Carry Me Home

2-1

2FOR THE NEXT SEVEN days the heat and humidity increased. Thunderstorms erupted over Mill Creek Falls then vanished without having cooled the air or lowered the humidity. The waters of the Loyalsock raged with runoff, crashed against the high rock mounds in the creek’s center, swirled in the natural stone kettles. For seven days Robert Wapinski stayed drunk. He had not yet hit bottom, wasn’t even close. The homecoming whirlpool had not yet sucked him down to its greatest depths, would not until he was sickened, horrified, not by the behavior of others but by his own.

The two days after seeing Stacy, Wapinski was stupid sloppy exhausted falling-down drunk. Brian and Cheryl bickered about it, Brian telling her to give him time, yet after only two days he told Rob that his presence was wearing thin. Wapinski hit his stride with the bottle on Tuesday and for the next five days he was standing up controlled drunk, the kind of self-medicated drunken state where one no longer is aware of his feelings or thoughts yet can still function. Sunday morning would find him looking up to see the top of the curb.

“What’s this?” he asked his mother.

“Your bankbook,” she answered passively, as if the obvious should not need asking.

“I sent you four hundred dollars a month,” he said.

“And that’s what I deposited.”

“What happened to the rest of the money?”

“Well, you owed us some money, you know.”

“God damn it! No! No, I don’t know. There should be five grand in here.”

“You did maintain a room here.”

“What?!” This was too incredible.

“We kept your room for you. All your clothes and other possessions are there.”

“There’s only three thousand dollars here.”

“I talked it over with Doug and he said that we could get a hundred and fifty dollars a month for a room in this part of town. That’s what some of the men at the mill pay, and their rooms aren’t even in the Lutzburgh section. It’s only fair. Besides,” she said flatly, “the money went right back into the house. Those cabinets are all wood and—”

“And you bought a fuckin TV too.”

“Don’t talk that way in my house.”

“You can keep your fuckin house and your fuckin room.”

“You’re just going to throw it away on some stupid car, aren’t you?”

“That’s my business.” He’d picked out a car at Lloyd’s Autoland. He wanted to pay cash.

“You’re just like your father.”

“Wha—? That again! God damn. I’ll come back for my shit.”

“I’m not going to say it again,” she screamed. “Don’t you ever talk to me that way!”

Wednesday morning. The car brought back his smile. It made him feel like High School Harry but it was a good feeling and it was his first car and it was dazzling. He had never owned a vehicle before: in high school because he was saving his money for college; in college because there simply wasn’t enough money after tuition, room, board and books. Carefully he guided the used black-and-red two-door convertible from the lot at Lloyd’s. His legs slid on the red Naugahyde of the front bucket seat as he blipped the throttle and the hopped-up Mustang 289 torqued over, the posi-traction rear end dropped and grabbed, the radials grabbed the pavement.

His smile spread. The waxed and polished finish gleamed in the early day sun. He unleashed the Mustang’s power on Mill Creek Road, roared past the New Mill, climbed the hill past the junkyard and the town dump turnoff, slid into the ninety-degree left below the Old Mill and the cascade at the falls before throttling back for the esses. Then feeling elated, he again punched it, zooming northwest through pasturelands toward Grandpa Wapinski’s. He cooled down a mile before the family farm, stopped, turned around, headed back toward town. One surprise appearance was enough. He drove his new car to the dog pound behind the town dump, parked, went to the door, looked back and felt good. He went in, checked out the animals, left, drove to the unemployment office, registered, gazed at the girls. Then he drove to the state store and bought two bottles of scotch. He bought beer and cigarettes, groceries for Brian and Cheryl and a sleeping bag.

On Thursday Bobby went back to the dog pound. He cuddled two Newfoundland-mix pups, an Old Yeller dog, a large black lab-terrier mix. In one cage, by himself, was a four- or five-month-old German shepherd-husky mutt. “Hey boy,” Wapinski called. The dog growled. “Well, fuc—What’s the matter?” Wapinski stepped forward. The dog leaped at the cage door, barked viciously, snarled. “Come on, boy. What’s yer name? Come on.”

Wapinski laughed. The pup was ferocious, yet he looked so soft and cuddly to Bobby the incongruity was hilarious. “Come on,” Wap said, going to the door and raising the latch. The dog backed up to the middle of the eight-foot run. Wapinski went in, closed the door behind himself without taking his eyes from the pup. The pup backed to the rear of the cage, still growling, twitching his head quickly, not taking his eyes off the man but searching for an escape route. Wapinski squatted, spoke softly. “What’s yer name, pup? What’s your name? Is it Sally or Sue? Come on. How come you’re so defensive? Sally or Sue or Stacy? You a b***h? Who needs em, huh? You’re a boy, aren’t ya? Oh yeah, I can see. Have you been beaten?”

Wapinski talked to the dog for ten minutes without trying to move closer. A warden’s assistant came into the kennel room, saw Wap, said, “Are you nuts? That little bastard bit me the first day—”

“Sssshh.” Wap had risen when the boy came, though he had not removed his eyes from the dog. Now he backed out of the stall and re-latched the door. The pup flew at him, snapping his teeth just as Bobby pulled his hands out. “What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” the assistant said. “They found him and two others downtown in a box. You know them hick farmers all a time bringin dogs to town, dumpin em in front of the stores and figuring town people’ll just give em homes.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. We end up destroying three-quarters of em. That one’s goin next. If I’d had my way, they woulda injected im the first day we got im.”

“When are you going to kill him?” Wapinski asked.

“Friday. Maybe.”

“He got a name?”

“Yeah. Jerk.”

“Hmm ... Jer ... Joe ... Josh.”

“What?”

“I’ll take him. His name is Josh.”

“Hey, RJ,” Joe Akins said over the phone. He was a college friend of Wapinski’s who had stayed in school, had graduated in June ’67 as Wapinski would have had he remained. “Half dozen of us from our class are going back to the house for a party,” Akins told him.

Wapinski looked at Cheryl’s back as she washed the dinner dishes. Brian was reading the paper. They had barely spoken to him since he’d brought Josh home. “Geez, Joe,” Wapinski said. He massaged Josh’s ears. The pup almost purred. “I haven’t been there since ... s**t, it’s three and a half years!” Josh nuzzled his head against Bobby’s leg.

“That’s okay, RJ,” Akins said. “The guys who are going back are all guys we graduated wit—ah, I mean, you know, guys we pledged with.”

Lights shown from the open door of the fraternity house and from the basement windows. The rest of the house was dark. Wapinski slowed his car. Music blasted from the cellar barroom, up through the house, out into the sticky evening air. Wapinski parked the Mustang half a block away, left Josh curled up in the passenger bucket on the sleeping bag, walked in the shadows from tree to tree up the side of the street opposite from the house. Cars were parked in all directions, both sides of the street, up the side roads. Big party, he thought. He stood against the trunk of a large maple across from the house. The music was so loud he could feel vibrations in the ground. I should have met Akins somewhere, come with him, he thought. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, caressed his lighter. There was someone upstairs in the house. He knew it, felt it. Two barefoot coeds in cutoff shorts and T-shirts came down the inner stairs. Through the open door he watched them emerge from the darkness, walk across the large hall, disappear into the depth of the house. A man emerged from the dark stairs to the upper floor. Wapinski felt a pang of bitterness. He walked back to his car, grabbed a pint bottle from the back seat, patted Josh, returned to his observation post.

Nittany Mountain College was a small school with a reputation for excellence in engineering fundamentals and architectural design. Bright high-school students with average scholastic transcripts often used Nittany as a stepping stone. Get accepted, buckle down, maintain a 3.0 average for two years, then transfer to Penn State. In 1963 that had been Wapinski’s plan too, but he never made a 3.0, only once in five semesters broke above 2.5, and twice had dropped below 2.0. He had enjoyed a lot of parties.

Wapinski nipped from his bottle, smoked more cigarettes, crossed the street. He felt fire in his arms and in his eyes. He did not know where it came from, did not know why he felt anger, contempt for the freeness, the easiness with which the students moved. He felt something awful lurked inside, something he would have to confront. Alcohol numbed his skin, his thoughts, yet he felt wary, aware of every breathing thing, every inanimate object near him.

“Hey, hey, RJ. Well, s**t it’s been a long time.” Joe Akins had been sitting in the darkened TV room waiting for him, nodding from the early effects of too much beer.

“Joe.” Wapinski smiled. Joe rose. They embraced, slapped each other’s back. “You ol’ rattlesnake, how are ya?” They gripped each other’s shoulders.

“I’m great,” Akins said. “Good job, good wife, nice house. I started at seventeen thou a year and got a company car to boot. I’m doin great. Gahhddammmm! You’re the only one to show. They all punked out. How are ya, RJ? I mean, really. Yer arms are hard as steel.”

“I’m hangin in there. You know.”

“Yeah. Where you been, anyway? You look terrible. You been on a diet? And where’s yer hair?”

“I’m hangin in there,” Wapinski repeated.

“You been in the army, huh? Yeah, I remember them guys tellin me you got drafted. You gotta excuse me. I’m looped. Me and Tayborn were tryin to drain the keg. You still in?”

“Naw, Joe. Discharged a couple a weeks ago, ah ... I guess about ten days.”

“Let’s go down en get some beer. Tayborn’s down there with about ten loose dollies. Gahhd, you oughta see the t**s on the one in the yellow T-shirt.”

The basement was divided into a poolroom and a barroom. The pool table had been pushed against one wall and covered with a plastic sheet. Both rooms were packed. Half a dozen people were dancing on the pool table. The music was loud, the floor was wet, sticky with beer. People were dancing barefoot in puddles, gyrating their bodies without lifting their feet. Akins squeezed through; Wapinski followed. He didn’t recognize the song, the dance, or any of the people. People kept banging his shoulders and arms. To him the students looked young. “Let’s get in there,” Akins shouted and pointed to the doorway to the barroom.

“What?”

Akins squeezed between two girls standing in the doorway. They squeezed back against him brushing their breasts on him. The three laughed. He grabbed one by the ass and squeezed and one pinched his ass hard and he jumped into the next room. Wapinski slid between the girls. They were both braless. He hesitated, smiled. The girls slipped past him into the poolroom. He looked over his shoulder, down at them, at their butts. One had her mouth at the other’s ear. He sensed they were talking about him. f**k it, he thought. Drive on.

“What?” Wapinski shouted back at Akins. Akins had pulled him to the far end of the bar where the music wasn’t so overwhelming.

“I said, ‘Are you deaf?’ Ha. This is Rick Tayborn. He’s house president. Mickey’s little brother.”