Carry Me Home

1: Wapinski-4

“Okay,” Wapinski said.

“Your sister decided to stay at school for the summer. She wanted you to call her when you got in.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Keep it short. This phone’s going to put me in the poorhouse.”

While she rattled on nervously he made small gestures, opened his arms, waiting for her to at least hug him. She seemed awkward, like a child with a secret. He stepped toward her to give her a kiss. She was short, half a foot shorter than he, and stocky and strong. “How’ve you been?” he asked as he stepped to her. She stepped back, grabbed out for his hands, gave them a small squeeze, let go, stepped back farther.

“Not so good,” she said. “My condition’s not getting any better.”

“Oh!” he said. He took out his cigarettes and lighter. “How about you, Doug?” he asked. Doug had been standing in the archway, watching quietly.

“He’s fine,” she answered for him. “I’m the one with a condition. Don’t smoke in here. It just makes ashes on the floor that I’ve got to clean up.”

“Same old mom.” He laughed. He put the cigarettes away but kept the lighter in his hand. “It’s good to be back. I’ve missed you, and this place.”

“Well that’s nice,” she said. “We’re glad you’re home safe and sound. There’s so much that needs doing around here and I can’t do it anymore. And Doug’s no help.”

“That’s quite a row of ribbons there, Rob,” Doug said.

“Oh, don’t go into that,” Miriam snapped.

There was another awkward pause, then Doug said, “Miriam, why don’t we all have some breakfast?” To Wapinski, “We got a new store on Third Street. I was just going to get some eggs.”

“I saw—”

“Go get the eggs, then. And Robbie, why don’t you go over to Brian’s while I clean up. This house is a mess.”

Doug slid past him and went out.

“Did Stacy call?” Wapinski blurted.

“You and that girl. I told her not to call until you got back.”

“You might be civil to her,” Wapinski snapped. “Someday she’s going to be your daughter-in-law.” Immediately he felt ashamed, felt he should not have said it, should not have given her one more lever to use, one more weapon with which to threaten him. A thickness congealed in his gut.

Wapinski’s mother’s house was a nine-room Victorian built at the turn of the century when Mill Creek Falls was in its lumbering and tanning heyday. Brian’s house, behind Miriam’s, was a four-room cottage built in 1921 for a war-widowed daughter by the original owner of the Victorian. The two structures were still on a single gas line, single water and sewer lines, single electric meter. Miriam owned both houses. She charged Brian what she called “a reasonable rent.”

When he saw Rob approaching, Brian exploded through the door. “God Damn! Good to see ya! Look at you!” He wrapped his brother in his arms, squeezed the breath out of him. “Why the hell didn’t you call? When’d you get in? Oh, this calls for a celebration. Come in. Come in. Cheryl, Robbie’s home!”

“I’m not dressed,” Cheryl shrieked, giggled, vanished down the hallway.

“He’s my brother,” Brian shouted jovially. He winked at Rob. “Nice ass, huh? I’d share her but I don’t think she’d put up with it.”

“I got some of my own coming.” Rob laughed back.

“Jim Beam?” Brian asked. He pulled the bottle and three glasses from the cupboard. Cheryl walked back in wearing a loose robe.

“Robbie.” Her eyes smiled; her face lit up. “Oh, poor Robbie.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him hard. He could feel her breasts against his chest. Lightly she shimmied against him.

“Oooo-oooo!” He laughed and she laughed, too.

“Here’s to the soldier from Vet Naam,” Brian said. He handed Cheryl and Rob double shots of the bourbon. “Welcome home.” He downed his shots. “Aaaaaahh! We saw you on TV.”

Cheryl sipped at the drink. “I was so scared for you.”

“On TV?” Rob asked.

“Brian thinks he saw you,” Cheryl said.

“Well, not exactly you, I guess. They did a little reenactment of an assault that your unit, ah ... they killed all them Cong. I think it was your unit, wasn’t it? That’s what Grandpa said. All year long he cut the articles about the 101st from the paper. He saved em for you.”

“Huh? Yeah?! Nice. Ah, we had a lot of units. Eighteen thousand men in the division.”

“And you were with them guys in that valley near Laos. Up on that hill, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So ...?” Brian said.

“So what?” Rob asked.

“So how many?”

“How many what, Brian?”

“How many slopes did you kill?”

“What?” Rob hadn’t expected the question.

“You know, what was it like to kill a couple a hundred gooks. I want to know all the gory details.”

Cheryl interrupted with disdain. “Brian just wants to be able to tell everybody at the shop.”

“I don’t know,” Rob said flatly.

“I told everybody you were a real gung-ho killer,” Brian boasted. “Each time they’d have an article about you in the paper, I’d tell em you were trying to win the war by yourself. Boy, is Joanne pissed at you.”

Rob pushed himself against the back of his chair. “What articles? Joanne?”

“Didn’t Mom send em to you?”

“Send what? No!”

“About all them medals you won! Silver Stars. That was all in the papers.”

Cheryl put her hand on top of Rob’s. “They were nice articles,” she said.

Brian leaned forward, cupped his hand as if to tell Rob a secret. “There’s a girl down the shop who’d like to meet you,” he stage-whispered. “They say she gives great head.”

“Brian!” Cheryl gasped.

“I don’t know.” Brian laughed. “I didn’t try it. Aw,” he swiped his hand in the air, “drink up, Boy. You ain’t gonna be able to buy a drink in this town for a long time.”

Rob sighed. “Hooo, actually I’d prefer coffee. I walked in from Eagles Mere last night and I’m kinda beat.”

“Robbie,” Cheryl said, “why didn’t you call? We could have picked you up.”

“I, ah”—he thought of saying, I called Mom, but decided to let it pass—“ah, got a ride with some guy that far and it was late and ah ... you know, it was a nice night.”

“Coffee’s coming up. It’s all ready.” Brian smiled, served his brother. He grabbed Rob’s bourbon, dumped it into the coffee. “Milk?”

They talked for two and a half hours about new cars, music, baseball, Brian’s work at the mill, Cheryl’s new job with The Hartley Insurance Agency, people they all knew, the 7-Eleven and old Pete’s retirement. Rob asked about Joanne, how she was doing in school, what she’d be doing during the summer; and he asked about Grandpa. He smoked half a pack of cigarettes, until he was out. He and Brian killed half the bottle and another pot of coffee. He was becoming wired-drunk. After each cigarette Rob returned his lighter to his pants pocket and kept his hand on it long enough to work his thumb over the engraving.

Out of cigarettes, half intoxicated, he went back to his mother’s house. The back door was latched. He walked to the front. On the porch he saw that his AWOL bag had been opened. He looked in. His records were gone. He went inside. No one was in the parlor though the TV was on. He opened the door to the kitchen. The old painted wood cabinets had been replaced by new light blue formica ones with oak trim. His orders and medical records were spread on the table. He stood for a long minute, heard movement in the parlor.

“Mom,” he called opening the door. She and Doug had seated themselves before the TV. “What’s this?”

She looked up at him, held up a finger indicating for him to wait until a commercial.

“What is this?” he shouted. He went back into the kitchen, grabbed his records, stormed in with them. He took up a position between the TV and the viewers. “What’s this?” he demanded.

“You know, Robbie,” she said passively. “I thought you were dirty. You just come back from an awful bad place. We didn’t know if you were sick or not.”

“I’m not sick. What the—Geez!” He marched back to the porch, crammed the papers into his bag, went back to Brian’s.

“That’s what really happened last night,” Rob said. “I called. I’ve been fuckin callin fer days. Then this shit.”

“Look,” Brian said. “Why don’t you stay here? When Cheryl gets back from the store we’ll figure out an arrangement. You can stay with us. Use our old car. Then you can go up to Grandpa’s and stay up there. He’s got lots of room. You stay here for as long as you want. I’ll tell Cheryl it’s only going to be for a few nights. That way she won’t mind.”

In thirty hours he had catnapped for less than two, had been near intoxication twice, had eaten little, traveled twenty-five hundred miles, walked the last fifteen. Now, at noon, with no wind, the temperature having risen to the upper seventies, the air thick with humidity as if August had shed a day into June, Wapinski set off to see Stacy. He had showered and shaved. He’d turned down Brian’s offer for clothes, not wanting to go back to his mother’s. Anyway, he wanted Stacy to see him just once in uniform.

Brian lent him his car. Rob drove slowly, circuitously through downtown and Small Mill, across the old steel truss bridge, up 154 to the edge of New New Town. His stomach fluttered. The road whipped by more quickly than he imagined it could. He headed east on the county road past the subdivision, then south into rolling country and scattered farms, then east again, the old road twisting to follow the level, finally climbing over a ridge and falling into a narrow valley. He lit cigarette after cigarette, at times realizing he still had one going in the ashtray as he lit the next. The breeze coming off the road through the floor vents was hot. His feet sweated in the jumpboots. Beneath the dress green’s blouse his shirt was saturated. What to say? he thought. What to say? Ask her to marry you, he thought. Ask her. No. Not yet. Don’t be stupid. Beads of perspiration formed high on his forehead. It seemed hotter than Nam. What to say? He smiled thinking about her smile, her eyes. He put his left hand out the window, tried to deflect more wind into the car. Great way to see yer gal, he thought. Stinking sticky with sweat.

This is too much, he thought, expecting her to be ready if I’m totally unexpected. I should call. He drove farther south and east then pulled into the shade at the side of the road. His thoughts were jumbled, dull. Was he going to see her response to his uniform, to him strong if skinny, hard, the conquering hero returned ready to storm the world for his lady? He rejected that notion, thought of her, of her eyes, face, smell, her poise and grace.

He was going to see Stacy whom he loved, whom he had loved for four years, lived with for one wonderful month on leave before going overseas, written to innumerable times.

He drove to her house, walked into the yard, went to the door. His feet barely touched the ground, his body felt weightless, numb, on autopilot, dumb, happy. Stacy would be—

Before he could imagine how she would look, what she would say, Stacy’s mother opened the door. “Robert!” she cried. “Robert!” She threw her arms around him. Hugged him, kissed him the way he had hoped his own mother would have hugged and kissed him. He liked Stacy’s mom; she had always liked him.

“Hi Ma.” He smiled casually, relaxed, the nervousness dissipating at finding her there, finding the house unchanged. “How ya doin, Sweetheart?”

She looked at him smiling, about to answer, then her face contorted. She coughed.

“Ma? What is it? I’m okay,” he jested, trying to lighten things up, back things up to when she was smiling. “Look, no holes.”

“Robert, you’re not going to like this,” she said looking up at him, pitying him, pleading with her eyes as if to say, Please let him not mind, not care, not hate.

“What’s the matter?” He was floating again. Jittery. “Where’s Stacy?”

“She’s on the sun porch.”

Wapinski did not hesitate. He walked through the house to the back. Through the window he could see Stacy on the porch. He couldn’t believe how beautiful she was, how sexy she looked in a bathing suit, her legs glistening with tanning oil. He stared for half a second before he saw the guy. Wapinski opened the door, stepped onto the porch, his chest puffed up, lats flared, shoulders tense under his uniform, teeth clenched. He stood legs apart, like a statue, solid, planted before them. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, then if he did move or speak he wasn’t aware of it. Perhaps they talked for several minutes. Perhaps he shook the guy’s hand. Perhaps he wished him well. Then he backed out, retreated, retreated to the car, withdrew, capitulated. Then all he could hear was Stacy saying, “I want you to meet my fiancé.... I want you to meet my fiancé.... I want you to meet my fiancé....” over and over and over. He loosened his blouse, removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. He looked at the slip of paper she had handed him as she’d shuffled him out. There was a name, address and phone number. Bea Hollands (Red). “You remember her,” Stacy had said, but he hadn’t really heard, had heard with his ears but not his brain. “She said when you got back she wanted you to stop by and say hello.”

*This poem, along with the form of the monument described, is from the 1883 obelisk at Shelton, Connecticut.