“HOW’S IT GOING, TONY?”
“Good.”
It was Tuesday, 4 April 1972. Tony Pisano was at the start of his third outpatient therapy session at Rock Ridge Veterans Medical Center. Why he had come again, this third time, he wasn’t certain. He was eager, hopeful. Things had changed drastically from the moment he’d moved into High Meadow. He and Linda were together again, yet not together.
Tony’s new therapist, John H. Binford, Ph.D., had been brought in to implement Daniel Holbrook’s experimental program—both as researcher and as therapist. Binford was six years older than Tony, the same age as Tony’s brother, John Jr. That was part of the lure, the promise as Tony saw it, the reason Binford had gained a hold over him, held him through biweekly sessions that would continue for thirteen months. During the entire period Tony Pisano continued to take his three-a-day dosages of lithium carbonate—gradually reducing the amount from 300 to 25 milligrams.
“Have you been back to see Father Tom like I suggested?” Binford’s face was soft, friendly.
“Ah, not yet. I ah ... you know, was really busy these past few weeks.”
“You remember what I said ...”
“Um-hmm.”
“... about cleaning up the little loose ends first.”
“I remember.”
“We want to do this in order, Tony. Little by little.”
“Yeah. That’s what Mr. Wapinski says too.”
“Good. Then you’ll see Father Tom this week?”
“Yeah. I’ll try.”
“Not try.” Binford raised an index finger as if scolding.
“Okay,” Tony said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not today on your way back to the farm?”
“Um. Okay.”
“You sought Father Tom out for that job, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Kind of a last resort, I guess.”
“You were raised in a strict Italian-American home? In the strict Catholic tradition?”
“Aw, I don’t think it was so strict. You know, it wasn’t rammed down our throats.”
“I want to get to something here, Tony. And I think we’ve got to get to the root of who you are before we can go on. Tell me about growing up. Tell me about being Italian and Catholic, about what it meant to you.”
“I don’t see what the fuck this has to do with shit.”
Binford held up both hands, gently, lackadaisically, halting Tony. “You agreed, remember? Try it my way for a few sessions. This’ll help me understand where you’re coming from, okay?”
“Okay.”
The session lasted fifty minutes. Tony told John Binford about growing up in Mill Creek Falls, about Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter dinners, Memorial Day and Fourth of July picnics, about Jimmy and Annalisa and playing hide ’n’ go seek with them and his brothers, playing on warm summer nights under clear skies, how special it all seemed. Church was a disruption, a task, an obligation, a duty to perform, enforced by Jo and Aunt Isabella. Holy days were forced upon the children who griped and complained. “It’s boring. It doesn’t make any sense.” Still they went. God. Duty. Honor. Country.
“And sins,” Binford said quietly.
“Sins?” Tony responded.
“It would be a sin to miss mass on Sunday, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah. You’d go straight to hell for that.” Tony chuckled. “And for lots of other things. But I don’t think that was very important to us.”
“Still, lots of things could send you to hell, huh?”
“Oh yeah. I think they even told us it was a mortal sin to masturbate.”
“And to steal?”
“Yeah.”
“And to kill?”
“That’s like numero uno.”
“Tony, I’ve been over your combat record. I’ve seen your citations. I’ve read Dr. Holbrook’s reports. You killed a lot of people in Viet Nam, didn’t you?”
Tony went instantly from relaxed to tense. He felt Binford had ambushed him. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Binford was stern.
“You got the record.”
“I want you to think about this. I want you to think about your views of killing and your deeds. Do you view what you did as sinful? And isn’t it that sinfulness that caused you to be guilt-ridden and depressed? Is that the key to your acting out, Tony?”
“Wait one fuckin minute.” Tony slid to the edge of his chair. “That’s not it. You think I shoulda been a scumbag like those bastards who went to Canada or Sweden?”
“I’m not saying that, Tony. But you didn’t see yourself as a murderer before you went to Viet Nam, did you?”
“I didn’t then. I don’t now!”
“Right. You don’t see yourself as a killer now, do you?”
“No I don’t.”
“But by your own accounts you’ve killed a dozen human beings. Maybe more.”
“In combat!”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t justified.”
“That’s right.”
“But you grew up believing it was a sin. See? This is an unresolved conflict in your subconsciousness. You have to be able to come to terms with those traumatic events before those deep-seated feelings of guilt and remorse will stop manifesting themselves in self-destructive behaviors.”
“That’s more fucked up than I am.”
“Is it?”
“You bet your sweet ass. There it is. I’ll tell you what’s fucked up. I’ll tell you what’s sinful. All this amnesty bullshit for draft dodgers.”
“Does that make you angry?”
“It sure does. Did you read the testimonies before that Senate committee?”
“A little ...”
“Kennedy and McGovern, talking like the righteous thing to do was to crawl off to Canada! I’ll tell you, there was that one guy, Kelly, lost a son in the A Shau. He had it right. He said somethin like if Kennedy’s definition of honor, righteousness, and high moral standards was running away, then that was labeling all of us who didn’t run away as immoral and dishonorable.”
“And you feel you did the moral and honorable thing?”
“I know I did. If I hadn’t been there, it would of been worse on those people. I was a god damned good sergeant ...”
“Protected your men?”
“That’s right.”
“But what if no Americans had ever been there? What if there had been no Marines to protect?”
“Then the gooks would have taken over and enslaved the Viet Namese.”
“Really?”
During that spring of 1972 nothing could possibly have been better for Pewel Wapinski than to have a strong, trained paramedic move into Bobby’s old bedroom. Pewel slept on a rented hospital bed in the dining room. His paramedic collected the maple sap, turned the fields, learned not just to plow, fertilize, and plant but how to plan the farm. He even built a crude elevator to lift Pewel Wapinski to his barn office.
And Pewel had a highly trained nurse come nearly every day, one who enjoyed his home and farm, who enjoyed cooking, didn’t mind cleaning, who loved him as if he were her own grandfather; and he had Gina and Michelle—Rascal and Timidthia as he called them—growing, bright, babbling and cute in the way of precious and precocious two-year-olds, astounding him with their feats of physical flexibility as he himself became more mobile.
On the girls’ second birthday they had a party in the kitchen at High Meadow. “You can have cake after lunch,” Linda said.
“Why not now?” Tony asked.
“You’re worse than the girls.” Linda was happy and it showed. “You too!” She admonished Pewel as he picked a stray blob of frosting from the edge of the cake plate.
“I wanna come you,” Gina said to Tony.
“Come on then,” Tony said. He held out his hands.
“Wash your hands first,” Linda ordered. Gina and Tony looked at her. “Yes, both of you.”
Tony winked at Gina, lifted her to the sink. His relationship with her was better than ever. Michelle still would not sit with him. “What’s for lunch?” he asked. He put Gina down.
“Hangerber,” Gina squealed.
“Huggerber,” Michelle said from her mother’s side.
“Hangerber or huggerber?” Tony chuckled.
“Ham-burg-ers,” Linda corrected.
Gina giggled. Then, “I wanna pick you up.”
“Pick me up?” Tony looked at her. “I too big.”
“I pick you up,” Gina giggled again.
“She means she wants you to pick her up,” Linda said to Tony. “Bring her to the table, okay?”
As they ate lunch Tony spoke to Pewel about new strawberry fields. He wanted to turn and plant one row at a time. “... eventually put in enough ... We can’t make any money on grain. Strawberries are a cash crop. Enough for Morris’, the IGA, and the 7-Eleven. Maybe the stores in Rock Ridge, too. Even RRVMC. They’ve got a big mess hall there ...”
Pewel agreed but his focus was on the little girls, and soon Tony dropped the topic though it spun and whirled in his mind as he mentally calculated planting schedules, maturity, how many years it would take to have established beds that he could trust, and could guarantee the stores and hospital a fresh in-season supply. In his head he knew exactly what was needed, knew too exactly how different this crop was from syrup—this fragile time-essential crop. He could commit the fields. Could he commit himself?
“So Tony, how’s it going today?”
“Good.”
“The farm survive hurricane Agnes?”
“Yeah. Pretty much so. Except remember I was putting in those new beds ...?”
“Strawberries?”
“Yeah. That pretty much got washed out.”
“Oh.” Binford sighed, rocked his head empathetically. They were now into the fourth month of therapy. Tony had come to view him as a friend, perhaps as a bit weird, ignorant about the realities of combat, but still as a friend. “And how are things between you and Linda?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“You know.”
“No,” Binford said, “I don’t.”
“Not being with her ... you know. I’m still living with Mr. Wapinski. I see her every day. And the girls. But ... really ... I mean it hurts like hell knowing what I did to em and knowing that I can’t live with em. Linda’d let me come back. She wants to help me. You know how she is. But ... well, she’s under a lot of pressure and Mr. Wapinski, my agreement with him was for six months.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“Oh, mostly from her folks. Her mother calls all the time and tells her to dump me. Her old man hates my guts.”
“Some reasons there?”
“You know. I told you about the shotgun. She told her sister and she told their father.”
“Um-hum.”
“Mr. Wapinski says that if you hurt someone, that hurts you inside. He says it causes internal battles and that the toll on you is worse than the toll on the one you hurt because you hurting them is external. To them. Their outsides heal. But for you, it detracts from who you are and takes a lot longer to rebuild.”
“Let’s go back over that incident with the shotgun. Putting it in your mouth. Pulling the trigger. What were you thinking? Do you remember what you were thinking?”
“About Nam. Fuckin around. Didn’t care who was around me, you know, was just goin back to it.”
“Do you remember what Linda did?”
“Yeah. Started cryin and shit. Screamin. ‘Don’t do it.’ Came over and put her arm around me. And, ah, I knew I—I couldn’t do that to em no more.”
“Do you ever think you maybe did that because you were looking ... subconsciously ... for hugs from your mother?”
“No way. Not at all. Nowhere near that. Geez. We’ve been here a hundred times. I told you about my cousin ... About getting thrashed out west?” Tony paused. “You think I should have gone back, huh?”
“Do you?”
“I think of it all the time. If I hadn’t met Linda I probably would of. I still could.”
“Um.”
“I could go back. If I could go back for just one day. One hour. Just smell the air, feel the ground, see the people again. There’s like this part a me that needs to go back. Like I left part of me there. Like there’s another Anthony F. Pisano fuckin still there. You understand? It’s like only ... like only his shadow came back. Like he hasn’t caught up to me yet. Like it’ll never fuckin happen. There’s still an Anthony Pisano ... shit! I even saw his footlocker on Okie! I just remembered that. He’s still in Nam Bo somewhere. I’m just this fuckin shadow that can’t see nothin. That’s in this fog. Shadows can’t function in a fog.”
“Like you lost your soul over there? Only your physical being came back?”
“Yeah. What came back is proud, but it’s only part of me. And I’m tired of livin here and there. I’m not responsible for that shit. That suffering. I can’t be held responsible for that. Damn it! I was good. Everybody said so. Everybody recognized it until ...”
“Until?”
“Until I came back.” Tony snorted, turned sideways to Binford.
“Did you ever see any atrocities over there?”
“Yeah. You know. I guess ... Usually they talk about that being like burning a ville or raping or killing women or children. I heard of some of that. That happened ... ah, in Delta Company. Before I got there. They had one particular guy who was notorious for ah ... he was always on point. Big guy. He’d go forward with a fire team—very far ahead of the company. And ah, evidently he raped a village woman and held a gun to her head and said, ‘When the rest of the company gets here, if you say anything, I’ll blow yer brains out.’ And the guys in the fire team knew he’d done it but they weren’t about to say anything cause their heads would a got blown off. That’s the story, anyway. That’s something.”
“And the time, ah, tell me again about the woman and children killed at ... that you saw killed. The soldier with the belt that you think you should have killed first.”
“Aw, Man. Again?”
“Please.”
Now Tony retold the story in detail. He told the therapist about seeing the man with the belt, the firefight that ensued, the human shield tactic used by the NVA. “I cried that day, Man. I remember thinking if Pop saw me crying he’d be disappointed, but I cried that day.”
“One more month, eh?”
“One more.”
“You talk with Linda yet?”
“No. I ... We’re getting along pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Don’t matter what I think.”
“But Gran ... ah, Mr. Wapinski ...”
“You can call me Granpa. I like it.”
“Grandpa. If she lets me move back ...”
“I’ll be fine. Doin pretty good, see? I don’t need to go upstairs.”
“I don’t wanta feel like I’m runnin out on you.”
“Yep. Caused ya enough problems, runnin out, already.”
“Um-hmm. Really has. As long as I’ve got my three-a-days, I’m pretty good. She’ll let me come back, don’t you—”
“Ask her.”
“Yeah. I will. Tonight. At her place, tonight.”
“Here, Tony. I got a little something for you.” Pewel Wapinski handed Tony a piece of paper.
“What’s ...”
“It’s a prayer. Nothin fancy. I say it in the mornin an at night. Keeps the crops growing.”
Tony looked at the sheet. “Dear Lord,” it began, “Please bless us and watch over us; Deliver us from evil ...”
“When you understand it,” Pewel said, “not just readin words, but understandin it, things fall into place.”
Tony continued to read. “‘Forgive us our trespasses; And give us the strength and guts to try hard and to never give up.’”
It was difficult for the four of them to be alone in the kitchen of the Creek’s Bend apartment; difficult for Tony who had frightened them here, in this apartment, difficult too for Linda, because of the hurt, the loss of trust, loss of love associated with these rooms, and because of the joys she’d shared with Gina and Michelle, alone, the hard work she’d invested in rebuilding their lives, twice.
Forgive us our trespasses, Tony thought. “Here, let me do that.”
“I’ve got it.” Linda lifted the large pot from the stove, brought it to the sink, dumped the boiling water and shells into the colander. Mist enveloped her, then vanished.
“What can I do?” Tony asked.
“See if the girls want milk or juice, okay?”
“Sure.” Tony went to the back porch where Gina and Michelle were playing. The railings had been “fenced” with chicken wire so the girls couldn’t slip through, and a latchable gate had been installed at the top of the stairs.
“Papa, know what?” Gina grabbed his pant leg.
“What?” Tony smiled. Gina was so open to him, Michelle so closed. Try hard, he thought.
“Deedee, deedee deedee,” Gina squealed, let him go, ran to Michelle.
“Deedee, deedee deedee?” Tony laughed. Both girls, their heads together, laughed too. Tony laughed more. “Do you two want milk or juice with dinner?”
“Papa, you come inside, okay?”
Tony pointed to himself. “Go inside? First tell me, juice or milk?”
“Papa angry at Gina,” Gina said to him. Then to Michelle she said, “Gina a bad girl. Papa angry.” Then quickly, looking, acting sad, “I sorry, Papa.”
“No. No, Gina. Papa’s not angry.” Tony knelt near the twins. “Gina’s a good girl. And Michelle is too. Michelle’s a good girl. I love you both very much. I just want to know if you want milk or juice with dinner.”
“Papa angry,” Gina whispered to Michelle. “Papa very angry.”
“No I’m not!” Tony said emphatically. “Really.” He stood. “I’m going inside. I love you.”
The girls put their foreheads together, giggled again.
Inside Linda had set the table. In the middle was the large bowl of shells. Separately, so Gina and Michelle could have their pasta plain, was a gravy boat with tomato sauce and a small bowl of grated cheese. On Tony’s plate was a baked breaded chicken breast. On Linda’s, half a breast, the other half diced and split between the girls’ plates. And there was corn on the cob, steamed zucchini and a fresh tomato salad with olive oil and oregano.
“That’s beautiful, Babe,” Tony said. He wanted to hug her. It had been so long! “Shoo!” He flitted his hand over the pasta chasing away a fly.
“Oh, I can’t keep them out of here,” Linda said. “The girls are forever going in and out.”
“I could screen the porch for you.”
“That’d be great.”
“Who did the chicken wire?”
“One of the guys from Steve’s Lumber. When I bought it and told him I lived here, he said, ‘You mean right up the hill?’ I said yes. I was going to buy those U-shaped nails. He said he could let me use a staple gun. I didn’t know what that was and he just said he’d do it during his lunch break.”
“Oh,” Tony said.
“He didn’t even charge me,” Linda said. She had her back to Tony, was cleaning the twin’s Tommy-Tippy cups.
“Damn fly,” Tony said. He hunched, moved in on the table, swatted. His hand banged the tabletop. Linda jumped. “Got it,” he yelped.
Linda turned. Tony was scraping the fly guts off his hand. A wet black and red splotch was on the table. “Oohhh!” Linda let out her breath. “That’s gross. Did you have to?”
“What?”
Linda sighed again, put a hand to her head, “I’m going to be sick.”
“Whaaatt?! It’s only a damn fly. When I was in Nam Bo, geez, I was telling this to Binford just a few days ago, I remember having to eat sitting in front of a dozen dead gooks. There’d be maggots crawling out their eyeballs ...”
“Ooo ...” Linda slapped a hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom.
“Let’s go over it one more time, Tony.”
“Doc, I’ve told you this—”
“Stop.” Binford was being firm again, playing, as Tony thought of it, good cop/bad cop, all in one. Talk about schizophrenics! “Dr. Holbrook and I have been doing a great deal of reading on this. In our experience, in our search of the literature, the only actions we’ve found that could cause the degree of guilt behavior that you’ve been suffering from is if one committed a sinful act. That is, an act which the person who committed it perceived as sinful. Like killing a defenseless woman or her children. Or maybe one’s own officer. Now let’s go back over—”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying that perhaps what happened in Viet Nam, what you say happened with that woman, is not what really happened. Sometimes our mind tries to protect us from reality....”
“No way. No fuckin way.”
“Look, if you refuse to cooperate with me, I can’t help you. There are no charges here. Nothing will come of this. There are no recriminations. I’m not even saying what happened was malicious. What happened there, your recognition of that reality, your taking responsibility—overtly—might keep you from covertly sabotaging yourself. I’m doing this for you, Tony. To help you stop inflicting this punishment on yourself. Now ... can we go on? Or should we stop this therapy this instant?”
Tony stared, mouth agape. He didn’t know how to respond. Binford’s innuendo shocked him, rocked him to the core. Because—because, he suspected ... it could be true. “I ...” Tony dropped his head. He could barely make his voice heard. “I gotta take this slow.”
“That’s okay.” Binford was back to his friendly, good-cop voice.
“If I’m guilty of something I’m guilty of not going back and seeing Rick.”
“Rick?”
“In Philly. I told you about him. The guy who wanted the docs to cut his legs off. Here.” Tony touched his throat.
“Tony, people don’t self-destruct because they didn’t visit someone they don’t even know....”
“But he was a Marine. A Magnificent Bastard. Like me.”
“And how many others haven’t you visited?” Tony looked up at Bin-ford. “See?” the doctor said.
“What about Manny? If I’d of moved him, covered him, anything.”
“But you didn’t know about the sniper.”
“Sometimes I still dream of him. I still feel Manny gettin greased right in my arms.”
“Do you blame yourself?”
“It’s—it’s not a matter of blame.”
“When it happened, do you remember how you felt?”
“I was ragin pissed.”
“And at Dai Do, with the machetes?”
“Relieved. Scared shitless but relieved when it was over.”
“And all those other times. Do you remember any time feeling like you had gotten people killed? Feeling that it was your fault? That you had screwed up? or sinned?” Tony shook his head. “Only, maybe, with that woman and the children, huh?”
“I ... I guess.”
“Let’s go back over that day....”
Again and again. Into September, to Tony and Linda’s third anniversary when Tony moved back to the Creek’s Bend apartment, through October, into November and Nixon’s reelection and Tony’s twenty-fifth birthday, into December and the Christmas bombings, and to the peace accords of January 1973, every other Tuesday Tony retold John H. Binford the story of the NVA soldier with the belt and the woman and children. In every way possible the therapist attempted to guide Tony to a new understanding. Tony resisted. The story evolved.
During this time, too, John H. Binford’s ideas evolved. Each session he recorded Tony’s responses and his own observations of Tony’s behavior. With Daniel Holbrook and a third doctor, Binford hypothesized about and expounded upon his therapeutic model. By the time of the Paris accords, the three of them were treating, or experimenting with, fifteen Viet Nam veterans—six outpatients and nine institutionalized. All the men responded positively to therapy. All reported either total or significant abstinence from self-dosing with alcohol or street drugs, a lowering in the frequency of explosive rage and violent outbursts, and fewer quasi-dissociative episodes (flashbacks). Binford’s confidence grew as his hypothesis moved toward theory and as patient after patient proved, or failed to disprove, the validity of his ideas. Not only did his confidence increase, so too did his determination to affect Anthony F. Pisano.
Others who touched Tony’s life changed too. Linda was ever more independent. She took another nursing course, by mail, and she wanted Tony to restart his education. Grandpa Wapinski’s health gradually diminished, and for the first time Tony saw that he was indeed an old man with a limited life span.
“So you’re angry about it.”
“You bet your sweet ass—”
“One minute.” Binford held up a hand. “Now I know we’ve always said anything we wish in here, but today, just today, I’m going to ask you to practice self-control over your language. No swearing. No cusses. Just as an exercise in self-control. Can you do that for me?”
“I guess.” Tony scratched his nose.
“Why the anger?”
“Don’t you see?”
“I see peace. I see a peace treaty.”
“I see a sellout.”
“I see American prisoners coming home.”
“I see my cousin. I see him being killed for no godd ... arned reason. I see the devaluation of his sacrifice. And mine.”
“But you won.”
“Not with the fuckin commie army in place!”
“Okay. Let’s move on. Close your eyes. See Dai Do....”
In early March Binford tried another tactic. “Here!” he shouted. They were in the village just before getting to the woman and children. Binford threw a seat cushion at Tony. “That’s the woman. Pretend that’s the woman. What do you want to do to her?”
“Doc!” Tony glared.
“Show me what you want to do to her!”
“This is stupid. If this were the woman I’d push her down and drill that motherfucker behind her.”
“You’d kill again?”
“Fuck, damn right!”
“Who would you kill?”
“Not this stupid pillow.”
In April 1973 Tony brought in a news article from the local paper. “Listen to this, Doc. ‘The beatings ended only when they fell to unconsciousness, or when they capitulated. Or died.’ These guys really went through a worlda hurt.”
“That’s about the POWs?”
“Yeah. Remember how you thought it was so great of Hanoi to release em. Listen to this. This guy was badly burned. ‘About his condition he said, “My wounds were draining badly, and were full of puss. The smell was terrible. It attracted a horde of flies. I let them lay their eggs on the burned flesh. When the maggots hatched they devoured the dead tissue which served to debride the wound. Later I washed the wounds with my urine to get the maggots off.” ’ Heroic stuff, huh, Doc?”
“Do you think so?”
“Yep. I do. I hurt for this guy.”
“What about for the people he dropped bombs on?”
“You don’t make a distinction, huh?”
“Do you?”
“You bet your sweet ass. He was a captive. A prisoner. Helpless. They were active combatants. Engaged in battle.”
“People pushing bicycles against supersonic fighter-bombers?”
“Able to attack and able to defend. Isn’t that the distinction the Geneva Accords make on treating POWs?”
“What about at Dai Do,” Binford said. “Let’s go back one more time. Who was able to attack and who was able to defend?”
“All of us.”
“The woman ...”
“No. I meant the NVA. And us.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Hm.”
“Can you see the woman?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the children?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And yourself, Tony?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m down. I’m in the dirt. In the prone firing position.”
“You’re holding your weapon?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to sight ... trying to get a bead on the dink.”
“And what do you see?”
“The woman. And her kids. And I can see this fucker behind em.”
“And you want to shoot him?”
“Yeah. I want to waste im.”
“But you can’t?”
“Right. I can’t get a clean shot. The dumb bitch—”
“You’re angry with the woman?”
“Right on! Dumb! Dumb fuckin frozen! Exposing her kids to fire.”
“And you fire?”
“Yeah.”
“You hear your weapon, feel your weapon, see the flashes.”
“Yeah.”
“Your bullets hit the woman and the children, don’t they.” Tony’s eyes are still shut. His face squinches. Binford continues. “Now you’ve got a clean line of fire on the man with the belt.” Tony moans. “Shoot him.”
“MAHAAAH!” Tony jolts up, eyes open, stares at Binford.
“Did you get him, Tony?”
“Yeah. No. No. He was already dee-dee-in. Splittin. Beatin feet.”
“But the woman and children are dead, aren’t they?”
“He drilled em in the back.”
“No, Tony. You shot them. You shot them because you were afraid the enemy soldier was going to shoot you and you needed to lay suppressive fire even if the woman and children were in the way.”
“Unt-uh.”
“Yes, Tony. You could see it clearly this time, couldn’t you? We’ve stripped away the screen memory. You were scared that day, weren’t you?”
“You’re always scared when you’re in a firefight,” Tony said quietly. “But not so scared you fire up women and children.”
“And you were excited that day, too, huh?”
“Your adrenaline’s pumpin.”
“And you missed killing that soldier earlier and you even needed to be counseled by your superior?”
Tony sighed. “I told you that.”
“And you’ve finally seen what really happened there. Now you know why you’ve been punishing yourself.”
“No, Doc.” Tony’s voice was slow, pained.
Binford’s voice remained calm, firm, bearing down like a heavy weight. “Only an act of commission causes the self-destructive behavior you’ve exhibited. The only way to deal with it, Tony, is to own up to it. Confront it. Then you can come to terms with it. You’re not alone, Tony. Many men err under the stress of combat. You’re not perfect. None of us are. You don’t have to hold yourself up against some impossible John Wayne standard. It’s okay, Tony. It’s okay.”
Tony slid slightly forward in the chair, placed his hands, fists balled, on his thighs. “You really think I shot em?”
“What do you think, Tony?”
Tony canceled his April 17th session. He excused himself by telling John Binford’s secretary that his sister-in-law, Molly, was in labor and he was staying with his brother, lending support. (Adam Pisano was born 18 April at 4:54 A.M.) Tony didn’t call or attend his scheduled May 1st therapy. He worked at High Meadow as he had now for fourteen straight months. He felt moody, antsy. On the 6th his supply of lithium carbonate ran out but he refused to return to RRVMC to pick up his refill. Linda noticed the change but purposefully ignored the signs. She was busy. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked eight to five for Dr. Simon Denham and his new group practice. Monday, Wednesday and Friday she worked for Pewel Wapinski. Saturdays and Sundays she attempted to catch up around the apartment and even cram in some study.
Saturday, 12 May 1973, Mill Creek Falls, River Front Drive, the back lawn of Ernest Hartley’s mansion, the wedding reception of Annalisa Pellegrino and Edward Milne—On this joyous and beautiful day, this third birthday of his daughters Gina and Michelle, for Anthony F. Pisano everything again turned to shit.
“You look beautiful.” Tony hugged his cousin.
“And you’ve had too much champagne.” Annalisa hugged him back, turned to her maid of honor to introduce Tony.
“Wait. Just give me one minute, okay? Just a little toast between you and me.”
“Sure.” Her eyes were bright reflecting the sun and the white satin.
“To the unseen best man,” Tony whispered.
Annalisa looked him in the eye. Smiled. “Okay. To Jimmy,” she said.
Tony hugged her again. Then he slipped away, back to the patio where a few friends of Edward Milne were surrounding a keg of beer. Tony stood near them, not really with them except when he refilled his cup.
Tony watched the congregated celebrators. John and Molly were there with baby Adam, swaddled, a sun bonnet covering his face, Molly tipping up the brim, showing him off to everyone and anyone. Nonna Pisano sat on a wicker throne chair looking like the queen mother. Uncle James and Aunt Isabella discreetly directed operations. All the aunts and uncles and cousins attended, ate, drank, danced. And friends and friends of friends, after the first serving, came to celebrate, too—more lovely young women than Tony had seen, ever, in one place.
“Check out that one,” one of Edward’s friends said.
Tony moved to the keg to refill his cup.
“Bit old for you,” a second friend laughed.
“You talking about the little one with the nice tits?” a third said.
“Yeah,” said the first. Tony followed their eyes, realized they were talking about Linda. In a way it delighted him, made him proud.
“Boy,” the third said, “I’d like to plow her fields.”
They laughed. Tony laughed with them, involuntarily. Then the second man said, “I heard she’s hot to trot.”
“Man,” said the first, “look at them tits. She’s really stacked.”
Again they laughed. Then the second young man said, “She used to fuck like a bunny for a friend of a friend of mine. He said she’s a dynamite lay, but that her old man’s trouble.”
Tony moved off. He was wounded. He was drunk, angry, wanting to punch someone, wanting to confront Linda right there. He moved down the tree line, between shrubs, gradually closer. He heard his father’s voice, saw the back of his head. “I don’t understand him,” John Sr. was saying. “He’s not like the others. Never has been.”
Tony moved on, closer, angrier yet. Annalisa was sitting in a chair surrounded by almost everyone. Edward knelt before her, was raising her skirt, teasingly pushing the garter higher instead of removing it. The band was playing little flourishes—da-dat-da-dah—with each thrust.
Linda was watching Annalisa, talking to someone Tony didn’t know, perhaps one of the visiting nurses. “I thought Tony was pretty bad off with all he saw,” Linda said to the woman. “But I heard from Susan about one guy out there who just realized he’d killed a woman and her children in cold blood. They say he was so overwhelmed by his behavior that he psychologically blocked it out and supplanted the memory with a total fabrication.”