Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  In thirty hours he had catnapped for less than two, had been near intoxication twice, had eaten little, traveled twenty-five hundred miles, walked the last fifteen. Now, at noon, with no wind, the temperature having risen to the upper seventies, the air thick with humidity as if August had shed a day into June, Wapinski set off to see Stacy. He had showered and shaved. He’d turned down Brian’s offer for clothes, not wanting to go back to his mother’s. Anyway, he wanted Stacy to see him just once in uniform.

  Brian lent him his car. Rob drove slowly, circuitously through downtown and Small Mill, across the old steel truss bridge, up 154 to the edge of New New Town. His stomach fluttered. The road whipped by more quickly than he imagined it could. He headed east on the county road past the subdivision, then south into rolling country and scattered farms, then east again, the old road twisting to follow the level, finally climbing over a ridge and falling into a narrow valley. He lit cigarette after cigarette, at times realizing he still had one going in the ashtray as he lit the next. The breeze coming off the road through the floor vents was hot. His feet sweated in the jumpboots. Beneath the dress green’s blouse his shirt was saturated. What to say? he thought. What to say? Ask her to marry you, he thought. Ask her. No. Not yet. Don’t be stupid. Beads of perspiration formed high on his forehead. It seemed hotter than Nam. What to say? He smiled thinking about her smile, her eyes. He put his left hand out the window, tried to deflect more wind into the car. Great way to see yer gal, he thought. Stinking sticky with sweat.

  This is too much, he thought, expecting her to be ready if I’m totally unexpected. I should call. He drove farther south and east then pulled into the shade at the side of the road. His thoughts were jumbled, dull. Was he going to see her response to his uniform, to him strong if skinny, hard, the conquering hero returned ready to storm the world for his lady? He rejected that notion, thought of her, of her eyes, face, smell, her poise and grace.

  He was going to see Stacy whom he loved, whom he had loved for four years, lived with for one wonderful month on leave before going overseas, written to innumerable times.

  He drove to her house, walked into the yard, went to the door. His feet barely touched the ground, his body felt weightless, numb, on autopilot, dumb, happy. Stacy would be—

  Before he could imagine how she would look, what she would say, Stacy’s mother opened the door. “Robert!” she cried. “Robert!” She threw her arms around him. Hugged him, kissed him the way he had hoped his own mother would have hugged and kissed him. He liked Stacy’s mom; she had always liked him.

  “Hi Ma.” He smiled casually, relaxed, the nervousness dissipating at finding her there, finding the house unchanged. “How ya doin, Sweetheart?”

  She looked at him smiling, about to answer, then her face contorted. She coughed.

  “Ma? What is it? I’m okay,” he jested, trying to lighten things up, back things up to when she was smiling. “Look, no holes.”

  “Robert, you’re not going to like this,” she said looking up at him, pitying him, pleading with her eyes as if to say, Please let him not mind, not care, not hate.

  “What’s the matter?” He was floating again. Jittery. “Where’s Stacy?”

  “She’s on the sun porch.”

  Wapinski did not hesitate. He walked through the house to the back. Through the window he could see Stacy on the porch. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she was, how sexy she looked in a bathing suit, her legs glistening with tanning oil. He stared for half a second before he saw the guy. Wapinski opened the door, stepped onto the porch, his chest puffed up, lats flared, shoulders tense under his uniform, teeth clenched. He stood legs apart, like a statue, solid, planted before them. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, then if he did move or speak he wasn’t aware of it. Perhaps they talked for several minutes. Perhaps he shook the guy’s hand. Perhaps he wished him well. Then he backed out, retreated, retreated to the car, withdrew, capitulated. Then all he could hear was Stacy saying, “I want you to meet my fiancé.... I want you to meet my fiancé.... I want you to meet my fiancé....” over and over and over. He loosened his blouse, removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. He looked at the slip of paper she had handed him as she’d shuffled him out. There was a name, address and phone number. Bea Hollands (Red). “You remember her,” Stacy had said, but he hadn’t really heard, had heard with his ears but not his brain. “She said when you got back she wanted you to stop by and say hello.”

  *This poem, along with the form of the monument described, is from the 1883 obelisk at Shelton, Connecticut.

  July 1984

  I REMEMBER WHEN THE town wasn’t so big, when it was just growing. We’d moved into the New Town subdivision into one of the first houses so it faced 154 and the old houses of Creeks Bend, which Pa said were built right after the war to house all the veterans who’d just come back, built of “tin cans and cardboard and held together with bubble gum” is what my Pa would say. I remember one time my Ma, Josephine, she took us to Morris’, the grocery downtown on Second Street ’cause the only market in our section was in Creeks Bend and it was owned by the Holland family and they overcharged for everything. Or so Pa said. That must of been nineteen fifty ... four, no, five, nineteen fifty-five cause I remember Mark was just over a year and Ma carried him on her shoulder the whole time she was shopping and Joe and I kind of tagged along behind bein a bit scared cause Morris’ was in Lutzburgh and most of the people who shopped there were like the Hartleys or the Merediths or the Cadwalders, which was Miriam Wapinski’s maiden name and which she used sometimes and would probably always of used but the kids were Wapinski on the school register and she’d be ever explaining ...

  That’s not what I was thinking though. I mean I was thinking maybe about the first time I saw Bobby but maybe it wasn’t the first time and maybe it wasn’t him. I never like asked him about it cause if it’d been me, I’d av been embarrassed.

  I remember there weren’t a lot of people in the store, but there were some, two or three in every aisle. And there were a bunch waiting to check out cause Mr. Morris’ daughter was at the register and she still had to look at the keys—not like him or even most of the high school kids he’d trained who could shoot their fingers over the numbers without looking and without making mistakes either.

  But what I remember, it was a real hot day, maybe August, summer, cause we weren’t in school, and Ma was carrying Mark, and Joe and I were putting things in the carriage when she told us, or foolin’ around if she wasn’t lookin. And up there by the check out was this lady with two kids—if it was Wapinski, Brian wasn’t with em cause he’s about as old as my oldest brother, John, who wasn’t with us either. But I think it was Miriam and Bobby and his kid sister, Joanne, and Miriam is fixing a curl on Joanne’s head and we’re coming up the aisle behind them. I can see this even though it’s really sunny out front and the people are mostly silhouettes against the big windows. I can more than see it. I can hear it. We’re at the end of the aisle near the big, three-sided Campbell’s soup display and I’m getting the chicken noodle and Joe’s getting the tomato because Ma said to do it that way.

  “You listen to me young man ...” That’s the way it started. I turned around and she had Bobby by the arm, like right in the armpit and she’s got him cranked up so one foot’s just touchin the floor and his shoulder is almost in his ear. Her face was really pretty except she was red around the eyes like somethin from Halloween. “You listen to me ...” she says harsh but quiet like nobody is suppose to hear except that there wasn’t any other noise and everybody kind of put their heads down but everybody heard. “... if you touch one more thing, you’re going to get it. Do you hear me?!”

  He didn’t say anything and she let go his shoulder and he sagged like his body was a sack of potatoes and he put his head down. They moved up in line so they only had one lady before them. We began the turn down the next aisle—oh yeah, I remember—we were getting paper plates too for a picnic we were going to have with Aunt Isabella
and Uncle James’ family, my cousin Jimmy and I were real close, and Aunt Helen was going to come, too. Joe and I were already in the next aisle and Ma was carrying Mark and maneuvering the cart behind the line and Miriam gave her a look like how-dare-you-dago-scum-come-in-here when there’s this big crash and I turn and soup cans are rolling all over the place and Miriam explodes—“ROBERT!”

  I mean, she like comes unglued. “You little bastard!” She grabs him again, right by the armpit again, and she lifts him and she smacks him on the ass hard enough to knock his feet from under him but he doesn’t fall cause she’s got him by the armpit. “You little bastard! How many times ...”

  “I didn’t.” His voice was high. I remember it was like high and thin.

  “Don’t give me that.” She’s shaking him with every word. “Don’t give me that. Do you think I’m stupid?!” And she’s dragging him to the front of the store, screaming really angry but controlling the volume and Joanne’s smirking like, “Ha! Ha! Robbie did it again.” And Joe and I are kind of hiding behind the carriage and Ma—only my Ma would do this—she’s holding Mark and she’s already picked up half the cans and is rebuilding the display like it was her job.

  Miriam’s still berating him. She just left their cart right in the register lane and she smacked him again good as they went through the door and I swear his pants were wet. Ma’s got me and Joe pickin up the last cans and there are people comin’ to the front of the store and I think they’re thinkin we knocked it down. And I look out the window and the Wapinskis had a big sedan, you know, maybe a Packard, and I see her shove him in the back door and he’s about to sit on the seat and she shoves him onto the floor and slams the door and I think I saw him cryin.

  Then Ma says to Joe and me, she says, “Get a jar of the Heinz India Relish that Daddy likes, okay? I’m going to get in line. You don’t want to be late with your paper route.”

  Yeah, I was almost eight, Joe was a month short of nine, and we delivered the newspapers to the houses that were already built and occupied in New Town, and Jimmy used to help sometime, too. Bobby Wapinski must of been nine, too. Nine and a half.

  2

  FOR THE NEXT SEVEN days the heat and humidity increased. Thunderstorms erupted over Mill Creek Falls then vanished without having cooled the air or lowered the humidity. The waters of the Loyalsock raged with runoff, crashed against the high rock mounds in the creek’s center, swirled in the natural stone kettles. For seven days Robert Wapinski stayed drunk. He had not yet hit bottom, wasn’t even close. The homecoming whirlpool had not yet sucked him down to its greatest depths, would not until he was sickened, horrified, not by the behavior of others but by his own.

  The two days after seeing Stacy, Wapinski was stupid sloppy exhausted falling-down drunk. Brian and Cheryl bickered about it, Brian telling her to give him time, yet after only two days he told Rob that his presence was wearing thin. Wapinski hit his stride with the bottle on Tuesday and for the next five days he was standing up controlled drunk, the kind of self-medicated drunken state where one no longer is aware of his feelings or thoughts yet can still function. Sunday morning would find him looking up to see the top of the curb.

  “What’s this?” he asked his mother.

  “Your bankbook,” she answered passively, as if the obvious should not need asking.

  “I sent you four hundred dollars a month,” he said.

  “And that’s what I deposited.”

  “What happened to the rest of the money?”

  “Well, you owed us some money, you know.”

  “God damn it! No! No, I don’t know. There should be five grand in here.”

  “You did maintain a room here.”

  “What?!” This was too incredible.

  “We kept your room for you. All your clothes and other possessions are there.”

  “There’s only three thousand dollars here.”

  “I talked it over with Doug and he said that we could get a hundred and fifty dollars a month for a room in this part of town. That’s what some of the men at the mill pay, and their rooms aren’t even in the Lutzburgh section. It’s only fair. Besides,” she said flatly, “the money went right back into the house. Those cabinets are all wood and—”

  “And you bought a fuckin TV too.”

  “Don’t talk that way in my house.”

  “You can keep your fuckin house and your fuckin room.”

  “You’re just going to throw it away on some stupid car, aren’t you?”

  “That’s my business.” He’d picked out a car at Lloyd’s Autoland. He wanted to pay cash.

  “You’re just like your father.”

  “Wha—? That again! God damn. I’ll come back for my shit.”

  “I’m not going to say it again,” she screamed. “Don’t you ever talk to me that way!”

  Wednesday morning. The car brought back his smile. It made him feel like High School Harry but it was a good feeling and it was his first car and it was dazzling. He had never owned a vehicle before: in high school because he was saving his money for college; in college because there simply wasn’t enough money after tuition, room, board and books. Carefully he guided the used black-and-red two-door convertible from the lot at Lloyd’s. His legs slid on the red Naugahyde of the front bucket seat as he blipped the throttle and the hopped-up Mustang 289 torqued over, the posi-traction rear end dropped and grabbed, the radials grabbed the pavement.

  His smile spread. The waxed and polished finish gleamed in the early day sun. He unleashed the Mustang’s power on Mill Creek Road, roared past the New Mill, climbed the hill past the junkyard and the town dump turnoff, slid into the ninety-degree left below the Old Mill and the cascade at the falls before throttling back for the esses. Then feeling elated, he again punched it, zooming northwest through pasturelands toward Grandpa Wapinski’s. He cooled down a mile before the family farm, stopped, turned around, headed back toward town. One surprise appearance was enough. He drove his new car to the dog pound behind the town dump, parked, went to the door, looked back and felt good. He went in, checked out the animals, left, drove to the unemployment office, registered, gazed at the girls. Then he drove to the state store and bought two bottles of scotch. He bought beer and cigarettes, groceries for Brian and Cheryl and a sleeping bag.

  On Thursday Bobby went back to the dog pound. He cuddled two Newfoundland-mix pups, an Old Yeller dog, a large black lab-terrier mix. In one cage, by himself, was a four- or five-month-old German shepherd-husky mutt. “Hey boy,” Wapinski called. The dog growled. “Well, fuc—What’s the matter?” Wapinski stepped forward. The dog leaped at the cage door, barked viciously, snarled. “Come on, boy. What’s yer name? Come on.”

  Wapinski laughed. The pup was ferocious, yet he looked so soft and cuddly to Bobby the incongruity was hilarious. “Come on,” Wap said, going to the door and raising the latch. The dog backed up to the middle of the eight-foot run. Wapinski went in, closed the door behind himself without taking his eyes from the pup. The pup backed to the rear of the cage, still growling, twitching his head quickly, not taking his eyes off the man but searching for an escape route. Wapinski squatted, spoke softly. “What’s yer name, pup? What’s your name? Is it Sally or Sue? Come on. How come you’re so defensive? Sally or Sue or Stacy? You a bitch? Who needs em, huh? You’re a boy, aren’t ya? Oh yeah, I can see. Have you been beaten?”

  Wapinski talked to the dog for ten minutes without trying to move closer. A warden’s assistant came into the kennel room, saw Wap, said, “Are you nuts? That little bastard bit me the first day—”

  “Sssshh.” Wap had risen when the boy came, though he had not removed his eyes from the dog. Now he backed out of the stall and re-latched the door. The pup flew at him, snapping his teeth just as Bobby pulled his hands out. “What’s his story?”

  “I don’t know,” the assistant said. “They found him and two others downtown in a box. You know them hick farmers all a time bringin dogs to town, dumpin em in front of the stores and figu
ring town people’ll just give em homes.”

  “That right?”

  “Yeah. We end up destroying three-quarters of em. That one’s goin next. If I’d had my way, they woulda injected im the first day we got im.”

  “When are you going to kill him?” Wapinski asked.

  “Friday. Maybe.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Yeah. Jerk.”

  “Hmm ... Jer ... Joe ... Josh.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll take him. His name is Josh.”

  “Hey, RJ,” Joe Akins said over the phone. He was a college friend of Wapinski’s who had stayed in school, had graduated in June ’67 as Wapinski would have had he remained. “Half dozen of us from our class are going back to the house for a party,” Akins told him.

  Wapinski looked at Cheryl’s back as she washed the dinner dishes. Brian was reading the paper. They had barely spoken to him since he’d brought Josh home. “Geez, Joe,” Wapinski said. He massaged Josh’s ears. The pup almost purred. “I haven’t been there since ... shit, it’s three and a half years!” Josh nuzzled his head against Bobby’s leg.

  “That’s okay, RJ,” Akins said. “The guys who are going back are all guys we graduated wit—ah, I mean, you know, guys we pledged with.”

  Lights shown from the open door of the fraternity house and from the basement windows. The rest of the house was dark. Wapinski slowed his car. Music blasted from the cellar barroom, up through the house, out into the sticky evening air. Wapinski parked the Mustang half a block away, left Josh curled up in the passenger bucket on the sleeping bag, walked in the shadows from tree to tree up the side of the street opposite from the house. Cars were parked in all directions, both sides of the street, up the side roads. Big party, he thought. He stood against the trunk of a large maple across from the house. The music was so loud he could feel vibrations in the ground. I should have met Akins somewhere, come with him, he thought. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, caressed his lighter. There was someone upstairs in the house. He knew it, felt it. Two barefoot coeds in cutoff shorts and T-shirts came down the inner stairs. Through the open door he watched them emerge from the darkness, walk across the large hall, disappear into the depth of the house. A man emerged from the dark stairs to the upper floor. Wapinski felt a pang of bitterness. He walked back to his car, grabbed a pint bottle from the back seat, patted Josh, returned to his observation post.