He lost more weight as if breaking through his target pulled the floor from beneath him. He crashed uncontrollably to 166, to 164, to 162. He was too sick on New Year’s Day to run the Cataract Trail race.
Senator Hubert Humphrey today threw his hat into the presidential ring, declaring, “Had I been elected, we would now be out of this war.” Humphrey, a presidential candidate in 1968, added that it is taking President Nixon longer to withdraw American soldiers from Viet Nam than it took the allies to defeat Hitler.
U.S. troop strength in Viet Nam is 159,000, down 70% from its peak three years ago. Last week Nixon announced the planned withdrawal of 25,000 to 35,000 more Americans.
“He’s a Husk-perd,” Wapinski said into the phone. “They’re really a great breed and he’s best of the breed.”
“Well, I’m sure he’s a lovely animal,” Mrs. Closson said. It was the first he’d spoken to her. She lived at 103 Old Russia Road. “But Tabitha is scared to death of Husk-perds. Do keep him away from her, please.”
“Oh! Certainly.” Bobby bit his lip, stared at Olivia who’d just come into his office. “And, ah, if you could keep Tabitha out of our yard too, that’d make it easier.” Bobby hung up. “Bitch.” He looked at Olivia who’d come next to him, leaned back against his desk.
“The Klemenchichs listed their house with Everest Realty,” she said.
“Bitch.” He ground his teeth. He didn’t need them. Business was good. He looked at Olivia’s legs, raised his eyes to her hips, waist, breasts, face. A testosterone tingle elevated him.
“Not this week,” she whispered.
Bitch, he thought.
Stresses built. Bars were out. He couldn’t take it, told himself he was more selective. He bought a new car—a sexy California-poppy yellow Capri. He paid cash. He bought new clothes. He spent money on expensive restaurants, on trinkets and trash. He took one woman up to the wineries in Napa (my bed or yours?), one to dinner and films (do you like to be on top?), one to parties (your body is sooo warm), one to a jazz club. He was getting good at being single.
“Robert, we can do better than that.”
“Well, Mr. Everest, I’m not exactly sure.”
“Read it over,” Everest said. He handed Bobby the papers: Everest Realty—Manager’s Employment Agreement. “You wouldn’t be working in the shadow of Peter, anymore,” Dirk Everest said. “You’d take over completely. Build it how you want. Bring some of those salespeople with you. You’ll have my complete backing.”
Bobby scanned the top sheet. “Manager shall receive an override on each closed escrow in the amount of $80.00, which will be paid ...” He suppressed a smile. Double his Great Homes deal. “Let me get back to you, Mr. Everest.”
“Dirk,” Mr. Everest said. “Call me Dirk.”
President Richard Nixon arrived in Peking today [21 Feb ’72] declaring this “the week that changed the world.” The president met with Prime Minister Chou En-lai and the two leaders predicted an early peace in Viet Nam. North Viet Namese officials in Paris voiced exception to both Chinese and American statements. Analysts believe the North Viet Namese fear that China, which recently doubled its military aid to Communist Viet Nam, will make a deal “behind closed doors.”
Other news: Efforts to halt plans for the development of North Peak Condominium World failed today when state Water Resource officials misfiled their Application to Review with the state Department of Environmental Protection. Also spraying of Atlantic-Pacific timberlands in Sonoma and San Martin counties with herbicides designed to kill broadleaf vegetation was declared the “only economically feasible method to promote fir seedling growth,” corporate officials said today on conditions of anonymity.
“Rob.”
“Yes”
“Brian.”
“Hey, Brian, how—”
“You gotta come home.”
“What? I can’t just—”
“Granpa’s in a real bad way. He must a fallen last week and broke his hip or something. They didn’t find him until this morning.”
He did not stop to see his mother or brother but drove the rented yellow Mercury Capri—exactly like the one he’d purchased except this yellow was more banana than poppy—directly toward Grandpa’s. As he motored past the Episcopal church, the cemetery, past Third Street, up Mill Creek Road, he muttered, “Screw the bitch. I’ll call from up there.” Then the lyrics from the Turtles’ “Happy Together” wafted into his mind and he said to himself, “Together. We should be together.” He gritted his teeth, wanted to turn it off. He passed Lloyd’s Autoland and Franklin GM, passed the dump road, slid the Capri through the icy esses by the falls and the Old Mill. Snow was packed in berms at roadside, salt and sand splotched the road. I should be lovin you ... It was dusk, 4:15 Leap Year Day 1972.
Grandpa Wapinski had fallen Saturday morning, the twenty-sixth, from the ladder leading to the second-floor barn office. He had lain on the unheated barn floor in those cold Pennsylvania mountains with a broken hip until Monday the twenty-eighth when Tony Pisano, newly released from Rock Ridge, had shown up out of the clear blue. Tony had wrapped him and carried him to the house and called Linda, who had been planning to come to High Meadow after she did Grandpa Wapinski’s weekly shopping as she was now doing every Monday morning before coming with the twins to stay for the week.
Linda had called for an ambulance, beat it to the farm, found Tony whimpering, warming the old man, rubbing his feet which were blue, doing all the right things as he’d done in Boston on Storrow Drive, as he’d always done in crises. But he was now shaken to the core—Tony’s last anchorline was but a thread, hanging. She had not greeted him but ordered him to get the girls from the car as she checked Pewel’s vital signs—which were barely existent. Then together, as the twins watched cartoons on the old TV in the living room, they tried to warm him.
The ambulance had arrived and she asked Tony to stay with the girls while she went with the old man. When Brian reached Bobby late that day, the doctors had just told them about the old man’s hip.
No one was at High Meadow. The ’53 Chevy was gone. There was no answer at Brian’s. He dialed 3-1-5-4, hung up before it rang. How could he call Miriam? How could he call, divorcing, without a meaningful soul in his life, defeated? How could he not?
He went to the back door, the way he’d come in. He lit a cigarette. The path to the barn had been shoveled. The sides of the snow trench were perfectly smooth, perfectly straight. He laughed, realized that the old man must have shoveled the last snow himself because no one shoveled a trench like that. Bobby reentered the house. On the old refrigerator, held by magnets, were a child’s drawings. In the living room there were toddler toys. Across the stairs was a folding gate. He stopped, dialed Miriam again. As it rang he thought about Stacy. And Harlan. Thought about his grandpa’s comment on “unfinished business,” thought about Olivia.
“Three-one-five-four.”
“Mom.”
“Who’s this?”
“Rob.”
“Oh.”
“I was calling about Grandpa.”
“He fell and broke something. He’s in the hospital.”
“Where?”
“St. Luke’s in Rock Ridge, I suppose. Or maybe Divine Providence down in Williamsport.”
“Haven’t you ca—Ah, is Brian there? There’s no answer at his house.”
“He’s probably not home from work yet. Where are you, anyway?”
“I’m up at Grandpa’s. I just got here.”
“Humph. Why don’t you call that Eye-talian girl he has clean up after him?”
“Do you have her number?”
“Am I information?”
“No. I’m sorry. What’s her name? Pisanti or something, isn’t it?”
“One of those names. Pisano. It’s P-I-S-A-N-O.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you going to grace us with your presence?”
“I’ll be there after I find out ...”
“Well,
call first. You know how I feel when people just burst in.”
There were five Pisanos in the book. He dialed one. “Hay-lloh.”
“Mr. Pisano?”
“Yes.”
“This is Robert Wapinski.”
“Oh. Pewel’s grandson.”
“Yes.” Bobby was amazed at the instant recognition. “I’m trying to find out about my grandfather. Is it your wife who takes care of him?”
“Oh, no. He calls you Bob, right?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Bob, that’s my daughter-in-law. Let me give you the number. Do you have a pen? Ah, I’ve got the number at the hospital, too. But try Linda at home first. She’ll probably tell you more than the people at St. Luke’s. Cheryl’s there too. That’s a cute nephew you’ve got.” Eerie. The man knew more about Bobby’s family than his own mother did—or even he himself.
At the hospital Bobby met Linda. She hugged him. She was warm, physically warm, a bit plump, not a California-woman, comforting, sensible. “Go in and see him,” she said. “He’s on pain killers for his hip. And his body’s still cool but ... Bob, even if he doesn’t respond, he’ll hear you.”
Bobby looked down the hall. He was afraid to go.
“The doctors can’t believe how strong he is. The fracture’s a crack—” she showed him with her hands, together, flat, then she bent them slightly, “not a snap. For a man his age, they say he’s got the bones of a forty-year-old.”
Bobby smiled faintly. He wanted her to come with him, to lead him, but he couldn’t ask.
“I’m sorry you missed Brian and Tony,” Linda said. “They just left. Go in and see your grandpa. It’ll mean a lot to him to know you’re here. He talks about you all the time.”
Pewel Wapinski’s shoulders and head were propped slightly. His nose was covered with a translucent green plastic oxygen mask. Saline was dripping from a bottle into a regulator into a tube that ran into his left arm. Wires ran from his chest to a heart monitor. A tube came from beneath the blankets, fell from bedside to a collection bag near the floor. His feet, legs and hands were wrapped in electric blankets or pads. A temporary cast immobilized his pelvis, back, legs. His face was pink, almost ruddy, not ashen as Bobby had expected. Still, to Bobby, he looked dead.
“Hi Granpa.” Bobby reached to grasp the old man’s hand but it was wrapped. He touched his grandfather’s face. “It’s me,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it back for Thanksgiving.” There was no movement, no response. “You know, I think about coming back all the time but it just isn’t the right time yet.” Bobby felt frustrated. He wanted his grandfather to know he was there. “This is like ... how old was I? I think I was a sophomore when Aunt Krystyna broke her hip. You told me that that happens with women because the angle of their hips are wider and therefore not as strong. Remember? I was fourteen or fifteen and I thought well why not redesign their hips.” Bobby chuckled, closed his eyes, flashed on Linda.
That night Bobby slept in the waiting room. Linda woke him at eight thirty. She introduced him to Tony. The three barely spoke. Brian and Cheryl arrived, then Aunt Isabella Pellegrino.
“Are they going to amputate his legs?” Brian asked Linda. That shocked Bobby. No one had mentioned that to him.
A somber Filipino doctor with a thick accent approached them all in the waiting room. “You come down, now,” he said.
Linda shuddered. She knew. She’d been there before, numerous times, working, training in ICUs and CCUs. She smiled but her eyes were wet. Bobby and Brian and Tony remained silent, not looking at each other, looking down.
Pewel had been awake since six thirty. He didn’t know about the contingent of visitors hovering, waiting, expecting the worst. His hip pain was excruciating. They’d given him Demerol. More than anything he was feeling cantankerous, irritable, angry that somebody had shoved a catheter up his urethra. At eight the doctor had told him about his hip, had shown him the X-ray and pointed out the shadow where no shadow should have been, had told him he’d had a close call.
Bobby walked in first. Brian and Cheryl were directly behind. Immediately Pewel boomed, “Fine thing. I’ve got to break my hip to get you to visit.” Bobby’s, Brian’s, Cheryl’s mouths dropped. Linda pushed in. Tony and Isabella stood behind, peered between heads. “Hey”—Pewel’s voice was hoarse—“why’s everybody here? Aw! You thought ... eh?” He shook his head. “Nothin wrong with dyin.” He lifted his head, shoulders, pushed against the cast, winced. “We’re all goina do it. But not jus yet.”
Bobby slapped his own face, laughed, gently hugged the old geezer.
“Fine thing,” Pewel repeated.
Laughs, chuckles, apologies. “And you,” Pewel pointed at Tony. “Daylight’s burnin. Now I can’t bring wood to the evaporator but I can stoke the fire and I’m sure’s hell looking forward to being warm.”
“Granpa,” Bobby blurted. “You gave us such a scare.”
“One of these days,” Pewel snarled but not angrily, “I’m going to teach you two boys how to live. Life skills. Just like runnin a farm. Doctor said my feet’ll be fine. Just tender for a while.”
“When I came in last night I thought ...”
“Nothin wrong with dyin,” Pewel repeated. “But I’m conservative. Don’t rush into things. Now I got this worked out.” He pointed at Bobby. “You gotta go back, eh?”
“Not right away.”
“Soon enough. And I know Linda here, you and Tony”—Linda sniffed—“I know and I sure’s hell don’t blame you. So Tony you live with me. For six months. That’s your penance before you can go back.”
17
MILL CREEK HAD BEEN but a respite, a temporary remission. On the return flight, staring at incredible cloud formations—pure white fluff sparkling in the sun’s brilliance, intricate nooks, crannies, crevices, dark canyons, immense cotton-ball head walls to thirty-six thousand feet—Bobby’s confusion exacerbated. That guy gonna live with him for six months? Penance? He’s my grandfather. Bummer, Man. He knows I couldn’t stay. Then without inner verbiage, which he could control, but with inner images, which he could not: Stacy—should have called—couldn’t—the Capri parked uphill on her street, an OP. His insides roiled, the clouds darkened. They don’t understand, he thought. But he knew it was he that did not understand, did not comprehend what had happened, was happening. How badly he wanted to do right. He’d never lost his belief in doing right. But now he felt guilty for fucking up, for running away. How could he ever go back?
Jane picked him up at the airport. “No problem,” she’d said. She drove him home, to 101 Old Russia Road. He thanked her. Did not invite her in. Not staid Jane. He spent the night with Josh and with whiskey.
In the morning he ran. His weight seemed to have stabilized between 157 and 160. He felt ill. His nose ran, his chest was tight, he coughed. Still he ran, feeling the alcohol and whiskey toxins surfacing. He went easy the first mile, picked up the pace on the second. Felt nauseated by the fourth. He coughed and phlegm broke loose, came to his mouth. His sweat dried. Chills skittered across his shoulders. Inside, sitting, he broke into a sweat. He called in sick, went to bed. The next day he again called in sick. And again the next and the next. He saw no one, spoke only to Josh and even to Josh he spoke sparingly. He felt his neck. The lymph nodes at the base felt like sacks of BBs, the glands under his jawbone felt like plums. I am sick, he told himself, yet lingering beneath the thought he suspected the lethargy was not the flu. He piled on more blankets, plus the sleeping bag he’d bought but never used, and his new trench coat. Still he shivered. He coaxed Josh up. Bobby ached. He rolled to his side, brought his knees up, arms crossed. He nodded, slept, dreamed but did not recall the dream, woke wet, the sheets and covers soaked. Josh’s head was on the pillow. “Ghee-it down.” He pushed Josh away, threw the covers back, got up. His skin felt cool as the sweat evaporated.
Bobby picked up where he left off. “I can’t put my finger on it,” he said to one woman, one afternoon.
“
You’re just feeling guilty about having a good time,” she countered.
He let it go, sipped the superb zinfandel, cut her another piece of cheese, pinched off another piece of French bread. The day was warm, the sun high. In the shade of the ancient stone bastion of Buena Vista Winery, he kissed her. She was delightful. Something was not right.
“I decided to stay with Great Homes,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. The reference meant nothing to her and he realized that he’d told someone else, some other her, about Dirk Everest’s offer.
In Viet Nam the Easter Offensive began.
North Viet Namese divisions continued their massive offensive in the South with attacks on dozens of allied positions below the DMZ. The attack, which began with a 5,000-round long-range artillery barrage across the DMZ on March 30th, has become a general offensive with the NVA opening secondary fronts in the Central Highlands and in Bing Long Province north of Saigon. Observers have reported sighting Soviet-built tanks on all fronts. Military analysts estimate the North Viet Namese strength at 150,000 troops. Observers say ARVN forces have generally elected to withdraw rather than stand and fight and some American advisors have denounced the South Viet Namese for their lack of offensive spirit. In the north, the NVA have launched assaults from the A Shau Valley which have quickly overpowered ARVN and the remaining American defensive fire support bases....
Bobby paid little attention. He was disillusioned, tired. He wanted to prepare for the Bay-to-Breakers race in May but his times were worse than they’d been six months earlier.
After a three-and-a-half-year halt, the United States today [6 Apr. ’72], in response to the communist offensive in South Viet Nam, resumed its bombing of the North.
Over the next few months Bobby spent more time with the guys from his office. He had a full-size basketball court built on the downhill side of the cottage and mounted lights on the building so they could play at night. Sometimes as many as fourteen of them played ball on Bobby’s court, drank beer from his cooler. Basketball gave him courage. Self-confidence. It also gave him much greater speed in his kick when he ran the Cataract/Old Mine Trail loop. He lowered his personal best by a full minute but still skipped the Bay-to-Breakers race, decided instead to aim for the Dipsea. His weight increased to 168. He felt healthy and strong, yet he was not out of the rut, had not stopped the spiritual descent.
Carry Me Home Page 48
