Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Well,” Tony said modestly, “I’ve been in for three years. Today’s my anniversary date. I’ve been to Cuba and Norway, plus Viet Nam. So I’ve been around.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hey,” he brightened up. “What color are your eyes? They’re different.”

  “They’re hazel,” Linda said.

  “Let me look.”

  “Boy, if that isn’t a line!”

  “Naw. Naw. I’m serious. I was tellin my cousin ... Geez Louise ... you got em.”

  “What?”

  “Naw. I’m not goina say anything cause you think I’m feeding you a line.” Suddenly Tony was feeling eerie, intimidated. He almost asked her about her hair but he decided to wait.

  “Tony,” Linda said, “I’ve really got to go now. I have that exam tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” Tony said pensively. “You told me that before.” He wanted to stay with her a little while longer but he wasn’t sure how to keep her. So he said, “I think it’s really neat that you’re going to be a nurse. When you were telling me about that, about wanting to save people or lessen their suffering, you know, I think if I—I mean—when I get out—I think I’d like to go to school and do something like that. I think I’d be good at it. I’m good with people. Maybe be a teacher. I could teach high school or something.”

  “Then you should do it,” Linda answered him.

  “I probably will. I could go on the GI Bill and I think if I needed it, my father would help me. He put my brother through school and he’s paying most of my other brother’s tuition. My brother Joe is starting medical school in September. We could be, you know, like the Mayo brothers. Open our own clinic. The Dago Brothers’ clinic.”

  Linda didn’t answer. She missed the joke and was doubtful that a combat marine from Viet Nam could ever be a nurse, much less a doctor. She was skeptical but not to the point where she dared question him. After all, at twenty years old he had reached the rank of sergeant in the Marine Corps and she was now convinced that was a real accomplishment. Perhaps she was going easy on him because she kind of liked him.

  Tony took her quietness as pure skepticism, as a put down. “You know,” he began. He stuttered but he decided to speak his thought. “I ... this may sound weird, but I, I feel the same way about being a Marine as you do about being a nurse. I wanted to save people. I wanted to lessen their suffering. And if I saved one other human being’s life in my lifetime, never mind just if I ever reproduce myself with kids, but if I save another human’s life, I’ve more than justified my existence. And—and—and I have. I was with the greatest fighting force in the world and what we fought for was to save lives. You know, ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ third verse? There’s a line there. ‘As He died to make men holy; Let us live to make men free.’ That’s what we were doing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll get out.”

  “No.” Linda reached over and touched his hand. “No. Not ... I mean ...” She withdrew her hand. “Tony, that’s a very beautiful thought. You, you’re really a very special person. I can see why they made you sergeant. You seem really to care about people.”

  “I do. I think I do. Part of me always wanted to be a medic. That’s why I thought I’d be a good nurse or technician. I don’t think I could stand to spend so much time in school to become a doctor.” He changed tone suddenly. “Hey, how long is your hair?”

  “What?” She laughed.

  “You’ve got it all knotted up in back. I was wonderin how long it was.”

  Linda smiled. She reached back to pull the pins out. “I’d expect that line from a sailor,” she joked.

  “See, you have been here before, huh?”

  “No, I haven’t!”

  “Okay. Here let me.” Tony reached over and pulled out the last hairpin.

  Linda shook her head. “I had it up because I haven’t washed it since this morning.” Auburn hair fell to her shoulders.

  Tony sat back, stared. Eyes, hair, right height, he thought. He tilted his head, closed his eyes, thought a second, then looked at Linda. “Somebody someplace took that order.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothin. Nothin.”

  “Tony, I really do have to go.”

  “I know,” he said. He wanted to end the night right. Wanted it to end with the assurance it was only the start. “I know,” he said, “that you’d like me to kiss you good night. But, ah, I never kiss a girl on the first date.” With that he opened the door and got out.

  Linda Balliett did not hear from Tony Pisano for three days. It was not a matter that he was not thinking of her. Indeed, even during the two notifications and one burial at which he’d assisted he could not stop thinking about her. Christopher Crocco had noticed it the moment he’d walked into their cubicle. He noticed it as Tony sang and even danced his little jig while he dressed in the morning. He noticed it the following evening, in the weight room, as Tony went through his routine twice, pumping more weight, doing more reps.

  On the second morning Crocco said, “Well, are you goina tell me about it?”

  “No,” Tony answered.

  “Damn, paesan. You’re floating like an airhead and you’re not going to talk!”

  “Nope.”

  “At least tell me her name. You did get her name, didn’t you?”

  At Linda’s dormitory the scene was quite different. Though at times she found herself thinking of Tony, she spent the first two hours back reviewing blood gas theory and equations. In school the next day she concentrated hard during quiz and classes. And not until she had lunch with Judy Reardon and two other student nurses did she think about Tony.

  “Who was the cute guy who picked you up?” Judy asked.

  “Listen,” Linda said. “He was the biggest jerk. I mean, he was a good dancer but do you know what he did?”

  “What?” All three girls leaned closer.

  “You’re not going to believe it. This guy was so presumptuous ...” And she repeated for them Tony’s last few sentences.

  “I can’t even believe you went over there,” one of the friends said.

  “Neither can I,” said the second.

  “I didn’t expect you to stay,” Judy said. “I thought the band was terrible.”

  “No it wasn’t,” Linda said. “It was good. And he was a good dancer.”

  “But when you found out he was a Marine,” Judy said, “why didn’t you ditch him. Ucck! A Marine.”

  “‘I want a good luck charm, hangin on my arm ...’”

  Chris Crocco looked up as Tony came bopping into their cubicle, bopping, singing, snapping his fingers, knees bent and torso swinging in Elvis imitation. “Hey, paesan ...”

  “‘... to have, to hold, tonight.’” Tony drew out the last note.

  “You keep singing and the dudes in the next room are goina buy us that stereo. Man, there’s one I saw with a built-in eight-track that’d—”

  “Fuck!” Tony snarled, irate.

  “Now what the hell is it?”

  “Burials, motherfucker.”

  “I swear, you’re like Jekyll and Hyde except worse. You’re like Jekyll and Hyde in one breath. Simultaneous schitzo-fuck. Mulhaney?”

  “No.” Pisano plopped down on his cot. Two letters at the foot bounced on the tightly tucked blanket.

  “What then?” Crocco was angry. Tony’s mood shifts made the continuum of conversation impossible.

  “Promiscuous bitch.”

  “Who? That chick?”

  “Old bitch, Man. Death, Man. Takin another Philly boy, Man. Fuck it! But we keep linin up ... a billion of us ... a billion boys carrying on their generation’s wars, generation after generation after ad inf-fuckin-nitum generation. I don’t wanta bury em anymore.”

  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 o
ne, 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.”