Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Something needs to be done from what I’ve read.”

  “For that price you could buy everybody daily bus fare to Williamsport for ten years. Let em shit there.”

  Sara clicked her tongue. There was no talking to Bobby when he was in this mood. She sat up. “Listen to that rain. I’m going to check the roof in Noah’s room. Oh! Damn it.”

  “What now?”

  Again the tongue click. “Another flea bite,” Sara said. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  Bobby huffed. “I’ll spray him again tomorrow.”

  On the stairs Sara covered her face. She was miserable, frightened. Every day she felt worse. Every day she tried so hard to be strong for him but he didn’t care. It was impossible to do anything, to tell anyone, to seek help. They had been so broke all last year and now, even though there was money coming in, she didn’t dare divert any for personal needs. Even for Noah’s second birthday she’d skimped on the party. But Bobby hadn’t noticed. He’d been off with the dog most of the day. Just a little bit of money, she’d wished, but now she just didn’t dare. It wasn’t, in her mind, hers. She wasn’t working. She wasn’t bringing home a check.

  In the living room Bobby was brooding. The Soviets had arrested another member of the Helsinki Agreement group on “laws forbidding acts deemed to defame” the nation. In Uganda Idi Amin was waging a personal vendetta against half his people, and the bulk of American commentators were declaring him a nationalist, or at least asserting that we Americans had learned our lesson in Viet Nam and now knew better than to intervene.

  The winter had been bitterly cold. In late February and March they’d been buried beneath nearly fifty inches of snow. Then a week ago it had warmed and the rain had come and hadn’t stopped, had barely let up, and in the back of his mind was A Shau rain, Hamburger Hill rain. He didn’t want to go out in it. He didn’t want to walk Josh. He just wanted to wait it out, wanted his cold to go away, wanted the sun to return, wanted to forget about Sara’s bitchiness. He fantasized about snuggling in a warm room in Rock Ridge with Stacy Carter. And too, Bobby had been doing almost all the labor on the Larson and Sodchouski jobs because Van Deusen couldn’t decide to work with him or with Tony and each time he’d come, he’d left to farm (and each time he’d started with Tony he’d left for the EES job). Bobby, simply, was tired. Stacy had jilted him but she’d never been bitchy. Had he played it right, he’d be with her.

  The back door creaked, a gust of wind rushed in, the door banged shut. “Hè,” Tony called.

  “Hè.” Bobby rose.

  “We got trouble.”

  “What ...”

  “Down by the spillway. It can’t handle this,” Tony said. He was soaking wet. “It’s cutting around the side. The whole dam could go.”

  “Oh! Let’s—”

  “Kamp’s refueling the tractor.” Tony’s words came quick. “Can the van make it up the back trail?”

  “Ah, maybe ...” Bobby’s body was adjusting, pumping, his tiredness disappearing.

  “We need the headlights. Ya can’t see squat down there.”

  “Can we deepen the spillway?”

  “I tried kicking out the bottom board but it’s like ... it’s just rushing too hard. We need sandbags.”

  “We’ve got bags. Two crates for terracing the vineyards—”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Bobby tied on his boots. Josh was up, excited, whining by the back door, his toenails clicking on the floor. Sara appeared on the stairs, holding Noah. “There’s a prob—” Bobby began.

  “There sure is,” Sara snapped. “The whole room up there is soaked.”

  Bobby gritted his teeth, shot a look of disgust at the ceiling. “Geez!” he cursed. “The dam’s going. That’s first. We’ll lose the whole pond.”

  “It’s raining in Noah’s room,” Sara shrieked.

  “Damn it,” Bobby yelled back. “This is more urgent. Do what you can.”

  He hurried. In the barn he found Van Deusen with three shovels and one crate of bags by the door. He was struggling with the second crate. “Hey—” he greeted Bobby, laughing, “life’s a bitch and then you die.”

  “Good,” Bobby said, focusing on the crates. Tony and George Kamp had already taken the tractor down the drive. Gallagher was in the tractor garage looking for a tow chain. “Let’s get these into the van.”

  They worked quickly. The wind was gusting harder, driving the rain horizontally. They piled in, Bobby driving, testing to see if high beams or low gave better penetration. The driveway was soft, mud over still-frozen earth. Coming down toward the first culvert Bobby could see deep-cut gullies in the wheel tracks. He kept the driver’s side wheels on the crown. They moved on, hooked around the mailbox post onto the back, stream-side trail.

  This was tricky. This was not a road, not even much of a trail. Tony had gotten the tractor through, farther than Bobby could see. Bobby immediately got stuck. He turned. Without him asking, Tom and Jer were out pushing, rocking, timing their heaves, and Bobby timing the throttle with the swaying of the vehicle. The van spurted, stuck, made three feet, mired, caught for a hundred feet while Bobby attempted to maintain momentum and Tom and Jer ran, slogged, caught up, pushed to keep it moving, again mired, again spurted until they could see the tractor pushing up a dirt berm below the earthen dam.

  They piled out, left the van running, the high beams cutting two long cones into the dark. The tractor could not climb the mud-slick wall. It could deliver dirt to the base but they would have to fill the bags—wet, sixty to ninety pounds—then hump them up to the top. Tony organized. One man held a bag, one shoveled, two carried.

  At first they worked quickly, Bobby virtually running the bags up, placing them along the eroding edge beside the concrete spillway. After a dozen bags he was exhausted. Tony took over. Then Kamp, Gallagher, Van Deusen. Then Bobby again. Fifty bags were nothing. Waves, spray in the wind, lapped over the grass-covered dike. They were children at the beach attempting to save their sand castle from the tide. Now they worked more slowly, more methodically. The steps to the top became a slide. With a bag on each shoulder Bobby fell, slid to the bottom, cursed loudly. “You can do it, Captain,” Gallagher yelled. Wapinski rose, slung one mud sack up, let it clump down, conform to his shoulder. With his right hand he grasped a second, swung it out, up, twisting it just enough to hold the loose end over his other shoulder.

  From the top the scene was eerie. Below, the men worked back-lit in the mire and the wind-whipped, continuing deluge. But the top was dark, black. Pond waves could be heard, felt more than seen. For hours they dug, filled, humped. A single row across the dam top took three hundred bags, half their supply; took four hours, gained them three inches, two acre-feet of water. They were exhausted, becoming giddy, elated that they had thus far staved off the washout. The rain continued.

  At one A.M. Tony grabbed Bobby’s sleeve. “Let em take a blow.” Bobby nodded. “We’re not goina be high enough.” Again Bobby nodded. He did not want to think it was useless. “I’m goina get the saw.”

  “What for?”

  “We can take some trees. Stream side. Woods. Clean em.” Tony chopped his hand down as if a chainsaw blade zipping branches from a trunk. “Then we can carry em over, lay em on top of the bags, put a few bags on top to hold em.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll have Kamp take the tractor.”

  “No,” Bobby said. “I can go faster over the knoll. I could walk it with my eyes shut.”

  Tony did not let the others stop but he reorganized them to simply filling bags, stacking them in the mud pit by the berm for later use. With a flashlight he set off up the back trail into the woods, surveying trees to be taken.

  “Man, I don’t believe this shit,” Van Deusen said. He was squatting, holding open a bag for Kamp.

  “Yeah,” Kamp said. “Sandbags. Fuckin sandbags. I haven’t even seen one since I got back.”

  Gallagher piped in. “I didn’t even know they existed back
in the World.”

  “Man,” Van Deusen said, “I can’t believe it. I bet I filled a thousand a these over there.”

  “Two thousand,” laughed Gallagher.

  “Three,” laughed Kamp.

  “Four,” said Van Deusen.

  “You can’t say four.” Kamp flicked mud from his fingers at Van Deusen.

  “Yes I can,” Van Deusen countered. “Probably five.” He hit Kamp in the leg with a mud ball.

  “You said one,” Kamp said. He emptied a shovelful of mud onto Van Deusen’s legs.

  “You fuck!” Van Deusen shouted, both hands filled with globs. The three of them were already soaked, mud splattered.

  “Cool it,” Gallagher said.

  “Fuck you too.” Van Deusen snickered. He flipped a handful at Gallagher, a second at Kamp, hitting each in the chin and chest.

  “AH!” Kamp. “Take that.” Now mud was flying, Van Deusen was backpedaling, Gallagher attacking, retreating after he threw, Kamp crouching, filling his hands with good sticky muck, letting it fly wildly, not seeing Gallagher sneaking up behind him, suddenly feeling his shirt collar grabbed, pulled out, feeling a handful of cold mud drop down to his belt. He shot up, let out a loud gasp, spun to see Van Deusen smack Gallagher in the face with a mushy wad. Then Kamp and Gallagher tackled Van Deusen, dropped him facedown, kicking, clawing to get loose, all three laughing hysterically, Gallagher picking Van Deusen up by the belt of his pants, Kamp stuffing huge gobs into the opening.

  Bobby ascended the knoll. The darkness was total. He could not tell if he were on the trail, was afraid he might veer too far to the left, drop off the cliff. Slowly, trying to speed, he found the false crest, continued up. It was black. He was lost. In his mind he saw an image of himself falling, cracking his skull on the rocks on the way down, hitting the soft ice, going under, being missed. He saw the missing, the wounded. He heard the groans of pain in the water-rush from the spillway, in the wind and the creaking limbs of the trees. He reached the peak. There was not a single clue to give him direction. The wind, rain, stream-rush, masked the idling sounds of the tractor and van. One foot in front of the other, testing each step before weighting it. He shivered. He thought about Sara, about the town, the sewers. From the peak every way was down. Had he turned? Why hadn’t he taken a flashlight? “Do it with my eyes closed,” he’d thought. Guess not. Josh, soaked, shivering, had deserted him hours earlier. Fleas, he thought. Fuck the fleas. They’ve probably drowned. Bobby purposely edged to the right because if he was facing the right direction that would take him away from the cliff. But what if he wasn’t facing the house? He visually swept the area around him hoping to spy a light from the kitchen window or from the barn. He saw nothing. Step. Step. Maybe he was going backward. Try to follow the fall line, he told himself. Step. “C’mon,” he whispered, “one little light.” One nice warm room, he thought. One nice warm Stacy. One roof that doesn’t leak. One vet that pulls his weight.

  Then, like a miracle, there was a light, a moving light, and he knew he’d moved too far to the right, come too far south, off the back edge toward the drive. He knew his exact location, moved, climbed left, watched as the light proceeded up the drive. He entered the orchard now seeing the faint kitchen light, the barn door light, then the car pull to the house.

  He hurried, climbed. Sara was on the back steps. She had Noah bundled in a blanket. Linda was in the car. “What’s happen ...”

  “God!” Sara exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine. I came back for a saw. Where are you going?”

  “To Linda’s. The tarps must have blown off. Everything’s wet. Are you really all right?” She touched his face.

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  “You’re soaked. You’re going to catch your death of cold. Is everybody ...?”

  “Yeah. You should see them. They’re really pulling together. If the damn rain would let up, I think we could save it. To Linda’s?”

  “I covered everything I could. All the blankets and stuff are in plastic bags and I put some stuff in the barn. There’s two thermoses of coffee and buttered rolls in the bag on the counter. And apples and bananas. We’ll be back when the rain stops. If you need me, call.”

  “Where’s Josh?”

  “In the barn.”

  “Give me a kiss.” Sara came close, turned so Noah was on the hip away from him. She stretched but didn’t want to touch him. He bent in for a peck. She planted a wowzer. “Love ya,” Sara said. “Call when it’s dry.”

  “Be careful,” he called to her.

  Bobby got the saw, fueled it, added bar oil, started it in the barn to warm it. He ran around getting a backpack for the coffee and food, a bag to cover the saw, twine to attach the bar oil jug and the gas can to the ruck. He found a flashlight. The batteries were weak and he decided that this was a sign. He was supposed to cross the knoll in the dark. He knew the thought was weird, maybe stupid, yet in his mind, in his jumbling thoughts, he believed it was the only way to bring back the missing.

  Downhill to the pond was easy; up through the first part of the orchard was more difficult yet he did not lose his way. On the knoll, with the kitchen light blotted out by the rain, he was again clueless. But he did not think about the cliff, did not think about weighting his steps. He could see Sara and Noah in the kitchen light. He could feel the kiss, taste her mouth. He had fallen in love with her smile, her dark eyes. She’d lead him, or he’d lead her, progressing step-by-step, perhaps better than many, perhaps more aware—what we have is what we want—yet still, step-by-step as if it had been preordained and thus didn’t need continual vigilance. He knew he could not think, ever again, about Stacy—not seriously, not in that way. He had made a conscious decision to love Sara. There could be no second-guessing. Bitchiness or not. She’d simply need to understand, to find out, that he had graduated from second grade.

  By the first light of Saturday they had a solid tier of wood atop the first row of bags. Still the rain did not stop. By noon they had doubled the first tier and had added between a single-log second level, then, like beavers, they’d packed the spaces with branches and twigs, rocks and mud. The rain became a drizzle. Still Bobby worried: Had Sara, Noah and Linda made it to the apartment? Would the run-off continue to elevate the water level? Would the extended embankment hold? Tony, with the tractor, towed the van back to the road. He, Kamp and Van Deusen decided to break for a few hours while Bobby and Gallagher remained vigilant, reinforcing.

  At six Tony’s team returned. He was in a good mood. The rain intensified. “Hè. Wëli. Call Linda’s. Call Sara.”

  “Did you talk to em?”

  “Oh yeah. Hey, the drive held. And we refastened the roof tarps.”

  “Thanks. She say anything?”

  “She said to give you a kiss. C’mere.”

  In the house with Jeremiah Gallagher standing close, eating cold cereal from a box, Bobby called his wife.

  “I’m sorry the house is such a mess,” he said.

  “And I’m sorry I’ve been so bitchy,” Sara giggled.

  “Yeah. This house would do it to anyone.”

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “Augh, c’mon Sar. I’m too tired for games.”

  In a lilting voice Sara said, “You’re going to be a daddy again.”

  He was down in the hole. It was still his secret. Daily he’d added to it: a water blivet, a few cans of food, boxes of pasta, a radio, batteries, clothes, bedding—immediate survival needs. He included long-term, rebirth items—corn, wheat and vegetable seeds, tools. He’d brought down medical supplies, sanitation equipment, books on farming and machinery design—“because the loss of life will not be nearly as devastating as the loss of knowledge.” Those had been Wapinski’s words in one of their b.s. sessions. But Bobby still didn’t know about the deep bunker. Tony included a reading text. He worried about Gina and Michelle. He wanted to impart to th
em, make available to them, all of humanity’s cumulative knowledge.

  This, to Tony, was urgent. He visited them more often now; took them, one at a time, for short Harley rides; hugged them, kissed them, sang crazy little songs to them. Linda didn’t know what to expect. Was it too good to last? Tony took from the apartment the sketches drawn by Li, which Jimmy had sent. He framed them, put one in the barn, brought one down the hole. The worst thing, he felt, would be the loss of animals. But there was no room for species two-by-two. He’d further expanded the shelter, a second tunnel, short, only six feet, and a second tiny room. But it was becoming more difficult. By mid-May there were eight Nam vets at High Meadow. Dennis “Jim” Thorpe had come after being laid-off again; and Don Wagner and Carl Mariano. The place felt crowded—good crowded but difficult to covertly move tons of rock chips.

  He secured a new shelf unit to a wall, then moved back to his cubicle, to his bunk. He lay down. A new death—the death of his grandmother—had triggered old dreams, nightmares. He understood this, understood the death of Maria Annabella, Nonna, was having this effect on him. But understanding made little difference. He had thought after Thorpe’s first visit he’d dreamed his last dream, suffered his last depression. He’d told the dream to Wapinski. They’d talked Friday nights for hours, like at the fire circle, except now on the back steps of the farmhouse. It helped.

  “Savor it,” Wapinski had said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hold on to it. Try to be conscious of it. Don’t stop it. Let the conscious observe the subconscious. Let the dream play out. And when you’re back awake, try to immediately recall what happened.”

  Tony shut his eyes, drifted, exhausted, slept, turned. Then it came, came as it had sporadically for months, came with flashes of light on the dark screen of his shadowed retinas.

  “Fast!” he screams. There is no sound. He wants to lift her, lift the old woman, lift the mother, the children. He wants them to dart, to vanish. He wants the men down, flat, hidden. Flash. Gina screams. He can see her. She has frozen. Flash. More screams. Flash. They are frozen by the noise, by the strobelike lightning, by each other’s screams, shouts. There is no noise. The ground heaves. His belly—he is prone—jolts to his spine. His legs are splayed, flop in the tremors. There is no motion, no concussion. Flash. Blackness. Scream. He screams. They are prone watching him. He has frozen, erect, exposed, facing them, facing away, facing the noise, the flash. They want to advance, to save him. “Stay back!” He is vehement. “Get behind me.” Flash. Stitched.