Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  Tony nodded. He wanted to speak but he now could not speak, was afraid to open his mouth. He was afraid he might cry but ... it was more than that. He might give information to the enemy, break his code of silence. Besides, it was payback time, penance time. They couldn’t do anything to him, his thoughts convoluted, that he didn’t deserve. His thoughts scattered. Cops cannot be trusted; lawyers cannot be trusted; society cannot be trusted. He did not speak. He felt numb.

  Later that night they came for him, the uniformed man and three others Tony did not recognize. Again he did not defend himself, again he passively accepted their blows, cringed, involuntarily raised his hands, arms, to protect his eyes, until they grabbed him, pinned his arms behind him, forced him to his knees, his head pulled back, a knee in his back, the uniformed man flicking Tony’s mouth, lips, with the billy club. “This the way you held her?” The billy club was poked into his cheek, cheekbone, rocked his head, strained his neck. “Rammed yer club into her face, huh?” One man snickered, the uniformed man scowled, the snicker stopped. One man left, disgusted, unwilling to participate yet unwilling to stop the beating. The uniformed man rammed the billy club into Tony’s mouth, rammed it to the back of his throat. “Like that, Sar-gee-nt,” he mocked Tony. “Like this.” He ramrodded the club back and forth, Tony gagging, his lips splitting, bleeding, then Tony gagging, convulsively racking, vomiting, gagging on the vomit, vomiting more, the uniformed man angry, backing off, then forcing the side of the club against Tony’s neck, pressing, swearing, Tony’s air cut off, the blood flow blocked, his eyes bulging, “Should of gone out there years ago. Got rid of you scum.” Tony blacked out.

  When he came to he had been cleaned up, and again cuffed and shackled. The fluorescent lights were on. His neck, mouth, abdomen ached. His right leg twitched. He tried to let go but everything was taut, shivering. He tried to sit up but didn’t have the strength. He thought of Linda, of the baby on the porch, the baby on Storrow Drive, the family shot by the NVA, his own babies. Jumbled, chaotic thoughts, images, horrors against the fluorescent light coming through the bars, through his eyelids without rhyme or reason or order, and Tony, in his mind, laughing, doing his little jig, going to his death dancing.

  In a hospital southwest of town: She was afraid, in tears. Her father was trying to be warm, comforting but to her he was authority, harshness, righteousness, a mirror reflecting her evil, her offenses.

  “I didn’t do any, Daddy.”

  “It’s okay, Melissa. It’s okay.”

  “We never did any. Daddy, we never did. We just watched. I don’t know what happened.”

  “He put it in the punch.”

  “In the punch ...” Her voice shook, was thin. “The punch. Oh Lord! Lauren. Lauren must have had two glasses because she was so thirsty. I thought it tasted sour. And their glasses were dirty. I only sipped ...”

  “It’s okay, Melissa. We know it wasn’t intentional.”

  “That’s when Lauren began acting weird. That’s ...”

  “It’s okay. They caught that motorcycle creep.” Morgan Arlen turned, gritted his teeth. He did not want his daughter to see how irate he was. Still he could not help but say, “We’re going to hang that creep.”

  “What motorcycle?” Melissa wanted to piece the day together. She had not been told about Lauren’s death.

  “The guy with the Harley,” Morgan Arlen said. His stomach was tight with anger. “The guy with the frizzy hair. Anthony some Italian name.”

  “Daddy, there wasn’t any Anthony there. There was John, and his disciples. And Jennifer and Jessie and Beth Ann and the two earth moms.”

  “It’s okay, Melissa. They caught him red-handed. Caught him with one of the girls.”

  “No, Daddy. It was John’s commune. He hated motorcycles. He was afraid of them.”

  Rock Ridge, Pennsylvania, Thursday, 24 September 1970—Anthony F. Pisano was heavily sedated. He had been admitted to the Rock Ridge Veterans Medical Center two days earlier as a transfer from a private facility in the far Midwest. He had been heavily sedated and escorted to Rock Ridge by two men he didn’t know, two men who’d barely spoken. His transportation had been arranged and paid for but Tony did not know if it was by those two men or some other. It was not part of his record. His motorcycle, he had been told, was being repaired and would be shipped via ground transport.

  They had brought him to Rock Ridge because it was the nearest facility to his home of record. He had no address, no forwarding address from his last known residence: Long Avenue, Boston, Massachusetts. The admissions report noted that Pisano, Anthony F., had been indigent, that he had attempted to commit suicide by jumping out a third-story hotel window. He had been saved, the report said, by landing in a small tree that had broken his fall though it had badly bruised his face. The report noted that only days before his jump he had saved the life of a young woman by administering CPR. His depression, it was speculated, must be due to previous events. The father of the young woman, wishing anonymity, had sent a one-thousand-dollar reward to be given to Sergeant Pisano upon his release from the hospital.

  “Date of birth?”

  “Ten November 1947.”

  “Service number?” To Tony the man looked old, older than his own father. He was balding from the front. He was dressed in a loose-fitting suit, a striped tie. He sat in a chair before his desk. Tony was in an identical chair, facing him. “Dates of service?” The man had Tony’s admissions form, a copy of his service record, a copy of his preliminary physical. He had told Tony his name twice but Tony had forgotten it and felt uneasy asking again. The man reviewed the information slowly, lackadaisically, as if he were killing time. Tony focused on the green blocks of the half-tiled walls of the office, thought the work was well done. He looked out the window. It was sunny, windy. “... Panama, Viet Nam ...” The man talked on, told Tony a little about where he was, what to expect. “Anthony,” the man raised his voice as if Tony couldn’t hear, “do you know why you are here?” He looked at Tony’s face with professional empathy, with no real interest.

  “No,” Tony said. To Tony his own voice sounded strange, far off, as if speaking inside a box.

  “Do you remember being in the hotel? Up on the third floor?”

  Tony shook his head. He had no idea what the man was talking about.

  “How do you feel right now?”

  “So-so,” Tony said. His voice was flat, listless. It distressed him but he had no energy to lift it, make it a real voice.

  “What are you thinking?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tony answered.

  “You don’t know or you don’t want to share it with me?”

  “I don’t know,” Tony repeated.

  The man sat back, eyed Tony, didn’t speak, seemed to Tony to be disappointed with him. Finally the man said, “You know I want to help you, don’t you?”

  Tony was confused.

  “I want to help you. Do you remember trying to ... trying to harm yourself?”

  “You mean ...” Tony’s voice was slow, far off.

  “Yes.”

  “... like on Storrow Drive?”

  “Yes,” the man said. He knew nothing about Storrow Drive, guessed that it was the location of the hotel.

  “I was feeling like really fucked up—” Tony stopped abruptly.

  “You can say ‘fucked up’ in here,” the man said.

  “That was really fucked,” Tony said. His words were intense but his tone was without spunk.

  “Why?” The man tried to pull it out of him.

  “Because all those kids died.” Tony looked at the man, knew the man had no idea what he was talking about, still wondered how the man knew anything at all about Storrow Drive. “And their mother,” Tony added.

  “Hm,” the man said.

  “Her head was just scraped clean away. Nothin left ... blood en bone ... could see her spine ...”

  The man fought his immediate impulse. “Yes,” he said calmly.

&nb
sp; “Musta been caught between the car and the road,” Tony said. “The blood shined in the road in all the lights. When I reached in, her blood dripped on me.”

  “That must have been very distressful.” The man maintained his professional interest.

  “Well ... I seen a lot of that shit.” The words dribbled from Tony’s mouth. “But that ... without the head ... I mean nothin to recover, ya know? At Dai Do we hacked off a lot of heads but you know they were right there.”

  “Dai Do? That’s where Storrow Drive is?”

  “No.” Tony clammed up. He could not understand how this man could make such a stupid mistake.

  “Excuse me.” The man attempted to recover. “Of course.” Tony volunteered nothing more. “Can we go back to the hotel,” the man said. It was not a question. “You tried to hurt yourself. That’s when you bruised your face.”

  Now Tony felt more alert, mentally, even if the sedative had sapped him physically. “They beat shit outta me because a bunch a people died. But I didn’t have nothin to do with it. But ... like death follows me. Ever since Nam. Philly. So many in Philly. And Boston. And then Jimmy. It’s like I’m a fuckin death magnet. Death with a capital D. Touch me and you die.”

  “Have you killed a lot of people?” The man fidgeted in his chair, attempted to maintain his calm countenance.

  “Shit yeah,” Tony said. Suddenly he blurted, “SHIT! Yeah, I killed em. What the fuck do you think?” There was anger in Tony’s voice. “And I’d kill em again. If I could find that motherfucker that killed Manny I’d kill im. Some fuckin times, Man, I can be there, you know? I can be right there and I can stop it. I can be holding Manny but let go of him and see that motherfucker before he fires and fire his ass up.” Tony cocked his arms, clenched his hands as if clutching a rifle; his face tightened, his eyes intense, aiming in, searching a treeline. “Blow that motherfucker right outta a tree. Or the dink who hit the lady and her kids. The one with the belt. I can be there cause I was there. I saw him like, what, an hour earlier. And I’d grease that fucker.” Tony turned his eyes on the man. “I’d waste that fucker. I’d do the same to that fucker drivin the Volvo!”

  The man was shaken. He tried to hide it. He did not want this sociopath to turn on him, wasn’t certain how to control him, wasn’t certain if he should, if for therapeutic reasons he should let Tony run on. But he knew there would be other sessions.

  Tony could see that the man was afraid and it angered him. “I thought my head was fucked up”—spit came from the corners of Tony’s mouth—“you know, from ol’ Nam Bo. I was the Will. I was the Will to pull the fuckin trigger. But when I got back, when I started to deal with the Mickey Mouse shit, with you slimy civilians, you fucked me over worse than Nam ever did.” Tony was hissing, glaring.

  “Okay, Anthony. Not me. Right? That’s one of the rules in here. I’m here to help, remember?”

  “Yer all fuckin here to help. Bash my fuckin head in. Fuck yer help. A fuckin grunt can cope with nerves, Man. Cope with all kindsa shit. Can’t cope with slime.”

  On Friday the 25th of September 1970, Dr. Jonathan Freiburg officially diagnosed Anthony Pisano as suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder. He recommended an initial three-month therapy, one session per week, and prescribed Elavil and Thorazine to reduce the threat of violence to self and others, and diazepam for the muscle spasms in Tony’s right leg.

  Mill Creek Falls, 27 September 1970—It was Sunday, her “day off,” and it was her wedding anniversary. Linda was exhausted. She had started the day early as any mother with four-month-old twins does, with a predawn feeding. She no longer checked the clock, just started by tucking Gina in on the right, Michelle on the left, football holds with the infants’ legs sticking out behind, their bodies resting on pillows under her arms, their heads in her hands. She gently massaged their scalps, the tickle of their fine curls delighting her as she lay back on her own built-up pillows, relaxed, let the milk come, chuckled as Gina smacked and gurgled away at Rangoon, as Michelle, now the bigger by seven ounces, worked methodically draining Bangkok of every last drop. Then Linda had put them in the crib they shared and still in predawn showered and washed her hair and even shaved her legs—luxury of luxuries.

  In May Linda had returned from the hospital to her apartment, as she’d insisted—brought there by John Sr. and Jo, Isabella already there preparing the house for the homecoming and Annalisa helping her mother. Jo had stayed for the first ten days, had called Norma, Linda’s mother, saying, “They’re so beautiful. Come up and see them. You could stay here or in the guest room in our home.” Norma had answered, “I’ll have to ask Henry,” and Henry had said, “We don’t have a daughter named Linda.” In June, John Sr. showed up with a used, gray-and-white 1966 Ford Country Squire station wagon that he’d registered in Linda’s name. In July Linda had gotten her Pennsylvania nursing credentials and had landed a job with 86-year-old Mrs. Victoria Meredith of River Front Drive, who allowed Linda to bring Gina and Michelle but who begrudged the infants Linda’s time.

  At noon Linda had her first visitors, Grandma and Grandpa Pisano, as she now called them, and John Jr. and his girl, Molly Kleinman. “Oh. Hi!” Linda beamed. “Did you knock? I didn’t hear ...”

  “We just walked up,” Jo said quietly. She gave Linda a hug. “We don’t want to wake the babies.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Linda said. “They’re in there gabbing at each other. They’re so funny. They actually goo-goo to each other. Hi Grandpa.”

  “How are you, Linda?” John Sr. said.

  “Great,” Linda said. “Come on in,” she said to Johnny and Molly, who’d remained on the porch. Then back to her father-in-law, “Want a cup of coffee? It’s fresh.”

  “Linda,” Jo said, “I don’t know how you do it. I’m just going to peek in, okay?”

  John Sr. said, “I’ll get it. I brought you some pastries. From the Italian bakery.”

  “Oh, Grandpa”—Linda scolded him—“and me still with fifteen pounds to lose.”

  “Can I peek in too?”

  “Of course. Bring them out if ... ah ... unless they need to be changed. You don’t want to get a leak on your nice clothes.”

  “We just came from church,” Johnny said.

  “If they need it, I’ll change em,” Linda called. She already had out four cups and saucers, spoons, napkins, and was untying the pastry box. Grandma returned carrying bright-eyed Gina. Molly brought in Michelle, who the instant she saw her mom squirmed, her face furling into a boo-boo face, emitting a tiny sniff.

  “Ohhh!” Grandpa Pisano drew out the word. “Look at that face. Let me hold her.”

  They stayed an hour. Molly confided to Linda that she and Johnny were thinking about getting married. She did not mention it being Linda and Tony’s anniversary, pretended, as they all did, as if the present situation was normal, wonderful, as if nothing had happened. Except for John Sr. who lingered after the others had left and said to Linda, “Any word?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a postcard.”

  “No.”

  “I’m ...” John Pisano’s voice trembled. “If he comes back ...”

  “He’ll come home,” Linda said softly. “Really, Grandpa.”

  “You don’t know how sick this makes me.”

  “I know he’s going to come back,” Linda said. “I just know it.”

  “Do you need anything? You shouldn’t have to work.”

  “You paid the doctor,” Linda said. “You gave me the car. And the furniture and toys. You’ve done so much. And Annalisa and Aunt Isabella are always helping. Really, we’re doing okay. And I like working.”

  “But with the babies ...” John Pisano shook his head. “Not even a card on your first anniversary. Not even a damn postcard.”

  An hour later Jessie Taynor banged on the door waking up the infants. “Ssshh!” Linda flew to the door to stop her, shook her head hearing Michelle cry.

  Jessie, seeing her look
, cringed. “I didn’t make t’em cry,” she said.

  “No. No, Jessie. You didn’t. Come in.”

  “Jessie didn’t make t’em cry. They make Jessie cry.”

  “Ssshh.” Linda raised her finger to her lips. Jessie had become her “buddy.” She was good to talk to unless she was in her defensive mode. Then she neither listened nor made sense but instead struck out verbally, sometimes physically—sometimes to the delight of the twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys who would see her on the street, torment her, just to listen to her ramble and rage and watch her waddle after them shaking her big fists, her fat arms.

  “Do you want a pastry?” Linda asked.

  “Um.”

  “Okay. Sit down. At the kitchen table. Let me quiet the girls.”

  “Jessie didn’t make t’em cry.”

  “No. Jessie didn’t make them cry. But now Linda must kiss them.” Linda went into the nursery, smiled at her two babies who were lying, Gina belly-down, Michelle belly-up, next to each other, Michelle’s right arm under Gina’s head, Gina’s right arm over Michelle’s chest. “What are you two doing, huh?” Linda checked their diapers. They were both damp but, she thought, not really wet. She cranked up the musical mobile that craned over the crib. “Let me talk to Jessie,” Linda said sweetly, “then maybe we’ll go out in the stroller. Or maybe read a book.”

  Back in the kitchen Jessie had already eaten both napoleons and the only cannoli that John Jr. hadn’t eaten earlier.

  “So, Jessie, how are you?”