Carry Me Home (69 page)

Tony moved off. He was wounded. He was drunk, angry, wanting to punch someone, wanting to confront Linda right there. He moved down the tree line, between shrubs, gradually closer. He heard his father’s voice, saw the back of his head. “I don’t understand him,” John Sr. was saying. “He’s not like the others. Never has been.”

Tony moved on, closer, angrier yet. Annalisa was sitting in a chair surrounded by almost everyone. Edward knelt before her, was raising her skirt, teasingly pushing the garter higher instead of removing it. The band was playing little flourishes—da-dat-da-dah—with each thrust.

Linda was watching Annalisa, talking to someone Tony didn’t know, perhaps one of the visiting nurses. “I thought Tony was pretty bad off with all he saw,” Linda said to the woman. “But I heard from Susan about one guy out there who just realized he’d killed a woman and her children in cold blood. They say he was so overwhelmed by his behavior that he psychologically blocked it out and supplanted the memory with a total fabrication.”

I
T KICKS IN. THE
dream, the terror. I see a mouth. I see the mouth the same way I see the tunnel; the same way I feel the chopper going down; the same way I see, feel, hear, smell Manny, me, my arms, his face, his chest. I see teeth, a slight overlap of the incisors. I see the gums, pink, gray; the lips, gray; the tongue. I see saliva, spittle, white foam at the corners of the mouth and silvery reflections off the wet chin. I do not see the person. I do not see me. But I sense the person, the hopelessness, the lostness, the shame at being worthless, at being a burden. I sense the befuddlement, the WHY? the HOW? the exasperation yet the lack of motivation, incentive, foresight. I am the mouth. I am a vegetable.

I do not know where to go from here. Ty, Bobby and I are nearing convergence, collision. I want to tell you these stories, ideas, events, theories, simultaneously. But that is not possible.

I did not confront Linda with the fucking like a bunny for the friend of Annalisa’s husband’s friend, but in my state of mind, of self-esteem, I believed it. Why the hell shouldn’t she? She was sensual, beautiful, and strapped to a lead weight—me. God, it hurt. I was raw inside, irate, fragile. Why? The base, the foundation that I’d worked so hard to rebuild, I let it be shattered by one sentence overheard. I was worthless, a murdering scumhead. I was not even worthy enough to pray Grandpa Wapinski’s prayer. Give me the strength and guts to try hard and never give up? Try hard on what? Never give up what? Worthless scum has no reason to be strong, to persevere.

Binford’s guilt therapy had me convinced I should die, rid them of me. I could not touch my daughters, could not hug them, could not play with them, could barely look at them. And if Linda was boffing somebody—probably the guy from Steve’s Lumber—could I have touched her? My mania returned. I slept in the barn at High Meadow, when I did sleep, on the pretext of needing to get in the expanded crops. I skipped out and drank, alone, at the White Pines Inn. I found Big Bonnie again, scored my dope from him, fucked Zookie until I thought my balls would collapse and I’d suffocate in her neck tattoo.

In June I received a letter from Rick. I don’t know how he found me. He was in school, doing pretty well amid the “influx of idiots” and the professor who wouldn’t “let me in class without a haircut. Oh, by the way,” he wrote it just like this, “they did cut my legs off.”

On July ninth, a few days after checking on the flag on Jimmy’s grave, after arranging with the Lutz boys for the crops, without telling Grandpa Wapinski or Linda or my Pop or Jo or Annalisa, I split, climbed back on the Harley, set myself free.

Free. I think of telling you of the homeless who befriended me. Some good people down on their luck. Times were tough. Some crooks. Some crazies. Some zombies. I think of telling you of the runaways—kids—some as young as thirteen. What’s this country coming to?! I think of telling you of all those things I saw, things I did. But why? It is only more of the same. More of the same when I was almost arrested in Montgomery, Alabama. More of the same when I ditched a chick and took her dope and dough in Denver.

Being a two-time loser facilitates being a three-time loser. By time four it was habitual, repeating as if I were strapped to a carousel in purgatory. Intrusive thoughts, frustrations, anger, drugs, booze, splitting, danger-zone, trouble, checking into the VA, going crazy because of untreated or mistreated PTSD that was rubbed raw by current events, by cultural misperceptions, by social ostracism, by guilt therapy and strait jacket cocktails. Then deeper remorse, additional self-incrimination, self-hate.

Why was my Pop able to handle what he saw and I wasn’t? Why were so many Viet vets able to handle their experiences? Why did others, like me, fold, crumble, give in, give out? There are many reasons but, to me, the most unkind booby trap, the most long-term devastation, stemmed from the liquid strait jacket “therapy” from the VMC, and that followed up by the acerbic ambush of guilt-therapy. I think I could have made it home had I not been so damaged, had I been left to my own devices.

Today I have a better grasp. I understand the booby trap of the cocktails—not just the immediate and short-term effects, but the long-term brain damage—the actual atrophying of dopamine receptors analogous to foisting Alzheimer’s disease on the subject. I also understand the ambush of guilt-therapy that became prevalent after the DMS III (
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
, 3d ed.) added
Posttraumatic Stress Disorders
as a mental illness (diagnosis), and after it became perverted by a do-gooder system that did not—a system that set up compensation for
failing
to heal, and then only if one admitted to the commission of malicious atrocities against civilians or one’s fellow combatants.

A break. I get so wound up about this my thoughts short out, words are supplanted by anger, by fury—rationality is obliterated. So breathe with me. It is a technique Bobby taught. A few deep breaths, belly breaths, and a look about. The night is clear, cold, black sky and stars to the west and north; thin low clouds, and light, to the east. Morning is coming but that light is the false dawn. From up here, it’s almost as though the world no longer exists. It has been destroyed in nuclear war yet without TV, radio, papers, I’ve yet to be informed. The mall lights to the south come on at dusk but they are automatic and maybe even if everyone is dead they would still operate for some time. My fire is not dependent on them, on any of them. Burning apple branches mostly. Cleaning the orchard earlier. Habit. Apple is a hardwood but too full of knots for anything other than small sculptures and firewood. I toss on another piece. Glowing droplets rise against the black curtain of the sugarbush like inverse rain. I follow the riselets, jar the fire for a fresh storm. First by the thousands, then hundreds, then one by one they die out and only one climbs up over the crown, into the stars.

I came back in February ’74. Grandpa Wapinski was pretty angry with me but he didn’t show it much. His body wasn’t very healthy anymore but he had his tickets to California ready and he was like a little kid with a lollipop, those old eyes glistening. “Come with me,” he said.

“I came to syrup,” I said. “Then I’m outta here.”

“Upset, huh?”

“Why’d she do it, Mr. Wapinski? Why’d she file ...” I broke down that time. I cried and he let me cry. How could I have expected Linda to do anything but? She’d filed for divorce in January. I was out of my head. “Okay.” I finally got the words out. “I’ll accompany you.” I could not have been more lost, more lame, more in need of a shepherd to carry me home.

S
AN MARTIN, CALIFORNIA, MAY
1973—Bobby was in the Safeway at Sixth and Miwok. He had just handed the cashier a twenty-dollar bill. In his bag he had two large zucchinis, one jar of spaghetti sauce, a box of mushrooms, a pound of mozzarella, a pound of ground chuck, and bread, peanut butter and cigarettes. In his mind swirled the idea to use zucchini slices instead of lasagna noodles. The entire preparation and cooking time, he reasoned, could be cut to a third, because there’d be no precooking.

“Oh, excuse me.”

Bobby startled. Looked back, down. There was a woman picking up a clutter of coupons from the floor. Behind her were eight children, all about the same age. Bobby lifted a foot to give the woman room. She looked up, smiled. His thoughts crumbled. Bobby bent. He did not take his eyes from hers. Behind her the boys were pushing, pulling baseball cards from the exit displays, dashing into the path of shopping carts. The girls each had food items. Bobby fumbled, picked up a coupon, handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said.

“Sure,” he answered. He stood.

She too stood. She was only as tall as his nose.

Bobby turned to the counter, lifted his bag, walked out.

“Children,” the woman said. “Children. Let’s stay in line.”

“Sir,” the cashier called. “Sir, your change!”

But Bobby had already left.

He sliced, he cooked, he made notes, but he could not get that smile out of his mind. He moved to the dining room table. The sun was high and only indirect light fell on his papers, sketches, finished drawings, notes, “
THIS IS A KITCHEN
,” read the block letters of the cutline on the drawing in his hand. Below, the text read, “This is the kitchen sink. Be prepared to spend a significant amount of time here.”

Wapinski flipped back to the first sheet—the cover—his cartoon drawing of a befuddled, eight-thumbed man standing amid stacked pots, pans, and pizza boxes. A cartoon dog that looked amazingly like Josh was in the corner looking equally befuddled. Arched across the top were the words
The Feral Man’s Cookbook: With Menus for 30 Days
. On the bottom, in smaller letters: “Written and illustrated by Robert J. Wapinski.” Under that in much smaller letters: “Recipes tested by Josh—if he wouldn’t eat it, it’s not included.”

Bobby chuckled. He flipped through the next few pages. Dedicated (to Grandma and Grandpa). He smiled, reread the introduction, “An elementary guide to the inner workings of a kitchen.” He flipped to his menu for zucchini lasagna, penned in the word
basil
. He felt good. He sniffed. The lasagna smelled wonderful.

“You were a company commander. Earned a Silver Star with Oak Leaf cluster, Bronze Star, Air Medals. What were you doing selling real estate?”

“Well, when I first came out my wife, my girl at the time, she was selling real estate. I didn’t have a job and she convinced me to get my license. Almost immediately I had a sale. Things just took off. It was a good job. I liked it. It was good to me and I think I was good to it, too.”

“I’m sure you were. I can’t get over this thought. I mean, it’s not too often I get to interview the commander of a combat company. Honorable discharge. Silver Star. You’re a little light in the education department.”

“I’ve enrolled in a few night courses to get my degree.”

“Good. It’s not a problem, though. You qualify on your work record. Salesman, office manager, planning committee member of the San Martin Board of Realtors. You’re ... why do you want this job?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say it like this, but I’m tired of what the developers are doing to this town. I think I could be an effective force at helping to design a plan that they could live with and that would keep them from flattening and paving the entire area.”

“You know, you’re overqualified. It’s an assistant plannership. You’d be more clerk than planner. And it doesn’t pay nearly as much as you were making selling real estate. With your combat record, you should be seeking a better position.”

Wapinski chuckled. “You’re the first person that’s ever placed any importance on my military service. I’m proud of it, but truth is, I almost left it off the resume because I thought it might work against me.”

“See that plaque there?” The man gestured to the wall behind him where there was a framed Bronze Star certificate.

“Oh! I didn’t notice it. Viet Nam?”

“Korea. Look, I’ll put your application through with my recommendation that we start you off at the top pay bracket. That’s thirteen six. They don’t start anyone off at the top. Chances are, if you’re hired, you’ll be getting more like ten five and if they start you off at the bottom, that’s eighty-nine hundred. You’ll have to be interviewed by a few others.”

“Mr. Reed ...”

“Tim.”

“Tim. I want the job. The money’s not as important as the opportunity to serve.”

“To serve?”

“I mean ...”

“I know what you mean. I’ve just never heard it from a man in your generation.”

Where the heck could she be? It was midafternoon. He’d gone back to the Safeway a dozen times. “I’m doing a cookbook,” he’d explained. “Trying different recipes.”

“Ah, you’re the guy ...”

Bobby looked at the cashier. She turned away, looked at the cash register drawer, squirmed, popped her chewing gum. “Were you talking to me?”

Reluctantly she looked up. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re the guy that walked out without his change.”

“Hmm?”

“God!” Then to the drawer. “He doesn’t even remember. I shouldn’t a said anything.”

“My change?”

“Yeah. I can’t give it to ya.” Again she popped her gum. “It was ten ten. You gotta see the manager.”

“Oh, when I—”

“Yeah. Sheesh!” Again, more to herself than to Bobby, “If Miss Andrassy wasn’t here with her class ... You didn’t even know!”

“The ...” Bobby pointed into the aisle behind him. “What was her name?”

“Who?”

“The woman with all the kids?”

“Teacher. Miss Andrassy. She’s my sister’s teacher.”

“At ...”

“Over at the elementary school.”

“Hey—” Bobby beamed at the sullen cashier, “you know that ten ten?” She looked up at him. “You keep it.” He smiled. “Because you were so honest.”

“There’s the water problem to begin with,” Bobby said. “I know they’re deemphasizing it but the deepest well is pumping salt water and the one south of Bahia de Martin is contaminated with chemicals from the old landfill.”