Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Um.” Sara smiled.

  “I saw him last night.”

  “Who?”

  “It was very beautiful. Like coming out of dark water. Like our wedding.”

  “What was?”

  “The Holy Spirit. I could feel his hand on me. I can’t describe it. He was speaking in a tongue I didn’t know yet I could understand. He told me to believe.”

  “Bobby!”

  “Really.”

  “This is amazing.”

  “It was like a bright light but not glaring. Not like looking into a headlight but very bright. Very white. It came from the cathedral of the eastern hemlocks. I could see the hemlocks around us. It was very bright. And it was the light telling me ... telling me about the healing side of believing. About the baptism in water and the baptism in fire.”

  “Bobby—” Sara said. He had never spoken this way before, spoken about a supernatural faith. They were Catholic but this went far beyond their religious learnings. If she were not so thrilled to have him back she would have been embarrassed. Still she did not know how to respond. “This is phenomenal!”

  “We have this power,” he said. “We’ve been given it by the Holy Spirit. I’m ... I’m trying to believe. I’m struggling ... I’m trying to get in touch with it each time. This isn’t the first time but I didn’t understand.

  “Tell the kids,” Bobby continued. “Tell them there is a God. That he loves them tremendously. That he loves me, too. Just as much.”

  “You tell them. Let me go back and get them.”

  When Sara returned Bobby was not in his room. “Where ...”

  “They’ve taken him back to the ICU. They shouldn’t have brought him up so soon. His friend’s with him.”

  “Tony?”

  “I think.”

  Then, downstairs, Tony, pacing, to Sara, the children in chairs in the corridor, “Damn it. The shit’s hit the fan.”

  Sara, “What? How? He was just ...”

  “His blood pressure fell through the floor. His white blood count’s back to nothing.”

  “This isn’t supposed to happen!”

  “He’s bleeding again. Coughing up ... He thinks he’s on Hamburger ...”

  “Is Lily ...”

  “She’s in with him. Damn.”

  “I ... I’ve got to take the children back to the Boyers’.”

  Later that night Lily Dachik said to Sara and Tony, “The quality of his life has reached a point that we have to know if anything should happen, which is possible at any moment, ah, how would you like us to handle that? We really feel that resuscitating him at this point would be of no value. It would be bringing him back ah, ah ... only to die again.”

  Now Tony couldn’t handle it. He kicked the wall. Stamped his feet. “Goddamn it! My best goddamned friend is dying. Best goddamned human being who ever lived ... Goddamn Agent Orange ...”

  Sara sat with Bobby, alone, holding his hand. His eyes were shut. He was semicomatose. She was afraid to speak, to open her mouth, afraid she’d wail. She took a deep breath. “I’m back,” she finally said. “I’m with you now. Do you understand that?”

  Bobby squeezed her hand.

  “Noah sends his love. Paul and Am, too.”

  “Um.” Bobby’s hum was very quiet, very weak.

  Again she sat quietly, feeling helpless. Then she rose, left.

  Tony entered, hugged Bobby.

  “... omm.” Very weak.

  Tony put his ear to Bobby’s mouth. “What?”

  “... omm.”

  For a time he tried to understand but he couldn’t decipher the word. Sara returned. “ ... m ... omm,” Bobby said.

  “Are you saying ‘home’?” Sara asked.

  “hi ...” Bobby said.

  “High Meadow?” Tony asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Bobby opened his eyes. “... m. take care of Noah,” he said. “And Paul Anthony. And Am.”

  Tears flood Sara’s eyes.

  “... tony ... take me home. I want to die at home. carry me home.”

  11 November 1984

  VETERAN’S DAY—IT IS cool, clear. The sky is not crying. It is dawn. It is nearly a year. I have four small flags with me, maybe six-by-ten inches, on small wooden dowels. Would it in some way have defiled them, those who served, had I brought up eight, one for each grave?

  There’s a sugarbush over the west ridge there. Can you imagine that spirit, that hope and trust which is optimism. I am the spirit, the will. I can control the will, see, read, taste the wind. From up here with the sun rising at your back you can see most of the place—the pond, so peaceful; the big barn and the small, the house, still unfinished; the vineyard, the high meadow, the knoll and orchard and cliff and dam. Out that way is the drive with the gate and the hinges I forged that first winter when I didn’t want to speak to anyone. Over the hills, down there, is the town. You can see the breaks in the trees though without their leaves the breaks are less distinct. The first one is the Old Mill, then the New Mill, then the warehouse area down by the river. And you can see the steeples, the square one of St. Ignatius. Across the river, in what used to be Hobo Hollow, is the mall, then South Hill, New New Town, Old New Town, Creek’s Bend, and way up to the left the Kinnard/Chassion plant. Out to the right is the old steel truss bridge. The White Pines Inn with its small array of solar collectors is just downriver.

  The town sure has changed in the years since I first came to High Meadow, has changed greatly since the years of my boyhood. Still, perhaps it has not changed as much as the country. The entire perspective, the ideals, the hopes and projections ... Perhaps that is why I’m here. To carry it forward ... for you, Bobby, back here behind me. Next to Grandpa. And your grandmother. And with ol’ Josh here with you, too.

  Robert Janos Wapinski died 14 December 1983 at 5:57 A.M., less than an hour before first light, less than a year ago. I accompanied his body back, stayed with him through the wake, the funeral, the burial. We put him in the ground on Sunday the 18th, lowered him with his grandpa and grandma on one side and his aunt on the other. The two workers and Ty and Kenneth Moshler, who’d been crushed by that panel truck, and Josh, too, are in the row behind them. The sky didn’t cry that day, either, but Noah did. Noah sobbed for days. He was angry, hurt. He took it out on Sara. “He needed you. Why didn’t he need me?”

  Paulie reacted differently. He didn’t cry at all. He barely spoke except I heard him say to Noah, “Please don’t cry.” Maybe he said it to me. “It scares me when you cry.”

  Am cried. Not like Noah. She clung to Sara. It really was too much to expect of her, to be there, to understand. We too. Isn’t that the origin, the nest, of rites and rituals?

  Bobby’s funeral was really something. I did not let happen to me what happened when Jimmy died. I’ve grown, I guess. The will that died with Jimmy survived him to die with Bobby yet it survives him and lives on in you and me. There must have been four hundred people there. Six of us, the core group, Van Deusen, Gallagher, Mariano, Wagner, Denahee and I, carried the flag-draped pine coffin up the hill, with Father Tom Niederkau, and the deacons, the altar boys, family, extended families, vets, friends, even a TV crew from Channel Five all trailing.

  Father Tom was eloquent.

  In death there is life. In dying we are reborn. Evidence of the resurrection is less in the stories of the Bible than in every blade of grass that browns, every leaf that falls, then returns in the spring.

  We recall his face, his struggles, our shared laughter. We celebrate, we commemorate, not this man’s life, not his death, but his spirit which has been reborn. We honor his altruism, his willingness to risk himself to help others. Bobby sent me a note, a quote from Lincoln. It was during the period when he was very ill. “It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here thus far so nobly advanced.”

  He wished for us to continue advancing that unfinished noble work. He wanted us to remember the whys, the caus
es, the principles. He had accepted the torch, the light, had carried it gallantly. Now he has passed the torch to us, the work of spiritual love, of freedom, justice, equality, integrity, friendship, godliness.

  Godliness! There was only one thing that to me that day, those days, was ungodly—Miriam Cadwalder-Wapinski. The evening before, she had come to the wake, thrown herself on the casket, sobbed, wailed, “My baby, my son. My dearly beloved.” I went to assist her, comfort her. I thought ... She rose, turned, vengeful, pushed me aside, confronted Sara. “You bitch,” she snapped. “Why didn’t you tell me he was so sick?”

  The entire room was stunned, silent. Miriam yelled like a drill instructor. “You did it. You did this to him. You ...” Thorpe, Rodney Smith, Rifkin, surrounded her. “You’ll regret this,” Miriam boomed. “You’ll regret—” Rodney turned her. Sara was on her feet. Noah had frozen in his chair. Rifkin and Thorpe grabbed Miriam’s arms, escorted her, she screaming, cursing all the way, out.

  At the funeral Miriam seemed contrite. She stood just before Stacy Carter. Stacy had sent a large flower arrangement with a ribbon with the words “... imagine me and you ...” She could not have looked more beautiful, more tormented. Sometime that day she said to me, “We were supposed to wait for each other. My ... I hope he forgave me. I hope I can be Sara’s friend.” I told her, “I’m sure he did. And I’m sure you will be. After that.”

  Father Tom had finished. Lea, Linda’s sister, was about to lead the gathering in song when Miriam huffed loudly, “Godliness! He was filthy. He and his floozies ...” And Stacy Carter swung a roundhouse right and caught Miriam upside the head and knocked her down, and right there on Channel Five’s camera Rodney and I and Ty’s brother Phillip stepped in, grabbed Miriam, and Rodney said, loud, to the camera, “Tha’s not his mother. Who is she? Get this lady outa here.” And Bobby’s brother—his sister, Joanne, had not come—but Brian, to the far side, covered his face and shuddered and shuddered again as Rodney and Al Palanzo escorted Miriam down the hill, she screaming all the way. “Sell it. Sell it. Give me my money.”

  Peace, godliness, returned with song. They had chosen it because he’d been a Screaming Eagle of the 101st Airborne. And I couldn’t believe it, me a Marine, getting blubbery over the song. I couldn’t control my tears but I controlled my voice. The refrain:

  And He will raise you up on eagle’s wings,

  Bear you on the breath of dawn,

  Make you shine like the sun,

  And hold you in the palm of his hand.

  I flashed back to Manny, to Ty, to Moshler, to Wildman, to Fuzzy, to so many guys. And to Jimmy. The third and fourth verses.

  You need not fear the terror of the night,

  Nor the arrow that flies by day;

  Though thousands fall about you,

  Near you it shall not come.

  For to His angels He’s given a command

  To guard you in all of your ways;

  Upon their hands they will bear you up,

  Lest you dash your foot against a stone.

  After the others had retreated to the house—the vets, led by Mike Treetop and John Cannello, had prepared an elaborate meal complete with apple fritters and maple syrup—I lingered here, at the family cemetery. I wanted to tell Bobby a few things—word from Hieu, word from Sherrick. Cards, letters. Every day for months they’d been piling up. Success stories. Guys who’d become what you would call “solid citizens.” “Man, you got to be proud,” I said. I did a little dance, a little jig. “Remember Ortez? Remember Peckham and Quinn? They’ve opened a small vet center in Chicago. Okay, they’re not financiers or physicians but they’re making it. Helping others to make it, too. Remember Ianez? Hawley? Bailer?” I sang a little tune, changed some words, an Elvis tune, “We can’t stop lovin you ...”

  Life continued. Hardships. The farm was given to Bobby under a tenancy-for-life agreement, which meant upon his death Miriam, Joanne and Brian owned a controlling interest, and they forced it to be put up for sale. Sara was exhausted, at the point of a nervous breakdown. She wanted to run away. She packed up the most personal items, and she and the children moved to Sonoma, California. For a long time she didn’t answer calls, didn’t write. When I did hear from her she told me she had been praying, that on the day she felt the lowest she heard a song on the radio that went—

  Got a dollar in my pocket,

  got your letter in my shoe.

  Fresh out of the Infantry,

  I’m tryin to find you.

  Old ’43 is slowing down to roll around the bend.

  I’m ON MY WAY TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

  And she wrote that Noah had taught himself how to ride a bike.

  14 December 1984

  IT SEEMED LIKE THE final betrayal.

  I was going to tell you much more about the trial, the veterans’ class-action suit against the companies that manufactured Agent Orange. I was going to detail the cover-up—what and when Dow and Monsanto knew about the contaminants, and why they kept the information to themselves. I was going to explain the $180 million settlement but there is no time, no time at all. I will tell you it is not over. There has been a settlement but not a final determination. Of the millions, Sara, it appears, will receive $3,600 as compensation from the chemical companies for Bobby’s death. There is no compensation from the VA or the government.

  I feel like the Mad Hatter, or the White Rabbit. Which one? Ah well ... I’m late. I’m late. For a very important ... You see, I can no longer attend to the past. I can no longer let them have my mind. Linda and I sold our house.

  We’re moving. Maybe that’s what we’re here about, to answer the questions on how it has all changed, to look at the future, at our hopes, to wonder why things have gone so awry, so out of whack, and to hope through our actions and our thoughts and through changing perspectives, beliefs and attitudes, perhaps we can regain control, re-right the ship of state and the ship of culture, plot and follow a course where all people can hope for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

  So I’ve come here now, Bobby, to tell you this. Linda and I are going to attempt to resurrect the high meadows of your spirit. We’re back in business. With my father’s help we have purchased High Meadow. The core staff is returning. Gary Sherrick, too.

  Acknowledgments

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following people who shared with me their memories, stories, and ideas:

  Ralph Antignani; Carl Augusto; Douglas Bachman; Lee and Janice Bartels; Tom Barton; Mike Benge; Ray “Blackie” Blackman of The Ripcord Report; Harry W. Brooks, Jr., Major General U.S.A. (Retired); F. C. Brown; Jim Catlin of The Strike Force Association; Joe and Jeanne Cochran; Joe Cordova; Kathy Cordova; Frank and Carol Delaney; Bob Del Vecchio; Frank A. Del Vecchio, Jr.; Jane Diedzic of VVAOI; Larry Elliot; Mary Jo Good, Ph.D., and Byron Good, Ph.D.; Joe Griggs; Jane Hamilton-Merritt, Ph.D.; Edwin Hunter of The Undesirables; Dr. Herbert Kaye; Theanvy Kuoch of Khmer Health Advocates; Ben Cai Lam; Bob Leddlelaytner; Marcus Leddy; Bill Laurie of Cyclo Dap Archives; Ned Leavitt; Don Lombardi; Hugh Long of The Strike Force Association; Paul Lukienchuk; Gunny Doug Lyvere; V. David and Donna Manahan; Roderick MacKenzie; Gary Miller; Frank McCarthy of the Brandie Scheib Children’s Fund; Conley Monk of The Undesirables; Brian Muldoon; Ron Mullins; Ron Norris; Bruce and Janice Ratcliffe; Heather Ratcliffe; Ed Ruminski; Joseph and Elena Rusnak; P. Cary Shelton; Ted Shpak of the Viet Nam Veterans Service Center; Pierre Smith; Jimmy Sparrow of VVAOVI; Tim Stewart; Thomas Taylor; Saren Thach; Dave and Karen Throm; Paul Trudeau; Karen, Robert, and Paul Trudeau; Al Santoli; Carol Verozzi; and Alan Young, Ph.D.

  I would also like to thank the veterans of the Vet Centers in Greenville, North Carolina, White River Junction, Vermont, and Shelton, Meriden, and Hartford, Connecticut.

  And a very special thanks to Frank and Filomena Del Vecchio.

  About the Author

  John and his wife Kate in 1978

  John M. Del Vecchio was drafted in 1969 shortly
after graduating from Lafayette College with a Bachelors Degree in Psychology and a minor emphasis in Civil Engineering. In 1970 he volunteered for Viet Nam where he served as a combat correspondent for the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile); in 1971 he was awarded a Bronze Star for Heroism in Ground Combat.

  Del Vecchio is the author of The 13th Valley, For the Sake of All Living Things, Carry Me Home, and Darkness Falls, along with numerous articles and papers including the widely quoted “The Importance of Story,” the forward for Wounds of War, and the afterword for Code Word: Geronimo. His books have been translated into four languages and published worldwide. He has lectured extensively on the history of the Viet Nam War in the U.S. and the United Kingdom, and has appeared on FOX News as a military/political commentator.

  Del Vecchio is currently working on screenplays based on his novels, a book about resilience in the fourth quarter of life tentatively titled Exit Strategies, and an expose on the financial crisis from a street-level perspective tentatively titled From the Bottom Looking Up.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission by Linda LaMar to include lyrics from “On My Way to See You Again,” written by Marcus Leddy