Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “It’s, ah, only eight ten. How are you?”

  “I’m doin jus fine. My friend Tony’s not, though.”

  “Tony? Who’s Tony?”

  “Linda’s husband.”

  “Oh! You mean your housekeeper ... with the two babies?”

  “Yep. Cept the babies are toddlin all over the place now. How you doin?”

  “Fine. Great. I’m sorry I don’t call more often. I’m making good money though. I can afford to call more if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. You could write, too. Stamp’s only eight cent. Eleven cent air mail.”

  “Well, I can afford the calls now. Really. I’m sorry I haven’t called more. How are you doing?”

  “Good. I get a crick in my hip. Sometime it jus gives out but mostly it’s okay. When Tony’s here he helps. He turned and planted the fields and was doin the barn roof but ... Ah, well.”

  “Um.”

  “How’s that little lady a yours doin?”

  “She’s fine. She might be changing jobs again.”

  “You two goina come back for that celebration I promised?”

  “Not quite yet, but ...”

  “Maybe Thanksgiving? Like you did last year.”

  “Maybe. We’ll have to talk about it.”

  “Hard to leave all that sunshine, eh?”

  “Oh, it’s not that. As a matter of fact, sometimes I think I should just pick up and leave.”

  “How come?”

  “You know. There’s a certain craziness to this place. Like up at The Res, the local lake. It was all pristine forest and watershed. Then some developer bought it and got permission to put in a subdivision. Wouldn’ta been so bad if he did it like the plans said but instead they just clear cut everything. I called them, tried to get an exclusive right to market their units but they’ve got their own sales division. Sometimes I wish ... Sometimes I wish I could design a community where this stuff doesn’t happen.”

  “You can,” Pewel Wapinski said. “But you have to start with yourself. It’ll come. That was a nice card you sent to Cheryl. Yer brother’s been smilin like the cat who got the canary for the whole past month.”

  “Why’d they call him Anton? That’s kind of an odd name, isn’t it?”

  “Brian said it was Cheryl’s idea. She heard it on a soap opera she was watchin before he was born and she fell in love with it.”

  “Yeah, but Anton! Don’t they think kids’ll make fun of him when he starts school?”

  “Maybe. Maybe less than if he were named Pewel. Then he’d really have to fight.”

  “Oh, ah ...” Aside, “One second.” Then back to the phone, “Granpa, I’ve got a client just walked in. I’ll call next week. Happy Birthday, again.”

  Bobby hung up. Olivia rested her buttocks on his desk, her stockinged legs, feet together, slanting down beside his chair. “Granpa?” Olivia teased.

  Bobby chuckled self-deprecatingly. “My grandfather. He’s eighty-two today. I didn’t know anyone else was in the office.”

  “Just me,” Olivia said. She lifted one foot and crossed it over her other. Her calf muscle bulged. The ceiling fluorescents glowed ambient but the curve of the bulge still formed an accent shadow that caught his eye. “I heard from Estelle, today,” Olivia said. She did not smile but looked sad, serious.

  “Klemenchich?” Bobby said.

  “Uh-huh. Rod had an accident last Friday.”

  “Oh.” Bobby could barely think with Olivia next to him like that. “Is he okay?”

  “It’s not life threatening,” Olivia said. She uncrossed her legs, put her weight on the one that had been on top, lifted and pointed the other foot, stretching the ankle, rolling it slightly.

  “They still like the house ...”

  “Oh. Estelle loves it. But Rod ... I guess he slipped with a large sheet of metal. Estelle said it split his right palm right to the bones. Almost cut his hand off.”

  “Ow!” Bobby squirmed in his seat, almost could feel the metal slicing his hand. He twisted toward Olivia.

  “Estelle said he had to have major surgery to reattach the tendons or something and that he might not be able to use it for an entire year. She said he might not ever get the use of his fingers back because of nerve damage.”

  “Oh! The poor guy. He’s got insurance though, right?”

  “She’s got major med that covers him. And there’s workman’s comp. But they don’t think they can keep the house. Could we sell it for them for three thousand more—”

  “Three—!”

  “To cover the cost of selling—”

  “We already boosted the cost.”

  “I know.”

  “They’ve only been in there, what, a month?”

  “That’s what I told her.”

  “I don’t know. In this market ... we could try, but ...”

  “It’s okay, Bobby,” Olivia said. She slid closer. He had one hand on his desk by her hip, the other at the back of his chair, opening himself to her. He leaned back slightly, looked to her face. Slowly she bent, put a hand to his face, kissed his lips. For a moment they remained close, still, their hands met, softly pulled, they kissed again, gently, softly. “I—” Olivia began, stuttered, “I don’t want you to do anything to upset your wife.”

  “She—” Bobby also stuttered, but then blurted, “she doesn’t care.”

  “She doesn’t?” Olivia’s tone was sad, empathetic.

  “No,” Bobby said. “She ... we don’t have very much of a relationship.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s—it’s all kinda for show.”

  “My marriage was like that too.”

  “That’s why you divorced.”

  “Um-hmm.” They kissed again. Olivia slid further along the desk edge until she was in front of him. He stood, kissed her again, again softly, gently, their bodies barely in contact. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” Olivia said. “At least not until you settle things with your wife.”

  Confusion continued to reign. Nothing was right. The world was out of kilter and Bobby was perpendicular to the slant, knew he was tilting, knew he’d fall. Half of him didn’t give a fucking flying leap. Half of him dreamed on, worried on, bemoaned his lot, his fate. He loved his job, he detested it. It was exciting—the hunt, the tactics of list and sell—but he was not interested, not committed. It was for show. Each time he thought of quitting he’d told himself he would again become engrossed in this business when the commissions became larger. But the opposite was true. He worked for his commissions, worked hard, but whenever he had enough to pay his bills he slacked off. On the drive home he thought of Olivia, of Sharon, of Jane. Even of Lisa Fonari. He thought maybe he wouldn’t even go to the office if it wasn’t a matter of seeing them. What in hell he was doing with Olivia he didn’t know but it was exciting and pleasant and thrilling and everything he could want it to be and everything it wasn’t anymore with Red. And yet he knew that he’d rather be with Sharon. Or Victoria. Or Stacy. Aloud he said, “For ten bucks I would sell my integrity if I could undo ...”

  Red’s pistachio Pinto was in the driveway. Josh was lying on the small porch, alert, ears up, smiling that happy Pennsylvania Husk-perd smile, his coat glistening in the porch light. Bobby’s mind flipped as if he’d not seen him in a long time, not seen him for what he was—not just a dog, not just a faithful friend who could at times be ignored, not even just a symbol of nature, but Bobby’s attachment to the world beyond himself, beyond the limits of human concerns, beyond money and bills and shelter and governments and self-promotion.

  Bobby opened the car door, reached to gather his books, decided to leave them on the seat. Josh nudged him. He turned, still behind the steering wheel, massaged the dog’s ears. Josh groaned.

  “Ya know, Little Brother,” Bobby whispered, “I’ve got a dream. I’ve got this dream of a community where you and I live, where people design and build in harmony with guys like you, ol’ buddy. Aw, I’m just getting stupid,
Josh. C’mon. Let’s go in.”

  Red was watching TV. She did not look up when Bobby came in, didn’t budge until Josh stepped with his front paws onto the living room carpet. Then she clapped her hands twice, glared. Josh backed up, lay down on the mat in the small foyer, his back to the living room, his legs stretched and straight as if rigor mortis had set in, his back and neck arched so he was watching Bobby and Red and the TV.

  “What are ya watchin?”

  “Ssssh.”

  “Is it almost over?”

  “SSssshH!”

  Bobby walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, grabbed a can of beer. But he put it back. Instead he grabbed a glass, ran the tap, drank water. He went to the bedroom, to the closet, pulled out the Saucony running shoes he’d bought but had never used, decided—Tomorrow, I’m really going to start. Red came in.

  “Good show?” Bobby asked.

  “So-so,” Red answered.

  “What was it?”

  “Oh, it’s too complicated to go into. It was pretty good though. You smell like perfume.”

  Bobby turned his head, sniffed his shoulder. “I do!?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm! I don’t know ... Oh. Maybe it’s from Olivia. She got a new listing and was so excited she hugged everybody in the office. I was on the phone with Granpa. Today was his birthday, you know. She came around hugging everybody.”

  “Um.”

  “Red.”

  “Um.”

  “I’ve been thinking ...”

  “Um.”

  “Maybe we should look for a different place.”

  “A new house like the one on Tin Pan Alley? I’d love that. This is such a dump.”

  “I was thinking ...”

  “We could put in the offer they have to leave the dining room set. It’s absolutely perfect in that room.”

  “No. I mean, I was thinking someplace else.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know where. Someplace that’s got more of a sense of community. Someplace that’s not so damn expensive.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, like if we helped develop a community.”

  “You’re not talking Pennsylvania!”

  “No. Not necessarily.”

  “If you go back to Pennsylvania, I won’t go back with you.”

  “You won’t ... What the hell’s that suppose to mean?”

  “I mean I won’t go back there. I hated it there, and if you go back, I’m not going.”

  “What are you saying?” His voice spiked angrily. “You’d leave me?!”

  Red backed up, sat on the bed. She eyed him warily. “I won’t go back. If you go back, you go back on your own.”

  “Well, what if I do want to go back?”

  “Go back then!” Her voice was hard, not loud. “Take Olivia with you. Don’t you think I know?!”

  “Know?”

  “Cheater! Don’t you think I know!” It was no longer a question.

  “I haven’t cheated on you. I’ve never cheated on you.” Now his index finger, hand, arm were jabbing the air, pointing at her face, eyes, knocking her glare down. “Even though you’ve given me every reason to cheat,” he said loud, angry, “I haven’t.”

  “I still won’t go back with you.”

  “So what’s that mean? You want a divorce!” Bobby was livid, feeling self-righteous, abused, more attacked than attacking. Red did not utter a sound. She sat there on the bed, now more passive, eyes down, shoulders curled in. She sat there a victim, incriminating him with her victimization. “Well, fuck you,” he roared. Her silence angered him more than any words. “Fuck you. You want a divorce, you can have a divorce. There. Ha!” He stomped. Slammed the door. The entire wall shook.

  Still she said nothing. Still she sat there, looking to him as if she weren’t a part, weren’t a cause, as if she thought she were totally innocent, as if she were the one who’d been abused, who’d suffered through their togetherness. He snorted, still seething yet closer to control. She looked at him. Mumbled something.

  “What!?”

  “We never should have gotten married,” Red said. Again she hung her head. Again he snorted.

  Then he went to the phone, dialed, almost as if he were being guided by an outside force, almost without conscious will, as if in a dream:

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Brian.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh. Did I wake you?”

  “Who ...”

  “It’s Rob. I forgot about the time difference.”

  “Robbie. Geez. It’s two o’clock or some ... You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry if I woke you. But I wanted you to know. Red and I are getting a divorce.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call ya tomorrow. Don’t tell Granpa, okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Or Miriam.”

  August 1984

  A GRUNT CAN COPE with monsoons, with leeches, with searing heat, suffocating humidity. The savagery of war does not strip him of his humanity. These things are external. They are not of the self. One does not say, “I am the pain of leeches.” One does not say, “I am a firefight.” “I am Manny’s death.” “I am an atrocity.” It requires a return to a civilized World to complete that dehumanization.

  This became Bobby’s theory of the self. As you witness our destruction, you should have our criteria for evaluation. It was maybe six years ago that Bobby said, “In finding one’s self one loses one’s self and no longer needs to define one’s self because one simply is. That is the true self. When one no longer needs to define one’s self in terms of possessions, actions, or relationships, the self falls away, opening one up to actions and relationships. Losing one’s self frees one to do, to observe, to be observed, to interact without the constraints of looking at one’s self through others’ eyes, or even one’s own. Praise and criticism, real or imagined, block one from developing a value system based on criteria beyond the immediate, beyond the past, beyond projected opinions, polls, the people’s will, election results, resale values, net-net-net and myriad other less-than-ultimate criteria. Our problem is searching for ultimate criteria; interpreting actions and thoughts against those criteria; establishing a guide, a code, an ethic, that reflects those criteria.”

  It was not new, but to him, to us, it seemed like something lost. It had been lost to “our people,” lost to our country; and our people and country were floating, a rudderless ship—the rudder voluntarily destroyed or purposefully disconnected in the name of criteria driven by the three great temptations: greed, lust, and power; insidious, manipulative forces like unseen toxins coursing through the system tripping, cutting, causing us to lose our way, to lose opportunities, to feel guilty for what might have been.

  The bells of St. Ignat’s do not usually ring at this hour, at night, but they are ringing now, shaking me from my thoughts on self. It is day six of my fast. Owls howl. Bats scat. I’ve deluged my body with so much water it is running out of my pores and orifices and my ass is so sore. But it is nothing compared to my mind, my sense of self, at that time.

  I want to be fair. Not all private or state or federal veterans medical facilities were as fucked up as Rock Ridge. And even those that were, including Rock Ridge, changed as the 1970s progressed. Change, however, did not necessarily mean improvement.

  15

  MILL CREEK FALLS, 1 February 1971—The dawn is winter gray, muted, as if everyone and everything has entered the first stage of a cryonics experiment to suspend animation until a cure is found. Uncle James, Aunt Isabella, Nonna all wear black coats over dark suits, dresses. Annalisa’s coat is deep beige but in the winter light inside St. Ignatius’ main hall it looks as gray to him as this new layer enwrapping his core, coating all previous layers, his new grayness.

  Tony hangs on to Linda’s arm, his hand and wrist through her crooked elbow while Linda sits holding Gina, looking forward, listening to the young priest,
rapt, attentive to his every word. Twice she has taken Tony to Rock Ridge Veterans Medical Center, twice she has tried to find out what is the matter, what is the illness, the diagnosis, the prognosis. She has talked to clerks, orderlies, secretaries, and the “pharmacist,” an orderly at GS-6. Dr. Jonathan Freiburg has not been available, has sidestepped making a firm appointment. The orderlies have told her Tony is a crazy vet. In the pew beside Linda is Jo. She holds Michelle, is as attentive to the young priest as is Linda but while Gina is asleep in her mother’s arms, Michelle is alert, twisting, wanting to crawl, wanting down, and Jo struggles in perfect dignity to subdue her without upsetting her. Next to Tony is his eldest brother, John, who does not touch him, and by whom, because he senses John’s revulsion, Tony does not want to be touched. Tony presses closer to Linda, his arm tightening in the crook of her elbow, she aware, stolid, solemn, cutting him no slack. Beyond John Jr. is John Sr. Jo has accepted Tony, accepted the fact that he is ill, infected with some alien virus that will be defeated and soon her son will again be healthy; but John Sr. has not accepted the illness, cannot help but think of a time when he had said to Tony, “God, I hope you handle it better than I did,” cannot help but be disappointed, ashamed at the countenance and behavior of his third son.

  In the first pew is Uncle James, Aunt Isabella, Annalisa, and Maria Annabella—Nonna, 81 years old, solemn, stolid, dignified; by her presence in the first pew more in control of the mood of the entire congregation, 90 percent Pisanos, Pellegrinos and DeLeones for the first memorial mass, than the young priest at the altar. Uncle Ernie and Aunt May, Maxene, Patty, Julie have come from Rock Ridge, Aunt Mary from Wilkes-Barre, Uncle Frank and Aunt Jessie from Scranton. Even Uncle Joe from Binghamton has come, Joe who is Tony’s mother’s brother and thus not a “real” uncle of Annalisa and Jimmy but who is, was, will always be Jimmy’s uncle in that he will always carry that layer of being a Marine. And on and on back through the church, family, friends, neighbors, even old Pewel Wapinski, whom Linda has told of the service.