Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  Downstairs, in the administration and therapy offices, Linda was determined. She was not going to fail. She was not going to let her marriage fail. “What kind of therapy do you have him on?” she asked Dr. Chapman. Her tone was sweet, nonthreatening.

  “He’s on sedation right now,” Chapman said. “I wish you had called first. We can’t bring him down right now, and you’re not allowed up there.”

  “Um-hmm. I understand. What sedation?”

  “It’s just standard—”

  “Doctor! I asked you what medications my husband is being given. And why? What’s the diagnosis?”

  Chapman clasped his hands, looked up, away, as if trying to find words simple enough for this woman to understand. “Do you know what schizophrenia is? Sometimes there are imbalances in—”

  “Has he been diagnosed as schizophrenic?” Her voice was firm.

  “It’s a preliminary diagnosis, but yes, we think he’s suicidal, perhaps antisocial, certainly paranoid. He was admitted for alcoholism, but we immediately found these other problems. You understand, this is his second admission. It seems he can’t cope outside.”

  “So you’ve drugged him up. I want to see him.”

  “No visitors are allowed for the first twenty-one days.”

  “Do I need to call my lawyer? I want to see my husband and I want to know what medications you have him on.”

  “You’ll be able to see him,” Chapman checked the file, “after December fifth. And ah, he’s on Elavil. Does that mean anything to—”

  “Yes, it does. I’m an RN. Going for my PA. Does that mean anything to you?!”

  “Oh. Well, why didn’t you say—”

  “Elavil and what else?”

  “Thorazine. Diazepam. Inderal. If the Thorazine—”

  “He was admitted because of alcohol and you put him on Thorazine. They’re additive.”

  “Well. Yes. We may put him on Haldol instead. It’s new. Haloperidol. Do you know ...”

  In the car back to Mill Creek Falls John said, “What do you think?”

  Linda answered, “Is there someplace else he could go?” Neither wanted to show their fears and trepidations before Jo.

  Over the next two weeks Tony’s dosages were gradually reduced until he was minimally functional. Linda, John, Jo all visited but weren’t allowed to see him again until Monday 6 December. They met Daniel Holbrook and were impressed by his attitude. Later John and Linda, with Tony’s brother Joe, agreed that perhaps it was best not to move him.

  Tony saw himself as nuts, saw RRVMC as a viable fallback position. He came to trust Holbrook and he told him his craziest thoughts, whatever came to mind, about Nam, about himself, about Rock Ridge.

  “Ya know how sometimes you hear about crazy guys locked up in an insane asylum?” Tony chuckled. “The kinda guy who’s in a padded room, mattresses on the walls even. And he’s always naked. Sittin in a corner. Jerkin off. Jerks off fifteen, twenty times a day. Nurses bring him food—slide it through a slot in the door. He sticks his dick out at em.” Tony enjoyed telling stories, enjoyed entertaining Holbrook. “Guy doesn’t have a care in the world. Crazy as a loon, jerkin off to his fantasies all the time. That’s the guy I wanta be.”

  Holbrook smiled, said, “Last week you told me you wanted to make an honest effort to reestablish your life with Linda.”

  “I’m just talking, Doc. Come on, cut me a huss. Don’t take everything I say so seriously.”

  “How do I tell which Tony to take seriously?”

  “There’s only one, Doc. Just me. God, Doc, when I’m jokin I’m jokin. When I’m serious, I’m serious.”

  “Can Linda tell?”

  “Yeah. Ya know, we had a real good thing going. I know I split. Twice. But I can’t stay away from her. Sometimes I just can’t be there but I can’t stay away, either. We love each other but she ... Sometimes the apartment is like a battle zone. It builds up and up.”

  “What builds up?”

  “Oh. The anger.”

  “You’re still angry, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.” Weekly they broached the subject without breaking through. Individual talk therapy is ineffective when the patient is stoned or strait-jacketed, or chemically confused.

  By New Year’s Tony was into the routine at RRVMC. He went to art therapy and painted like a second grader; went to craft therapy and made a leather belt like his brother had made one summer at camp; went to walk therapy and hiked the grounds of RRVMC until his feet froze; went to work therapy and mopped the floor of the main kitchen. He convinced Holbrook that further customizing his Harley and rebuilding the engine would be great therapy and Dr. Joe brought him his bike and he was allowed to keep it in Building 27, a greenhouse.

  In talk therapy Tony brought up Viet Nam. Sometimes Holbrook let him talk, sometimes he stopped him. Holbrook never brought up the subject himself. In mid-January Holbrook said to Tony, “Your war’s over. Give it up.” A week later, “Put it out of your thoughts. Once you do, those headaches and nightmares and fears will vanish.” Next session, “It’s time to grow up, Tony. If Viet Nam still bothers you so much, why don’t you write to your congressman?” By early February Viet Nam was off-limits in their discussions and if Tony mentioned it Holbrook would say, “Why do you resist the positive direction our talks have been taking?”

  Now there was group therapy, too. In the first rap session Tony was shocked. He had been moved to Seven-lower, had been weaned from Elavil-Thorazine-diazepam, was now on lithium. Tony saw the patients, really saw them for the first time, recognized in them Jimmy and Manny and Rick, Al Cornwall, Jim Bellows, recognized in them half the guys from his Nam platoon, company, regiment—The Magnificent Bastards. Why are they here? Why are we all fucked up? Before Holbrook arrived, they talked quietly in twos, threes, fours. “Lotsa fine bros went down. Never got short. No fuckin Freedom Bird for them. Fuckin waste, Man.”

  “Fuckin waste. I can’t even remember all their names. I’m ashamed cause I can’t remember their names.”

  “Don’t let em be forgotten, Man.”

  “We did in a L-T who got like twenty guys greased. That asshole Freiburg says I’ve got an unresolved killer-self.”

  “What’s he know? He talked to me about the sin of killing. I thought, Right! Mothafucka! That’s when I got switched to Holbrook but he’s just as wacked. He can’t take hearin nothin.”

  “Sssshh. He’s comin.”

  “Don’t talk Nam, Man. You’ll never get outa here.” Monday, 28 February 1972—It was a clear morning. The weather for five days had been unseasonably mild. Tony felt almost cheerful. He was as crazy as ever but now he felt more comfortable with his craziness, with being lost. Holbrook had recommended he be released on long-term outpatient status—for which Holbrook was writing a program proposal. Tony agreed. His lithium dosage was reduced to 300 mg t.i.d. He had no desire to drink, to do other drugs. He was happy to be un-assing this AO, yet he was afraid to “go home”; afraid he’d hurt Linda or his daughters. He knew he was dying. He had reached a certain, if uneasy, peace with his craziness, his life, his death. He wanted to say good-bye, maybe collect the maple sap one more time for Old Man Wapinski. He felt he owed him that.

  16

  SHE’D LEFT, DRIVEN AWAY, driven that pistachio Pinto loaded to the roof out the driveway, past the for sale sign, down Deepwoods Drive, away, forever. He’d stood there watching, barely caressing Josh’s ears as the dog pressed his head into Bobby’s leg. She had returned only to file the Dissolution of Marriage petition at the county courthouse and to lay claim to every remaining decent household item they owned (or still owed on). Her last words to him were, “I can’t see you as a divorcé.” That lay in his ears, he standing there seeing not Red, not even himself, but Jimmy Pellegrino on that big Harley that he handled like a dirt bike, seeing Jimmy Pellegrino and thinking, for this he got greased.

  Then he’d turned, gone in. It had gotten dark but he did not remember the dusk, only the dark and he not
having the impetus to turn on a light but sitting in the dark listening to Josh scratch. He heard other noises, rose, turned on the porch light, just enough light coming through the windows to give the few furnishings an edge, sat restive, afraid of the dark like a child, afraid of the same boogeyman that scared him when he was eight and he’d moved back into the house on Crooked Road. Months passed unnoticed, unrecallable, except for the repeated personal justifications, the evaporation of the weight of his once oppressive marriage, the new place, running, that honkey-tonk song and Olivia Taft. He was sad but free, alive, feral.

  Got a dollar in my pocket, got your letter in my shoe,

  Fresh out of the infantry, and tryin to find you.

  Old 43 is slowin down, the road around the bend,

  I’m on my way to see you again.

  He couldn’t get it out of his mind. He’d heard it on the radio late on a foggy night, a distant station bouncing signals off the clouds, maybe Reno or Phoenix or Albuquerque. They’d played it twice by request. He’d stopped everything to listen to it the second time, but before it was over the clouds shifted and the signal fell elsewhere.

  I think it was in April but it might have been in May,

  I got on board my Freedom Bird, leavin Cam Ranh Bay.

  I was nearly left in Tokyo, when I couldn’t find my plane,

  I was on my way to see you again.

  —static—

  This time I need more than just a friend ...

  —static—

  Woman don’t you know that I am not a settled man,

  And life don’t seem the same to me since leavin Viet Nam,

  Somehow this time it’s different like it’s never ever been,

  Now I’m on my way to see you again.

  On my way ... again ...

  Honey please don’t ask me where I been,

  From Maine ... where between ... see you again ...

  Who was this guy? How did he know? Bobby took solace in the song, the lively honky-tonk lilt, the references. He pressed on in a daze, sang the lines over and over to himself in his monotone, singing it as if it were a marching song. He thought about writing to Stacy, about calling, letting her know. He sent a silly “Missing you” card much like Red had sent him when he’d remained at High Meadow. No response.

  His new place was on Old Russia Road, a road that predated all the subdivisions of San Martin, stood in a cluster of six cottages on the slope of North Peak mountain. He’d rented Number 101. It called to him the day he saw the data sheet in his multiple listing packet. Hillside, view, remote, the number—it was in his blood. He had taken Olivia Taft there and made love with her on the living room floor before the unlit fireplace, had made love to Olivia who was very beautiful, very sensual, who never smiled. He had sold the Deepwoods Drive house, paid himself the realty commission, split the equity fifty-fifty, the check his last note to Red.

  Birds sang along Old Russia Road. Flowers grew wild. The sky was clearer, closer. He broke out his running shoes, found a way to run from his cottage to Cataract Trail, then up the dam steps, those damn steps, and back—a seven-mile loop. He ran daily with Josh, sweating like an overstuffed pig, dropping from 208 in May to 195 in September to his 178-pound target weight by late October. While he ran he composed lines in his mind. When he returned to the cottage he scribbled them down, scribbled them as the sweat from his hand and forearm soaked into the paper and the pen skipped and he’d get frustrated and scribble on the page edge until the pen wouldn’t write there either.

  Dear Stacy,

  By now you have probably heard from Bea and you know we are divorced. I [scratched out]. Things are going well for me, and I pray for you also. Our divorce was amiable....

  How could he include that? He put it aside, thought about running, planned his assault on the Cataract Trail New Year’s Day Run. That would be his first. Then the Bay to Breakers, then the real Cataract Race which attracted top runners from all of northern California, and next year’s Dipsea and dozens of 10-Ks between. He planned meticulously, studied training literature. He took a large desktop calendar, plotted the weeks, designed daily workouts, projected weight, times, courses, to New Year’s Day, to RACE ONE.

  He knew the course, as much as anyone could with the construction, the benching, blocking and stripping of the land in total contrast to the spirit of cluster-house development. Mud, silt, and gullies from the first rains of the wet season were already destroying sections of the trail, making the run more steeplechase than trail race.

  Bobby’s pants had begun falling off his hips, he’d had to buy new clothes because even his old clothes from when he was 178 didn’t fit. He ran, composed lines, scribbled notes, worked, loved Olivia on occasion, ran, the hog transforming into the gazelle. He listened to the radio, listened for that song, heard that Medina was acquitted of the My Lai massacre. It meant little to him.

  Dear Stacy,

  By now you have probably heard from Bea and you know we are divorced. Although it was mutual the transition has been more difficult than I expected. My emotions swing from elation to depression, from rapture at being alive to loneliness—though not for Bea. I’m exhausted, though I think stronger and wiser. I pray things are well with you. I’d love to be there for autumn, I miss the colors, I think of you. I’m sorry for this past year, for what happened, but I cannot tell you all because the secret is Red’s as well as mine.

  Bobby stopped. Reread the last line, decided to leave it.

  I once had a dream. You remember? I still have it—expanded. I dream of a community, exactly where I don’t know, but a community of friends, clear thinkers, hard workers. A contrast community—set apart but not isolated—apart from the callous, chaotic and corrupt world which I see about me. A community designed to exact the best from the individual and the whole. Most people are either unable or unwilling to take responsibility for themselves. People are capable of thinking. The problem arises from lack of motivation, from the near universal desire to get something for nothing, from the corporate mind-set of selling nothing packaged as something. Daily my apprehensions rise as to the ability of this country to avert a major economic crisis. Talent and materials surround us, but the desire to produce seems to have died.

  Is it possible for a loose community of individuals to be responsible for what they produce and what they consume? I think it is.

  Please tell me what you think. Help me.

  Love,

  Rob

  He had mailed it, gone for a run, bested his previous record on the Old Mine/Cataract Trail loop to 49:49 or 7:07 per mile. His weight dropped to 174.

  San Martin, California, Friday 26 November 1971—He sat at the dining area table. Josh lay in the living room before the fireplace. Bobby glared out the sliding glass door, over the small deck, not conscious of the gold-brown fields dropping away, the clumps of tree-green in small draws. On Wednesday he’d received a note from Red. “The time we had together was for the most part enjoyable,” she’d written. “We’re just finished with those episodes and moving on to a new series....” Bobby thinking, like we were a damn TV show. “My therapist says we shouldn’t judge our time together by the last few months ...”

  That had put him in a funk but nothing like the letter that had just arrived.

  Dear Robert,

  I do not know you. You don’t know me. It is difficult to harbor ill feelings toward you, but wake up. Stacy and I are very much in love, we’re planning on marriage, we don’t need or want love letters from an “old flame.” You’d agree if you were in my shoes.

  You have recently separated and are divorcing. I sympathize with your emotional swings, but you must direct those emotions elsewhere. Stacy assures me you are “no threat” to us. Still you are an unwanted intrusion. Maybe someday we’ll all be friends but in the meantime I hope you understand our feelings and respect them.

  Sincerely,

  Harlan LaFacetie

  He read it, reread it, erupted, gripped the t
able, banged the two legs on his side on the floor like a pile driver trying to smash through. “I am such a fucking fool.” He sat, jerked up again, his lap crashing the table against the glass door. He punched his face, raised a lump on his cheek. One year from the weekend with Stacy, he thought. “HOW in Hell did I LET this Happen!?”

  Montage: A client’s home. She was divorcing. Her husband had moved out. “I’d really love to cook this for you someday,” she said. He smiled. Their business over, they had turned to cookbooks, South American cuisine, photos of the ruins of the Inca empire. The conversation seemed unique. “Have another glass of sherry,” she said. By the gods, he thought, she’s trying to get me drunk. She leaned forward, kissed him, grabbed his hand, lead him to the living room, seduced him.

  Later, on the drive back up Highway 101, one hand over one eye to keep his drunken vision single, he thought, the old Wapinski charm still works. Then his monotone bellowing, “‘I think it was in April but it mighta been in May, / Got aboard my Freedom Bird leavin Cam Ranh Bay. / I was nearly left in Mill Creek, when I couldn’t find my dame, / I’m on my way to find some again ....’”

  The land war continues to make news. Yesterday [2 Dec ’71] North Viet Namese troops overran government forces at the central Cambodian city of Baray, killing perhaps half of Lon Nol’s 20,000-man force....

  Numerous nights, numerous bars, singles’ bars, looking for Miss Goodbar, looking really for ... He didn’t know. He laughed, smirked, downed his scotch, flipped another sawbuck on the bar. Behind him ladies cruised the floor. One pinched him. “You got a nice ass.” She moved on.

  Work was going well. At the company Christmas party he met an agent from Concord. They compared sales, incomes. She made more than he so she took him home, fucked his eyes out, told him to leave.