Carry Me Home (13 page)

Robert Wapinski leaned forward on his elbows, wrapped both hands around his coffee. He hadn’t verbalized those thoughts to himself but as Grandpa talked he realized that he did feel like a stranger, not at High Meadow, but in town and at Nittany Mountain. And he was restless. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

“Well,” Grandpa continued, “don’t expect to feel all right overnight. It takes time. Nothing grows overnight. It takes time to grow new skin.”

Robert said nothing. Conversations between grandfather and grandson were slow, unrushed. Earlier he had told his grandfather about Stacy, about the fight at the frat house, what he could remember about the ride and the crash. He had relayed these things as if he had been a briefing officer delivering an afteraction report. He had said little about Viet Nam except on the third night at High Meadow, half intoxicated, he had raged, “With all their talk, with all the words, it’s like nobody here has the vaguest idea what’s happening over there. They don’t know. They don’t want to know. They don’t want to know about our soldiers. They don’t give a shit about the people. I was going to go back to school. I can’t go back to that place.”

Grandpa had answered, “Your father felt like that some when he came back from World War Two. Your grandma and me, we pushed him back to your ma’s cause we thought that was right. He sure as hell couldn’t live with your ma. Well, you know, you can stay up here. Do whatever you want. Alone or bring whoever you want. Door’s always open. The place is yours.”

Again the fourth night Robert had drunk too much. He’d talked, raged, spewed forth indignation, but he refused to hear. And Grandpa had not repeated Bobby’s comments, had not tried to reason with his grandson. He had simply sat there, listened, let the young man discharge his anger.

Grandpa finished his coffee. He rose and carried his plate to the sink. “I don’t know if you know this,” he said running hot water into the dishpan, “but I felt like a stranger, too, after the Great War. But, ha, I was a stranger. It was okay for me. Do you want to give Josh the bones?”

“Just one.” Robert brought his plate to the sink. He picked out a bone with some meat left on it. “I don’t think his digestive tract is mature enough for much more but it’ll be good for his teeth.” He made a chicking sound. “Come on, Boy.” He opened the back door, tossed the bone into the yard. Josh scampered out.

“Granpa.”

“Um-hmm.”

“What makes her so cold?”

“Who?”

“My mother. Why’s she like that?”

“She’s a hard woman to ... Her ma, she was a lot like that too. Them Cadwalders is like that.”

“God! I wish I knew what made her that way.”

“Well, she is cold,” Pewel Wapinski said. “I haven’t hardly talked to her since the day she—she chased ...”

“I know,” Robert said. “It’s okay with me.”

“It’s not with me,” the old man said simply. “That’s not the way families are supposed to be. She broke up more’n just her own family. She broke up my family, too.”

“What was my Pa like?” Robert asked. He had been told stories about his father when he was young, and he had read the letters, but he had a need to hear again, maybe to read again, in light of his own past few years.

“He was a good boy. A fine boy. When he came back from the Pacific, though, he needed time. I don’t know what he saw there. He was in a field artillery unit. Okinawa late in the war. He went late. Not with the first force. He was a replacement soldier pretty late in ’42. But then he went on to the Solomons and the Marianas. And he was with the first guns on Okinawa in ’45. I cut articles for him, just like I did for you. When he got back your brother was three years old and your dad couldn’t touch im. We didn’t give him time. And she sure as hell didn’t. She got pregnant. That’s when you were born.”

“She’s always saying I’m just like him.”

“You are like him. You are. You’re Wapinski through and through. That’s what she couldn’t stand. She wanted to turn him into a Cadwalder, like she done to the fella she’s got with her now.”

“Doug?”

“Sorriest excuse for a man I ever seen.”

“He’s okay, I guess.”

“He’s nothin compared to your Pa.”

“You know, every time she’d get worked up and start smacking me around she’d always yell, ‘Yer just like him. Just like yer f-ah-ther.’ I mean, I think I knew way back, even at nine or ten, she was a bitch. I think I knew that’s why he left.”

“That’s why he left. If she hadn’t been like that I’d of had a son and a daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Your grandma and I gave your father five thousand dollars when they got married so he could buy her a house in town. That was a lot of money back then. But she turned everything she could against the Wapinski name. Only one she wasn’t able to get to is you. And that’s because you’ve got that Wapinski stubborn streak. Your father had it but she got to him at his low point. And we didn’t help because we didn’t know.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

“Nope. I think he died because if he was still alive he would have come back for you after he’d sorted hisself out. He loved you. He didn’t know Brian. She’d already turned him into a Cadwalder by the time he come back. And, of course, he left before Joanne was born.”

“Is she my full sister?”

“Maybe.”

“Like Ma might have been a whore, huh?”

“She was goin with a man when your father was away.”

“And me? Am I maybe a bastard too?”

“No. Your Ma wasn’t playing around just when your Pa came home. You were conceived probably that week he come back. And there was a good year there. Least that’s what we always believed. But then she started playin around. As I heard it.”

“So my mother was a whore.”

“No. Not a whore. Just she weren’t your father’s exclusively. She liked a few other men and that drove him crazy. But—but I think he would of put up with even that if she weren’t like she was to him. And he couldn’t tell me or his ma because we didn’t want to know. You didn’t talk about those things then.”

“Great family.”

“Bob, Wapinski is a great family. It’s a shame you don’t know more. A shame I don’t remember more. But Wapinskis have always been strong. Back in our village, my father was looked up to by everyone. And my brothers were strong. And Wapinskis have always been brave and truthful. When I first come to this country I worked in every kind of job. I am always the best. But I never found in a city what I found here and that’s why I stayed. Wapinskis are better than most. We serve others. But we know, you can lead others by your service. When you have children, Bob, that’s something you teach. You always teach your children that Wapinski is special. That it’s a thing to be honored. That way, they carry that with them and they’ll always be good.”

Bobby squinted. The Wapinski stuff was hard to take. “What about Pa?”

“Your pa, he ... between your ma and what he saw on Okinawa ...”

“What’d he see on Okinawa? I thought he never talked about it.”

“He told me ... well ... there was terrible mayhem there. People, farmers, gettin between the armies and bein slaughtered. Maybe somewhere near 60,000 natives. Seems I read that. Fifty, sixty, seventy thousand noncombatants in just a few months. Then after ... after the fighting was finished, he was there, then too, part of the occupation force but just a short time. He couldn’t stand it. They carried so much anger, American soldiers, anger from having seen so many of their friends die. When they’d be on guard, at night, if they saw a native, they’d shoot im.”

“Shoot ...”

“Shoot em. After the war ended there.”

“Um. I’m not surprised.”

“Well, your father was! He didn’t like it. He wanted to have some men tried. It affected him a long time.”

“Yeah. I guess it could. We were very strict about that kind of thing.”

“I’m glad to know that.”

“Some stuff like that happened. I know some units where guys went crazy and maybe killed people they didn’t have to during a fight. It never happened with my unit.”

“Good. Then you don’t need that.”

“What? The scotch?”

“Yep.”

“It ... ah, it just helps me sleep.”

“Bob, I’m only going to say this once. You don’t need me harpin at you. But you’re not goina find the answer in that bottle. Be careful of that. It won’t do you much good and you haven’t finished what you begun.”

“Finished what?”

“You’re here for a reason, Bob. Here, on earth. I don’t know the reason but there’s not a soul born without reason. You ask yourself this like you were somebody else, like He was askin you. You say, ‘What have you done that you want to show me? What have you done you’re proud of?’ Maybe your reason is to right them folks you think are wrong.”

“Folks?”

“Them newspeople you cuss at.”

“About Viet Nam! Uhn-uh, Granpa, I did my part. And those people ... they don’t want to hear.”

“Then you might just as well give it up.”

“Give it up? Give what up?”

“Your anger. If you’re not going to set them straight, you just might as well agree with them. Let them have your mind.”

“My mind. My—” Bobby put his head into his hands, closed his eyes, mumbled, “Never let em get to your ...”

“Eh?” Grandpa said.

“Oh. Nothin.” Bobby looked up. “I was just thinking of something else.”

“Your part, eh? Well Bob, to me, I think your part’s not finished until you’re finished. Unfinished business, Bob, unfinished business has a way of haunting you. Take care of business, first. You’ve got to plant before you play.”

“Yeah. You’re right Granpa. But not—”

“I know. Not yet. It’s okay. You’ll work it out. I know you will. I know you’ll do it right. You’re Wapinski.”

“Yeah. Thanks Granpa.”

Robert Wapinski began his third week at High Meadow by drawing up a plan for refurbishing the house, and by taking Josh on his first hike into the deep woods. His perspective changed dramatically. He gave up his morning shots of whiskey. He rose at five, made coffee, watched the sunrise. Then he skimmed the newspaper or the newsweekly for Viet Nam–related articles, which he cut and saved but barely read more than the headlines, telling himself he’d study them later. And he made a phone call.

“Bea Hollands, please.”

“This is Bea.”

“Oh.” She had a pleasant telephone voice. He tried to picture her. “I’m Bob Wapinski. I’m a friend of Stacy—”

“Oh yes, Bob. Hi.”

“Hi. I was—”

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Uh ...” Blew this one, he thought.

“Bob, we met about three years ago. At a party. I’m the short girl with the red hair. You and Stacy were going pretty hot and heavy then. I guess you didn’t notice much else.”

“Oh, I’m ... yeah. I think I do remember you,” he lied. “Bright red hair?”

“That’s right. That’s why most of my friends call me Red. You can call me Red.”

“Okay. Red.” The phone conversation was easier than he’d expected and he knew it was not because of himself. He already enjoyed talking to her. “Hey, can we get together?”

“Why don’t you come over tomorrow night and we can talk.”

“Stay close, Josh,” he said. They headed out the back door of the house toward the pond. Josh jumped, leaped, nearly did flips in the air. Bob caught him on one of the jumps and hugged him. “Yer a good dog, Josh.” He nuzzled his face behind the dog’s ear. “You really are.” They made a short detour to look at the car they had crashed. Pewel Wapinski had had it towed to High Meadow and pushed into the garage bay on the barn’s downhill side below the main floor. “You know, little brother,” Bob said to Josh, “I coulda gotten you killed. Damn. What a mess. We’ll work on the yard this afternoon and tonight we’ll start strippin her so we can find just how bad she is. Maybe we can pull the engine and seats and stuff and find one that’s been junked with a blown engine and combine the two.”

They walked down the path to the pond’s edge. The morning was already becoming warm. There was a high thin cloud cover. Josh walked into the low water, lapped up some, came out shaking himself next to Bob. “Geez,” Bob laughed. “You dummy. Come on. I’ll take you around.”

The path climbed south, away from the pond, through the edge of the orchards. Bobby was stiff. He hadn’t walked much since the accident. Now climbing the small hill to the orchard his knees ached. He walked slowly. He was not in a hurry. He did not want to think about anything in particular. He felt happy. For the first time since the day he returned, he actually felt happy. They walked into the orchard. It had not been tended in years. In one tree he found the remnant of an old treehouse he and his grandfather had built. Along with feeling happy, he felt melancholy. He didn’t explore the feelings.

He grabbed a branch with his left hand to help himself up a short, steep section. His thumb was still weak. The mild pressure of his grip caused some pain. He paused, examined his knuckles. They had healed from where they’d connected with the boy’s jawbone. His stomach felt better after having eaten with his grandfather for two weeks and having reduced his whiskey consumption. And he was gaining back some weight.

The trail meandered over the wooded knoll at the south end of the pond. They paused. Bob led Josh to the edge of the cliff and sat and looked at the pond. The pond lay at the base of a large, hundred-acre, natural bowl with the highest rim of the ridge at the north, the bowl opening south, the east and west ridges very gradually descending, extending like two arms holding and protecting the pond and the inner farm and even the knoll upon which Wap and Josh sat. Halfway down each arm from the north crest was a sheer six-foot step, a major fracture in the underlying bedrock that ran from one ridge, under the pond, to the other. There were two springs in the floor of the pond that seeped from the fracture, oozing water that created cold spots to swim through in the summer and warm spots where the ice was always thin in winter. The pond was shaped like a Christmas stocking, or fat, squat boot. At the bottom of the toe to his left was the spillway. The dam ran up the entire toe.

The hill in front of the boot was covered with woods. Above the top of the boot there was a steep grassy area before the slope evened out into the forty-acre upper meadow. On the right side, at the back of the boot was the house, the barn, several outbuildings, the stone ruins of the old barn, and three fenced enclosures. The fences had long since deteriorated. Along the east ridge was a cluster of pines, and beneath was the family cemetery. He’d visited his grandmother’s grave numerous times with his grandfather. His great aunt Krystyna, who had come to America after her brother established the farm, also lay there, and two workers had been buried up there in the 1930s, men without families, who’d died one winter in the old barn when the structure had caught fire.