Carry Me Home (34 page)

“We gotta move right away. I don’t want to stay here tonight.”

“We’ll get another apartment.”

“No. You don’t understand.” Now Tony did move to her. He hugged her.

Linda hugged him back, buried her head in his chest. “We’ll call right now. The agency that—”

“No. No, Linda. You don’t understand.” He held her at arm’s length. His smile returned. “I’ve got to move out of here. Out of Boston. I want to move back to Mill Creek Falls. You said you could live there. You’re going to have to drop out of school anyway. You can finish up by mail. We’ve got to go.”

Linda sat in the kitchen, erect, one arm resting lightly on the tabletop, the pressure from her womb bearing straight down, forcing her knees and feet apart. Before her were bills, receipts, the new lease. She edged forward until her chest just touched the table edge. For an hour she’d been organizing the records of their new lives. She could barely wait for Tony to get home, to tell him the news.

In early March they had moved into the apartment in Creek’s Bend. If Linda was heartbroken because she had not completed the Family Nurse Practitioners course, she did not show it, did not mention it to Tony, or to John Sr. or Jo, or to Tony’s brothers who’d helped them move in. Nor did she mention it to Annalisa, who came by every noon to talk to Linda, to tell Linda little things about Jimmy, about the extended family, about Mill Creek Falls. Perhaps she let a few words slip out to Jessie Taynor, Mill Creek’s hefty, mentally impaired street soul, but if so, she did not believe Jessie understood.

A sense of fate had engulfed her, not a permanent fatalistic doom but a tranquil self-satisfaction, perhaps progesterone induced. Linda was certain she would return to her studies and she was convinced that Tony was happier, calmer than he’d been not simply since Jimmy’s death but probably since before their wedding. The worst part of moving, she told Annalisa, was leaving the obstetrics group at Brigham and Women’s. Still, it was her new doctor, Simon Denham, who’d given her the news.

Linda opened each bill, discarded the coupons, flyers and notes, stacked the bills with return envelopes in priority of payment. Organizing their new life was important to her. She’d arranged the largest bedroom for her and Tony, the second as a nursery, the small front room overlooking the street as a library for when she and Tony returned to their studies. The afternoon was warm, clear, the sun higher each day. If she looked close she thought she could see buds beginning to swell on the trees. Quickly Linda added up what was due, compared it to what they had, projected how much Tony would earn, estimated what could be spent on additional nursery furniture.

Tony was not at work. In three weeks in Mill Creek he’d already begun and left two jobs. He sat at the corner of the bar in the White Pines Inn. The room was dingy, hazy with smoke residue from lunchtime clients from the warehouses and small mills. Most had returned to work, three older black men remained in one booth.

“Another?” The bartender wiped the counter.

“Yeah, one more.”

“Ya’rn’t workin today?”

“Naw. Lookin though.”

“Mill’s got a few openings.”

“I was there. Bout a week. Couldn’t stand it.”

“Which place?”

“Ah, you know, they’re all the same. People were fine. I just can’t work inside. I gotta find an outside job.”

“You try the little farms across Old Bridge?”

“One there. One in Hobo Hollow.”

“Nothin?”

“Nothin.”

“What about up Mill Creek Road? Up past the Old Mill. There’s Adolph Lutz’s dude ranch.”

“Yeah. Hey, yeah. I might give that a try.”

“Nice bike you got there.”

“Thanks.”

Tony finished his draft, ate the last of the pretzels from the free-lunch bowl, walked out into the bright afternoon sun. He straddled the bike, rubbed his right thigh with the heel of his hand. The muscle had been ticking and cramping ever since their move, had been sending sudden stabbing pains up to his hip. Linda, in her first long discussion with Dr. Simon Denham, had convinced him to give Tony a prescription for Darvon. Tony removed the vial from his jacket pocket, plucked out a capsule, examined it briefly, then popped it into his mouth. It stuck to his palette. He dislodged it with his tongue, felt the flow of saliva surround it, soften it, make it slippery. He swallowed. He sat on the bike allowing the heat of the sun to bake into his leg, allowing the Darvon to seep into his blood. Since the first Darvon capsule three weeks earlier he’d been more relaxed, happier. The Darvon took all pains away for at least a few hours. He could concentrate, work, smile, feel alive. Supplemented with a few beers or a toke of marijuana from Lenny Shepmann, Tony could feel in control. When the alcohol, marijuana and Darvon wore off, the dreams, night-day terrors, returned with a vengeance. For months he’d fought that inner fury, frenzy, attempting to erupt out of him. At best he laid on a shield, a lethargic countenance encrusting roiling magma. Darvon cooled the magma.

Tony rode slowly out of town, downriver toward Forksville, then back. His relaxation had peaked, was gently retreating, being replaced by the onslaught of his demons. He crossed the Old Truss Bridge, rumbled east, then north on 154 by Old New Town, past the backyard of his folks’ home, into Creek’s Bend. Flash images crashed on to his consciousness. Annalisa at Shepmann’s, Jimmy and Tony on the roof of the toolshed, the dead children on Storrow Drive, the NVA stabbing him, the tunnel body, Manny, Rick, Jimmy. Shivers rolled up his sides, his back. He squeezed the throttle grip more tightly, wished, willed the images away. He parked the bike, forced a smile. He was cognizant that he could not share his thoughts, his mental images, with Linda. Quietly he hummed to himself. The sound chased the images away but did not chase away the thought that the images were unworthy, were wrong. He felt ashamed. Before he went in he reached for another Darvon. The vial was empty.

“‘Ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, Babe ...’” Tony sang cheerfully. Linda had finished the bills, packed up, turned to decorating. Tony continued, changed the words. “We aint got no choices, anyhow....”

“Hi Babe. You’re home early.”

“Aw, just a bit. My leg was bothering me so I cut out a few minutes early.”

“I’ve got something to tell you.” Linda held out her hands. Tony grabbed them, playfully exaggerated leaning over her belly, trying to kiss her. “Oh, you ...” Linda pulled him in, kissed him.

He rested one hand on her abdomen, one on the side of a swollen breast. “Whatcha been up to?”

“I’ve been rearranging the nursery. Wanta see?”

“Yeah. But—” Tony paused. “What’s that?” He indicated the living room wall where Linda had hung three framed certificates.

“They look nice, don’t they? The IGA had a sale on frames—”

“I don’t want that stuff up there. And didn’t I tell you, Morris’ is where we shop.”

“I just stopped in on the way back from the doctors. And Babe, those are your—”

“I know what they are—”

“... medals. Your Purple Heart and Silver star—”

“... and I don’t want them up there!”

“You used to be so proud of being a Marine.”

Now Tony was curt. “I just don’t want them up. That’s all.” He walked over, took them from the wall.

Linda shook her head. She was still proud of his citations, of what he’d done, did not understand how he could turn his back on what he once loved so dearly. And she felt rejected. “In here,” she said quietly.

They entered the nursery. “Hey,” Tony attempted to be light, “why’d you cram it all to one side?”

Linda looked at him, reached out, grabbed his hand. “Doctor Denham says we need another crib.”

“Another crib? What’s wrong with ... wit—wha ... aaahhHHH!”

“Uh-huh,” Linda beamed. Her eyes twinkled. She tilted her head, looking to Tony for one instant like a pixie, a bulging-bellied pixie. “Twins.”

The increase in future responsibility settled Tony some. He’d met with Simon Denham privately for a few minutes after Linda’s eighth-month appointment, showed the obstetrician his scarred thigh, and explained briefly how the pains came out of nowhere, shot up to his hip, racked him out of bed, or threw him when he was riding.

“You know, Mr. Pisano, you really should go over to the Rock Ridge Veterans Medical Center. What you describe, you could have a deep infection in there. It might just be the damaged nerve, but that’s not something I’m willing to guess at. You’ve got to—”

“I will.” Tony rocked back and forth, kneading the quadricep with the heel of his hand. “It’s just when it gets like this, I can hardly think. One Darvon and I’m okay all through work.”

“What are you doing now? Linda says you’ve changed jobs again.” Simon Denham reached over, grabbed his prescription pad, wrote something unintelligible.

“I’m with one of the ranches up off Mill Creek Road.”

“Oh. Adolph Lutz’s?”

“Ah, he hired a kid day before I got there. Next one up. Wapinski’s.”

“I don’t know that one. Does he board many horses?”

“None. It’s just the old man. Right now we’re tapping the maples, boiling away, making syrup.”

“Syrup?” Simon Denham snickered.

“Yeah. I think we’ll get a hundred gallons. It’s a farm. That’s his first crop of the year.”

“Well, good luck. Take this. Be careful with these. Especially on that bike of yours. Darvon’s nothing to fool with.”

But Tony was not fooling. By mid-April he had prescriptions from four doctors. At three Darvon a day Tony felt relaxed, alert, alive, in control. With a little alcohol, a little weed, he was happy.

Then on 30 April 1970 Tony heard President Richard Nixon announce he was sending U.S. combat troops into Cambodia to destroy the sanctuaries and root out the communist command and control headquarters, COSVN. Tony felt nauseated, irritable. His jaw tightened and he withdrew for three days, opening himself up again only to hear that the Ohio National Guard had fired into a crowd of protesting students, had killed four, wounded eleven. Darvon or not, Tony could not handle that. He did not sympathize with the students but instead felt that the country’s reaction was ripping him apart. He withdrew more deeply, plunged and hid in the depths of his being, hid from himself, from his thoughts. After the fourth of May he no longer stopped at the White Pines on his way home but instead purchased a six-pack at the local state store. He’d drink two on his way home, drink the rest with dinner.

He purchased a shotgun. “For protection,” he told Linda. “This hippie element’s gone nuts.” It was not an elaborate gun, not expensive, just a single-shot, breech loader with full-choke 30-inch barrel and an ash stock. Tony bought two boxes of shells—one double-aught buck, one number 7½ upland game or fowl. On the first day with the shotgun Tony fired half of each box from the back of the sugarbush, fired the rounds at nothing particular, just shooting out over the cliff, listening to the reverberations as they rolled through the gap.

To Linda, it seemed like such a good time, a happy time, an expectant time, just before the births of the twins. Then on 12 May 1970, Gina was born first, at 7:56
P.M
. Michelle followed five minutes later. That night, after kissing Linda good night, after watching his cute little girls for two hours, after stopping by to tell his folks, Tony went back to the empty apartment. It was very dark. A light rain had begun falling. Tony did not turn on any lights. Slowly he worked his way to the bedroom, kicked off his boots, lay back on the bed.

He is alone. Raindrops patter softly on the roof. The streets are quiet. He does not want to dream, does not want the demons thrashing in his mind. He closes his eyes. Lights flash. He opens his eyes, rolls quietly, slowly reaches under the bed, grasps the shotgun, lifts it, lays it on his chest. The barrel is cool against his chest, the stock smooth in his left hand, the trigger housing and hammer functional in his right. He thinks the chamber is empty, isn’t certain, thinks an empty gun can be more dangerous than a loaded one if someone breaks in. Again he closes his eyes, again the flashes. He sits up. In the dark he breaks the breech, feels for a shell. The chamber is smooth, empty. Again he reaches under the bed, feels a box, removes a shell. It makes no difference if it is double-aught or number 7½. He loads, snaps the breech shut, lies back. The sound was nice, well-machined metal, precision fit. Eyes open or shut, flashes. It makes no difference. He wishes so badly that Jimmy could meet his daughters, that he could show them to Manny. The instant he thinks of Manny, of Jimmy, he sees himself with his daughters, sees himself unable to speed them up, unable to carry them both, and Linda, unable ... A flash. One cries. A flash. The second is blown apart. Then Linda is shot and he, Tony, can’t stop it, can’t halt it. Flash. He fires, he fires, he fires only to hit one himself. He cannot get it out of his mind. He will kill them. Slice them. Hack off their heads. I am the Will. I am the Will. Tony is crying, rubbing his face on the barrel. I am capable of the most brutal murder—murder in defense of myself, of others. I am capable if pushed. I am the Will to fight, the Will to pull the trigger. Tony is so proud of having been the Will, but that was a different Tony. It is comforting to know he can fight to defend; it is frightening. It makes him secure when threatened, but without the threat, need he manufacture a threat, a demon?

I am the Will, he thinks, but I can no longer control the Will. He nods more deeply. His nightmare expands. There are heads, three, huge, bigger than beach balls, eyes, beautiful, exquisite eyes.... Tony’s entire body convulses violently, jarring him back awake, alert. He is cool, wet. His nares are flared, feel permanently splayed trying to sense the wind. Now he is angry, furious at his demons, at his horrible thoughts, at his disgusting self. He should be so happy, elated. He has two beautiful daughters, each with wispy strands of red hair, with exquisite eyes, he thinks, like Linda’s. And his thoughts are on seeing them die, causing their deaths, killing them!! He cannot stay down, cannot stay still. He paces, frantic, in the dark, frantic, holding the shotgun, panicky, afraid he’ll quit again, afraid he’ll drag them down, afraid ...