by Joe Cassilly
“It’s not on my diet.”
“You don’t take a break.”
“The ground that I won is too important. Maybe I’ve replaced compulsive eating with compulsive dieting, but I can tell you that I can’t get away from the fact that I’m proud of myself.”
We started down the lane in the Pontiac. “Nice car.”
“It’s stolen,” I said dryly.
“You are crazy.”
“You know, a poll of most of the people who know me would probably get you the same opinion. Put a tape in if you find anything you like.”
We headed down the hill into Castle’s Crossing, named for Edwin Webster Castle, the son of a Welsh mining engineer. Edwin’s older brothers inherited the ownership and management of some slate and granite quarries on the other side of the Susquehanna. Edwin had to find some way to make money. His brothers had to take the long roundabout way to get their stones to the big cities. Most of the river there had high bluffs on both sides. Edwin surveyed the river and found that this spot had long gradual slopes that ran up from the river on both sides. He acquired the land and set up a ferry and shipping company and charged his brothers to bring their slate and granite across. Most of the granite ended up in the older buildings in the town, but the slate went on to cover most of the roofs in Philadelphia, Lancaster, Trenton, and everyplace in between.
On the outskirts of town, I drove by Drier’s Building Supplies where I had worked summers during high school. The town had no place to grow, except on the top of the hills, so it had not changed in over a hundred years. The Catholic church, Saint Luke’s, was made of granite. Most of the children in town either went to Saint Luke’s school or got on a bus and went up the hill to the new county school. We parked in the school parking lot. I pushed to the front of the church. There were six granite steps up the front and no ramp. I waited while Ann went inside to ask the ushers to help me in. A woman’s voice spoke from behind me.
“Hi Jake.”
It was Valerie Robinson; her older sister Betsey was the girl in the peach colored gown that I had taken to the prom. Her family was our neighbors.
“Hi Val.” Her dad and mom walked up. Her dad put both of his hands around my outstretched hand and shook my hand. “Welcome home, son. I don’t know what else to say but thank you, Jake.”
His greeting took me by surprise. I told him good morning and Mrs. Robinson stepped forward and hugged me and the other two daughters said hello. “How’s Betsey?”
“She’s still in college,” answered Val with an edge to her voice. Just then, Ann came down the steps with Hank and Charlie Drier. They were going to carry me and the chair up the steps. I recruited Mr. Robinson and another man who was on in his way in to help. The Driers had spent a lifetime slinging sacks of concrete and lumber and probably could have handled it without help, but I just felt better with the extra hands.
Once in church, I sat behind the last pew. Ann and the Robinsons sat in that pew. The Robinsons had four daughters all with light brown hair and freckled faces from hours at high school team sports practice. The oldest, Betsey, had graduated with me. Valerie had been two years behind so I figured that made her about eighteen. Of the other two daughters, Diana would be sixteen and Julia fourteen. Despite their ages, they were all roughly the same height of five feet nine or ten. I began the Mass in a very prayerful state of mind, thanking God for bringing me home when others would never know that experience. I did not recognize the priest who was crossing to the pulpit to read the gospel.
I had long ago concluded that God had assigned an angel to pick the gospel readings that, under the circumstances of the moment, were directed to me alone. Like the time in Vietnam I returned from my first mission when we had a firefight. Our patrol had unexpectedly walked into a Viet Cong patrol. Everyone on both sides just stood frozen for a few seconds looking at their enemy. Then, everyone grabbed their triggers at the same instant. The shooting only lasted about thirty seconds. Most of the bad guys ran back down the trail rather than reload, but one young man was rolling on the ground. He died a few minutes later. I went to church that Sunday and the priest read, “Treat others the way you would have them treat you.” I wondered if that man had died because of the way that he had treated others or if I was the one who had better watch out.
The priest motioned for the congregation to stand. Ann, Valerie, Diana, and Julia stood right in front of me. I sat marveling at the sexuality of the female bottom. I could see the designs on Valerie’s panties through the white dress she wore. No museum could show me paintings or sculptures that were any more pleasing to the eye than the backsides of these four women. Although these bottoms spanned a period of sixteen years, they were all in great shape. Then, I tuned into what the priest was reading. “What I say to you is: anyone who looks lustfully at a woman has already committed adultery with her in his thoughts. If your right eye is your trouble, gouge it out and throw it away!” Suddenly, my hands of their own volition covered my eyes to save them from the excruciating pain of an avenging angel scooping them out in church.
I tried to concentrate on the sermon and keep my eyes in the missal and my thoughts on prayer. I looked up and saw her kneeling there, head bowed and hands folded. The designs on her panties were flowers, roses. Then, I realized that God himself—by not working a miracle—had given me this unique perspective of the female torso; being in a wheelchair put me at eye level with their anatomy from their breasts to their bottoms.
After church, the Driers did not wait for anybody else and took me down the steps. I waited to talk to several folks that I recognized when I rolled back from communion. Mr. Robinson brought the priest over and said, “Father, this is Jake Scott. He just came home from Vietnam.” The priest nodded and looked around, anxious to see someone else to speak with, but Mr. Robinson tightened his grip on the priest’s arm. As the priest and I exchanged looks, Mr. Robinson said, “Jake could give you an interesting perspective of the war.” The priest glanced at the tall man, gave him a weak smile, and pulled his arm free. The priest called to another parishioner and walked away.
“I don’t understand,” I said, but Mr. Robinson had gone to catch up with his family. Mr. and Mrs. Walls walked toward me. Mr. Walls stopped a few feet away but Mrs. Walls came to me and squeezed my shoulder. I remembered the day in my junior year of high school that their son was called from class to be told that his brother had been killed in Vietnam. It was the first time I knew someone with a personal contact to the war. Mrs. Walls was smiling at me, but her eyes were fighting to contain her emotions.
“Your mother must be very glad that you’re home.”
“Yes, ma’am.
“This Memorial day, we are going to have a ceremony at Johnnie’s grave.” She spoke slowly and deliberately to keep the memories from overwhelming her. “We would like it if you could come.”
“I’m only home from the veteran’s hospital for a week.” A look of disappointment shot across her face. “But if I can get back, I’ll be there.”
“Please forgive my husband that he does not speak to you. He finds it hard.” The woman stepped forward and hugged me tightly and I heard a moan of agony. I patted her back. She turned and walked back to her husband, clutching a tissue. I pushed for the car. I could not imagine the feelings of emptiness and pain felt by a parent who has lost a son. I stopped beside a big tree and reached out and felt the texture of its bark and felt a sense of comfort from its long life.
Ann was talking to Hank Drier. They were about ten feet apart. Hank was about thirty-five years old and a big man with a huge neck, broad shoulders, and large hands. He was poised like a wrestler. Ann was smiling, gripping her purse like she was trying to tear it in half and twisting her toe into the dust. They were looking at each other as if the other were growing a horn from their forehead. I had gotten to know Hank well when I worked for his family. He was a non-stop talker once he got to know you.
Ann saw me watching them. She took a few steps toward Hank. St
opped. Then shoved her hand forward as if she wanted to karate chop him in the kidneys. He took her hand and they said goodbye. She walked quickly toward me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Hank was inviting me to go out with his brother’s family on their boat, but I told him that you had just come home and I couldn’t.”
“Do you like him?”
“Well,” she said, hesitating, “yes.”
I turned and pushed to Hank, who had started to walk away. “Hey Hank, wait up.” I looked back. Ann was watching us. While I pushed back to her, Hank smiled at her and waved. She waved.
“What did you say to him?” she asked as we walked toward the car.
“I said you asked me if it was all right if he came over for dinner about four.”
“You what! And what did he say?”
“He said sure he would be glad to.”
“Jake!” By this time, we had reached the car and she helped me roll in the chair. She got in and asked, “What will your mother say?”
“What’s my mother got to do with it?”
“I haven’t ever asked any man to the house.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not my house.”
“Yeah. Where’s your house? You’re more concerned about whether your older sister will approve of them.” Ann looked worried. “We’ll just say Hank is an old friend of mine that I asked for dinner,” I said.
She nodded, “Okay.” She stared out of the window for a few minutes and then she turned to me. “What do you know about Hank?”
“He told me that his family was from Germany and his father brought the family and his parents to the United States in 1938. His father changed the way they spelled their name. Hank was drafted toward the end of the Korean War, but when the Army found out he had grown up speaking German, he was stationed in Germany where he worked on big construction projects with German contractors.” I glanced at her to see if she wanted to hear more. She tilted her head, waiting for me to continue. “I know his brother Charlie got to go to college, but Hank is the brains in the business. It’ll be interesting when old man Drier dies to see who gets to run the business.”
“Jake, his dad died last October.”
“Oh.” I curled my lips into my teeth. “So, who runs the business?”
“Mama Drier.”
“Mama Drier!?” I was surprised. I could not picture her in coveralls.
I drove into the parking lot between a little market and a liquor store. “I’ll go in and get steaks for the grill and some other fixings. You pick out some wine and beer.” I rolled into the little market and back to the meat counter. I peered through the glass case, over lean red pieces of beef. I could see a woman cleaning a stainless steel cutting top against the back wall. “Hello. Could you help me?” I called. She looked around above the display case, but saw nothing and went back to cleaning the cutting top. “Yoo-hoo. I’m over here.” She turned again and still did not see me. She became agitated.
“Ralphy, if that’s you playing around, get back to work.”
“It’s not Ralphy. I’m down here.” She slid open the door to the meat case and looked in and was startled to see a man’s head looking back. Her first thought must have been about why this crazy man was hiding behind the meat counter. She stepped back, took hold of a cleaver, and stepped onto a short step ladder.
“Oh, you’re in a wheelchair,” she said with relief. I did wonder what she had planning to do with that big knife.
“Can I have a couple of nice thick Delmonicos?” Then, I got the fixings for my baked bean recipe.
I tried to balance everything on my lap as I pushed to the checkout. I would push the wheels and grab the groceries before they fell; push, grab, push, grab. I laid the items on the counter and the belt carried them to the cashier. The wheelchair would not fit through the narrow checkout aisle. I apologized to the lady behind me who had already started unloading her cart and asked her to back out of the way. Then, I pushed down the row of check out counters and around the end but I found that there was a railing that kept me from getting back to the counter where my groceries were and that the “IN” door only opened in. So I called to the clerk who was waiting for me to pay. She went out the “OUT” door and opened the “IN” door so I could get out. Then she had to bang on the “OUT” door so that another clerk came and opened the “OUT” door so she and I could go in. I noticed that Ann was already sitting in the car watching this. I went in and paid and then came out to the car. Ann got out and took the bag from me.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“Adventures in wheelchair land.” I grinned, shaking my head in amusement.
33
Little Old Aunt
Ann went for her run early and left me at work in the kitchen. I started on my bean recipe. First, I threw a chunk of salted pork into a heavy pot. Then, I prepared to chop an onion, a stalk of celery, and a green pepper. I removed a vicious looking knife and brought it to the cutting board.
“And now,” I began narrating the process aloud, confident that I was alone, “the further adventures of Captain Cripple and the Mutant Vegetables from Venus. First Captain Cripple seizes the evil celery leader and subjects him to the water torture.” I rolled to the sink and scrubbed the celery, all the while making the sound effects for a drowning man. Then, I went back and laid the celery on the cutting board. I picked up the knife and hooked the handle between my right thumb and palm. I rested my left palm on the back of the blade. I patiently picked the knife up and down for each slice of the celery. The cutting board was at the level of my chest and my arms and shoulders grew stiff from working at that angle.
“Next, Captain Cripple seizes Herr Von Pepper and performs the delicate stemectomy.” I had to hold the knife in both hands but the pepper kept sliding away. I took the pepper and sat it in my crotch and put the point next to the stem. “Just remember, Captain Cripple—you slip here, you’re gonna be singing castralto.” Gently, I pushed the knife down and then pulled it out, moved over, and repeated the process until I had worked all the way around the stem. I pulled the stem and the seeds out. “Captain Cripple reports to the president that the evil Von Pepper’s brains have been removed.” Then, I tried slicing the pepper, but I became so frustrated that I grabbed the knife between both palms and hacked away at the pepper until it was in pieces.
“Finally, Captain Cripple comes to the dreaded Spanish onion. Buenos dias, Senor Cebolla.” The onion was much more difficult. “Hold still, you little son of a bitch—the more you struggle, the more you suffer—and the more I suffer.” I put the handle of the knife in my mouth and clenched it between my teeth, steadied the blade with one hand and the onion with the other. Then, I moved my head and shoulders forward and pushed down on the blade with my hand to slice the onion. By the time I finished, I could not see at all; tears were streaming down my face.
“The evil vegetable creatures have launched a chemical attack on Captain Cripple. Captain Cripple retreats for first aid.” I rolled to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Look at this! Captain Cripple’s little old aunt bought this expensive German stuff. Could it be that Captain Cripple’s little old aunt has the hots for this guy?”
“Who are you talking to?” asked Ann.
I almost jumped out of the chair. “Damn, woman, don’t sneak up on me.”
“Well, if you hadn’t been in here talking to yourself, you would have heard me come in. And who is Captain Cripple’s little old aunt?” The sheepish look on my face answered her question.
“Hey, do me a favor?” I asked. “Finish chopping that onion, please?”
Ann snatched the knife from the cutting board. “I’ve been gone forty-five minutes and that’s all you got done?”
“You try holding the knife between your teeth and let’s see how far you get.” I dumped the vegetables into the pot with some oil and stirred them, but it was hard to see into the pot sitting beside the stove. Next, c
ame Worcestshire sauce, brown mustard, and a big can of beans. I put a top on it and had Ann set it in the oven.
“What else were you planning to serve?” she asked.
“If you would pry the top off that beer, I thought that I would start with that. I bought cole slaw and steaks.”
“You want me to make some biscuits?” she volunteered.
“Good idea, a guy Hank’s size needs to know that you can cook.” She looked worried.
“You’re not going to tease me when Hank gets here, are you?”
“I’ll behave myself. How long have you been seeing Hank?”
“He has invited me out on the boat with his brother’s family twice, but we’ve never been alone. Frankly, I didn’t relish another afternoon with his relatives—they’re not my kind of folks.”
“You mean Charlie’s a loud-mouthed horse’s ass?” I suggested.
“Well, yes—and so is his wife.”
Suddenly, I felt faint and I realized I had done a lot for my first full day out of the hospital. “I need a nap. Wake me up before he gets here.” I hit the bed like a brick. Two hours later when Ann woke me, I felt as if I hadn’t been asleep any time at all.
At 4:00 p.m., I was on the side porch spreading the red coals in a hibachi; Ann had set up a folding table with a checkered cloth and a vase of fresh flowers. A big flat bed truck came driving up the driveway. I smiled. “That Hank knows how to impress a girl.” Hank came up on the porch and knocked at the front door. “Round here on side, Hank,” I called.
“Hey Jake, you doing the cooking?”
“I’m just burning the cow.” The sound of the stereo came through the window; apparently, Ann knew that Hank had arrived. Hank came over and sat on the porch rail. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. The sleeves stretched around his muscled arms. His face and neck were permanently red from years in the sun and wind. “How bout a beer,” I offered.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
I fished into the cooler of ice beside me and pulled out one of the beers. I wedged the beer into my crotch and pulled up the opener that hung on a string that I had looped over the brake handle. The odor of Hank’s cologne enveloped me. Good golly, he must have been going all out to impress Ann. I hooked the opener on the bottle and pulled up by putting my hand under the handle. But the wet bottle slipped, flew toward Hank, hit the floor, and the top shot off. The cold beer foamed across the floor. Hank scooped up the bottle, looked at the swallow left in the bottom, and drank it. I grimaced. “So, Hank, you want another beer?”
