Carry Me Home (112 page)

Again it warmed. Again it cooled. They said Bobby would soon be coming home. They said he was in remission—a decrease or subsidence of the manifestations of the illness. Decrease of manifestations! Not reversal, not cure, maybe not even getting better. They said he was 100 percent transfusion dependent. Remission was a plateau, a terrace on the hillside where the freight train rolled more smoothly, where it did not accelerate, where the multiple and varied androgen treatments worked temporarily.

Ty Mohammed sat in the cabin. It was Monday, 22 February 1982—sixty years to the day from Brigita Clewlow’s marriage to Pewel Wapinski. It was evening, dark, cloudy, cool, raw. Ty Mohammed sat wrapped in a blanket, brooding, confused, angry. Why had Bobby done this to him? Why had he become ill, frail, unable to sustain the battle? Ty hadn’t wanted to put him out of business. That had never been his intention. Nor had he wanted the vets to leave. They’d been a kick. They’d been suckers but he needed them. The cheaper they worked, the more he sold, the more he made. His piece of the pie. He deserved it. And hell, without him, Ty Mohammed, they’d have gone belly-up long ago.

Ty pulled the blanket tighter. He did not want to get up, to go to the back room, to the bed. It was colder there. He was already too cold. He didn’t even want to use the bathroom, even though he had to pee and the pressure kept his thoughts fragmented. God damn Travellers! Him and his “research.” Only twelve point one percent of the KIAs! Where’d he dig that up? And why’d he say it? Betrayer! Oreo! Judas! Makes no damn difference. The Man, The System, set against us. And Rodney, fuckin changin sides, sidin with them racist mothafuckas. Shee-it. Near three billion dollars a year on disposable diapers! Then lay-offs. They just automatin so they can keep the pie to themselves. Keep the minorities in minority housin. Won’t let a man work! Cut off his nuts. That’s what they do. Agent fuckin Orange. They all think they got it. How many have a nut lopped off?! How many got sores from some herpetic clit? Time I go. I know my way back to San Jose. Left some works in a flop house there. Left a psycho-bitch there. Black on white, Man. Don’t go judgin a book by its color or a man by the shade a his skin for deep down we all brothers. There as much in black as in white, or white as in black. Dig it! We dealin on them suckers. On them suckers dealin on us. For real! Defoliants! They gettin their piece a the pie. That’s all I was tryin ta do. That’s all.

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.