Carry Me Home (88 page)

This, to Tony, was urgent. He visited them more often now; took them, one at a time, for short Harley rides; hugged them, kissed them, sang crazy little songs to them. Linda didn’t know what to expect. Was it too good to last? Tony took from the apartment the sketches drawn by Li, which Jimmy had sent. He framed them, put one in the barn, brought one down the hole. The worst thing, he felt, would be the loss of animals. But there was no room for species two-by-two. He’d further expanded the shelter, a second tunnel, short, only six feet, and a second tiny room. But it was becoming more difficult. By mid-May there were eight Nam vets at High Meadow. Dennis “Jim” Thorpe had come after being laid-off again; and Don Wagner and Carl Mariano. The place felt crowded—good crowded but difficult to covertly move tons of rock chips.

He secured a new shelf unit to a wall, then moved back to his cubicle, to his bunk. He lay down. A new death—the death of his grandmother—had triggered old dreams, nightmares. He understood this, understood the death of Maria Annabella, Nonna, was having this effect on him. But understanding made little difference. He had thought after Thorpe’s first visit he’d dreamed his last dream, suffered his last depression. He’d told the dream to Wapinski. They’d talked Friday nights for hours, like at the fire circle, except now on the back steps of the farmhouse. It helped.

“Savor it,” Wapinski had said.

“What do you mean?”

“Hold on to it. Try to be conscious of it. Don’t stop it. Let the conscious observe the subconscious. Let the dream play out. And when you’re back awake, try to immediately recall what happened.”

Tony shut his eyes, drifted, exhausted, slept, turned. Then it came, came as it had sporadically for months, came with flashes of light on the dark screen of his shadowed retinas.

“Fast!” he screams. There is no sound. He wants to lift her, lift the old woman, lift the mother, the children. He wants them to dart, to vanish. He wants the men down, flat, hidden. Flash. Gina screams. He can see her. She has frozen. Flash. More screams. Flash. They are frozen by the noise, by the strobelike lightning, by each other’s screams, shouts. There is no noise. The ground heaves. His belly—he is prone—jolts to his spine. His legs are splayed, flop in the tremors. There is no motion, no concussion. Flash. Blackness. Scream. He screams. They are prone watching him. He has frozen, erect, exposed, facing them, facing away, facing the noise, the flash. They want to advance, to save him. “Stay back!” He is vehement. “Get behind me.” Flash. Stitched.

He bolted up.

“I want to run something by you guys,” Bobby said. It was early morning. They were assembled in the big barn, ready for chores, for the day’s work. Outside it was cool, crisp. Inside there was the smell of oil and paint and glass cleaner. “Twenty-one percent of World War Two veterans were discharged because of combat stress. Some could handle it. Some couldn’t. That’s what I’ve been reading. All along the line there are gradations of handling it. We’re the same. Every army’s the same. And whether somebody’s got it really bad or just tee-tee, he’s got to continually deal with his combat experience. Always. There are some things that made it worse for some, easier for others. Guy who was eighteen or nineteen had it tougher than a guy who was twenty-two. Guy who saw multiple heavy contact had it worse than a guy who was at the back of one firefight. Guy who trusted his own values, who wasn’t ashamed of being scared shitless in scary situations, had cushions to protect him. See, I was kinda that guy. Maybe I saw a bunch a shit, but I was older. And I never thought being afraid did anything but made me properly cautious.”

“I went at nineteen,” Tom Van Deusen said.

“I was eighteen years eight months when I landed there in ’69,” Carl Mariano added.

“I was twenty-four,” Don Wagner said.

“Yeah.” Tony cut them off. “En daylight’s burnin. We’ve got planting to do. I don’t want the roots on those vines drying before they’re in the ground.”

“Aw, come on, Sarge.” George Kamp laughed. Ever since the sandbag party, he’d buckled down, had taken an interest in the farm, in Bobby’s fledgling program. “They’ll wait a few minutes.”

“I’m with Tony,” Gallagher said. “Let’s do this tonight. Bobby, we got concrete comin to Holtz’s at one and the forms aren’t finished.”

“Whoa!” Bobby held up his hand. “Ah ... thought for the week?”

“Learn something—” Thorpe began; the others chimed in, “every day to improve your self.”

“
Yuh
o
. And DAARFE-vader?”

“Decide.” They said in unison. “Act. Assess. React. Finish. Enjoy.”

“You got it.” Bobby turned, releasing them. “Let’s go for it.” The men rose, began scattering. “Carl, let me see you a minute, okay?”

“Don’t you want me to go with Jer and Don?”

“We’ll catch up to em. How long you been here?”

“Ten days.”

“How’s it going?”

“Okay.” Mariano dropped his head, stretched out his neck, turned his face sideways and up—a suspicious glare—the same habitual posture Tony had had.

“Are you satisfied with your work here?”

“It’s a job.”

“I don’t mean the job, I mean how you do it.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“The hallmark of a High Meadow job is quality,” Bobby said. “It’s absolutely central to our cause.”

“You goina fire me?”

“No, Carl. That’s not the way we work. Besides, you’re an independent contractor. That’s the way the place is set up.” Bobby led Carl up the new stairs to the loft and Grandpa’s office. Mariano limped. His right leg and ankle had once been shattered by a concussion mine.

From below Tom Van Deusen yelled up, “Bobby, should I go with Jer or wait for you?”

“How many guys will it take to finish those forms?” Bobby countered.

“They can do it,” Tom said. “But I can be working on the chaseway. You were right about his wife liking the way it looked.”

“Okay,” Bobby said.

In the office Bobby pulled out a file of forms, a box of labels, several ledgers. “One of our requirements here,” he said, “is that each independent contractor keep his own records. The jobs you work. Hours. Equipment you supply. You’ve got to have your own checkbook, your own tax file. You can keep them up here or in the bunkhouse. Most guys carry their checkbooks but leave their files here. Periodically I’m going to go over them with you. It’s completely confidential.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Mariano said. “What do I need this shit for?”

“Keeps me honest,” Bobby said. “Keeps you honest. Keeps Uncle Sam happy.”

“Pay me cash. I’m not goina file no tax return.”

“I told you day-one, that’s one of our requirements. Remember—mainstream. Within the system. No hiding.”

For forty minutes they filled out forms, applications for checking and savings accounts at The Bank of Mill Creek Falls, and, sketchily—Carl Mariano fighting it all the way—Bobby’s DAARFE-vader form.

1. Decide: Pick a high-quality target.
   
2. Act: Advance on your target.
   
3. Assess: Assess your progress.
   
4. Re-Act: If not advancing, attack along a different route.
   
5. Finish: Persevere. Never give up.
   
6. Enjoy: Your actions, accomplishments, the results.
   

Bobby added a seven and the letter
P
. “Then,” he said, “pick a new target.”

“Ya know, Man—” Mariano said, his neck again extended, “this doesn’t work for me.”

“Is that the truth?”

“What da ya know, Man? You got it all. Farm. Business. Wife en kid.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Except the farm’s not actually mine. I just have the right to use it. And that’s what I’m letting you do.”

“And I’m suppose to say thanks?”

“You don’t have to. It might be the courteous thing to do, but I’m not dependent on thank-yous.”

“You’re really weird, Man.”

Bobby nodded, pursed his lips, didn’t answer. He packed up the forms, including a hundred dollar check to Mariano. “We’ll stop at the bank on the way.”

“Goina hold my hand?”

“Want me to?”

Mariano snorted.

“Give me a few minutes,” Bobby said. “I gotta clear up some paperwork.”

“I aint gonna become like these other guys,” Mariano said. “They act like a bunch a brainless robots.”

“Naw,” Bobby said. “They’re just on the program. They’ve picked certain quality targets and have committed to them. And they’re enjoying the attack.”

“That’s not me.”

“That’s okay. Something I learned from Tony; I learned that self-esteem is more valuable when it’s tempered with periodic self-doubt. Besides, you’ve got to earn it. No one can give it to you.”

“I still ain’t gonna be like them.”

“You might be surprised. Quality’s contagious.”

Bobby knew it was working, but growth was again making money a problem. The vets were understanding, Bobby was open with them as to the overall financial situation. Still, to expand, to pay the vets’ room, board and minimum wage, both the farm market and EES’ clientele would need to increase. Nothing happens, he’d been thinking, nothing can be sustained without a salesman taking an order, without us selling our crop.

At this point, Bobby was High Meadow’s only salesman. One of his targets was enough salespeople to create enough business to support forty vets—a five-fold increase. With that thought Bobby had scribbled a letter to Tyler Mohammed Wallace Dorsey Blackwell. It had taken Bobby an entire month to find Ty’s location, a medium security prison between San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Dear Ty,

How’s it going, man? Took me awhile to track you down. Guess they moved you a few times. I need your help, Ty. I’ll explain in a minute. First I want to tell you I visited your folks and your brother Phillip. Carol’s pregnant again. So is Sara! They’re both due in September. Man, there’s sure getting to be a lot of kids around here. Tony’s living here with me, though he’s been spending a lot of time with his wife and daughters. Anyway, Phillip and Carol are doing well. Little Tyrone’s almost five. Cecilia’s almost three. I didn’t tell them I’d gotten your address—or your folks. But if you tell me to, I’ll give it to them. Your mother sure worries about you. I saw Jessica, too. She’s getting very pretty. I met Luwan for the first time. I’ve been over that way quite a bit on business. Life goes on, eh? Anyway, you should know they all wish you were back here.

Now, I need some help. Remember the community I talked about. It’s becoming a reality, except it’s nothing like I imagined. We’ve got eight Nam vets living here on the farm. We’ve turned the barn into a mill—producing solar heating systems. Business is taking off but I need a good salesman. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. I want you to join us. Use us as a halfway house if you’d like. I’ll submit whatever paperwork is necessary but you’ve got to take the first step—find out to whom I submit, and what I need to do to have you released in my recognizance.

Ty, you know my business and military background. Most people’s lack of self-respect and their disrespect for others, for honesty, for truth, force us to seek out each other. Their attitudes don’t work for grunts. You once looked for me, but I didn’t understand. Now I’m looking for you.

Bob

P.S. If we could boost our sales, we could have a larger community.

“‘Oh the Thinks you can think, if only you try....’ Dr. Seuss.” Sara had handed him the book for the girls, had recited part of it to him just before he’d left for the apartment, and it kept repeating in his mind as he rode the Harley down Mill Creek Road, across town, over the new four-lane concrete bridge leading to the site of the future south-side Mill Creek Mall. He motored up 154 to Creek’s Bend, thinking now of Blogs blowing by, or was it Rogs rolling round? Think, Think ...

“Hi ya, Sweet Bumble-lee Beat.”

“Papa.” Gina ran up to him, hugged him. The late afternoon was warm, the sky still light.

“Where’s Tumble-lee Treat?”

“She’s up there.” Gina turned, looked up the back stairs. Tony followed with his eyes. Michelle was on the top step. In her hand were two papers. Gina said, “Guess what? We wrote you letters in school today.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh. Read mine first.”

“Should I read it before dinner?”

“Right now.”

They climbed the steps together. Michelle was timidly waving the sheets. Tony bent, kissed the top of her head. “Tweedle-dee Deet,” he said.

Gina jumped up and down. “Read mine. Read mine.”

“Okay.” Michelle handed him one sheet. Tony held it at arm’s length, turned it, chuckled, “On the kwont of
,” it read. “On the count of three ...” He began to laugh. “One, two, three!” And he clapped his hands. Gina hugged him again. “Now let me see yours.”

Shyly Michelle handed him the printed sheet. Before he was halfway through, his voice broke.

Memorial Day 1977

Dear Papa,

Thank you for fiting in the whor. It is graet you din’t dy. I’m sorry some peepel you now dyed. Thank you aign.

Love,

Michelle

At the door, before she saw his eyes, Linda blurted, “Guess what?! Mark and Cindy eloped!” Then, “Oh Babe, you read Michelle’s paper.”

M
ID-CALIFORNIA, MONDAY, 11 JULY
1977—He read the 6 June issue of
Newsweek
with fascination yet without focus. He studied the photographs yet he barely saw them. He put his head back, closed his eyes. The room was warm, warmer than the unit in the prison. The bed was firm, yet softer than his cot. Still he wished he were there, not here, not for this. Again he looked at the magazine: “Battle over Gay Rights: Anita Bryant vs. The Homosexuals.” He didn’t care. How could he care? How could he care about anything anymore, with what they were going to do to him? At the back of the magazine were reviews of two books about Viet Nam, Larry Heinemann’s
Close Quarters
and Philip Caputo’s
A Rumor of War
. “Both carry the same message,” the reviewer had written, “that the war was wrongheaded, an unspeakable waste of men ... [a] war that reduced all combatants to a state of savage frenzy in which atrocities became not only possible but desirable.”