Carry Me Home (31 page)

“It’s moose hide.”

“Moose?! Tony, this is beautiful but where would I wear a motorcycle jack—Oh you didn’t!” Her entire face changed. “You didn’t buy a—”

“No. Naw ...”

“That money’s for ... that’s our wedding money.”

“I know. I know. You know, Jimmy’s goina let us use his scooter. You didn’t see it, did you? I mean really see it. It’s real cool. I can get a ride down maybe next weekend and ride it back.”

“But he ...”

“He offered it to me that first day. I just ... you know, had too much on my mind. But he called before he went back. He left it at my folks’. In the toolshed.”

Linda became excited by the idea. They had borrowed Chas and Cathy’s bike for their forays to Plum Island and she’d loved the freedom and excitement. “Tony!” She held the jacket up again. “You know, in about another month I won’t fit into this.”

“Aw, in another month it’ll be too cold anyway. Here, I got one more thing.”

“Now what? I’m afraid to look.”

Tony picked a sheet of paper from the sofa. He looked at her—she was donning the leather jacket—then stepped to her, put his arm about her shoulders, kissed her on the forehead. “Reservations for the first weekend in November out on Cape Cod. It’ll be our honeymoon.”

“Oh, Babe, you’re so sweet....”

“I’m sorry I—”

“No, it was my fault.”

“I shouldn’t have hit the—”

“I don’t like to watch it, anyway.”

“Yeah, still. I was being a jerk.”

“You know, you’re the only man in the world I can imagine having a baby with.”

“You don’t have to. Really. Do what’s right for you.”

“This is right for me,” she’d said.

The buzzer sounded. Linda popped up, her thoughts returned to the present. She removed the pot from the stove, poured the noodles and water into a colander in the sink, then tried to lift the top noodle. The entire mass was stuck together. Again she tried. The noodle ripped. “Oh damn,” she muttered. Tony might pull in any moment. She’d been unconsciously listening for the guttural roar of Jimmy Pellegrino’s Harley-Davidson in the back alley from the time she’d begun the sauce early that morning.

During the weeks before leaving for Mill Creek Falls and Jimmy’s bike, Tony had been especially diligent about his studies—especially his English 101 compositions. Completely unknown to Linda, there was a draw, a lure, a curious attraction to that class that Tony could not identify, though he now at least knew her name: Nguyen Thi An. He had not spoken to her, had but silently nodded each time she’d entered. And very properly, almost imperceptibly, she had acknowledged him with momentary eye contact, the wisp of a smile, the slightest tilt of her head. She sat in the first row, center, he two rows back, left side. And through the entire fifty minutes—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—he stared at her.

The teacher, Associate Professor Mathew Groesbeck, was thirtyish, had long unkempt brown hair, an untrimmed beard, an old OD green field jacket he wore to class every day and didn’t remove until midway through the hour. On the back of the jacket was a large bright yellow peace symbol. To Tony it was a game Groesbeck played on the class as he played the class itself, played for the two-thirds of the students who were young women, played like a con man among yokels.

“What,” Groesbeck’s voice was mellow, almost apologetic, “is the connection, if any, between the counter culture, freedom, the youth rebellion, the war, minority repression, big money, women’s rights, morality? Certainly”—the class sat rapt—“that topic is too grand for a twenty-five-hundred-word essay. Take two elements, whatever is most important to you, investigate the ...”

Tony scribbled, “War and Morality,” then again looked at An. Where most of the American girls sat akimbo—a foot tucked up under their butt, arms sprawling or hooked on the back of their seats, some even with their legs up, their feet hanging over the chair in front of them—An sat primly, her feet and knees together, her back straight, her thin arms bent and resting lightly on the fold-down writing top.

“Melyssa?”

“Uh-huh.”

“If women are paid at a rate equal to one-half of that of men, for the same work ...”

Tony tuned out Groesbeck’s words even though he remained aware of his speaking. He looked at his scribbled topic, scratched it out, wrote, “Freedom and women’s rights,” immediately knew he could not write well on that and crossed it out too. Then he wrote “Envy.” He thought about it for a moment, thought about Groesbeck, thought about himself, how incompetent he felt as a student, how old he felt in comparison to these children, old not so much in years but in attitude. He felt he knew more than any of them—he’d been around the world, fought in the war, buried the dead—yet he felt as if everything he knew was either insignificant to them or outright repulsive. And he’d heard that Groesbeck was boffing at least three coeds with whom Tony could barely even communicate. Tony crossed out “Envy” and wrote “Fuck it.” He looked at An.

“But it’s just so unfair,” one girl was saying. “They define what’s of value and they control how women are compensated. They make sure the compensation is low. In that way they keep us down.”

Groesbeck nodded emphatically.

Tony blurted, “Who’s they?” Everyone turned. Except An. “You ...” Tony began choking on his words, “keep saying ‘they.’ I’m just wondering who’s behind this conspiracy?”

“Ah ... Pisano. Anthony, isn’t it?”

“Yes Sir.” Not laughs now but a cacophony of low hoots, sighs, and catcalls.

“Well,” Groesbeck came to his rescue, “that is a valid question.” Then he dropped him. “One, I’m afraid, we’ll have to explore next class. Our time’s up.”

An was up first. Tony scrambled to cut her off. He did not exactly know why. He had no intentions toward her—had no thoughts of infidelity—was as crazy about Linda as ever, perhaps more so, but he felt propelled toward her. She reached the door first, exited. He brushed past two girls, stepped awkwardly in front of An, looked into her face. Immediately she lowered her eyes. Quietly Tony whispered, “
Chao Ba
.”

An looked up, laughed. “Oh, yes,” she said, and she laughed a disappointing, unpleasant, childish laugh. She side-stepped Tony, disappeared deeper into the building. Tony stood still. He did not follow her, did not gaze after her. Someone bumped him. “Uh ... you’re right in the middle ...”

“Oh.” He said absently. He moved to the wall. “Sorry.” He continued to stand there, to the side of the door, crushing the spines of his books, grinding his teeth, feeling rigid, hurt, put down.

Linda heard the throaty popping of the Harley’s cylinders as it entered the alley, heard the blasting growl as Tony revved it just before he killed the ignition. It was just dark. She’d cooked a second pot of noodles, this time leaving them in the water, dumping out half the hot, added cold to stop the cooking. They’d come out manageable, exactly as the cookbook said. Then she’d tiered sauce, ricotta, noodles, and mozzarella—Nonna Pisano’s directions from the St. Ignatius Guild’s
Treasury of European Recipes
, which she’d given Linda as a wedding present along with a check for one hundred dollars.

The wine was open, the lasagna cooked, the small kitchen table set with tablecloth and candles. Linda scampered to the front room, raised the record stack on the chrome spindle, watched, listened as the Carpenters’
Close to You
album dropped and the lead song of side two, “Baby It’s You” began to play. She adjusted the volume, ran to the bathroom, adjusted her hair, pouted, thinking that her face was getting puffy.

Immediately Tony wanted Linda to come out, go for a ride. She smiled. “You’d think, being on it for five hours, you’d want to stay in.”

“Just around the block,” he said. “Maybe up around the Combat Zone and back.”

“But dinner’s ready.”

Tony sipped wine, washing down the first mouthful of lasagna. “God! This is just like Nonna’s. Where’d you learn—”

“I’ll never tell.” Linda rubbed her knees against Tony’s. “Is it really okay?”

“It’s stupendous!”

“No. It’s just okay, huh? It’s the first time I ever made it.”

“Well, if it’s only just okay, I’ll make you a fluffer-nutter and we’ll save it all for me.”

They laughed. Then Linda put her finger to her lips. “Sssh!”

“What?”

“Listen.” The album had changed. From the stereo came
Baby Driver
by Simon and Garfunkel. Tony and Linda joined in, Tony thinking about Jimmy’s Harley as a pair of wheel, then about Linda and how her engine feels. They burst out laughing, chimed in with the refrain, Tony staring into Linda’s eyes, mouthing ‘Your engine,’ wanting to reach across to her right then, there.

“Oh! Babe ...”

“Hm-hmm.”

“I forgot to tell you. Mr. Charnowski called. He said you should pick up your check. Is—is anything ... you know ...”

“Naw. I told him I was needing to hit the books. But ... you know, he doesn’t really pay very well. I was talkin to a couple of guys who’r workin for a developer out in the Watertown-Arlington area. Puttin up condos. They make four times what I get from AmbuStar. Now with the bike I could join em. Work less hours, have more time to study
and
make more money.”

“And still have time to see how my engine feels?”

“I’ve always got time for that!”

Late that night Linda woke. Light from signs and cars on Commonwealth and Long avenues glittered and danced on the walls. She looked at Tony, asleep, his brow creased, his eyes wrinkled at the corners. They’d had such a wonderful evening. How they loved, how much in love Linda felt, how certain she was of her decision.

Reflections danced on Tony’s face. Linda propped herself up on her elbow, watched his face. With her left hand she lightly rubbed her rounding abdomen. Tony grimaced, shook his head. Linda smiled, thought he was probably riding the Harley in his dream, probably cussing out some stupid driver as he always did when they took Chas and Cathy’s bike—cuss em out, drop back a bit, then let er rip, zinging by the offending vehicle, scaring her, pushing her out of herself, out of her conventionality, her security, into exhilaration, into an outrageousness she’d never have attempted on her own, into her taking over the chore of flipping the bird at automobile drivers who’d cut them off.

Again Tony grimaced, his whole face jerking, his shoulders trembling. “It’s okay, Babe,” Linda whispered. “It’s okay. Sail on. Your silvergirl will lay me down.” Linda rocked forward and ever so lightly kissed Tony’s shoulder. He completely stilled. She nuzzled his chest, kissed his nipple.

“AAAA!” Tony bolted up, grabbed the head before him, grabbed it hard in both hands, threw. Then he bound to his knees, feet, crouched, grappler’s position. Linda was on the floor, dazed, shocked, hurt, too soon to be frightened, to cry out—Tony’s feet dug into the mattress, still low, in a fighting stance, ready to strike.

“Babe! Babe! Babe, it’s me.”

His head snapped robotically back forth, backforth. “Tony! Babe.” Now Linda was crying.

He was coming to—out of it—awake, aware. He saw Linda on the floor shielding herself. He could not fathom why she was there.

Tony rose at four thirty. He had not been sleeping. His night rituals had evolved to a state of perpetual vigilance. Since the incident of two weeks earlier he had not trusted himself to sleep but had instead catnapped at various times during the day—sometimes in class, often in the early evening on the sofa, listening to records. After a week he stopped going to classes altogether. He hadn’t been to his English 101 section since the day he’d been shot down by Nguyen Thi An, though he’d made the large lectures where all the sections met and he’d seen Groesbeck privately, explaining how he had a pregnant wife and was now working for Stites and Emerson Construction, and Groesbeck had been understanding and allowed Tony to turn in his essays without attending classes. His Spanish professor was also sympathetic. Western Civilization and Religion were lecture courses. Tony paid Tom McLaughlin to sit in for him. No one cared. His Biology instructor objected, not because this one student might miss something she considered important, but because the entire student body seemed to have rejected her, rejected all science as being somehow tied to old thought, past generations, status quo, the war. She entrenched. Only when Tony banged his fists on the desk and snarled, “God damn, I’ve got a baby on the way. I’m working full-time. And I’ve done all the reading,” did she reluctantly agree to let him make up classes by attending evening lectures.

By five
A.M
. he had eaten, made a thermos of coffee, rechecked apartment security. Mid-November, there was no natural light in the sky, would be none until nearly six thirty. He paced. He did not want to wake Linda but he needed her. He couldn’t find his socks. James Stites expected him in Watertown by seven. The carpenters didn’t show up until seven thirty or even eight but the laborers—gofers, buggy-luggers, and mules—needed to start early, needed to break down the lumber stacks for the sixty-four condominiums in various phases of simultaneous construction, carry the studs, joists, headers and plywood to the designated cutting sites, then restack the material ensuring each crew could work without pause.

Tony went to the bedroom door, stared in to see if Linda was awake. She wasn’t. He needed to wake her yet he knew she’d worked yesterday, had classes yesterday, made them dinner, went to the laundromat, and studied while he slept on the couch. He walked back to the kitchen, banged around making two sandwiches. Again he went back to the bedroom. Still asleep! To the bathroom. He flushed. The pipes in the old building resounded with the rush of water.

By 5:40 he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Linda ... Linda.” He kissed her gently on the cheek. She smiled, still asleep. Her head rolled on the pillow. “Linda.” He kissed her again, this time on the ear.

“Ummm,” she moaned.

“Linda, I can’t find any socks.”

“Un ...” Sleepily. “Oh. They’re in the basket in the study.”

Two minutes later he was back. “Linda.”

“Un ... un.” The sound of a small animal crying.

“What about T-shirts. And my quilted—”