Carry Me Home (45 page)

In town: “I tell you right now,” Swen Evenden said to his brother, “if she were my daughter I’d go git er.”

“She ain’t your daughter,” Dawen Evenden answered.

“The Lord still recognizes you as responsible for her,” Swen said.

Two other men moved closer, one nodded, one quietly grunted “Amen.” The men were not large, not small, not old, not young, not rich, not poor. They had been to church services, had gathered afterward to talk, socialize, exchange views on the wheat crop; exchange tidbits of local concern—pros and cons about the construction of a Dogs and Suds Drive-In, feelings about the hippie commune east of town: “Least they’re downwind en downstream.”

Dawen Evenden shook his head. “She’s nearly seventeen,” he said. “You really think I can tell her—”

“If she were mine, I’d tell her,” Swen interrupted. “En if she didn’t listen with er ears, I’d tell it to her backside.”

“Ey,” agreed the other two.

“And you wouldn’t have a daughter eny all, Swen. Not in this day and age.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to head out there for a Sund’y visit,” Swen said. “Dawen”—he pronounced the name Dah-ven—“you maybe should have Lottie make up some chicken and bring that out.”

“I’ll go too,” said Calvin Eckhardt. “I’ve never seen the place. We’ve been makin jokes about em for a year but we don’t know, eh?”

“You sure Lauren’s out there?” Roger Minnah asked.

Swen pursed his mouth. These men were his older brother, his good friends, his neighbors. To admit that his daughter had joined John H. Noyes and his following of Iowa (they pronounced it eye-oh-way) hippies was to admit that he and Lottie had failed. Still, he was worried.

Dawen spoke for him, spoke in Swen’s silence. “She been out there a good part a the summer. She en the Arlen girl.”

“Melissa!?” Roger shied back.

“Ya.” Dawen said.

“She came home every night,” Swen said, justified his family. “She didn’t stay. When school started she went right back. Just went out Friday night.”

“If she were my daughter,” Calvin Eckhardt said, “I’d leave the chicken home en bring out my side-by-side.”

Creekside: The John Noyes commune, like many other communes of the late sixties and early seventies, offered an alternative to traditional American values and family structure. Noyes and his disciples, David, Michael and Luke Nachahmennen, were ostensibly seeking “a more perfect world, an expanded consciousness.” In early 1970 the commune had been inhabited by forty-one women, men, and children. In May there had been a major flap between Noyes—a free-love proponent—and Brad Thurgood, a seeker of a counterculture with more stereotypical sex and marriage roles. By June the commune had disintegrated and only the four original men, five women, two of whom were pregnant, and four young children remained. It was then that Noyes met Melissa Arlen and Lauren Evenden—classmates, both sixteen, about to turn seventeen, farm girls with long straight blond hair, freckles, excellent grades, loving families.

On the road five miles east of town: He’d stripped to his T-shirt. Sweat rolled into his eyes, stung. He squinted, braced the bike with his leg, wiped his eyes. Still they stung. He pulled his handkerchief from the pocket of his dungarees, rolled it, tied it around his head to absorb the sweat, thought about a cold Grain Belt or Hamm’s, about rolling the cold sweating can on his forehead to cool down. A car sped by. He’d heard it coming from behind, heard it longer than he could see it. Out-of-state fucker, he’d thought. Fuckin scared shitless to stop. The road had been rising very slightly for the past mile, making pushing the big machine under the hot sun torturous. Now the road imperceptibly crested, not enough for him to sit and roll, just enough so that he had to hold the Harley back. Ahead in the road he saw a prairie dog that had been clipped by a vehicle. He paused. A second animal was beside the first trying to pull it from the road, glancing furtively up at Tony, then back down, short, jerky movements. The two animals tumbled into the roadside ditch beneath the Queen Anne’s lace.

Tony continued pushing, wishing he had a beer, somehow feeling satisfied in the punishment, the cruelty of the sun, the weight of the bike, the vacant blacktop reflecting more and more heat, the wheat dust and road dust and his own sweat and the oil on his pants making the cloth stick and chafe his groin and that sting added to the stinging in his eyes; thinking it was proper that he walk through hell for what he’d done; thinking without words, without analyzing what he had done. His throat was caked with dust. “‘How dry I am,’” he burst out, chuckled at himself, but only in his mind, “‘no-bot-tee knows ...’” He didn’t finish the song but changed to, “‘In heaven there is no beer / That’s why we drink it here / Cause when we’re gone from here / Our friends will be drinking all our beer.’”

At the commune: “Don’t go,” Jennifer, one of the two pregnant women, pleaded. The men did not answer. In the house Jessica was crying. Nicole and Christina were still tripping, completely out of their minds. The infants and toddlers were crying, whimpering without understanding, one on Jennifer’s hip, one in a high chair on the porch, the two toddlers clutching Jennifer’s legs. “Don’t go,” she mumbled. Then she yelled, “Beth Ann ...” but her voice broke and died.

The engine of the van caught. Blue-black smoke belched from a hole in the tailpipe, expanded like a soft cloud attempting to float the van up, away.

“Beth Ann,” Jennifer cried again.

Beth Ann poked her head from the passenger side window. Michael was behind loading boxes, bags, moving quickly. Luke and David were inside, in back, laughing, pulling in the boxes and bags Michael plopped on the doorway floor. John H. Noyes was behind the wheel. “You’ll be all right, honey,” Beth Ann called. “You’ll be all right. Take care of the others. You oughta get rid of those two.”

Four miles east of town: He hadn’t noticed it, became angry that he’d been so unaware. A quarter mile down on the right there were dual rusted barbed-wire fences running perpendicular to the road. Beside one was a mailbox. He could not make out a drive but could see a shadow line between fences. Far off to the right, maybe half a mile, there was a clump of trees.

Tony saw a van emerge from the trees. He sighed. The van kicked up a cloud of dust that hung over the shadow line between fields. It did not stop at the road but swung out, accelerated toward him. He braced the Harley, felt the weight pull on the scar in his quadricep. He raised his arms, flagged the van. It continued to accelerate, reached him, didn’t slow.

“Hey!” he shouted in his best sergeant’s voice. “Stop!” The driver stomped on the brakes. The van skidded. “What the hell’s the matter with you?!” Tony roared.

“What’s happenin, Man?” The driver’s face was ashen, his smile pasty.

“Hmm.” Tony eyed the long-haired driver, the chick beside him. “I need some help.”

“What’sa matter, Man?” The voice was irritating.

Tony slapped the Harley. “Blew an oil line.” He stared at the driver, challenging him. “Doesn’t anybody up here stop? Law of the road, isn’t it? People need help?”

“John, give him a ride,” Beth Ann said. She leaned forward, rested a hand on the driver’s leg, eyed Tony up and down. “Why don’t you get in?” she said directly to him.

“I need a tow.” Tony eyed her back. “Tow my scooter to town.” She had on a tight cotton shirt. Her hair was long, dark, her eyes dark. Silver earrings hung like windchimes almost to her shoulders. She inhaled from a cigarette, blew the smoke toward him, ran the tip of her tongue around her lips.

“Go up the driveway,” the driver said. “They’ll help ya up there.” With that the van sped off.

Tony spat, laughed, thought, sit on my face, babe, pushed on. He read the mailbox—Noyes—pushed through the gate. The driveway was rutted. It had once been paved but never maintained. More sweat dripped into his eyes. He was hot, tired, thirsty, hungry, frustrated over the bike, pushing with all his strength to get the Harley out of a double pothole, then holding back as the drive ran downhill into the clump of trees, shade, grass, a mishmash on the lawn—washtubs and washboards, clotheslines, a single chicken, a scrawny goat. Bit by bit he took in the scene. It was the Illinois commune again but this one had no apparent order, no rhyme or reason, appeared not so much a counterculture coop as a total breakdown of culture. A woman sat on the ground by the washtubs, legs splayed, mumbling, nursing an infant, half her dress down to her waist. Two toddlers were on the porch. One was squatting naked, peeing; the other was hiding behind a high chair holding another crying infant. The porch railings were in place but most of the balusters were missing. Tony rocked the bike onto its stand. He saw a leg, stepped forward, cautiously, automatically checking his advance route for trip wires, checking for snipers. He became tense, vigilant. The leg—legs—were naked, on their side, curled. The woman at the washtub moaned. He snapped toward her. “What the fuck?”

Now he approached the body, a girl’s body. He reached out. She was cool, not cold. He checked her neck for a pulse. There was none. He put his ear to her chest, thought he heard a heartbeat. Immediately he rolled her, cleared her mouth, cocked her head back to open the airway, blew in. Then he felt for the bottom of her sternum, up, over, both hands, pump, pump ... eleven, twelve, thirteen ... Again he squeezed her nostrils, breathed into her mouth. His adrenaline flowing. He worked for four, five, six minutes, broke to yell at the woman by the washtub, “Call an ambulance,” continued, could see peripherally that the woman by the tub had not moved. He was in rhythm now, heard cars on the drive, thought, Thank God. He looked up. In the brush there was another body, naked, young, blond, crumpled. Get here! he screamed in his mind at the cars. Get here! Still he pumped, breathed the girl.

Two cars pulled in. Men emerged. Silent. Shocked. “Get over here,” Tony yelled. There was milling, confusion, then running.

“That’s the Arlen girl,” a man by him blurted. Tony did not look up.

“Lauren? Lauren? Are you here?”

“What is this?” Now more voices. Then one to Tony, angrily. “What are you doing?”

“Breath o’ life,” Tony snapped. He returned his mouth to the naked girl’s.

“Get away from that girl!”

Tony was stunned. The woman at the washtub was up, being held, dressed by two men.

“What’s happened here, eh?”

“White lightning,” she muttered.

“White lightnin!” a man shouted.

Tony heard him, understood, said to the man who’d yelled at him, said, his hands between Melissa Arlen’s naked breasts, “LSD. They musta OD’d. Jesus. Get an ambulance.”

“They were jealous of me,” the woman at the washtub mumbled. “Because of my babies. He’s evil. He has false consciousness. They’d be on top of us all the time.”

“Get away from that girl you son of a bitch.” Now two men were coming at Tony.

“I’m a para—” Tony began.

“GAAAAHHHD!” The cry boomed across the commune, the fields, shook the house. “IT’S LAUREN!”

“Jealous of me because of my babies,” the woman wailed. “He done it.” She pointed at Tony.

They set upon him, punching him, kicking him. “I’m a paramedic....” Tony blocked the punches but the punches didn’t stop. There was more yelling. He could see it, could see what they saw, knew instantly they would not believe him. He lowered his guard, did not swing back, did not resist, thought, imagined, before he blacked out, How deserving.

In town: “Says here that bike was last registered to a James Pell-ee-green-ee who died in Vet Naym. You steal this bike, son?”

“Pellegrino.” Tony’s face was swollen, his nose broken. He could barely open his mouth. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his ankles to a bar on the concrete cot. In the cell with him was a uniformed man who had not identified himself.

“You’re Anthony Piss-an-no.”

“Pisano. Jimmy’s my cousin.”

“Report said Pell-ee-green-ee died. This bike isn’t registered to you. You steal it, son?”

“Yeah, I fuckin stole it from him. Fuck im.”

“You’re a real firebrand, aren’t ya, son?” The uniformed man poked him in the chest with a billy club. “You kill that girl with that punch?”

“I was trying to give her CPR.”

“You rape her first, son? Coroner says Lauren Evenden was sodomized too. Some people here in town are downright mad.”

Tony didn’t answer. He was angry, pissed about being caught, trapped. And he was withdrawing. He’d gone into the hole, into the tunnel again, trying to help, feeling like a Marine again, only again to have the body break, be dragged over him.

“All them other girls is really messed up, too. And those poor babies.” The uniformed man sat on the cot next to Tony. “Coroner thinks you put them psychotropic mushrooms in the punch. About fifty times too much. A glassful’d be about fifty times too much. He’s surprised you’re not all dead. Were you tryin to kill em?”

“I’d only been there ten minutes before those fuckers arrived and beat shit outta me. I’d never seen em before. None of em.”

“Hmm.” The uniformed man stood. “We’ve got eight witnesses say they caught you red-handed trying to sodomize that girl again. You better hope she doesn’t die, son. Swen and Lottie are gentle people but Morgan Arlen is ready to string you up right now.”

“I pushed my bike in there. Line blew. Because the guy in the van said they’d help.”

The uniformed man snickered. He turned away, looked out the bars. When he turned back he backhanded his billy club into Tony’s face.

The next day an older man woke Tony, cleaned his face, cleared the blood from his eyes, nose, lips. He was still cuffed and shackled. The older man fed him chicken broth, then milk, through straws. “Feel better?”

Tony grunted.

“Well, you look a little better.”

Again Tony only grunted. He did not look toward or at the man.

“Got the readout on your prints, Mister Pisano,” the man said. “Got your service record. That was pretty impressive, Sergeant.”

Now Tony did look up.

“I was in the Corps—well, years ago. What happened to you Sergeant Pisano? I don’t understand what that war does to you boys. Don’t you have someone to call?”