Carry Me Home (18 page)

Pisano grabbed the letters from his bed, glanced at the return addresses. One, a thin one, was from Jimmy Pellegrino. The other, a fat letter, was from his brother Joe. Tony fell over onto his rack, collapsed on his left side, his letters cradled against his stomach.

“Hey,
paesan
.” Crocco shook his head imperceptibly. “I figure we each kick in a hundred and twenty—Can you swing that?”

“Yeah, Chris.” Tony’s voice was faint, flat, as if he’d burnt out.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Didja eat?”

“Nah.”

“That’s what’s happenin, Man. Your bod runs outa gas. You go manic until you crumble. You gotta smooth it out,
paesan
. Gotta be cool, Man.”

“Yeah.”

Crocco got up, left. Tony lay on his side until the mid-August sun came horizontally through the window. He thought about calling Linda, about it being Friday, about Friday night, about her telling him she doesn’t date servicemen, that Wednesday night had been a mistake. He thought about the morning funeral in Germantown at National Cemetery, about the drive back past La Salle College, about going to school when he got out, about Philly General, Mercy Douglas, and Methodist Episcopal hospitals—he hadn’t even asked her where she was doing her student nursing—about Philadelphia Naval Hospital, about Rick. His thoughts became vague: concepts of city-people stupidity, of slimy civilians standing in doorways, hanging out windows, bopping along streets without seeing, without looking where they stepped, where they went, stupid, so easy to shoot, to be shot by anybody, to be mortared with no hole to jump in. And he felt afraid for them. And afraid of them—afraid their stupidity might get him killed. Then he let it go, unstored, unrecallable. He rolled to his back and opened his brother’s letter.

Dear Tony,

Josephine sent me a large box of oatmeal cookies, like the ones she used to send to you overseas. I’m sure it’s her response to our being away. But there’s too many, they’ll go bad here. So I’m sending half, separately from this letter, to you. I wanted to tell you that so if they get waylaid you’ll know I was thinking of you. Don’t tell her, okay?

I’ve enclosed a few articles here for you. One’s a speech by Humphrey. He’s certainly the best man running this time. Look, I need your opinion on something. Do you remember my friend Todd? He’s been teaching Science at Rock Ridge Junior High, but he’s being
drafted
. He was scheduled to go for induction August 1 but he didn’t show. He has a letter from his principal stating that there’s a shortage of science teachers (which is bullshit), but the Army didn’t accept it and they rescheduled his induction for September 9. He’s staying with me for a few days and we’ve been analyzing all the alternatives—Army life, jail, splitting for Sweden. We’ve talked at great length but time is running out. He’s filed for C.O. status but sincerely doubts he’ll even get a hearing. We need your opinion.

I’ve thought about applying for C.O., also. I thought about it all during my senior year but I knew when I was accepted to med. school I didn’t have to worry. Still I hate the draft for confining me into school as it has. That must sound trivial to you, a banality from the
unscathed
. But it does trouble me! These years are going to be of such historical significance and I’ve hidden behind my books. I might stop hiding and become active with the local Students for a Democratic Society. What do you think?

Back to Todd. The essence of his plight is he believes he would be double-crossing his conscience if he allowed himself to be drafted yet he is not morally opposed to
just
wars or to the military. (Mostly he’s opposed to them screwing with his routine—new house, new car, and new girlfriend.) But if he goes to jail or splits for Sweden, that would upset his routine even more than the Army—and maybe forever! We really need your opinion, Tony. We need the opinion of someone who’s been in the middle and who knows.

Joe

P.S. I put a tab of acid in one of the cookies!

A smirk formed on Tony’s face. Before he reviewed Joe’s letter he opened the one from Jimmy Pellegrino. It was short.

Tony—

Bea and I’ll be in your A.O. about 2000 hours, Friday 16 August. I got till Sunday because I’ve gotta leave for Treasure Island on Monday. Grab a chick and LET’S PARTY!

J

P.S. Annalisa says Hi.

“Linda.”

“Yes.”

“It’s Tony Pisano. The dago you danced with the other night.”

“Tony?”

“Yeah. Remember? SURE!” He laughed, wanted her to hear his laugh. Inside he felt like a pincushion, tingling, tight. His breath was short.

“Yeah ...” Linda repeated his word. To him he felt she was smiling. “SURE.”

They both laughed. “Ah ... my ah cousin, Jimmy, he’s comin into town for the weekend ...”

“And you want me to find him a date.” She completed his sentence.

“No. Nothin like that. His fiancée comin with him. But I just found out like five minutes ago and he’ll be here any minute ... and I ah ... can we go dancing tonight?”

“Oh. I wish I could, Tony. But on such short notice, I won’t be able to get someone to stand call for me.”

“Tomorrow night? They’re goina be here until Sunday morning. Then he’s goin back overseas. I’d like ... you know ...”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Um.” There was a short silence. “Cause I’m a Marine?”

“No. No. Really. It’s ... I’m on this whole weekend.”

“Well ... Okay. Thanks anyway.”

“Maybe tomorrow ... if I can get someone to cover. Call me?”

“Sure.”

They hung up. What a jerk, he thought. Tony Jerk. She’s probably got a dozen guys callin her. Probably waitin for Mr. Right ta call.

What a jerk, she thought. “Call me!” Why did I say that?

It was warm, drizzling. The VW’s windows were fogged. The radio wailed with Country Joe and The Fish, “Fixin’ to Die.” Jimmy drove. He was oblivious to the jarring. Tony rode shotgun. Red was in back, sitting sideways, her feet together on the seat, her shoulders against the driver’s side interior, her left arm extended between the car side and the back of the driver’s seat, her hand under Jimmy’s T-shirt, massaging, kneading, her fingers scooping through thick chest hair. On the floor three empty quart bottles of Schmidt’s beer tinked and clanged. The city street was rough, potholed, patched, neglected. Tony had suggested they leave Red’s car, take the speed-line train for town, but Jimmy had wanted the car, wanted the freedom, wanted to go in, score, leave quickly.

There were few people on the narrow street. In the night drizzle the brick row houses looked grimy. Heaps of uncollected garbage crowded the sidewalks. Jimmy searched every parked car, every doorway. Tony raised up his bottle, gulped, brought it down, stifled the fizz forcing its way to the back of his nose. He coughed. Cleared his throat.

Jimmy slowed, turned down the radio, rolled down the window. Three men were sitting on a stone stoop to his left. He stopped the car in the middle of the street, let the motor idle, opened his door. “Be right back,” he said. “Cover me.”

Red shifted, slid down. Tony took another gulp, lit a cigarette. He wasn’t worried about Jimmy. Jimmy could take care of himself. After the shit they’d been through, they were confident, poised, comfortable in situations others might deem dangerous.

Red and Jimmy had shown up just as Tony had finished showering. They were already giggling. They found Crocco hilarious. They wanted Tony to get high with them but they’d smoked up all their weed, so they’d bought a case of Schmidt’s quarts, half a dozen cheese-steak sandwiches, and set off for an address Jimmy had gotten from the CQ.

Jimmy opened the door. The interior domelight came on. “What’s happenin, Man?” Tony asked. In his peripheral vision he could sense Red’s legs all the way to her panties.

“Man—” Jimmy slid in, dropped a lunch bag on Tony’s lap, slammed the door and drove off, “do them dudes have a rap.”

“Whoa! Whatcha got? Look at this!”

“One big one, my main man. Twenty-five super Js. Packed and rolled. One U.S. Grant per dozen and one for the bag cause the dude was at Khe Sanh. He’s cool. They were already all fucked up. Torch one, Tone, torch one. There isn’t this much dope in all I Corps.”

Now Jimmy was driving fast. Tony lit a joint, sucked in a lung-full, turned to pass the J to Red. She was in the middle of the back seat, staring forward, sitting in a lotus position, her skirt above her thighs. Tony’s jaw dropped. Red giggled. She reached out, grasped Tony’s wrist, did not take the joint. Instead she leaned forward, continuing to hold his arm, brushed her lips on his hand, then took a hit and pushed him away. She winked, sassy, brazen. Tony passed the J to Jimmy.

“Par-Tee Time, mothafucka. Par-Tee Time!” Jimmy shouted. He turned the radio volume back up to blare. “Where to?”

“I don’t know,” Tony yelled back. “I don’t really know Philly. There’s clubs—”

“Naw. Naw, Man.” Jimmy cut him short. James Brown’s “Night Train,” came loud from the tinny speakers. “We’re clubbed out. Just get us to the docks where we can, you know, watch the submarine races and get wasted.”

“Okay. Shit! This stuff’s got a kick.”

“No.” Bea leaned forward between the seats. “I want to listen to some music.” Her voice was high, the words quick, her green eyes glistening. She put her left hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and Tony noticed for the first time the diamond engagement ring. “Pleeee-se.” With her right hand she gripped Tony’s tricep, squeezed, then released but continued to cup her fingers about his arm, ever so lightly tickling, tantalizing him.

They smoked another joint, drank another quart of beer, drove aimlessly, drank, smoked, finally parked in a closed lot somewhere between the bus terminal and Chinatown, smoked, watched cars driving by, splashing and spraying street muck and rain, chatted, especially Red, all about being a Cancer, about her desire to be consumed by romance this month of August 1968. They got the munchies, found an all-night doughnut shop, bought four dozen, sat in the car and ate, trying to outdo the others by sensually tonguing the jelly from the pastries, and Red grasping and licking the sugar off the crullers.

Then Tony lay back in the crotch of the seat and the door and closed his eyes. The world faded. His muscles relaxed, his skin went slack. If Jimmy and Red passed out, or if they made love, Tony didn’t know. He felt, for the first time since Okinawa, completely and totally peaceful. Then he saw Stacy. Stacy, her incredible face and eyes. He saw her sitting up in bed, a white sheet pulled to her waist, a pure white long-sleeved nightgown primly buttoned to her throat. Her eyes and teeth glistened, her smile was inviting. Tony felt so secure, so content. There were other beds. Maxene was in the bed next to Stacy’s, covered with a pure white sheet just like Stacy. Indeed the entire room was white, pure white, except for Stacy’s face and Maxene’s, and further Annalisa’s and Patty’s and Julie’s and Roseanne’s and Bea’s. Like a garden, like blooms in a snow garden. Then Linda came, walked right through him to Stacy and Stacy said very politely, sweetly, “Cut them off, please. Up to here.” She drew her long index finger gracefully across her throat. “Like everyone else.”

Tony woke in his rack. He did not know how he’d gotten there. It was Saturday, early afternoon, a nonduty day, cloudy, warm, humid but not raining. Christopher Crocco was sitting on his own bed watching a portable TV he’d bought and set up on the desk. “Eh,
paesan
, you’re alive!”

“Aw, geez. Is that me?”

“It aint a dead cat under yer bed.”

“Phhew! Oh Man!”

“Hey, when Jimmy dumped you off he said he’d be back about six.”

“What time did I get in?”

“I don’t know. I got up to take a leak about five and you weren’t in. Maybe six. Mulhaney wanted you for notification about seven but Williams covered for ya.”

“I’m not on today.”

“Yeah, but they had like six come in all at once. Gooks launched a series of attacks or somethin.”

“Shit.”

“Hey, ball game’s comin on. Wanta watch it?”

“Naw. Shit Man, what weird dreams. I’m goina go work out. Jimmy say where they stayed or what they were goina—”

“That hot little chick with him wanted to ball his brains out right in yer rack. I swear ta God. What a sweet little ass she’s got. Oh, yeah, that other girl called too. What’s her name?”

“Who!”

“The one you won’t tell me about.”

“Linda! Linda called!” Tony bolted up, excited.

“Ha!” Crocco slapped his hands together. “Linda, is it? Linda, Linda, Linda.”

“You shithead!” Tony rose, stamped. “Shithead. Leave her out of this.”

At first the weights seemed heavy, heavier than their poundage. Tony began with leg flex exercises, then extensions, working his quadriceps, low weights, high reps, being careful not to re-rip the muscle. He stayed on the bench for flies, reverse flies, pull-overs and sit-ups. Beer sweat poured from his skin, its smell mixing with cheese-steak flatus, embarrassing him. He did a full set, used the bathroom, drank a quart of water, began a second set. Now he felt better, stronger.

He thought about calling Linda but his thoughts were vague. Call, maybe be rejected again. Or worse, to have her say yes and then have her be horrified by Jimmy’s weed, by Red’s flirting, by Mill Creek Falls–style evening entertainment. His body rocked forward as he curled the bar, snapping it to his chest, then rocked back as he slowly lowered it. He watched his biceps in the mirror, thought they looked good, thought his pecs beneath his curly chest hair looked especially sexy. What if Jimmy mouthed off? He’d talk in that dopey, macho way they always talked when together, all naws and nopes and yeahs, instead of how he’d talked when he was with her, how he spoke during notifications, professionally, politely. Does she smoke dope? God, he thought, with that car, she probably runs the stuff. Naw. He began a set of quarter squats with 250 pounds on his shoulders. What if she’s weird? And I just didn’t notice because I’d had a few beers? Jimmy’d see right through her. Probably knows a dozen guys who’ve screwed her. “Maintain,” he grumbled to himself. “Main-fuckin-tain.”