Carry Me Home

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Carry Me Home Page 54

by John M. Del Vecchio


  “That’s right.”

  “But what if no Americans had ever been there? What if there had been no Marines to protect?”

  “Then the gooks would have taken over and enslaved the Viet Namese.”

  “Really?”

  During that spring of 1972 nothing could possibly have been better for Pewel Wapinski than to have a strong, trained paramedic move into Bobby’s old bedroom. Pewel slept on a rented hospital bed in the dining room. His paramedic collected the maple sap, turned the fields, learned not just to plow, fertilize, and plant but how to plan the farm. He even built a crude elevator to lift Pewel Wapinski to his barn office.

  And Pewel had a highly trained nurse come nearly every day, one who enjoyed his home and farm, who enjoyed cooking, didn’t mind cleaning, who loved him as if he were her own grandfather; and he had Gina and Michelle—Rascal and Timidthia as he called them—growing, bright, babbling and cute in the way of precious and precocious two-year-olds, astounding him with their feats of physical flexibility as he himself became more mobile.

  On the girls’ second birthday they had a party in the kitchen at High Meadow. “You can have cake after lunch,” Linda said.

  “Why not now?” Tony asked.

  “You’re worse than the girls.” Linda was happy and it showed. “You too!” She admonished Pewel as he picked a stray blob of frosting from the edge of the cake plate.

  “I wanna come you,” Gina said to Tony.

  “Come on then,” Tony said. He held out his hands.

  “Wash your hands first,” Linda ordered. Gina and Tony looked at her. “Yes, both of you.”

  Tony winked at Gina, lifted her to the sink. His relationship with her was better than ever. Michelle still would not sit with him. “What’s for lunch?” he asked. He put Gina down.

  “Hangerber,” Gina squealed.

  “Huggerber,” Michelle said from her mother’s side.

  “Hangerber or huggerber?” Tony chuckled.

  “Ham-burg-ers,” Linda corrected.

  Gina giggled. Then, “I wanna pick you up.”

  “Pick me up?” Tony looked at her. “I too big.”

  “I pick you up,” Gina giggled again.

  “She means she wants you to pick her up,” Linda said to Tony. “Bring her to the table, okay?”

  As they ate lunch Tony spoke to Pewel about new strawberry fields. He wanted to turn and plant one row at a time. “... eventually put in enough ... We can’t make any money on grain. Strawberries are a cash crop. Enough for Morris’, the IGA, and the 7-Eleven. Maybe the stores in Rock Ridge, too. Even RRVMC. They’ve got a big mess hall there ...”

  Pewel agreed but his focus was on the little girls, and soon Tony dropped the topic though it spun and whirled in his mind as he mentally calculated planting schedules, maturity, how many years it would take to have established beds that he could trust, and could guarantee the stores and hospital a fresh in-season supply. In his head he knew exactly what was needed, knew too exactly how different this crop was from syrup—this fragile time-essential crop. He could commit the fields. Could he commit himself?

  “So Tony, how’s it going today?”

  “Good.”

  “The farm survive hurricane Agnes?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much so. Except remember I was putting in those new beds ...?”

  “Strawberries?”

  “Yeah. That pretty much got washed out.”

  “Oh.” Binford sighed, rocked his head empathetically. They were now into the fourth month of therapy. Tony had come to view him as a friend, perhaps as a bit weird, ignorant about the realities of combat, but still as a friend. “And how are things between you and Linda?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “You know.”

  “No,” Binford said, “I don’t.”

  “Not being with her ... you know. I’m still living with Mr. Wapinski. I see her every day. And the girls. But ... really ... I mean it hurts like hell knowing what I did to em and knowing that I can’t live with em. Linda’d let me come back. She wants to help me. You know how she is. But ... well, she’s under a lot of pressure and Mr. Wapinski, my agreement with him was for six months.”

  “What kind of pressure?”

  “Oh, mostly from her folks. Her mother calls all the time and tells her to dump me. Her old man hates my guts.”

  “Some reasons there?”

  “You know. I told you about the shotgun. She told her sister and she told their father.”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Mr. Wapinski says that if you hurt someone, that hurts you inside. He says it causes internal battles and that the toll on you is worse than the toll on the one you hurt because you hurting them is external. To them. Their outsides heal. But for you, it detracts from who you are and takes a lot longer to rebuild.”

  “Let’s go back over that incident with the shotgun. Putting it in your mouth. Pulling the trigger. What were you thinking? Do you remember what you were thinking?”

  “About Nam. Fuckin around. Didn’t care who was around me, you know, was just goin back to it.”

  “Do you remember what Linda did?”

  “Yeah. Started cryin and shit. Screamin. ‘Don’t do it.’ Came over and put her arm around me. And, ah, I knew I—I couldn’t do that to em no more.”

  “Do you ever think you maybe did that because you were looking ... subconsciously ... for hugs from your mother?”

  “No way. Not at all. Nowhere near that. Geez. We’ve been here a hundred times. I told you about my cousin ... About getting thrashed out west?” Tony paused. “You think I should have gone back, huh?”

  “Do you?”

  “I think of it all the time. If I hadn’t met Linda I probably would of. I still could.”

  “Um.”

  “I could go back. If I could go back for just one day. One hour. Just smell the air, feel the ground, see the people again. There’s like this part a me that needs to go back. Like I left part of me there. Like there’s another Anthony F. Pisano fuckin still there. You understand? It’s like only ... like only his shadow came back. Like he hasn’t caught up to me yet. Like it’ll never fuckin happen. There’s still an Anthony Pisano ... shit! I even saw his footlocker on Okie! I just remembered that. He’s still in Nam Bo somewhere. I’m just this fuckin shadow that can’t see nothin. That’s in this fog. Shadows can’t function in a fog.”

  “Like you lost your soul over there? Only your physical being came back?”

  “Yeah. What came back is proud, but it’s only part of me. And I’m tired of livin here and there. I’m not responsible for that shit. That suffering. I can’t be held responsible for that. Damn it! I was good. Everybody said so. Everybody recognized it until ...”

  “Until?”

  “Until I came back.” Tony snorted, turned sideways to Binford.

  “Did you ever see any atrocities over there?”

  “Yeah. You know. I guess ... Usually they talk about that being like burning a ville or raping or killing women or children. I heard of some of that. That happened ... ah, in Delta Company. Before I got there. They had one particular guy who was notorious for ah ... he was always on point. Big guy. He’d go forward with a fire team—very far ahead of the company. And ah, evidently he raped a village woman and held a gun to her head and said, ‘When the rest of the company gets here, if you say anything, I’ll blow yer brains out.’ And the guys in the fire team knew he’d done it but they weren’t about to say anything cause their heads would a got blown off. That’s the story, anyway. That’s something.”

  “And the time, ah, tell me again about the woman and children killed at ... that you saw killed. The soldier with the belt that you think you should have killed first.”

  “Aw, Man. Again?”

  “Please.”

  Now Tony retold the story in detail. He told the therapist about seeing the man with the belt, the firefight that ensued, the human shield tactic used by the NVA. “I crie
d that day, Man. I remember thinking if Pop saw me crying he’d be disappointed, but I cried that day.”

  “One more month, eh?”

  “One more.”

  “You talk with Linda yet?”

  “No. I ... We’re getting along pretty good, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t matter what I think.”

  “But Gran ... ah, Mr. Wapinski ...”

  “You can call me Granpa. I like it.”

  “Grandpa. If she lets me move back ...”

  “I’ll be fine. Doin pretty good, see? I don’t need to go upstairs.”

  “I don’t wanta feel like I’m runnin out on you.”

  “Yep. Caused ya enough problems, runnin out, already.”

  “Um-hmm. Really has. As long as I’ve got my three-a-days, I’m pretty good. She’ll let me come back, don’t you—”

  “Ask her.”

  “Yeah. I will. Tonight. At her place, tonight.”

  “Here, Tony. I got a little something for you.” Pewel Wapinski handed Tony a piece of paper.

  “What’s ...”

  “It’s a prayer. Nothin fancy. I say it in the mornin an at night. Keeps the crops growing.”

  Tony looked at the sheet. “Dear Lord,” it began, “Please bless us and watch over us; Deliver us from evil ...”

  “When you understand it,” Pewel said, “not just readin words, but understandin it, things fall into place.”

  Tony continued to read. “‘Forgive us our trespasses; And give us the strength and guts to try hard and to never give up.’”

  It was difficult for the four of them to be alone in the kitchen of the Creek’s Bend apartment; difficult for Tony who had frightened them here, in this apartment, difficult too for Linda, because of the hurt, the loss of trust, loss of love associated with these rooms, and because of the joys she’d shared with Gina and Michelle, alone, the hard work she’d invested in rebuilding their lives, twice.

  Forgive us our trespasses, Tony thought. “Here, let me do that.”

  “I’ve got it.” Linda lifted the large pot from the stove, brought it to the sink, dumped the boiling water and shells into the colander. Mist enveloped her, then vanished.

  “What can I do?” Tony asked.

  “See if the girls want milk or juice, okay?”

  “Sure.” Tony went to the back porch where Gina and Michelle were playing. The railings had been “fenced” with chicken wire so the girls couldn’t slip through, and a latchable gate had been installed at the top of the stairs.

  “Papa, know what?” Gina grabbed his pant leg.

  “What?” Tony smiled. Gina was so open to him, Michelle so closed. Try hard, he thought.

  “Deedee, deedee deedee,” Gina squealed, let him go, ran to Michelle.

  “Deedee, deedee deedee?” Tony laughed. Both girls, their heads together, laughed too. Tony laughed more. “Do you two want milk or juice with dinner?”

  “Papa, you come inside, okay?”

  Tony pointed to himself. “Go inside? First tell me, juice or milk?”

  “Papa angry at Gina,” Gina said to him. Then to Michelle she said, “Gina a bad girl. Papa angry.” Then quickly, looking, acting sad, “I sorry, Papa.”

  “No. No, Gina. Papa’s not angry.” Tony knelt near the twins. “Gina’s a good girl. And Michelle is too. Michelle’s a good girl. I love you both very much. I just want to know if you want milk or juice with dinner.”

  “Papa angry,” Gina whispered to Michelle. “Papa very angry.”

  “No I’m not!” Tony said emphatically. “Really.” He stood. “I’m going inside. I love you.”

  The girls put their foreheads together, giggled again.

  Inside Linda had set the table. In the middle was the large bowl of shells. Separately, so Gina and Michelle could have their pasta plain, was a gravy boat with tomato sauce and a small bowl of grated cheese. On Tony’s plate was a baked breaded chicken breast. On Linda’s, half a breast, the other half diced and split between the girls’ plates. And there was corn on the cob, steamed zucchini and a fresh tomato salad with olive oil and oregano.

  “That’s beautiful, Babe,” Tony said. He wanted to hug her. It had been so long! “Shoo!” He flitted his hand over the pasta chasing away a fly.

  “Oh, I can’t keep them out of here,” Linda said. “The girls are forever going in and out.”

  “I could screen the porch for you.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Who did the chicken wire?”

  “One of the guys from Steve’s Lumber. When I bought it and told him I lived here, he said, ‘You mean right up the hill?’ I said yes. I was going to buy those U-shaped nails. He said he could let me use a staple gun. I didn’t know what that was and he just said he’d do it during his lunch break.”

  “Oh,” Tony said.

  “He didn’t even charge me,” Linda said. She had her back to Tony, was cleaning the twin’s Tommy-Tippy cups.

  “Damn fly,” Tony said. He hunched, moved in on the table, swatted. His hand banged the tabletop. Linda jumped. “Got it,” he yelped.

  Linda turned. Tony was scraping the fly guts off his hand. A wet black and red splotch was on the table. “Oohhh!” Linda let out her breath. “That’s gross. Did you have to?”

  “What?”

  Linda sighed again, put a hand to her head, “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Whaaatt?! It’s only a damn fly. When I was in Nam Bo, geez, I was telling this to Binford just a few days ago, I remember having to eat sitting in front of a dozen dead gooks. There’d be maggots crawling out their eyeballs ...”

  “Ooo ...” Linda slapped a hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom.

  “Let’s go over it one more time, Tony.”

  “Doc, I’ve told you this—”

  “Stop.” Binford was being firm again, playing, as Tony thought of it, good cop/bad cop, all in one. Talk about schizophrenics! “Dr. Holbrook and I have been doing a great deal of reading on this. In our experience, in our search of the literature, the only actions we’ve found that could cause the degree of guilt behavior that you’ve been suffering from is if one committed a sinful act. That is, an act which the person who committed it perceived as sinful. Like killing a defenseless woman or her children. Or maybe one’s own officer. Now let’s go back over—”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that perhaps what happened in Viet Nam, what you say happened with that woman, is not what really happened. Sometimes our mind tries to protect us from reality....”

  “No way. No fuckin way.”

  “Look, if you refuse to cooperate with me, I can’t help you. There are no charges here. Nothing will come of this. There are no recriminations. I’m not even saying what happened was malicious. What happened there, your recognition of that reality, your taking responsibility—overtly—might keep you from covertly sabotaging yourself. I’m doing this for you, Tony. To help you stop inflicting this punishment on yourself. Now ... can we go on? Or should we stop this therapy this instant?”

  Tony stared, mouth agape. He didn’t know how to respond. Binford’s innuendo shocked him, rocked him to the core. Because—because, he suspected ... it could be true. “I ...” Tony dropped his head. He could barely make his voice heard. “I gotta take this slow.”

  “That’s okay.” Binford was back to his friendly, good-cop voice.

  “If I’m guilty of something I’m guilty of not going back and seeing Rick.”

  “Rick?”

  “In Philly. I told you about him. The guy who wanted the docs to cut his legs off. Here.” Tony touched his throat.

  “Tony, people don’t self-destruct because they didn’t visit someone they don’t even know....”

  “But he was a Marine. A Magnificent Bastard. Like me.”

  “And how many others haven’t you visited?” Tony looked up at Bin-ford. “See?” the doctor said.

  “What about Manny? If I’d of moved him, covered
him, anything.”

  “But you didn’t know about the sniper.”

  “Sometimes I still dream of him. I still feel Manny gettin greased right in my arms.”

  “Do you blame yourself?”

  “It’s—it’s not a matter of blame.”

  “When it happened, do you remember how you felt?”

  “I was ragin pissed.”

  “And at Dai Do, with the machetes?”

  “Relieved. Scared shitless but relieved when it was over.”

  “And all those other times. Do you remember any time feeling like you had gotten people killed? Feeling that it was your fault? That you had screwed up? or sinned?” Tony shook his head. “Only, maybe, with that woman and the children, huh?”

  “I ... I guess.”

  “Let’s go back over that day....”

  Again and again. Into September, to Tony and Linda’s third anniversary when Tony moved back to the Creek’s Bend apartment, through October, into November and Nixon’s reelection and Tony’s twenty-fifth birthday, into December and the Christmas bombings, and to the peace accords of January 1973, every other Tuesday Tony retold John H. Binford the story of the NVA soldier with the belt and the woman and children. In every way possible the therapist attempted to guide Tony to a new understanding. Tony resisted. The story evolved.

  During this time, too, John H. Binford’s ideas evolved. Each session he recorded Tony’s responses and his own observations of Tony’s behavior. With Daniel Holbrook and a third doctor, Binford hypothesized about and expounded upon his therapeutic model. By the time of the Paris accords, the three of them were treating, or experimenting with, fifteen Viet Nam veterans—six outpatients and nine institutionalized. All the men responded positively to therapy. All reported either total or significant abstinence from self-dosing with alcohol or street drugs, a lowering in the frequency of explosive rage and violent outbursts, and fewer quasi-dissociative episodes (flashbacks). Binford’s confidence grew as his hypothesis moved toward theory and as patient after patient proved, or failed to disprove, the validity of his ideas. Not only did his confidence increase, so too did his determination to affect Anthony F. Pisano.

  Others who touched Tony’s life changed too. Linda was ever more independent. She took another nursing course, by mail, and she wanted Tony to restart his education. Grandpa Wapinski’s health gradually diminished, and for the first time Tony saw that he was indeed an old man with a limited life span.

 

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