Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  Confused, agitated, cold, babbling to himself for an entire week, some days emerging only to pee in the snow, some days dressing, crossing the pond, trying to work, feeling ill, feverish, achy, blurting words disconnected to his thoughts, thinking: rapacious—what the hell that mean? Thinking: Jessica, thirteen years old.

  Saturday, 27 February 1982—Cold again, crisp, clear, bright sunshine melting exposed snow, shadowed roof run-off freezing into long icicles.

  “You wouldn’t believe that jerk,” Sara said. She and Linda were at the kitchen table. Gina and Michelle were in the living room with Noah, Paul and Am. Johnny, eleven days old, nuzzled in a snuggle-pak strapped to Linda’s chest.

  “What’s he say?” Linda asked.

  “All of them,” Sara said. “You wouldn’t believe it around here this week. First Vertsborg calls me in about Noah. That was Monday. Or Tuesday. I know Noah’s been having some trouble. I mean, it’s understandable, isn’t it?”

  Linda nodded. “Vertsborg gets forty-five thousand a year, you know. He’s got to justify his position.”

  “Maybe that’s it. I thought he was going to ask like, what do you think we can do to draw Noah out? Instead he asks, ‘Has he been withdrawn at home?’”

  “What’d you say?”

  “You know, Noah’s right there. I didn’t want to upset him any further. I said, ‘He’s been very good.’ So Vertsborg looks at him, he’s not even seven, and he says, ‘Is it hard living in your house?’”

  “And?”

  “Noah just looks at him. You know how he is right now.”

  “Didn’t you tell him about Bobby?”

  “I’d sent in a note two months ago. You know, we didn’t know what was going to happen. Right after the transfusion reaction. And you know Noah. He can read my face like a book. I thought it had to be addressed. I felt the best possible way to deal with it was through honesty. So I told Noah, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen today and I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. But I do know the four of us are going to get through it.’ And I told that to Vertsborg. And that son of a bitch turns to Noah and says, ‘Would you like to live with another family for a while?’ Linda, I almost died. I teach with these people. It’s been one crisis after another, and this bastard’s trying to put together a case for child abuse.”

  “And Brian and Cheryl? No. Finish the Vertsborg thing.”

  “Bobby and I talked about it. You know, after it first happened. And he said, and I agree with him, ‘Your part in this thing is never to lie. If the kids ever come to you ... you know, you never tell them more than they’re ready to hear. You don’t have to sit them down and say, “Listen, Pop says he’s going to live but the truth is he’s dying.” But if they come and ask, “Is Pop going to die?” You don’t know that. I don’t know that. Someday, of course, but not too soon.’ Anyway, I asked Noah to go back to class, then I told Vertsborg, I said, ‘I’m ordering you to stay away from my child. I’m reporting this to Superintendent Carson.’”

  “Good for you.”

  “Hm. I’m not home two hours and Cheryl calls. She and Brian want to come up. Sure. We haven’t seen them in I don’t know how long. I mean, Bobby’s called and told Brian what was going on. And I’ve called Miriam. Once! She says, ‘How is he?’ I said, ‘He’s lost the sight in his left eye and he’s preleukemic’ She says, ‘Oh. Other than that, how is he?’”

  “Really!” Linda snickered. “People! How dense.” She began to nurse the baby.

  “So Cheryl and Brian come up and she says, ‘We’re making out our wills.’ And Brian says, ‘If something happens to us, we want to leave the children with you and Robby.’ I must have looked shocked. Here’s Bobby in the hospital and all. Cheryl says, ‘If you don’t want them, we want you to do whatever you want with them.’ See, Bobby being ill is making them deal with their own mortality.”

  “Sounds like it’s making them make you deal with it.”

  “She says, ‘If you don’t want them, find a foster home or something.’ Linda, I can’t deal with this. I swear half the vets think they’re dying, too.”

  “I know. Tony’s been a real baby. But he’s back and forth. Having a son ... he’s bought camping gear, balls and bats and hockey sticks. He even brought back a little Yale sweat suit on his last trip up.”

  There was a knock on the back door. Without waiting Ty burst in, dropped a load of packages, went back out, came in re-laden, closed the door with his foot, shook, shivered, smiled. “Whoo-ee!” he sang out. He was dressed to the nines. “Am I interrupting?”

  Linda put her breast away, shifted Johnny across her lap to burp him. Sara chuckled. “No. Give us a second. Come on in.”

  “Ooo! I been downtown. I been uptown. I been to the mall. I been here. I been there. You gonna like this.”

  “What’s all that?” Sara asked.

  “Jus stuff.” Ty beamed. He removed his coat, a new coat with a fur collar and fur cuffs. Beneath he had on a new suit. “Like it?” He spun. He pulled out his tie. “One hundred percent Chinese silk.” He spun again, then came to the table, gave Sara a peck on the cheek, then Linda. “Can I hold him?”

  “He’s just nursed,” Linda said. “You’re apt to have curds and whey all down your back.”

  “That’s fine.” Ty could not have been more jovial. “I got somethin for this Johnny-boy.”

  Linda and Sara were baffled.

  “And where’s Noah? I got him his birthday present—a little early.”

  “Ty, that’s so nice. You shouldn’t—”

  “Sure I should.”

  “Oh—” Linda said opening the gift Ty had handed her. “Look at this. Ty ...”

  “It’s like a sleeping bag.” Ty’s gold teeth flashed. On his right hand he sported a new diamond pinky ring.

  “But ...” Linda objecting.

  “No buts! I got somethin for the ladies, too. This is for you.” He shifted Johnny, handed Sara a small box. “And this—ha! I knew you was goina be here—is for you. And where’s them kids?” Ty spun, blustering, kissing Johnny, handing him back, grabbing boxes, heading into the hallway to the living room from which Gina and Paulie were peering, checking out the commotion.

  “Oh!” Sara was shocked. “Ty Mohammed. You can’t do this.” She held up a gold chain. “Ty!”

  And Linda too! “Ty! What’s—”

  “Not now!” He called back. “Not now!”

  “This must have cost a small fortune. Ty, you get right back in here!”

  From the other room, squeals, laughter. “A boomerang! And a glove!” “What a pretty blouse!” “I was goina get matching ones but I figure you two got enough matching clothes to last ...” “A radio controlled car!”

  Linda and Sara both in the doorway, “Ty! What’s going on?”

  “I jus sold my Caddy. Some sucka give me thirty-six hundred which is more than I paid not includin the lease.”

  Sara shook her head, befuddled. “Why ...”

  “Because I want to. Life’s too short. Cause spring’s almost here. Cause the sun come up. Cause there enough doom and gloom happenin around here. And ... cause ... ah ... I need to ask ...”

  “Huh?”

  “Jus a small”—he gestured back to the kitchen—“favor. I need a small ...”

  They retreated to the table. Sara brought out coffee and biscuits. Ty’s countenance changed. He became quiet, focused. Still he smiled, a subdued beaming. “I want you to do something for me cause I can’t do it myself. I ... I jus can’t. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Linda, you be the witness hear her say, ‘Okay.’”

  Linda nodded, not sure what was happening, not sure Ty was serious.

  Ty reached into his inner jacket pocket, took out a sealed envelope. “You know my brother, Phillip?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “An his wife, Carol?”

  “Umm.”

  “An my baby, Jessica?”

 
; “Yes. Of course. What do you have ...”

  “You jus give this to Phillip. It’s my account for Jessie. I don’t want Luwan gettin her hands on none—”

  “But Ty. Why don’t you—”

  “No questions. You jus say, ‘Okay.’”

  “Oh ... really!” Ty fixed her with his eyes. Sara hesitated, nodded. “Okay.”

  “I’m goin. Howie en Blue Dog en Hacken all doin a bang-up job sellin jobs fo the new shop.”

  “Where are you going?” Sara asked. “And why?”

  “Jus for a while. I’ll be back. I got some business to attend to. Maybe in San Martin. Or San Jose.”

  “Did you get a job out there?” Linda asked.

  “Um. Maybe.” Ty winked. “Maybe jus my time to get a piece a the American pie.”

  “But you can give this ...”

  Ty’s eyes saddened. He hung his head. “For me, huh? Like I asked. Not till I go but I want to get things set. I got some stuff in Grandpa’s cabin and some stuff I need to get the guys that’ll take me a week or so. Bobby be back in a week ...”

  “Maybe on Tuesday.”

  Monday, 1 March 1982, late night, Grandpa’s cabin—Ty is again wrapped in the blanket, sitting in the chair in the small main room of the cabin. He is again feverish, talking to himself or thinking to himself, not able to tell the difference, sure it does not matter, he, alone, in the woods, the cold, the dark, knowing Bobby will be home tomorrow, afraid to confront him, afraid to look in the face of the man he has betrayed. I can, he thinks. I will. Straight down the arm so it can’t be stopped. What will they think? What will they say about me? Bobby goina be like me. Nutless. He’ll know. He’ll understand. If they’d taken his ear and his teeth and his finger ... any of em’d understand. They’d do the same. Any of em ... If they done time, they’d know. If I’d known, I’d nevah called. Nevah. It was my turn to catch up. My turn for all the brothers The Man fucked over. Twelve point one percent! I swear I’d read thirty-seven. Maybe forty-seven. It was a race war. I know it was. I ... I can do it. Won’t hurt. Straight down. Then jus lie back. Won’t hurt none. Jesus! If I had my works. Then it wouldn’t hurt. Tie off, slap up, shoot ... then jus nice and slow pull the blade across ... Rodney sold his mind to The Man. Who’s crying? Don’t cry. Dead meat don’t hurt. Dead meat don’t feel nothin. Dead meat don’t betray ... All I gotta do is tell im. He’d forgive me. I could make it up to im. I could give im my piece a the pie. Taxes! God, it’s freezin in here. My feet are freezin. I can do it.

  Ty held the knife in his right hand. There was no light in the cabin, no light in the woods. Slowly he rolled his left hand over, exposed his wrist, rested it calmly on his left thigh. Dead meat don’t hurt, Bobby. You’d be better off dead, too. Better than suffering them transfusions. Stop crying. You are worthless. You ...

  He moved the knife to his wrist. I could tell him. I could still tell him. The whole story. Write it in a letter. I could say ... I could say Jessica need ... Luwan needed ... I could say ... I’m not terrible. I’m not. I didn’t mean to hurt ... I didn’t know. I ... Do it. Do it.

  The tears came hard now, fast now. His breath was short, choppy. He could not see, could not feel, wanted to ... to ...

  Unweight. Float. Sure. He’ll understand. I’m being stupid. Sit up straight. Put down that knife. Get blood on my suit! What a mess. At least get a towel. A towel. Where the hell I got a towel? Put down the knife. Ha! Who’s laughing? I’ll go. I’ll go now. I’ll go barefoot. I’ll stand in the snow, all night, barefoot. I’ll beg him to forgive me. He will. I know he will. And ... and if he doesn’t, then I’ll do it. Sure. Sure. I’m not terrible. I’ll take a nap. Be like that pope. Or that king. Barefoot. I’ll go. Take a nap, then I’ll go. Then I’ll ...

  Ty woke with a start. It was still dark but no longer black, maybe five, maybe five thirty. He was still cold but he no longer shivered. The knife was on the floor, its edge barely visible. He checked his wrist, felt it, checked to be sure he was whole. He rose. Determined. Focused. He was colder than he could ever recall, but not shaking, not chattering. His muscles ached. His entire body hurt. Yet he felt relieved, felt strong. Aches were nothing. Soreness was nothing. Cold, numbness, all nothing. Ty opened the door. He removed his shoes, his socks, stepped out. It was dark but not lightless, wet, not raining but misty, a thick damp fog, a fine drizzle hanging, suspended, neither falling nor rising. The ground was cold. Snow remained in patches. Autumn’s leaves curled, held ice crystals, minute frozen ponds, entire miniature winter landscapes. Ty peed. He aimed the flow onto a miniature world, melted it, shifted, melted the next. The cold of the ground stung his feet. He saw the pain as good, as cleansing. He stepped farther from the cabin. The pain was wonderful. The soles felt numb, dead, but stinging rose up through his heels, his ankles, to his calves, his knees.

  Shee-it, he said, thought. That does hurt. Get my things. Take my things. Take Bobby’s present. Come clean then clear out. Give em the whole story. What Sara goina think. She’ll hate me. She’ll ... she’ll grab up the children, pull em back like I’m dirt, like I ... I ...

  Ty returned to the cabin. The soles of his feet felt dead, the tops stung. He sat, massaged them back to life. He replaced his socks, shoes. He pulled on rubber boots to protect his dress shoes, straightened his clothing, retied his tie, donned his new winter coat. Then he meandered through the small cabin grabbing his personal items, tossing them into his blanket, tossing in his gift for Bobby, his sales order forms, pens, a few knick-knacks he’d brought out, his small radio, nothing orderly, hit and miss, bouncing from wall to bed to the over-stuffed recliner to the table, here, there, without reason, until the blanket was heaped. Then he grabbed the four corners, twisted them together, threw the bundle across his back, left. His knife was still on the floor.

  His mind was as scattered as his motion. In the cold, mist, just light, he stumbled, nudged trees, ricocheted like a steel ball in a pinball machine rolling to the bottom, bumpered here, there, always descending the narrow path to the pond.

  In places the ice was still snow-covered. Elsewhere it was wet, smooth, impervious, holding broad, flat puddles. The water made it slippery and he trudged carefully, slowly, through the mist, unable to see his past footprints, which had melted, unable to see the far side, the rear edge too disappearing. Only the area immediately about him was visible. He paused. There was a brown leaf imbedded in the ice exactly how Bobby had once described the ice-leaf solar collector. He spied a second leaf, meandered to the right, spied a third, sloshed farther off course. For a few minutes he looked from leaf to leaf. He felt giddy. Then he could barely recall why he was on the ice, why he was dressed so early, carrying all his belongings in the mist. Under him the ice sagged. There was a low creaking—not the sharp cracking of frigid winter but a dull creak. He expected it. He took another step. The ice broke. That he did not expect. It broke in a very large piece, a slab, fracturing clean before him. He fell to his knees to distribute his weight but the ice continued dropping. At first it gave him a nauseous feeling. The cold wet of the surface soaked through his pants, felt cold on his knees. For a brief moment he felt silly, felt he’d overreacted to the sagging, felt glad the fog over the pond was thick and no one from the barn or the house could see him. But the ice continued down under his weight. The huge piece tilted like an immense trap door. He slid back toward the edge. His arms flailed. He released his bundle, the four corners opening, dumping his goods. Now he was prone on the ice though the slab had tilted almost to the vertical. He tried to climb, to dig his fingers in and hang on but he could not get a hold in the frozen surface. He grabbed for the blanket, for the box with the gift for Bobby. His legs sank in the water. Instantly the cold penetrated his pants, his skin, into his muscles. The water hit his scrotum, his penis, jolted him. When it reached his navel he began to panic. Then he purposely whipped his face into the water remembering it was the only way to close down the peripheral vascular system and retain body heat. He came up. The ice slab,
like a bank vault door, dropped, slamming closed. His arms shot up to hold the ice off, his legs strove for support in the water, in the muck-bottom. Under the ice he searched for an opening. He looked up, it was lighter above and he knew that the ice was up. For a brief second he thought that they all would think he’d done it on purpose. He clenched his teeth as tightly as he could, closed his entire face down. His whole body stung. It was no longer cold. He tried slamming his fist into the ice but the only motion was his body sinking in the water. He was amazed at the hardness of the bottom of the ice. He searched for the slab edge. His body would not move, became numb. It no longer hurt.

  He was frail yet he looked healthy, healthier than he’d looked in months. His face was different. Changed somehow. Altered from within as if they’d snatched his body, replaced his soul, or gotten to his mind.

  Wednesday, 3 March 1982—Rifkin, Thorpe, Renneau, were there, celebrating more than Bobby’s homecoming, celebrating the very first High Meadow wine—a barrel tapped long before its time. Smith, Stutzmeyer, Denahee and Erik Schevard and family were there. So too Vu, Van Deusen, Mariano—almost every veteran who still lived at High Meadow, plus a dozen from downtown and half a dozen from afar. And families came, the Pellegrinos and Pisanos, the Tashkors, Rasmuellens and Hoellers. Andre Paulowski popped in. And Father Tom Niederkou. All talking at once, in twos, in threes, in fours. Bobby was back.

  “Man, this is bitchin.”

  “Sooo bitchin, Man ...”

  “Yeah. Bummer, that shit up there. Glad you’re home.”

  “Yeah. Hey, they say anything up there about these rashes?”

  “They talk about numbness in like hands and feet?”

  “You hear about this guy, Reutershan, who died of liver cancer. Said it was caused by bioaccumulation of dioxin. We’ve been collecting lots of shit, Man. Establishing a whole new section in the library ...”