Carry Me Home (33 page)

Tony sits up. This thought too is unpleasant. His body is vibrating, tense, like a rung bell, but soundless. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, rests his eyes on the heels of his palms, works his palms circularly, scratching his eyes. The phone rings.

“I’ll get it,” he calls. The record is over, the stereo shuts off.

“If it’s personnel, I’m not here. I’m not going to work an extra shift tonight.”

“Okay.” He lifts the receiver. “Hello.”

“Tony?” It is his father.

“What? What is it?” Anxious, not angry. His parents have never called on a weekday. Only weekends. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Jimmy ...”

“Augh fuck. Augh Jesus Christ God no. What’s happened?” He is crying. He is already crying. He knew it, knew it last night, knew it a minute ago.

“Tony,” Linda calls from the study, “is everything—”

“He’s been killed,” Tony’s father begins.

Tony screams. He screams. Blood-curdling pain yell. “NOOO!”

“We saw the car pull up ...”

“Nooo,” he wails. He jerks the phone up, rips it from the wall. “Nooo!” His body quakes, racks spasmodically. He smashes the phone against the wall. He grabs it with both hands, shatters it against the wall, beats it into the old plaster. “God, no. No. No.” He falls to his knees. “No. NO, no, no.” He whimpers. “Oh God!” he shouts.

Linda is on the floor with him. She touches him lightly, one hand on his shoulder, one hand on his arm. “Tony! Tony?” She’s alarmed yet calm. “Tony,” she repeats trying to break into his consciousness. “Tony, what is it?”

He takes a deep breath. The spasm ceases. His arms still tremble. “They killed my cousin,” he says. Then the tears start again.

Linda inches forward. Tears fill her eyes. She puts her arm around him, pulls him to her breast. Tony resists. He pushes away. He sniffs hard, sucks the mucus back up his nose, swallows. “Those god damned motherfuckers. God damn fuckers. God damn fuckers.” He jerks his shoulder from under her hand, rocks, stands. He does not look at her, does not help her up. “I’m goin out. I gotta go out.”

I buried my cousin on 1 February 1970. I buried him in full uniform. Both of us. I was strack, Man. I mean I was ultra strack spit-shined, polished, clean. I don’t even know how Linda got to Mill Creek Falls. I can’t talk about this to anyone. I just can’t. I buried so many Marines it ripped my soul loose—but when I buried Jimmy it ripped the soul right out of me. I remember the priest from St. Ignatius, I remember his words. And Uncle James read the Prayer of St. Francis.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred let me sow love....

I did not shed a tear. But I did not say a word either, could not trust myself to utter a single sound for fear I’d offend Aunt Isabella and Uncle James and every member of my family and all the Pellegrinos and even Shepmann and Roy and all our friends from town who came. At the grave I moved in on the color guard the Corps provided, I told—I must of told him, the sergeant in charge—told him this was my duty, this was my cousin.

Lord God, through your mercy

let those who have lived in faith

find eternal peace.

I can see the dirt walls below the casket. The walls are perfectly carved.

Forgive the sins of our brother

whose body we bury here.

Welcome him into your presence.

Linda is there. She is so beautiful. She is a pillar of strength for my mom, and for my pop, and for Nonna who mumbles and prays and says over and over, “Dignity.” I can just barely look at them.

Our brother has gone to his rest in the peace of

Christ. With faith and hope in eternal life, let

us commend him to the loving mercy ...

There is snow on the ground but it is not cold. Or I do not feel the cold. The sky is cloudless—opening to allow Jimmy’s soul easy access to the grandeurs of eternity. Isabella is wailing with unabashed grief. Annalisa holds her hand. Uncle James is stoic, arms crossed. He looks pissed.

There is singing—communal grief. I could not participate. This was too personal. His conscious was my subconscious, his laughter was my joy, his deep compassion, my heart. With him died anything in me that was worthy. With him died the Will.

I do not know how Linda returned to Boston. Maybe Pop drove her. I remember she told me later that he said something like, “Geez, he acts like Helen and I are having an affair!” Linda told him that I suspected they were—that I was worried he and Jo were going to divorce. He was shocked at that. Linda told me he said that he and Helen were a lot alike, and that they both loved Jo, that he’d kissed Helen once—when they were celebrating my homecoming. Someplace, time, in here I don’t know when, I was robotic, I took a copy of the death notice, stuck it in an envelope, got the address from her mom, sent it to Bea Hollands in San Martin, California.

F
OR A WEEK, EVER
since returning from Jimmy’s funeral, Tony has not been able to close his eyes without dreaming, without finding himself stuck in a dank fetid tunnel, without smelling the rotting flesh, without seeing himself chopping heads as they attempt to thrust bayonets into him, without holding Manny, without Manny being shot again, without Manny becoming Jimmy. No longer are they mere dreams, night-day-mares, but now full-blown night-day traumas where Tony relives every sight, every action, every odor, every corpse.

Linda was petrified. Tony would not come into the bedroom with her, would not lie beside her in bed. She had called her folks from Mill Creek Falls, had thought they should know. “Tony’s cousin—you met him at our wedding ...” she’d explained to her father. He’d been nonchalant, cold. “That happens in war.” She’d told Chas and Cathy. They’d replied, “That’s what happens when you go sticking your nose someplace it doesn’t belong.” She’d told Tom McLaughlin. “Oh Linda, you poor woman. He must be a bear to live with. I’ve got some stuff that’ll mellow him out. If he gets too bad, come down and sleep at my place.” No one, she felt, gave her the right answer, the expected response, anything the least bit helpful. She worried Tony would never smile again, would never again do his crazy little jig, never again include her in his outrageousness, never let her be close to him. She worried for herself, for their baby. Tony was glum. He went out for hours without explanation, returned angry, tense, physically rigid, silent. Still she carried on, working, going to school, studying, doing all of the apartment chores. After ten days even she could no longer take it. “Come on, Babe. Let’s talk about it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Look, I can’t do this all by myself.”

He did not look at her. There was no gentleness in his voice. “Can’t do what?”

“All the cooking and cleaning and your laundry and—”

“God damn it! Then don’t do it. I don’t give a fuck. Leave my clothes alone.”

Her face pinched, her eyes tightened, moistened. “Babe ...”

“Jesus Christ! Don’t start that sobbing bullshit!”

The pain dropped from her face, replaced by her own rage. She stamped toward him. “You bastard! I didn’t kill him. Don’t take it out on me!”

“Fuck off!” he snapped angrily.

“Fuck off, yourself!” She slapped him. She slapped him as hard as she could across the face.

The slap jolted him. Physically. His eyes bulged, his hands closed to fists, he stepped into her. She banged his chest with the heels of her hands. “Get out of here!” she screamed. Tony raised his hands to grab her. Again she hit him in the chest. He stopped, froze for one second, then spun on his heels, grabbed his jacket, gloves, cap, keys, and left.

For hours Tony rode the Harley through the streets of Boston. On side streets with patches of ice or sand he purposely skidded the 700-pound machine, half-thinking he’d not be able to catch it, right it, that he’d slide it into a curb, highside, smash his brains against something hard, end it all. He blasted up Storrow Drive, hitting ninety, the frigid wind in his face so severe he could not see. Still he did not crash. He exited, came back the other way, half-hoping he could hop the center guardrail, meet a semi face-to-face, half-fearing he might hop the rail, hit a car with a mother and her children. He exited, rode about BU. He could have gone back. At Thanksgiving his father had taken him aside, had told him what with Linda pregnant and all, that he
wanted
to assist them. Between Tony’s GI Bill benefits and John’s help, Tony wouldn’t need to work while in school. Tony had told him he’d think about it—a polite refusal.

He circled by the building where his English section had met. He spotted Nguyen Thi An, rode by, circled two blocks, came back slowly. He knew she’d be there. He’d spotted her a week back. He’d stalked her, honed in on her, tailed her for hours, for days. At night he’d parked the Harley across from her apartment, sat, silent, straddling the big machine, watching, a stakeout, a compulsion, an obsession with Viet Nam, with Nam in Boston in 1970.

Nguyen Thi An was walking with two other students, all bundled up in coats. Had it not been for her long black hair he’d have missed her. Slowly, from a block away, the Harley throbbing quietly, almost at an idle, he followed her. One of her friends left at Babcock Street. The two continued on to Fordham. Tony hung back as far as he could, kept as close as he could to the line of parked cars. He felt the compulsion, the drive. He
had
to ... he had to at least talk to her.

Her friend entered a building at midblock. Tony moved in, close but still undetected. He studied her walk. Even over the high piles of snow at the corners she walked lightly, elegantly. She stopped before a town house, took keys from her coat. He rode up, parked, dismounted. She was just closing the door when he tapped lightly on the glass. “An,” he said. His eyes were bright, his smile beguiling. “Miss An. Tony.” He pointed to himself. “You remember me from English.”

She looked at him through the glass. He stood back respectfully. She opened the door. “Oh yes,” she said. Her voice was squeaky. “Tony from Professor Groesbeck’s. How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you.” In his thick jacket, his face unshaven, his hair short from the funeral yet uncombed, he was very respectful, very formal. “How are you?”

“I’m very well, too,” An said. Then she giggled a nasal raspish giggle. “Are you very cold?”

“Uh-huh.” Tony wrapped his arms about his chest for emphasis. “May I talk to you about Viet Nam? I was there for a year, mostly in the north. It’s such a beautiful country. And I wish to talk to you, for a paper I’m working on. I can come back if this isn’t a good time.”

“No, please come in. I wish very much to talk of my country.”

Through every word that Tony spoke, through every pore of his skin, he fought back the impulse, the show of the impulse, which was consuming him. They went upstairs to her one-bedroom apartment. The rooms were clean, bright, without clutter. They sat in the kitchenette, An dressed in blue jeans and a white sweater, Tony in grungy work clothes he’d worn for days. An made tea, wrapped the pot in a thermal cloth to keep it hot, sat back down. Tony stared into her eyes. His smile slowly shifted from sweet, jocular, to obsessive leering. He told her of life in Anh Tan west of Chu Lai. She told him about her mother and father whom she missed dearly, about vacations in Da Lat when she was young, about their family customs at Tet. Tony compared them to his own family’s traditions at various holidays. After an hour Tony grabbed her wrist. He held it lightly, between two fingers, almost as if he were taking her pulse. He moved closer to her. She giggled the raspish giggle. He grasped her wrist more tightly, pulled her to him. She spoke, objected, but he did not hear. Again he was robotic. He kissed her, kissed her lips, ran his hands through her long straight hair. She struggled but did not scream. Now he pulled her to the floor. He pressed her to the floor with his body weight. He forced her wrists together, over her head, held them with one hand, smothered her mouth with his mouth, raised her sweater with his free hand. She did not fight him but resisted passively, resisted by acting dead, being a corpse. He let her wrists go, pulled her sweater up, off, unhooked her bra. He opened her jeans, lifted them, shaking her out of them, leaving them at her ankles. He kissed her shoulders, her arms. Then he sat up, pulled her up, wrapped her in his arms, hugged her to his chest as she pulled herself into a fetal tuck. He did not remove or open his own clothes but sat there on the floor in her kitchen, hugging her, rocking her, caressing her naked shoulders, pulling her naked legs more tightly together, kissing the top of her head.

She did not look at him but when she felt he was calm she whispered, “You must go now.”

He continued to hold her, to rock her. “I’ll protect you,” he whispered back but he was no longer whispering to An, was no longer even aware of her presence.

“You must go now,” An repeated.

“Yes,” he said.

An hour later he was frantic. I had to, had to fuck her, he thought, fuck Nam. I had to fuck it one more time. And it’s fucked me again. It’s fucked me. He parked the Harley in the alley, strained to hear sirens approaching. They’d get him for this. Inside he was speeding. What the fuck have I done?! What have I done?! How, he thought, could I have done this to Linda? He climbed the first flight of stairs, paused, tried to get hold of his thoughts, thought coalescing, cascading, everywhere in his mind. What would he say? What would he tell her? What would he do if the police came? If they broke down the door? If they attacked? He climbed the second flight. He was panicky. He opened the door.

Linda came from the study. She’d been crying. “Babe ... I’m ...”

“It’s me.” Tony’s words flew. “I can’t live here anymore.”

“Don’t leave ...” Linda began. Tears dripped from her cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, Linda, not you. Me. Us. I can’t live here anymore. I can’t live in a room where I heard that voice, where I heard, ‘It’s Jimmy.’ Don’t you understand.
We’ve
got to move. I can’t stay here.”

“Oh Babe.” Tears still slid down her face. “We’ll move.” She stood still, before him, like a punished child awaiting her parent to come to her, to hug her. “Babe, I love—”