Carry Me Home (21 page)

For an entire week before they drove out to French Creek for Thanksgiving, Linda would not let Tony touch her. Nor had he been able to for the week after their trip to World’s End. “Honeymoon cystitis,” she’d said. “It’s an inflammation of the bladder.” He hadn’t said anything then even though he didn’t fully understand. Their loving returned in mid-November and his concentration was on pleasing her and thereby himself, and their mutual attraction became even more powerful. But just before Thanksgiving she again shut him off, physically and emotionally withdrew in a way he did not understand at all.

On Thanksgiving morning she picked him up early and they stopped at two Italian bakeries before leaving town so Tony could bring the Ballietts a large assortment of pastries: cannoli, neopolitans, amaretti, strufoli and frittelle, croccanti di noce, and sfogliatelli, the latter so stuffed with ricotta filling that the insides of the box were totally smeared even before they put them on the back seat.

They drove, mostly in silence, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, eating a few of the pastries, Linda manically smoking cigarette after cigarette, like a Marine after a firefight, and Tony had never even seen her smoke before. They looked for gas in Coventryville but didn’t find an open station, pushed on to Krauertown, filled up with an off-brand. Tony had been sullen, frowning for much of the ride.

As they got back in he looked at her, at her stockinged legs as he held her door, at her face and those exquisite eyes now so focused and determined, at her wonderful breasts so demurely covered by who knew how many layers—bra, slip, dress, jacket, and coat—at her total countenance, cigarette and all, and even rejected and sullen he could feel nothing but overwhelming attraction.

“I don’t understand,” Tony broke the silence, “why you couldn’t tell him.”

“I just couldn’t,” she answered.

“What’s wrong with my being a Marine?”

“Nothing. It’s not you. It’s him. You’ll see.”

“We’ll, I’m thinking of re-upping. You know, I might be a Marine for a long time.”

“Under Mulhaney!” The conversation died then erupted again. “I just couldn’t, that’s all. He was ... Look, I just couldn’t. Accept it!”

“Then I shouldn’t be going.”

“No! You’ve got to. I mean, we’re almost there.”

“I can hitch back. It’s no big deal.”

“Tony, please! Don’t make this harder on me. It’ll be so much easier if you’re there. I’ll tell them immediately. Ruthie knows.”

“Ruthie. She’s—”

“She’s the pretty one. The one that just got married.”

Again they fell silent as Linda drove the last few miles to French Creek, then meandered through downtown, a short, charming main street of brick row houses and old cast-iron street lamps already decorated for Christmas. Tony sighed, simmered. He thought how Linda was the
only
good thing in his life and how even this had its ups and downs and why had she had her hair cut and maybe he should call Stacy because maybe he wasn’t making decisions but was simply going with the flow as he’d been since Okinawa when he’d realized, maybe, someone else was living his life.

“You know,” Linda said abruptly, “my father always says I’m either too naive or I’m too stupid ... like I never learned, you know, to mask my feelings. He says that’s a fault. That I shouldn’t be ... that I should control them. Hold them in check. That—”

“HEY!” Tony cracked.

Linda startled. “Wha—”

“Fuck it!”

“Tony!”

“Just say fuck it! You’re a big girl.”

“I know I’m a big girl.” Now they were both yelling.

“Then act like it!”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not. You’re acting like a spoiled brat who’s afraid Daddy won’t pat her on the head.”

“God! You know my friend Judy said it was a bad idea to do this on a holiday ... because it’s an emotionally charged time anyway!”

“Is that what’s got you so fuckin up tight?”

“Geez!” She squeezed the wheel hard, stared straight ahead. He clamped up. Finally she said, “Mom’s going to have been up all night cleaning. And cooking. She’ll be a wreck. Dad will probably have slapped everybody for making too much noise and disturbing Mom. You know, that’s just the way it is. And you want me to say, ‘Hi. Meet Tony. He’s a Marine.’ That’ll really blow their minds.”

“You’re really worried about this.” Tony was calmer now. Linda, angry, still looked to him so beautiful—playfully lovely. He burst out laughing.

She looked at him, slapped his shoulder, laughed too, and as they pulled into the driveway they were laughing and poking each other and Linda nearly crashed into her father’s new ’69 Cadillac. They were still laughing as they got out into the crisp November air and Tony wiped pastry crumbs off Linda’s chest, she catching his hands, holding them decently on her shoulders, looking to see that no one saw him touch her and seeing her sister Ruth and Ruth’s new husband Jay McKinney, and her father only feet from them. Her face went pale.

“Well,” Henry said. He was a full four inches taller than Tony, eight inches taller than Linda. “You must be Tony.”

“Yes Sir,” Tony said snappily. He extended his hand.

“So,” Henry said, “you’re Linda Lee’s sexy Italian who’s a sergeant in the Marine Corps.” He grasped Tony’s fingers but Tony rammed his hand in for a proper handshake.

“Yes Sir,” Tony said proudly. “And you must be Hank. And this,”—he turned to Ruth, then glanced back at Linda, stage-whispering “the pretty one,”—“must be Ruthie. And Jay, right?” He shook hands with both.

“Ah, not—” Henry Balliett cleared his throat. “No one calls me Hank. Henry. Call me Henry.”

“Well, thank you, Sir,” Tony said. “I’d like that.”

Henry Balliett smiled. “It’s good to see Linda Lee with a boy who’s hair is shorter than hers.”

“Yes Sir,” Tony answered, matching Henry smile for smile.

An hour later, in the living room with Jay McKinney, Norma, Henry and all the younger Balliett children, Tony explained somberly, “Notification just isn’t good duty.” There was a commercial break from a televised, pregame, Thanksgiving parade and Norma and the children were allowed to speak. “I mean,” Tony continued, “it’s not physically bad but it is very wearing.”

“I don’t know how you children do it,” Norma said. “Really, I don’t. I could never keep up with you. Or Linda. She looks so drawn. I worry about her.”

“Me too,” Tony said.

“Have you and Linda been seeing each other a lot?” Norma asked.

“Yes,” Tony said. “Well except for the past few weeks. Linda’s had this honeymoon cystitis thing.”

Norma’s mouth dropped. Henry’s face snapped from the screen to Tony. “Honeym—” Norma could barely get the words out.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s anything serious,” Tony said quickly. “I’m not even sure I have the name right. I think she said—”

“Oh, it must be something else,” Norma injected.

“Yes’m,” Tony agreed. “It was some kind of influenza, I think. Influenza of—”

“Certainly,” Norma said firmly. Henry turned back to the screen.

“Mrs. Balliett,” Tony said respectfully, “Linda said you’ve gone back to work.”

“Oh, she told you.” Norma’s face beamed. “I used to do it before Linda was born.”

“Did she tell you,” Henry interrupted, “she was born five hours too late?”

“Five hours ...”

“January first at five
A.M
. Five hours too late to deduct her on my income taxes.”

“Oh, Henry.” Norma laughed as if on cue. “In those years we didn’t make enough to even think about deductions.”

Tony also laughed obligingly but immediately turned back to Linda’s mother. “What do ...” he began.

“I draw art work for the phone company. Yellow pages. You know, when your fingers do the walking, they walk all over my drawings.”

In the kitchen Ruthie whispered to Linda, “Did you see the look on Dad’s face when he said, ‘You must be Hank’? Nobody’s ever said that to him. I thought I’d die.”

“I know.” Linda giggled quietly.

“Did you tell him to say—”

“No. He just came out with it. He’s like that. And I forgot to warn him about Dad’s handshake but I could see—”

“Linda, where did you find him? He really is sexy.” Ruthie pretended to swoon. Giggled. “Oh, ‘My Hero!’” she swayed. “Except he’s a little short.”

Linda winked. “Not where it counts,” she blurted lowly.

“Linda! Have you two been—”

“Ssshhh! Get the yams.” Linda looked at Ruthie, repressed a burst of laughter. She stood a little straighter, shimmied as if to shake the conspiratorial thoughts away and repeated, “Yams. To the table. I’ll get the salad.”

The setting could have been a Norman Rockwell painting; the beautifully glazed turkey surrounded by stuffing and cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, yams, green and jello salads, green beans, carrot and celery sticks, a fruit basket, rolls, wine, and milk—beautiful place settings, beautifully dressed family, mother and five girls with heads bowed, Tony and Jay sprinkled in as table anchors, Henry Sr. saying grace, Henry Jr. looking out behind his father at the TV, the game about to begin.

There was light chatter through the early courses, a bit heavier as Jay and Tony began the second bottle of wine.

“You called yourselves ...?” Ruth began to repeat her question.

“Magnificent Bastards.” Tony said proudly. “That’s two-four ... ah, Second Battalion, Fourth Marine Regiment. We were really a good unit.”

“And that’s where you learned to be a medic?”

“Oh! No.” Tony turned to Linda, said, “IV?” She tapped her lips indicating she had a mouthful, nodded. “Kind of,” Tony said. “I wasn’t a medic but Doc So taught me how to start IVs and inject morphine. Stuff like that.”

“Dr. So?” Henry Sr. asked. “Was he Chinese?”

Tony smiled, swallowed another gulp of wine. “No Sir. I don’t know what his name was. We called him So because he was
so
neat and
so
fat.”

Joanie giggled. Cindy got the giggles and couldn’t stop, and it infected Lea and the two youngest girls received The Look from their father.

The conversation rocked back and forth and Cindy, Lea and Henry Jr. were dismissed from the table. Jay talked about the astronauts in orbit, about the upcoming moon shot; Linda told her parents about her financial aid package and its imminent approval. Tony smiled, glanced at Linda who began reexplaining her schedule to her mother.

“I graduate in December with my LPN. Then I move to Boston. That part’s all set....”

Tony felt wine confident, felt in-love confident. He turned to Jay who very seriously said to him, “Mr. Balliett—Dad—he helped me get a deferment, being that I’m married and I’ve got a critical job.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

“I’m ... Dad got me a job with Penn-York. I’m really just a clerk but he had them say I was handling their entire new computer system. I am learning it.”

“Hm.” Tony said. He heard Linda saying her classes would begin on January 6th and rotations two weeks later. To Jay Tony said, “I thought about going back to school too, but my cousin Jimmy’s been sending me info on this new pacification program that’s doing a lot of good. I might re-up to go back to Viet Nam and ...”

Suddenly the table was quiet. Then Linda said softly, “Don’t you dare.”

And Tony smiled and said, “But then again ...” and Ruth and Jay laughed. “Really,” Tony continued, “there’s word in the pipeline about drops coming down.”

“Drops?” Norma asked.

“Early outs. I’m signed up until next August but there’s talk, if you’ve been overseas, of four- to six-month drops. I could be discharged as early as February.”

“And then,” Henry asked, “what will you do?”

“I could go to school,” Tony said. “On the GI Bill. I haven’t really decided yet.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Ruth said. “Why don’t you and Linda come and stay with Jay and me tonight. Then we can talk about your options and—”

“They can’t stay at your apartment!” Henry Balliett interrupted. “You’ve only got the one bedroom.”

Jay glanced up. Tentatively he said, “They can use the living room.”

“They’re not even engaged,” Henry said.

Immediately Tony turned to Linda. “Would you marry me?” he asked. “Sure.” She answered. “Sure!” he repeated and they both laughed.

“Humph!” Henry snorted. He rose, went to the TV, changed the channel and sat.

M
ILL CREEK FALLS, 4
September 1969: They had been up since five. Bobby had made coffee, Josh had eaten his first-of-the-day MilkBones. Grandpa was already out to his office in the big barn. Bobby and Josh strolled down the long drive to where a dented mailbox hung askew from a rusting steel post. Wapinski looked in. It was empty. He looked up at the sky. It was mostly clear. “C’mon, boy,” Bobby called Josh. “We’ll head on down toward Lutz’s.”

They meandered far down the road, Josh dashing into various fields, chasing birds or butterflies, Wapinski watching his dog, enjoying Josh’s boundless enthusiasm but not concentrating on him, thinking alternately about options or not about anything but making up silly verses to tunes he’d known since childhood. He’d been offered a job selling cars at Lloyd’s Autoland; Mr. Hartley had told him if he’d obtain a real estate license, he would take Bobby “under his wing”; and Grandpa had hinted that the farm was his if he’d farm it. Grandpa hadn’t actually said that. What he’d said was, “Bobby, soil is a living tissue. It’s the skin of the earth and as such it’s very complex. It takes a special person to understand it. And still that person needs to work at it.” “Um-hmm,” Bobby had replied. “Well,” Grandpa had said, “as long as you know.”

They had reached the point on Mill Creek Road where the barren mounds and ridges had been rejuvenated by the big dollars of Adolph Lutz’s horse-boarding ranch, where tons upon tons of fertilizers, natural and chemical, had turned hillside pastures vibrant green. In the field before him were two spotted grays. They looked up. Josh came scampering in from a foray to a distant field. Josh stopped at the three-board fence. He crouched, looked under at the horses. Selling cars, Bobby thought. Josh began barking. Bobby looked absently at him. After commanding an infantry company! Real estate? After planning a brigade-sized assault! He drew in a deep breath. Or farm, he thought. Then he whispered, “Josh, I gotta get outa here. What do you think?”