Carry Me Home (5 page)

Ma takes Louise Olson’s arm and says to her, “Why don’t we go in the living room, Louise.” Mrs. Olson, she gets up like she’s got so many heavy rocks in her pockets she can’t hardly move herself. Ma leads Mrs. Olson to the doorway, them other ladies following like ducks.

All afternoon this goes on, people coming in and out of the store, everybody waiting for them news guys to break in to the shows and tell us what’s going on.

Later, a news guy comes on again. The radio is so goddamn staticky that I don’t think Dad can hear, even though he’s bent over with his ear practically stuck on the speaker. Dad hears enough to know that the news guy is talking about the Philippines now. He don’t get to hear much, though, ’cause some lady from the telephone office, she cuts in and says the reporter’s gotta get off ’cause the line is needed. Dad slams his fist on the radio and cusses. “Hank?” Ma calls. Her and them ladies are back in the store again. “What did they say about the Philippines?” Ma sounds real scared and I hope she don’t forget to hang on to Louise Olson, ’cause she’s looking real tippy.

“Sounds like the Japs have hit there too,” Dad says. “He didn’t get to finish the report. The operator cut him off.”

“She cut him off?”

“Well, it’s wartime controls, Eileen. They don’t want the enemy knowing what’s going on, plus, the military needs those phone lines now.” Dad rubs his belly, then strings his thick thumbs though his belt loops.

And that’s how it goes all day. Ladies and men coming and going, dirtying up so many coffee cups that I gotta keep washing ’em. Everybody talking about how we is at war now, then shutting up when a news reporter comes back on.

I don’t know where to go, ’cause I don’t wanna see the ladies cry no more, and I don’t wanna listen to the men talk about war. So I go up to my room and I sit on my bed, and I think of how I shoulda gone to church so God wouldn’t be pissed off, ’cause now He sure as hell ain’t gonna listen to me if I ask Him to do me a favor. I scooch up against the headboard, even if I still got my boots on, and I wrap my arms around my legs. I feel all cold, inside and out, so I pull them covers up over me and I think about how I don’t want Jimmy and Floyd and Louie to be bloody-dead.

When Ma says she’s going to church to pray for them boys ’cause Preacher Michaels is holding a special prayer service, me and Dad say we’ll go too. And we do, even if that means getting on our Sunday clothes and slapping down our hair. I pray real hard, telling God how sorry I am I went hunting rabbits and Japs instead of going to church, but even if I did, could He please still make sure Jimmy and Floyd and Louie ain’t dead?

The next day, Dad goes to the station and Ma opens the store, and people come in to both places, but nobody buys any food or asks to get their car fixed. Instead, they crowd by the radio waiting for somebody to say what’s going on in Pearl Harbor. Most of ’em don’t ask nothing about the Philippines, like they don’t even know it was bombed too, but when Ma or Dad says Jimmy and Floyd are there, they start to worrying about what’s going on there too.

I mop the kitchen floor, even though Ma don’t tell me to, and I keep myself busy ’cause I don’t know what else to do.

That night, President Roosevelt comes on to give one of his Fireside Chats. Dad sits in his butt-dented chair, and Ma sits on the edge of hers, and she’s got a dish towel in her hands that she’s tugging and twisting so hard that, if it was made of paper, it would be all shredded up on the floor.

I don’t understand all of what the President says, but best I can tell, he’s saying that we tried hard to be friends with them Japs, but nothing much worked. He starts talking about them places in Europe and how the Nazis are attacking countries all over and without warning them first. This don’t surprise me none. You’d have to be pretty goddamn dumb to tell somebody that you was gonna wail on ’em before you did it, and I ain’t sure even a Jap or that Nazi bastard is
that
stupid.

Roosevelt, he talks about us being at war now, and how we all gotta be in it together. I hope to hell he don’t mean me. Then he starts talking about that bombing in Pearl Harbor. Even he, the President of the United States, don’t know how bad they got bombed there, imagine that, but he says that it’s gonna be bad, he thinks. And he’s talking about how it’s gonna be a long, hard war, and how we gotta make more weapons for it. “It is not a sacrifice for any man, old or young, to be in the Army or the Navy of the United States. Rather it is a privilege,” the President says, and Ma grunts and says, “Privilege!” and she sounds real pissed off at Roosevelt. Dad tells her to hush and he turns the radio up louder.

I don’t listen to all of what the President is saying, ’cause I get busy wondering if he’s sitting in his wheelchair as he’s talking or if they got him propped up by that fireplace. And I get to thinking about how maybe, if people let a cripple man be President, three whole times, then maybe they’d let a dumb person be President at least once. I ask Dad about this, soon as Roosevelt says we is gonna win this war and stops talking. Dad says, “Well, Wilson was no genius, but I guess you wouldn’t exactly call him simpleminded. Course, the way this world is going to shit, I don’t doubt that one of these years, we’ll have a downright idiot for a President.” Ma gets pissed at me and Dad for talking about this. “Our Jimmy is in trouble and this is all you two can think about?” she says, and then I feel kinda bad.

Days go by, and still we don’t hear if Jimmy’s alive or dead. We listen to Gabriel Heater’s war reports every night. He’s got the best voice I ever did hear on the radio. He tells where the army is, and which buncha guys is getting shipped where, but he don’t say no guys’ names, so we don’t know nothing about Jimmy, or Floyd, or Louie.

It takes a long time, but one day, while me and Ma is pricing bottles of Epsom salts and I’m putting them on the shelf, label side out, the mailman stops in to hand Ma the mail. He’s got his fist full of letters and he’s sorting through ’em looking for ours as he’s talking to Ma about how cold it is. Ma sees a Western Union letter poked out from the heap in his hand, and she sees them two stars in the corner that lets the mailman know that he’s bringing bad news to somebody. Ma makes a god-awful noise and she grabs on to the counter. “No, no, Mrs. Gunderman. This telegram isn’t for you. Look, see, just the usual mail for you.” Ma gulps hard and my stomach floats back down to where it should be. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gunderman. I shouldn’t have let you see that telegram.” Then Ma asks him if that telegram is gonna go to Louie’s folks or Floyd’s Dad, and he says he can’t say.

Mrs. Pritchard don’t waste no time waddling into the store, big snowflakes dropping off the back of her ass onto the scrubbed-clean floor. “I just come by Louise Olson’s place,” she tells Ma, and she shakes her head real sad-like, so we know that telegram was about Louie. I hear everything she says, at least my ears do, but my heart, it don’t hear a goddamn thing.

Ma gets so upset as the day passes that she starts screaming at Dad, right at the supper table, where we ain’t suppose to yell. “I told you we should have gotten Jimmy out of the National Guard. He was drunk, for godssakes. He didn’t know what he was doing. My God!”

“It’s water under the bridge now that war’s been declared. It won’t be long and
all
our boys will be called up to fight.”

“You’re right about that, Hank! One by one, they’ll take them, just like before. And you know as well as I do just how many of them will die, buried where they fall, no mother to cry over their grave.”

Ma don’t ever cuss, but she cusses now. “You goddamn men and your war! You’re all the same. Just itching to go fight. To fight for what? To save the goddamn world like last time? Do any of you even give a damn that you take away our sons, our husbands, our brothers? Damn you all!” Ma runs into the bedroom and slams the door. Dad stops eating, his fork and knife just hanging there in the air. “They are
our
sons and brothers too,” he says, but Ma don’t hear him, ’cause her bedroom door is shut, and he ain’t said it with more than a whisper anyway.

I think about what Ma says when I’m laying in bed. I don’t think nobody gets to be the boss of a country unless he’s a man, and I know that men like to kick ass. I get to wondering then about how things might be if ladies was the boss of countries, instead of men. I think maybe there wouldn’t be no wars then. I think if any guys even got the notion to shoot somebody’s head off or toss a grenade in somebody else’s yard, a lady president would yell her fool head off and make them work twice as hard until they learned their lesson.

Chapter 7

L
ouie’s body ain’t coming home, on account of it’s stuck inside that ship that is sunk to the bottom of the ocean, all blowed to shit. So there ain’t no casket at Louie’s funeral, just a picture of Louie in his Navy uniform, propped up at the front of the church, right alongside of a flag folded up like a napkin, and the letter saying Louie is dead, signed by the President himself. I think of how it’s a damn shame you gotta get killed by the Japs before the President writes you a letter, ’cause Dad sure would like a letter signed by President Roosevelt. All around that picture and letter and flag, there is flowers. So many flowers that the whole church stinks like perfume.

I feel real sad when I see Louie’s ma and dad sitting up at the front of the church, her shoulders moving like they is panting, and his all drooped down like they was hit by a bomb too.

Preacher Michaels, he starts talking about God’s love and something called mercy, but I don’t pay much mind to that ’cause I can’t make heads or tails outta what he’s saying anyway. I just look around and think about how it ain’t right that Jimmy and Floyd and John ain’t here, and I think of how the kid next to me should stop picking his nose in church.

I feel sad to start with, but when this girl stands up and starts singing “Amazing Grace” in a voice as pretty as an angel’s, then that sad grows so big and runs so deep in my guts that I start to crying. I think of how Louie won’t be going sucker fishing with us no more, and how I ain’t never gonna get to open him another Schlitz. I think about how scared Louie was when Floyd shot him in the head, and I think about how much more scared he musta been when it was big-ass bombs aiming at his head, not just a little spray of bird shot.

Before I know it, I’m slapping the sides of my head just like there is blood right in front of my eyes. I am making so much racket that Dad takes me outside. Dad don’t get all frazzly and harpy at me like Ma does when I do this. He just takes my hands away from my stinging face and holds ’em and says, “It’ll be okay, Earl. It’ll be okay.” Then it’s like I’m a popped tire and I’m done hitting my head and I’m leaning on Dad and crying and I don’t even care if I look like a titsy baby.

Dad leads me down to the church basement for sandwiches and pickles and cake when I’m done with my fit. Mrs. Pritchard’s fat ass is the first thing I see when we get down there. That chair don’t look no bigger than a teacup under that ass.

It’s noisy with so many people talking and little kids playing tag around the tables, even though their mas are yanking their arms and telling ’em to settle down. The men are talking about when Spring Lake is gonna freeze over enough to ice fish, and the ladies are talking about if there is enough coffee, or if they should make some more. None of ’em are talking about Louie, and I wonder if they forgot that that’s why we come here, to talk about Louie and say good-bye to him. Ain’t nobody, it seems, who remembers why we is here except maybe Molly and Mary, who is sitting together holding hands and sniffling into their hankies. I know I forget things sometimes, so I get to thinking maybe even smart people forget things sometimes too, so I decide to help ’em remember. I stand up, and I shout real loud, “Louie’s dead!”

Everything in the room gets dead quiet. I can see they ain’t remembering nothing, ’cause they look all dazed, like they got clobbered over the head or something, so I say, “He got shot up by the Japs, and now he’s stuck in the ocean, so we come here to say good-bye to him.” Nobody moves. Everybody just sits there all frozed up like their bodies and even their eyelids got the polio. Everybody ’cept Ma, that is. She comes running across the room so fast her skirt is flapping, and she tugs me down to my chair and says, “Earl, what on earth has come over you?” Then she calls to Dad and I gotta go outside again, even though I ain’t slapping my head.

That night Dad comes into my room. He looks as tired and old as a grandpa. “You all right, Earl?” he asks. I shrug ’cause I know I’m suppose to say yes, but I don’t wanna say yes ’cause that would be a lie, and I’m thinking I got God pissed off at me enough already.

Dad sits on my bed and he pats my leg that’s lumped up under the covers.

“Dad, is Louie in heaven?”

“Well, Earl, I’m not much of a religious man, but I guess at times like this we all get a bit more religious, don’t we?”

“Is Louie in heaven?” I ask again, ’cause he ain’t answered me the first time.

“Well, son, the Bible says if we love Jesus and live a good life, then yes, we go to heaven after we die.”

“Are you living a good life if you drink Schlitz and go chasing girls with big titties in Janesville, and if you cuss a little bit?” Dad drops his head and smiles some and the chubby red skin under his chin poofs out.

“Louie was a good boy, Earl,” he says, and I sure am glad to hear Dad say that.

“Dad, you worried about Jimmy?” I ask.

“Course I am,” he says.

“I’m worried too. Jimmy’s the best brother I ever had.”

Dad smiles again, and it might just be he got something in his eye, since Dad don’t cry, but he blinks hard like his eyes are stinging him some. He gives my leg a quick squeeze and tells me to try to get some sleep.

After Dad leaves, I lay there and listen to the quiet. Jimmy’s room is right next to mine, and when he was home, I never heard nothing coming from that room at night ’cause Jimmy don’t snore and his bed don’t creak. Still, there was something that come from that room that let me know he was there, even if it wasn’t a noise. For months now, though, that room stays empty-quiet inside at night, and that makes me feel all empty-quiet inside too.

Dad told me to get some sleep, but I can’t ’cause my head’s wondering about some things. I’m a-wondering if there’s anybody in that heaven place at all besides that Jesus guy. Seems to me there can’t be, ’cause even when we try to be good, we do bad things sometimes. Things like axing fat ladies’ legs, or drinking Schlitz, or shooting our friend in the head. Preacher Michaels says we is all sinners, so if we’re all a bunch of sinners, how’s a damn one of us gonna get let in to heaven?

Betty Flannery, who teaches our Sunday school, calls God our “Heavenly Father” and says He loves us more than any dad in the whole world. I’m trying to sleep like I’m suppose to, but I just keep on thinking. Ma says Dad cusses like a sailor, and even though I don’t know how much a sailor cusses, I know Dad cusses a lot. He don’t pick up after hisself either, and sometimes, when somebody pays him cash for fixing their car, he don’t jot it down in that book so he knows how much he’s gotta pay the government. He just slips that money into his pocket, even though that’s being a cheater. Dad ain’t perfect. That’s what Ma says, and I guess she’s right. Still, sinner, cusser, and cheater of the government that he is sometimes, I know one thing for sure—I know that Dad would never get so pissed off at me or Jimmy that he’d lock us out of his house. And he’d never, ever, let some mean red guy poke us in the ass with a pitchfork and drag us into the basement and stuff us into the woodstove to burn for that eternity, which is a long, long time. If Dad can be that good of a dad, and he ain’t perfect, then I wonder how in the hell God, who is suppose to be perfect and the best dad in the whole world, can do those things. So before I go to bed, I ask God to please be as good of a dad to Louie as my dad is to Jimmy and me.