.”

Silence.

“I ... I ... I guess I just said that because I needed to tell you something. I was really hard on him when I thought, you know. He went through shit too but he handled it. I went through shit and I’m fuckin fallin apart. It’s eatin my fuckin mind.”

“Um-hmm.”

“I killed eight motherfuckers with my hands. With machetes. Sometimes I want to kill eight more. Eight more motherfuckers. Ever since I did that it’s been followin me.”

As Tony told Holbrook about Dai Do, the young therapist could feel Tony’s presence in Viet Nam, could vicariously experience the intensity even with Tony being lithium calm. He had never placed himself, mentally, in such an intense, life-death struggle. As Tony talked, Holbrook buzzed the orderly, told him to delay his next appointment. Tony continued. Holbrook tried to remain professional. He listened empathetically, interpreted the story as “an atrocity,” just like the atrocities he’d been reading so much about.

“Now,” Holbrook said in a pause, “you said this place ...”

“Dai Do.”

“... Dai Do, it’s been following you.”

“No. Not Dai Do.” It angered Tony that after all his explanation Holbrook still didn’t understand.

“What’s been following you?”

“Death. Fuckin Death. Last week I saw a guy get greased in New York. Zapped right there on the fuckin street.”

Now Holbrook was lost. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s back up and clarify some things. You said you’re ‘fallin apart and it’s eating your mind.’ What’s eating your mind?”

“You don’t fuckin get it, do ya?” Tony clamped his teeth, twisted away.

“Don’t get what?” Holbrook asked.

Tony sneered at him. “If I don’t drink or smoke a fuckin joint ... Jesus fuckin H. Christ ... I can be so fuckin tired I can’t move but I can’t sleep. If I aint movin, if I aint drinkin, or smokin dope, or poppin that diazepam shit ... that shit’s nowhere near as good as yellowjackets ... I can work on yellowjackets ... if I’m not doin somethin, I can’t sleep. My head’s crankin, you know? Crankin all the fuckin time. I’m fuckin wide fuckin awake, thinkin. Gotta move. Gotta crack some motherfucker’s head open. Or drink myself to death. Maybe jump in front of a fuckin subway.”

Later that afternoon Holbrook’s report was read by Jonathan Freiburg. “Expressions of suicidal and antisocial ideations. Sociopathic tendencies ...” Freiburg also received Tony’s RRVMC history. In consultation with Nelville Chapman, who had never seen Tony, they merged the reports, did their administrative duty, reassigned Tony, first to be physically stripped and restrained and pumped with Thorazine, then to be moved to Seven-upper, the schizo-psycho ward. Full pharmaceutical therapy was prescribed. On the positive side, Freiburg, now with Tony’s home address and phone number, directed an orderly to type a standard letter to be sent to Mrs. Anthony Pisano. The letter sat for three days.

Tuesday: Tears ran down Linda’s cheeks. “Oh Babe.” She bent to him. “What have you done to yourself?”

Tony was numb, twitching, unable to connect, unable to even think left-right in sequence, or one-two-three, or who the fuck are you? The Elavil-Thorazine-diazepam-Inderal cocktail had been maximum-dosed with the plan to reduce to therapeutic maintenance levels over a period of six to ten weeks.

“I’ve been so frightened for you. We all have. Your folks hired an investigator and Mr. Wapinski went through all the back roads and even searched over by the gap. Father Tom ...” Linda couldn’t continue. Tony showed no response. “What do they have you on, Babe?” No response. “Damn it, I’m going to talk to the orderly. Your folks are down in Admin. They wouldn’t let us come up. Who’s this Dr. Freiburg?”

Linda looked around. The patients in Tony’s ward room, the ones whose dosages had not yet been lowered, who could not yet go to the day room to watch TV, were all zombies. She kissed Tony on the forehead. “I’m going to find somebody. Oh God! Oh God! Look at you.”

“Tony!” It was his father. Tony’s head felt like it was erupting. He knew Linda had been to see him but he wasn’t sure if it was today, yesterday, last week. “Tony, we’re going to get you out of here. It may take a little while but we’re going to find a better place. This is really ...” John Sr. didn’t finish either. Thank the Lord, he thought, Jo didn’t come up. Neither of them would have been allowed had his father not bribed an orderly.

Downstairs, in the administration and therapy offices, Linda was determined. She was not going to fail. She was not going to let her marriage fail. “What kind of therapy do you have him on?” she asked Dr. Chapman. Her tone was sweet, nonthreatening.

“He’s on sedation right now,” Chapman said. “I wish you had called first. We can’t bring him down right now, and you’re not allowed up there.”

“Um-hmm. I understand. What sedation?”

“It’s just standard—”

“Doctor! I asked you what medications my husband is being given. And why? What’s the diagnosis?”

Chapman clasped his hands, looked up, away, as if trying to find words simple enough for this woman to understand. “Do you know what schizophrenia is? Sometimes there are imbalances in—”

“Has he been diagnosed as schizophrenic?” Her voice was firm.

“It’s a preliminary diagnosis, but yes, we think he’s suicidal, perhaps antisocial, certainly paranoid. He was admitted for alcoholism, but we immediately found these other problems. You understand, this is his second admission. It seems he can’t cope outside.”

“So you’ve drugged him up. I want to see him.”

“No visitors are allowed for the first twenty-one days.”

“Do I need to call my lawyer? I want to see my husband and I want to know what medications you have him on.”

“You’ll be able to see him,” Chapman checked the file, “after December fifth. And ah, he’s on Elavil. Does that mean anything to—”

“Yes, it does. I’m an RN. Going for my PA. Does that mean anything to you?!”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say—”

“Elavil and what else?”

“Thorazine. Diazepam. Inderal. If the Thorazine—”

“He was admitted because of alcohol and you put him on Thorazine. They’re additive.”

“Well. Yes. We may put him on Haldol instead. It’s new. Haloperidol. Do you know ...”

In the car back to Mill Creek Falls John said, “What do you think?”

Linda answered, “Is there someplace else he could go?” Neither wanted to show their fears and trepidations before Jo.

Over the next two weeks Tony’s dosages were gradually reduced until he was minimally functional. Linda, John, Jo all visited but weren’t allowed to see him again until Monday 6 December. They met Daniel Holbrook and were impressed by his attitude. Later John and Linda, with Tony’s brother Joe, agreed that perhaps it was best not to move him.

Tony saw himself as nuts, saw RRVMC as a viable fallback position. He came to trust Holbrook and he told him his craziest thoughts, whatever came to mind, about Nam, about himself, about Rock Ridge.

“Ya know how sometimes you hear about crazy guys locked up in an insane asylum?” Tony chuckled. “The kinda guy who’s in a padded room, mattresses on the walls even. And he’s always naked. Sittin in a corner. Jerkin off. Jerks off fifteen, twenty times a day. Nurses bring him food—slide it through a slot in the door. He sticks his dick out at em.” Tony enjoyed telling stories, enjoyed entertaining Holbrook. “Guy doesn’t have a care in the world. Crazy as a loon, jerkin off to his fantasies all the time. That’s the guy I wanta be.”

Holbrook smiled, said, “Last week you told me you wanted to make an honest effort to reestablish your life with Linda.”

“I’m just talking, Doc. Come on, cut me a huss. Don’t take everything I say so seriously.”

“How do I tell which Tony to take seriously?”

“There’s only one, Doc. Just me. God, Doc, when I’m jokin I’m jokin. When I’m serious, I’m serious.”

“Can Linda tell?”

“Yeah. Ya know, we had a real good thing going. I know I split. Twice. But I can’t stay away from her. Sometimes I just can’t be there but I can’t stay away, either. We love each other but she ... Sometimes the apartment is like a battle zone. It builds up and up.”

“What builds up?”

“Oh. The anger.”

“You’re still angry, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Weekly they broached the subject without breaking through. Individual talk therapy is ineffective when the patient is stoned or strait-jacketed, or chemically confused.

By New Year’s Tony was into the routine at RRVMC. He went to art therapy and painted like a second grader; went to craft therapy and made a leather belt like his brother had made one summer at camp; went to walk therapy and hiked the grounds of RRVMC until his feet froze; went to work therapy and mopped the floor of the main kitchen. He convinced Holbrook that further customizing his Harley and rebuilding the engine would be great therapy and Dr. Joe brought him his bike and he was allowed to keep it in Building 27, a greenhouse.

In talk therapy Tony brought up Viet Nam. Sometimes Holbrook let him talk, sometimes he stopped him. Holbrook never brought up the subject himself. In mid-January Holbrook said to Tony, “Your war’s over. Give it up.” A week later, “Put it out of your thoughts. Once you do, those headaches and nightmares and fears will vanish.” Next session, “It’s time to grow up, Tony. If Viet Nam still bothers you so much, why don’t you write to your congressman?” By early February Viet Nam was off-limits in their discussions and if Tony mentioned it Holbrook would say, “Why do you resist the positive direction our talks have been taking?”

Now there was group therapy, too. In the first rap session Tony was shocked. He had been moved to Seven-lower, had been weaned from Elavil-Thorazine-diazepam, was now on lithium. Tony saw the patients, really saw them for the first time, recognized in them Jimmy and Manny and Rick, Al Cornwall, Jim Bellows, recognized in them half the guys from his Nam platoon, company, regiment—The Magnificent Bastards. Why are they here? Why are we all fucked up? Before Holbrook arrived, they talked quietly in twos, threes, fours. “Lotsa fine bros went down. Never got short. No fuckin Freedom Bird for them. Fuckin waste, Man.”

“Fuckin waste. I can’t even remember all their names. I’m ashamed cause I can’t remember their names.”

“Don’t let em be forgotten, Man.”

“We did in a L-T who got like twenty guys greased. That asshole Freiburg says I’ve got an unresolved killer-self.”

“What’s he know? He talked to me about the sin of killing. I thought, Right! Mothafucka! That’s when I got switched to Holbrook but he’s just as wacked. He can’t take hearin nothin.”

“Sssshh. He’s comin.”

“Don’t talk Nam, Man. You’ll never get outa here.” Monday, 28 February 1972—It was a clear morning. The weather for five days had been unseasonably mild. Tony felt almost cheerful. He was as crazy as ever but now he felt more comfortable with his craziness, with being lost. Holbrook had recommended he be released on long-term outpatient status—for which Holbrook was writing a program proposal. Tony agreed. His lithium dosage was reduced to 300 mg t.i.d. He had no desire to drink, to do other drugs. He was happy to be un-assing this AO, yet he was afraid to “go home”; afraid he’d hurt Linda or his daughters. He knew he was dying. He had reached a certain, if uneasy, peace with his craziness, his life, his death. He wanted to say good-bye, maybe collect the maple sap one more time for Old Man Wapinski. He felt he owed him that.

S
HE’D LEFT, DRIVEN AWAY
, driven that pistachio Pinto loaded to the roof out the driveway, past the for sale sign, down Deepwoods Drive, away, forever. He’d stood there watching, barely caressing Josh’s ears as the dog pressed his head into Bobby’s leg. She had returned only to file the Dissolution of Marriage petition at the county courthouse and to lay claim to every remaining decent household item they owned (or still owed on). Her last words to him were, “I can’t see you as a divorcé.” That lay in his ears, he standing there seeing not Red, not even himself, but Jimmy Pellegrino on that big Harley that he handled like a dirt bike, seeing Jimmy Pellegrino and thinking, for this he got greased.

Then he’d turned, gone in. It had gotten dark but he did not remember the dusk, only the dark and he not having the impetus to turn on a light but sitting in the dark listening to Josh scratch. He heard other noises, rose, turned on the porch light, just enough light coming through the windows to give the few furnishings an edge, sat restive, afraid of the dark like a child, afraid of the same boogeyman that scared him when he was eight and he’d moved back into the house on Crooked Road. Months passed unnoticed, unrecallable, except for the repeated personal justifications, the evaporation of the weight of his once oppressive marriage, the new place, running, that honkey-tonk song and Olivia Taft. He was sad but free, alive, feral.