34

BOBBY’S ANGER ABATED, PERHAPS was assuaged by the season, the lights, the smiles and good cheer, perhaps by something Father Tom said to him, or said at mass on Christmas morning. Bobby’s health seemed to improve. He regained some weight. The changes were like lifting a cross from the shoulders of all.

He was still transfusion dependent but his body was reacting positively to whatever new therapy they had him on and he returned to work, part-time, and to spending long hours reading and writing in Grandpa’s office. With his improvement, with the new year, came an improvement in the local economy—or so it seemed. The solar business was slow, but general and construction plumbing and heating were steady. Bobby’s mind remained sharp.

“I’ve tried.” Don spoke softly. It was a Saturday in January 1983. Don Wagner and Carl Mariano were with Sara in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Noah, Paul and Am were in the living room. Bobby was in Grandpa’s office working on his writings or his designs—he’d been vague in describing, to Sara and the others, his latest project.

“Nothing?” Sara asked. She pursed her lips.

“Dead ends,” Don said. Immediately he felt self-conscious for having used the word dead. Quickly he talked on. “I’ve found every Wapinski in Texas, Oklahoma ... I think from Missouri south. But no relatives. I’ve checked Wopinski, Rapimski, Wapin, a dozen variations. And if there ever was a Cadwalder ... well, they’re all unlisted.”

“It’s okay, Don.”

Carl too spoke softly. “Have Bobby call his mother. He’s got to ask her.”

“I told him that,” Sara said. “He said, ‘No friggin way. I wouldn’t have her marrow in me. Just no friggin way.’ You know ... he ...”

“Sara”—this time Don used the word on purpose—“I’m at a dead end.”

“I ...” Sara put a hand to her forehead. “Don’t ... you don’t have to try anymore. This last time up ... don’t say anything, okay? Doctor Dachik, Bobby’s hematologist ... she ...”

“What?”

“She said Bobby only has a twenty percent chance of surviving a bone marrow transplant. It’s too ... it’s gotten too risky.”

Vu Van Hieu disappeared, or so it seemed, without a trace, without notice. Some vets searched the pond, recalling Ty. Most were afraid to call the police, afraid of repercussions, yet more afraid of an unknown, perhaps ill-fated demise. A few knew. They’d been asked to remain silent.

Early March 1983, in the vicinity of Mill Creek Falls: Hieu, Bobby, Tony, Carl, Don and Jeremiah Gallagher, a small room, curtains drawn.

“Saluté,” Tony said. He wished he had a glass of High Meadow wine to raise to Hieu but they’d brought nothing with them.

“Thank you, my friend,” Hieu said. “I will be commuter rebel,” he joked. “I will be back.”

Bobby clapped Hieu’s shoulder. “You take care of yourself.”

“Oh yes. You too. I ...” Hieu paused. His discipline wavered. “I once tell you I am fundamental American principles, you remember?”

“I sure do,” Bobby said.

“I am still,” Hieu said. “But I am not fundamental American behavior. It upset me so much how they treat you. Your people, the VA, the IRS, the FBI. How they treat veterans! They see you as cause of the war. They see Viet Namese people as victims of your war. They treat you like piranhas ...”

“Pariahs,” Bobby whispered.

“... but to me, they condescend like I am a child victim. Like you say before, slavery by alms. Thank you for letting me work hard.”

“Ah, Hieu. I never paid you what you could have earned on the outside.”

“You pay okay. I save my money. Now I invest in the liberation effort.”

“Are you sure?” Don Wagner asked.

Hieu smiled. “Yes. I am sure. You know, I see Viet Namese who came here, who fled maybe before Saigon fell. Maybe with very much gold. Now they make much more. They live in mansions, drive big cars. I have no respect for them. I detest them. I throw them out from helicopters in my mind. That money they arrived with, that was my country. That was Viet Nam’s blood that they drained.”

“Seems”—Tony turned from the group—“like a long time ago ... but, you know, if ... really, if I didn’t have Johnny and the girls, I’d join you.”

“No,” Hieu said.

“I would,” Tony said. He turned to Bobby. “Remember San Jose? We almost did—”

“No.” Hieu interrupted. “You cannot. I know you would, but you cannot.” Hieu tapped his chest. “This is for me, for Viet Namese men, to recapture our dignity, to atone for our shame.”

“There’s no shame ...” Tony began.

“Tony, you are my friend. I know you very well. I know your battles. I know Dai Do. I feel such shame. I know the 2d ARVN Regiment at Dai Do. They were on your flank on the move to Dinh To. They the shits, eh? They run, huh? I know their commander a collaborator with the communists. Evil man. Evil agent. I didn’t know then. He brings me great shame. I will forever feel shamed by him, and by others like him.

“That is why I return,” Hieu said. “With my cousins we will regain Viet Nam. We do it ourselves. You pray for us. You hold us in your thoughts. We can never again ask you, ask for American bodies, ask your support like that.”

Jeremiah Gallagher nodded. “He’s right. This time you guys do it.”

“Yes ...” Hieu smiled.

“Get some for me,” Carl cut in.

Don clenched his fist, shook it. “For all of us!”

“Right on!” Hieu beamed. “Now I go. You thank Sara. You thank Linda. You tell everyone I go on vacation. I go see my cousins but you don’t know my cousins.”

Only Bobby looked sad. “Cover yer ass, Man.”

With spring came new growth, new life. The VA denied the appeal of Bobby’s disability claim but the Social Security Administration approved his disability application, back-dated the effective date, paid him three months’ retroactive benefits. To Bobby that acceptance, that acknowledgment, was of as much importance as the reimbursements. It gave him, returned to him, something intangible, something invaluable. And with a kick from Sara he became lighter, mentally more mobile within his physical limitations. The weeks, months, he had spent in fear, fear that his mind was going ended. Slowly assessment, action and assimilation replaced anger.

“Ever since I came back,” he told Sara, “all I ever really wanted to do was to walk in these woods.” They had climbed through the orchard, descended to the spillway, crossed the dam and entered the far woods. Josh had accompanied them as far as the orchard but had lain down and let them proceed alone. “I mean, that’s almost fourteen years ago. When I first came back. I never thought of it as getting away from all that’s out there. I didn’t think of it as hiding. But I guess I did think of it as a safe haven from which to interact with the rest of the world, a base camp, you know, which would allow me to interact with them on my own terms. And I did. But then, coming back, I kinda withdrew and I guess I’ve been hiding out. I think the more I hide the more I separate myself from what the world is, what it’s doing to itself, the more I feel totally exposed to it. We can’t hide, can we?”

“No.”

“For me it’s been fourteen years. For America the war ended eight years ago. We’ve all been trying to get on with our lives but we haven’t ... It just keeps coming back.”

“Um.”

“Have I been carrying on like a complete ass?”

“No, Bob. Never.” Her voice was soft, kind.

“But I have been hiding.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. You seem pretty well immersed in the whole thing.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve touched anything for a long time.”

“There’s not a person who’s been here who isn’t better for the experience.”

“They did it themselves. I just opened the door. And if I hadn’t, someone else would have. It’s not even my door. It’s my Granpa’s. He touched them more than I. I haven’t even been a gentle breeze. Geez, that’s it, that’s what I’ve been. A breeze. A slight touch on a few blades of grass. Bent them a little. But they’ll straighten back up in a second. And at the same time there’s ten tornadoes lined up about to rip through the fields. Great! Gentle breeze before the storms. Means nothing. Every single blade of grass is about to be uprooted, and I stood by and blew a gentle breeze and then stroked myself into believing I’ve had a positive effect.”

“Bobby, you’ve had a wonderful effect.” Sara was louder now. She didn’t like it when he became maudlin.

“Sara, do you know, right now, if I could, if I could, I’d push the button that’d destroy Hanoi. And the Kremlin. I would. Where do they get off enslaving ... not where, why? Why do they get away with enslaving millions of people? We went because of it. The enslavement came first. That’s the origin of what’s happened to me.

“Like so many of the guys ... I felt most ... effective ... when I had a rifle in my hands and I was hunting communists in South Viet Nam. Damn it! That’s where I should be right now. With Hieu. Not blowing blades of grass but blowing away evil shit. Not picking up the pieces of their aggression—not enabling that aggression by alleviating the side effects. Defense. We have a responsibility to help people hold their freedoms. Regain their freedoms. We have that responsibility because we have the ability. We’re not some flat-broke emerging third-world nation. We’re America! We can have an effect—a clean, positive effect. If it weren’t for the simple-minded slime buckets that run this place, the greedy jackasses that’d rather make a nickel today and screw the future, the world could be beautiful. It could be safe.”

Sara faced him squarely. “As long as you’re in it, for me,” her voice was clear, chastising, loving, “the world is beautiful. God’s made us a beautiful universe. Maybe we’ve spoiled parts of it, but not all of it. Definitely not High Meadow. Because of you. High Meadow is a Garden of Eden.”

They strolled on in silence. Then Bobby said, “God. If I could have a disease where they don’t jab the bone marrow ... God, that lumbar puncture was the worst ... It would be a blessing. I’d be able to work more ...”

“Bobby.” Sara interrupted him. “Why do you feel you have to do more than you’ve done?”

“Because ...”

“Because?” Bobby’s brow furrowed. Her challenge tired him. She saw it as getting him out of himself. “Because?” she repeated. The day was clear, the scant new foliage delicate, deliriously light green, the sun penetrating easily to the earth. “Do you remember,” Sara began, “when we got married?”

“Of course.”

“Father Paul’s words?” Sara asked. “When you truly love you love the other the way the earth loves the sun on the first warm morning of spring ...”

Bobby stopped. “I remember that.”

“... and you must have faith that spring will come again, and again re-light the land ... in the light of this new light.”

“New light,” Bobby said. “That’s what I think every night. Give me one more sunrise. One more first light.”

Sara prodded, “Because ...?”

“Because I love you. And ... because I think we’re losing.”

“Losing?”

“To the greedy.”

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s it. I’m at the end—”

“Damn it! No you’re not.”

“But really ...”

“I’m not asking you to deny ...”

“... my disease ...”

“It’s not yours. You don’t own it any more than you own a mosquito bite ...”

“I do have it ...”

“You also have mosquito bites ...”

“They’re not the same.”

“No, they’re not. So you’ve got two things to struggle with. The greedy and this thing which has infected you.”

“And how do I struggle?”

“You tell me,” Sara said. “How do they work?”

Now Bobby’s life, and Sara’s, revolved around Agent Orange: research, the class-action suit, and Bobby’s own health maintenance. Typically, Bobby concentrated on gathering and understanding every shred of information available, on turning his limited energy to designing a program to counter the ill effects.

The more he, Tony, and others learned, the more they rejoiced that their children were not born with major defects. And the more they empathized with Dennis Thorpe whose son had been born severely deformed, who, without the recent revelations, had blamed himself and his wife and she had done the same, until the strain dashed their marriage. Bobby, Tony, the others, felt for the families with malformed children. “Who, god damn it,” they said to each other, “thinks—I mean you’re twenty-fuckin-years old—that you’ve got your kids with you, genetically, ten years before they’re conceived? Who anticipates that something you inhale at twenty, or something you eat or drink, is going to cleave the genes in your juice so that at thirty, thirty! it’s going to make you father a monster! That your kid is going to be WIA from your war? That our grandchildren are going to be casualties, too. Or does this wipe out our genetic line?”

“Here’s another set of questions,” Tony said. “Does dioxin cross the blood brain barrier? Or any of the herbicide’s or the dioxin’s metabolites? Can it cause rages, violent behavior, insomnia, flashbacks, abnormal EEGs? PTSD caused by toxicity?!” Tony paused. He read aloud from a journal, “‘Some of the dioxin-biotoxin research indicates that a portion of combat stress reactions probably are not caused by delayed traumatic stress but are caused by defoliant poisoning of neural tissues which slows axonol impulse transmission as evidenced in abnormal EEGs and direct nerve tissue studies. The brain interprets and reacts to this lethargic activity—not as if one has suffered brain damage for which a brain will attempt to compensate via plastic recovery where other areas or structures take on the function of the damaged area—but by allowing the poisoned section to limp along and frustrate the rest of the brain. These studies hypothesized that biological frustration causes the stress reactions of many PTSD veterans.’”

“Geez, Man,” Van Deusen said. “Then the entire scope of veteran maladaptive behavior needs to be reexamined.”

“Yeah,” Mariano said. “Except the VA’s reacting identically to the Agent Orange studies as it did to the initial PTSD evidence. Listen to this. ‘Like a poisoned brain in which one segment contradicts another,’” he read from an article, “‘The $24 billion per year Veteran’s Administration officially denied all the evidence it was housing and treating—or mistreating.’”

“‘Men were treated like criminals,’” Bobby read from a legal magazine. “‘Their rights were denied. Victor Yannecone, the prime attorney for the veterans in the class-action suit against the chemical companies, asked if the VA attitude was changing, answered, “Yes. The attitude has hardened. The attitude had become patently vindictive. The attitude has become militantly anti-Vietnam veteran.... The trail of broken bodies and dying veterans is getting longer.” ’”

“It is not a matter,” Bobby continued, “of trying to hide from technology. Or of being an adversary of technology and going back to the soil like some reincarnated Thoreau at Walden Pond. We couldn’t stop it if we wanted to. Short of a thermo-nuclear war, we couldn’t get rid of all the polluting chemical companies, mining retorts, or manufacturing toilets. And we shouldn’t want to. You know, we really do live better today than a hundred years ago. We live longer. Our bodies are stronger. It’s difficult to dodge the carcinogens in our food, the teratogenic substances in our water, the embryotoxic waste in the air. But we can do something about it. We can band together. We can follow The Code. We can purchase only products manufactured by “clean” companies, or we can build our own chemical companies, run them cleanly—seeking new methods to guarantee that toxic by-products are not produced or that they are neutralized. Not stored. No storage is safe. If we pull together we can produce our chosen product lines more cheaply than the conglomerates. And slowly, through the best capitalistic device available to us—fair competition—we can put them out of business.”

Knowledge did not slow his decline. Nor did it serve Sara well. Her constant thoughts were now of greater information, of “there’s something out there on how to treat this that we haven’t yet dug up. Some monoclonal antibody therapy, some oncogene ... some magic dart ...”

The trips to West Haven became more frequent. The dosage of antibiotics was increased, the potency elevated. Still the freight train chugged as if unstoppable.

Bobby paused. Suddenly, to him, there was no longer any sense in searching the literature, in looking for proof that TCDD had caused his aplastic anemia. It was beyond reasonable doubt. The class-action suit that had been filed in January of 1979 in the names of four hundred veterans had grown to represent 40,000 veterans. To him it made little difference. For him it was the wrong approach. If the veterans won, he asked himself, would it significantly change his life? Compensation? Money was not his ultimate concern, had never been. And vindication was not sweet, not bitter, not positive other than it nudged the scale toward zero balance, toward the center, toward neutral perceptions and policies that had gone askew. But vindication would not right the wrong, would not give him four-month erythrocytes. Vindication and money were not inherently negative but, to him, their tendency to break his focus, to refocus his concern, his disciplined concentration away from his work, away from his expanded self onto his central self, was ruinous.

For him to understand what was happening to him required an expansion beyond the search into toxicological effects, required of him first a fundamental understanding of his own biology, of the biophysical functioning of affected basic units, of his own cellular-molecular composition. At this point, though he did not yet realize it, the search for understanding, for How Things Work, the delving into human cellular mechanics, was but a new step to a deeper search, understanding, expansion.

Bobby read about, studied, made drawings of microtubules, lysosomes, Golgi, ribosomes. He meditated on cell membranes—walls that actively discriminated, selectively regulated the immigration and expulsion of living and dead materials; on mitochondria, the power companies of the cells; on the endoplasmic reticulum; and the headquarters, the tactical operations centers, the Pentagon complex, the nucleus itself with its double helix structure and its fifty to sixty thousand separate dioxyribonucleic acid (DNA) offices each with its own nucleotidal foreman, plans sets, and fax machines transmitting or capable of transmitting via intra- and intercellular chemical communication lines, pools, RNA messages—do this, don’t do that, link these amino acids together like Lego blocks in this exact sequence, multiply and/or divide, or cease multiplying, dividing, or commence until this exact condition is encountered at which moment your present mission is complete, and get back to me, chemically, for debriefing so I too can rest. Genes! Construction drawings. Much more. Executives, decision makers. Still more. Stimulators, movers and shakers, motivators, prime movers, holders of the life force. Inside each gene a desire to be alive! An intimate and inseparable relationship of life forces, of strong, weak, love and ...

Bobby could not yet grasp, conceive, conceptualize, the primary forces within atoms, the subparticles, quarks, muons, and their relationship to atomic structure, to molecular structure, to genetic desire, to cellular communication, to the production and reproduction of cells, to the reproduction of aberrant cells.

He studied, searched, analyzed, pondered.

Hemoglobin is constructed—actively and purposefully assembled—of four porphyrin molecules “glued” to a molecule of iron. Herbicide poisoning has a destructive, though indirect, effect upon this bonding that can be measured in urine samples by testing for coproporphyrins. Reaching backward: TCDD has been shown to be stored in the fatty tissues of those exposed to Agent Orange. Reaching forward: Is there a way to flush the toxins from human fatty tissues without endangering other, more active tissues such as blood-producing bone marrow, or egg/ sperm-producing sex organs? Maybe an in-home purge? Fast and deluge the organism with endless quantities of pure Endless Mountain water, enough to cause diarrhea? Chelation: The process of chelating, or combining, with a metallic ion to form a chelate; or to form a ring with one or more hydrogen bonds ... Hydrogen bombs! Vaporize me!

The attempt to formulate a workable design exhausted him yet he pressed on. Chelation therapy introduces a chemical agent—how he abhorred that tag—that will combine, chelate, with a specific toxic element producing a precipitate that can be flushed from the organism.... Backward: to a conceptualization of the 2,4,5-T molecule, of the 2,3,7,8-TCDD molecule, to an analyzation of their surface topographies, to the reverse, inverse topographies, to picturing and constructing molecules with those reverse topographies—nature does it all the time, antibodies to antigens—which can key into the toxin, lock on, together fall to the “bottom” like a child’s suspension of backyard dirt in a water-filled beach bucket.

He attempted to enter the mind, to be the mind of an experimental pathologist, toxicologist. “TCDD induces malignant tumors”—he addressed a conference within his mind—“in exposures as low as five parts per trillion ... causes carcinomas of the liver, lungs, palate ... testicular cancer, lymphomas and leukemias ... delayed effects ... more toxic than the most lethal nerve gas in the military arsenal ... causing failure of all elements of the blood-forming system, causing victims to hemorrhage, to be defenseless to infections, essentially to deteriorate, literally to fall to pieces ...

“Yet ... But ... However ... TCDD is eliminated from human tissue via bile fluid from which, by which, it is transported to the intestines to be defecated ... Yet ... However ... here it is reabsorbed, the enterohepatic cycle, recirculated to liver, lungs, bone marrow, the body constantly discarding and inadvertently recycling unwanted trash like pissing into the wind ... Yet ... if it could be chelated, combined, as if the wind ceased, combined perhaps with cholestyramine used as a salt binder in patients with high cholesterol, used as a chelation agent in kepone toxicity ... then not reabsorbed but indeed deposited, the mark being left, the throne room’s excreta whisked away by the simple act of depressing the lever.”

Again he reached back, reached forward. What causes cancer? No! What caused my cancer? No! No! When I was wounded, light shrapnel in the legs, I did not say, “Corpsman, take my shrapnel out.” Nay! I said, “Medic, get this fucking shrapnel outta me!” I said, “Take this out. It’s not mine. It belongs to the NVA.” So take this cancer. Take this aplastic anemia. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. It’s not mine. It’s somebody else’s. Give it back to Dow. Give it back to Daddy Dow. What has caused this cancer that has attacked me? Is it the Agent Orange? Sara is certain. She is leading the technical information search, the search for new treatments. She is the advocate. She is addressing civic groups in my name. She is the leading advocate for veterans, for humans. Certainly TCDD is a trigger. But what pulled that trigger?! Is it something in me? Something deeper in me than the strict biomechanical process, the reaction to a toxicant that has cleaved the genetic lines of chromosome ∆ allowing for translocation of gene x on arm q of the heavy chain to relocate to chromosome A where it lodged next to gene y which enables it, chromosome ∆, to evade the mechanism that controls its expression? Why was it set off in me, in this manner, and not in others who were equally exposed? Why in my bone marrow? Why my blood? Why, in affected others, did it trigger brain tumors, or liver ... or testicular ...? And what, if it is something innate in me, beyond the biomechanical, is it? What is the triggering and the site selection determinant? And if it is beyond the physical, is it something I can reverse? Is this something, if I can determine the trigger, I can psychologically or spiritually untrigger? And if untriggerable, if chelated and flushed, what happens to the chromosomal damage previously done?

Bobby searched into himself for hours on end, day after day, week after week. He sent messages, explored hidden regions, sought information, gave orders. “Headquarters, free the infiltrators, expel the double agents, arrest the saboteurs.” Can the damage be repaired? Can the war be won though major battles have been lost and the nation is on its knees? Will a win at Xuan Loc keep Saigon from falling?

Daily Bobby studied, contemplated, ruminated. Daily he unfocused, disciplined nonfocused meditation. He lay still, on his back, on the floor of Grandpa’s office, alone, wrapped in a blanket, a bedroll, warm yet not aware of the warmth, secure though without cognition of that security. Over his eyes he laid the old OD jungle sweater that reduced the dimmed room to utter darkness, to the void in which the search could be continued. He looked in. He traveled to sites of unrestrained growth, of mutant self-destructive platelets. He attempted to spy on the man-made environmental toxins triggering the aberrant cellular mutations. He tried to infiltrate the mutants’ base camp to discover their need for suicide. Why have you allowed these substances to enter the walled city of the cell? Why have you not expelled them? Why have you let them come to headquarters? Or have they simply gained control of the commo center, altered the messages and production orders, to their choosing? And why have you not recognized the abnormalities of the new structures? Why have you allowed them to replicate endlessly their chimeric clones? Or do they, themselves, or do you ...? Surely there is not and never has been a TCDD alien for each and every cell. Then why are all new cells aberrant? Surely the answer to this, like a change in the cultural norms of a society, explains the delayed onset of the disease, and like a society the aberration began with a tiny pocket of radical ...

So what?!

Re-unfocus and flow. He is a microscopic entity, not matter, not energy, but thought represented within his unformation by a blue glow flowing within his own arteries, veins, capillaries, a pinball ball ricocheting from concave disks but 0.0003 inch in diameter, inspecting each; a blinking cursor in the three-dimensional holographic computer screen of his body, leaping through tissues, randomly interviewing a sample of the one hundred trillion cells of his being, checking that each contains an identical headquarters with identical blueprints—though with different assignments, tasks to perform, different rooms to construct, different systems to maintain—checking randomly, then comparing blueprints, finding that hair cells and skin cells and toe cells all know the proper way to make blood cells so how come the bone marrow that makes those blood cells is fucking up?!!! Fire the CEO! Chastise the nucleotidal foreman! Send in a ... a what? A messenger with proper prints! “Ah, hey look, Buddy. You spilled coffee on yours and you’re building the wrong stuff, Man. See? Here’s a good set. I borrowed it from your patella.”

“I’ll make what the hell I want. Leave me alone.”

“What? Man, you keep makin that shit, you’ll kill us all.”

“Says who? You follow your prints, I’ll follow mine.”

“Man ... see, you spilled that TCDD coffee right there and the cell lysosome isn’t complete and it’s leaking its enzymes into the cytoplasm and causing quick self-destruction.”

“Says who?! Where do you get off telling me my job?”

“Naw. Naw, Man. You don’t understand. You keep doing that they goina poison your food. Hide somethin in the food that’ll cause your lysosome-stomach to cramp until you’re a goner, Man. Then they’ll replace you. You know, Man, transfer in a bunch a scabs. Chemo followed by bone marrow transplant, Man.”

“They wouldn’t dare!”

... now feeling the warmth of the cocoon about him, then again not feeling it at all but sensing on some level that he is warm, protected, cared for as Sara cares for him, linked eternally, secure in this care, this warmth, this cocoon, liberated to deepen the search, millimeter by millimeter, nanometer by nanometer, searching for the commo line between triggered cells and healthy cells, searching through April, May and June.

The trigger must yet be something more, something else, something different. If the trigger is in me, or of me, what am I? I am more than the sum of my cells, more than a heap of organelles, just as a book is more than the linkage of words, more than a pile of letters. The relationship of the parts, the format, is essential. And the force that organizes the format is essential, is perhaps the life force, the soul, is the essential me. How has that force, how have I, gone awry? How can I right the bias? Trying to understand, trying to construct the parallel universes of mind and body, of corporeal and spiritual, attempting to unite them within a code, to explain them in The Code, in a search for the universal tie.

“Aren’t you getting into the car?” Sara’s words were quick, light. The early morning was delightfully cool.

“Hmm.” Bobby turned, looked out across the pond, let his gaze fall on a pair of mallards by the near bank.

“I told Linda we’d meet them at River Front Park ten minutes ago,” Sara said. “We’re late.” She slid in behind the wheel, turned, checked the children, ensured they’d buckled their seatbelts. Bobby remained motionless, leaning against the car. It was to be their first real family vacation. With the Pisanos they’d rented a cottage on the Jersey Shore. “Bobby?”

“Um.”

“Bobby, are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s—” his words came slowly, “that I’m just looking ... at the ducks.”

“Come on. Get in. Bobby ... are you feeling okay?”

“I’m a little cold.” He settled into the seat beside her. “And my head’s pounding.”

“Your crit’s low?!”

“I just got a refill.... It’s ... I think it’s because of my eye. It’s like there’s a blob of water over everything.”

“Do you want the patch while we’re moving?”

“No. Maybe. I’m going to just close my eyes awhile.”

He rested his head on the seatback, zippered his jacket. In back Noah and Paul were drawing pictures, Am was munching a bagel, all being “good,” being quiet, not irritating their father. The car rolled. Bobby sat up, took in the drive, the old gate, the orchard and Christmas trees. Then he closed his eyes again. He thought of Josh in Rodney Smith’s care, felt like he was abandoning him. The thought didn’t last. Almost immediately it was replaced by slight vertigo, by nausea, by pains in his joints, arms, butt. Pain, the inner experience, the thought, the word alone can induce it, enable it, allow it to spread. Pain, the process, exactly the opposite of DAARFE-vader, capable of being controlled by DAARFE, capable of destroying DAARFE. And cancer! What caused the ... No. He would not think of it, would not meditate on it. This was vacation time. Time with his kids. And none in diapers! What JOY! Let Tony change little Johnny; Bobby was through that stage. Better to build sand castles ... splash each other, maybe a sand dragon ... maybe an entire sand city at the edge of the rising tide.

“Man, you all right?”

“I’m just kinda hot, Tone.”

“Open your jacket, Bobby. You’re all flushed.”

“Shit! I can barely move my arm.”

Tony pushed his hand through the open passenger window, laid the back of his fingers against Bobby’s forehead. “Man! You’re burning up!”

“No. I can’t be. It’ll be ...”

“Sara?” Tony kept the alarm from his voice. Sara and he were changing places so he could drive with Bobby, Sara with Linda, the girls, and Johnny. “Sara?”

“It’s nothin, Tone.” Bobby leaned forward, smiled weakly. “I musta been leaning on it, put it to sleep.” He raised his arm, began to unzip, leaned forward gasping. Tears welled to his eyes. Beneath his breath he muttered, “This is our vacation!” Then he leaned back, tightened his abdominal wall. More loudly to Tony he said, “Get in. We’re goina have this time.”

Bobby held out for three days. He built sand castles with Am, waded in the surf with Paul, let Noah bury his legs, winked at some bikinied beauties with Tony, and spent hours watching Sara. Then he could hold out no longer. His legs swelled, he could barely walk, had to ask Noah to help him, Noah so serious, only eight years old, had to ask him to be strong for his father.

On Wednesday 27 July 1983 Bobby returned not to the cottage at the Jersey Shore, not to High Meadow, but to the VA hospital in West Haven. His temperature had risen to 104. They started him on IV antibiotics and IM steroids. Doctors Dachik and Rosenwald prodded, poked, identified a grossly infected hematoma in his right arm. They stuck him, slit him open, sucked pus from his arm—not once, not twice, but over five days seven times. The direct pain and the throbbing pain were tremendous, yet were askew of the deep hematoma site and the first time they’d found only a small pocket, and the second too, and nothing the third and fourth until the ultrasound technician suggested Bobby tell the surgeon to do the next cut down right there in the lab so that the technician could show him the exact location. The fifth and sixth times the surgeons ignored the offer until so frustrated they did the seventh under ultrasound, stuck in the needle, dead center, and withdrew 70 ccs of blood.

“Did you hit it on something?”

“No,” Bobby answered. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe?” the doctor asked.

“So what if I did?”

“If you didn’t,” Dachik said, “it’s possible that it was spontaneous. Spontaneous bleeds are significant.”

“My condition’s deteriorating, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. It may be the low platelet count. We’ve some responses to that.”

More tests. New fever spikes. More blood drawn. Another bone marrow biopsy, another Wednesday at the transfusion clinic. “You’re platelet count is low. And ...”

“And?”

“The tests show an increase in leukemic—”

“Leukemia!”

“There are a number—”

“Leukemia.”

“... chemotherapy ...”

Bobby was barely hearing.

“... treatment has come a long way in the last several years ...” the voice empathetic, matter-of-fact, professional, personal.

“I’m a goner. Holy shit!”

“... you’re very early in the leukemic process ... a six-week course of cytotoxic ... and cytosine arabinoside ...”

Then, later, on the phone with Tony, afraid to tell Sara over the phone, “Leukemia.”

“Bummer, Man.”

“Yeah. Ambushed again.”

Meditation: Mid-August—See them, he tells himself. Feel them. The august stem cells of the marrow produce immature or precursor clones that differentiate into specialized cells as they mature. Differentiation and maturation are controlled by specific inducer proteins produced by the stem cells or by other cells in the surrounding support tissues. Immature myeloid (marrow) stem cell clones become macrophages or granulocytes, erythrocytes, megakaryocytes, eosinophils or mast cells, depending on the inducer that binds to the immature cells’ DNA. Picture this, he urges. See this. See the pool, the mixed-inducer ocean, with millions of immature floating rings. When these cells differentiate and mature, growth inhibitors, produced by the mature cells, block these cells from further multiplication. But leukemic cells—immature, undifferentiated—produce their own growth inducer independently of the stem or support tissue and this allows them to steadily, though nondifferentially, multiply immature clones. These immature clones do not produce differentiation inducers that would cause them to mature and stop reproducing. Picture it. See them. How can I turn on the differentiation-factor producers that might stop the uncontrolled growth of leukemic cells? How can I keep the leukemic cells from asynchronously producing their own differentiation factors?

Swimming in meditation, floundering: If all myeloid leukemic clones have abnormal chromosome arrays—that is, the deletion or malarrangement of a chromosome segment—how can that segment be restored or replaced? See it. See it happening. Expect it. What value knowledge if not ... See it being fulfilled.

Bobby remained in the hospital through July and the first twenty-six days of August. On the twentieth he was interviewed by reporters from the New Haven Register, the Hartford Courant; on the twenty-first by a man from UPI. In them, in the media, Bobby found a strange bedfellow—truly interested, sympathetic investigative reporters delving into Agent Orange illnesses and death, exposing personal tragedies in America, Australia, Southeast Asia. They seemed delighted with the new mace, the new battleax with which to bash both the government and corporate America. Yet Bobby found in their seemingly sensational revelations, little ungrounded sensationalism.

“It’s working?” the reporter asked. There was surprise in his voice.

“Seems to be,” Bobby answered. For six days he had not spiked a temp. His platelet count and hematocrit were up. Other elements of his blood seemed to be responding. The fact that he had not had a fever all week indicated the new antibiotic regime was controlling his infections. He was up, out of bed, the July swelling in his legs gone. He walked the halls morning, noon, night, cautiously, afraid of bumping or being bumped, afraid of causing a new hematoma, yet anxious to be in motion.

The reporter sat in Bobby’s room, making notes in a small cardboard-bound pad. Additionally he recorded the interview on a Panasonic microcassette. “Hmm. I thought you were much ...”

“... closer to dying?” Bobby finished the question.

“More seriously ill,” the reporter countered.

“It’s serious.” Bobby smiled. He liked the man, liked his direct yet relatively sensitive approach. “You want me to be dying, huh?”

“No Bobby, I don—”

“But it’s a better story if I am.”

“Unfortunately. Newspapers do want you to be dramatic.”

“Well, I am.” For half an hour Bobby explained his leukemia to the man, made certain the reporter understood the process, the short-of-a-miracle irreversibility, the temporary positive signs, responses to the chemo.

“You don’t seem bitter,” the reporter said.

“That comes and goes.”

“If you had it to do all over again, would you go to Canada?”

“You mean ... Hell, no! I’d go again right now if I could.”

“You would?!”

“I certainly would. I’d go back to Viet Nam in a minute. Shit ... I don’t think I’d like the person I’d be if I hadn’t gone. And if living with this pain ... is the price, then I’ll take it. I’ve seen the best. And the worst. But seeing the best, the very best, seeing it just once inspires one forever. That makes it worth it.”

“Worth dying for?”

“Yes. It was worth it then. The cause. It sucks now ... being sick ... having these constant reminders that your body’s self-destructing. But that doesn’t change the value of the cause. Still, I won’t let a Dow product in my house.”

“What about your sons? You have boys, don’t you?”

“I ...” Bobby paused, his mind raced, his face reflected anguish.

“If they were to be drafted ...” the reporter began.

“They won’t be.” Bobby turned hard, surface hard, voice hard, but inside, flashing on Noah, on Paul, juxtaposing them to Hamburger Hill, to the A Shau, to the mud and violence in a way he had never imagined, inside he turned sour, clammy. “No way,” Bobby said. “The government’s gotten enough Wapinskis.”

Saturday, 27 August 1983, High Meadow—“Bobby’s home.”

“He’s been waiting for ya, Man,” Rodney said. “Every day. Every mornin, ya know? I let him out an he disappears. Then I find him by the road. Just sittin. Waitin for ya. He makes me call im a hun’red times. I don’t think he hears anymore. He’s gettin awful old.”

Bobby slid his hands over Josh’s head, kneaded the base of the dog’s ears. “Aw, good ol’ Josh. Good boy.” Josh groaned, stood, leaned in, then shook his head. Bobby rocked back. “Don’t bump me, Boy. There.” Josh stopped, looked up. Bobby sighed. “Ah ... let me just scratch your ears.”

“Hey Man. Good you’re back. You made the front page of the paper.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. Look at this

DYING VET BACKS

CHEMICAL COMPANIES

______

Says He’d Go Again

“Says I backed who?”

“Hey, you’re a celeb. UPI. That’s carried all over the country. Calls you a ‘self-made man.’ Talks about you as a ‘manufacturer of environmental products.’ Let’s see, ‘entrepreneurial spirit upon which America was founded ...’ I liked this part. ‘Wapinski claims that the causes over which America went to war were noble and just and that Agent Orange was a legitimate weapon in the fight against communism.’”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It says here you hope your corporation will become as large and as powerful as Dow Chemical. That you hope someday to be in the same manufacturing association.”

“No, that’s not what I said at all.”

Later that afternoon Bobby took Josh into the barn. They climbed aboard the creaky old homemade elevator constructed for Pewel a decade earlier. Slowly it raised the old dog and the frail man up to the loft. They entered Grandpa’s office, opened the thermal curtains letting the room flood with light. For nearly an hour Bobby sat, scratching Josh’s ears, both just sitting, Bobby covering one eye, looking out at the farm, the pond, the woods, thinking of the gap, wondering if he could ever again attempt that hike or walk through the cathedral of eastern hemlock or sit at the fire circle.

After a time Bobby removed the file of ideas and notes, of half-written thoughts and collected articles, that he had labeled “The High Meadow Code.” The file was thick. Indeed it was not a single file but three files: one with articles on environmental policies and plans; one with the best thoughts and plans for housing, energy, and a sustainable future; and one, the main file, containing Bobby’s own writings. Slowly, purposefully, he spread the sheets, sorted them into beginning and end, into myriad central elements. By the time the work was spread and organized it was eight o’clock, dark. Josh had slept through Bobby’s labor. Now, happily, he rose, nuzzled Bobby’s legs, descended with him to the main floor, returned to the house.

Sara was hurt. Angry. Bobby apologetic. Sara, her back to Bobby as she washed the dinner dishes, “Can’t you spend some time with us?”

“I’m sorry. I lost track of the time.”

“Noah’s really upset about that ‘Dying Vet’ story. He spent all evening decoding it.”

“I’ll talk to him. I ... You remember Granpa’s code?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want to finish that. That story, you know, ‘the self-made man’ stuff. It set me thinking about all ... like Granpa used to say, ‘Civilization is a gift.’ We think we’re so independent yet really everyone of us is heir to this incredible complex structure that passes on language and light, everything from when to cut your toenails to advanced chemical treatments which can reverse aging and disease processes. It passes to us an education system which bathes us in inducer factors which cause us to differentiate into functionally different individuals which civilization requires to remain healthy.”

“Bobby—” Sara turned from the sink, “what are you talking about?”

“About the inducers of greed and the inducers of altruism.”

“Maybe you should talk to Noah.”

Then, with Noah, halfway up the stairs, seated like two buddies plotting a caper, “You get more publicity,” Bobby said softly, “if the newspapers ... They want you to be dying.”

Noah’s eyes opened wide. “Can they do that?”

“No. They have no effect on my health. What I mean is, in their story, if I sound like I’m dying, it makes for a more dramatic story.”

“Oh.”

“It gets more sympathy and they sell more papers that way,” Bobby said.

“And the chemical company,” Noah asked, “do you really back it?”

“No. He misquoted me. I was explaining to him that we had a small company. That all companies aren’t bad. That lately it seemed to me the media, you know ...”

“Uh-huh.”

“... has tried to paint them all, ah ... to describe them all as if they were all poisoning the environment. I said to him, What does that do to our civilization? To our children? If we eliminate the production-inducer from the bathing solutions of our culture ...” Bobby paused, simplified his explanation. “What attitudes will children have, when they’re grown, toward producing, toward working with materials, with their hands? Will they know how to work? Will they understand the benefits of manufacturing?”

“I know how to work.”

“I know you do. You’re an excellent worker. I’m very proud of you when you tinker out in the shop. But the papers, and especially TV, give us the impression all manufacturing is bad for—”

Noah broke in, “If you went back to Viet Nam, you’d leave us.”

“I ... but ...”

“It says you said you’d go back.”

“Hmm. That’s ... Noah, I can’t explain that to you. That’s the nature of guys who were airborne. Why we agreed to go in the first place. But I wouldn’t leave you to go there. I love you guys too much, and Mama, to go now.”

On Sunday morning Bobby and Sara took the children to Mass at St. Ignatius. Then, back home, Bobby again retreated with Josh to Grandpa’s office.

PREAMBLE—DRAFT

Before I am a living being I am an element of the earth ...

All afternoon Bobby wrote, rewrote, conceptualized, diagrammed the Ascending Line of Life, and the Great Flowing Circle of Nourishment. When it was again near dark he returned to the house.

On the twenty-ninth of August he spiked a temp of 101.

All the way up Bobby was nauseated, freezing. He lay, in the stifling car, the windows opened but a slit, wrapped in a blanket, one end over his head, covering his eyes. His head hurt. He lay rigid, seemingly holding on for dear life even though Tony drove more smoothly than he’d ever driven in his life.

The pain was different than all other pains Bobby had experienced. Other pains—mental, emotional, physical—had always, after the initial onset, given him strength, given him insight, stirred him to action. But this pain robbed him of focus, of his disciplined nonfocus, forced him to concentrate vaguely on himself. His body seemed to react to its self-destruction with a physical terror he could not control.

“This is not me ...” Tony heard him mumbling under the blanket. “Grant me the strength and courage to try hard ...” Fragmented thoughts or fragments escaping, seeping outward, reaching Tony’s ears, making Tony want to accelerate, to get there faster, yet afraid of bumps, of jars, of causing a bruise that might start an uncontrollable bleed. “I could run the Dipsea ... I’ve climbed the Indian ladder carrying Josh ... I could play full-court for hours ...”

“Hey Bobby, you hear the one about the bulimic party?”

Bobby only groaned.

“You know the difference between a rubber tire and three hundred and sixty-five used condoms?”

“What?”

Tony sighed inwardly. He’d broken through, gotten Bobby off himself. “One’s a Goodyear. One’s a really good year.”

A laugh, a groan. Silence. Tony’s mind scanning for new jokes. He heard more mutterings.

“... and to never give up.”

Labor Day, 1983, was September 5th—Sara was required to be in her classroom on Friday the 2d and again Tuesday the 6th. Students returned on the 7th. Sara did not come to West Haven on the 30th but came instead, for two days, on Saturday the 3d, her 36th birthday.

At this time, Josephine Pisano moved into the farmhouse at High Meadow, nearly full-time. Through September John Pisano Sr. went up daily. He brought up Johnny, who was now eighteen months, and who liked being with Am and Paul. Noah, assumed the roles of teacher, babysitter, supervisor, director. Jo cooked, cleaned, did the laundry. Linda helped. Annalisa assisted. John Sr. puttered in the gardens, fixed the wobbly front porch railing. Sara taught full-time, worked when she came home, still hosted rap-group meetings—the women’s group, the couples’ group—in the living room on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, and let the old staff run, covertly, new barn sessions. Sara was responsible, too, for the farm—planning, with Tony, ordering, overseeing, with Tony, paying bills, alone, paying percentages to Miriam, Joanne and Brian, and, alone, by arrangement, virtually everything else to the IRS. Every night she called; every Friday she packed up the kids, headed to West Haven. Every Sunday night she returned. Everything she did, work, chores, time with the children, with the groups, was scheduled around Bobby—getting to see him, talk to him, help him. And every week, almost every day, there was something new: a new infection, new fever, new bleed. Every day throughout September Bobby was scheduled for a possible surgery the next day. Every day, at High Meadow or in West Haven, Sara attempted to find, to convince, matching platelet donors. The fear of another transfusion reaction was constant. The fear of bleeds was continuous, of infections, of not having the money to make the trip, of paying everyday bills, the old Chevy giving out ... The list was endless.

And every day, something new.

“That’s how paranoid I am,” Bobby told Tony. “It’s the steroids. The doc thinks they’re responsible for my rib. I’m afraid ... I could stand up and my ankle might crumble. Or I could blow my nose and bleed to death.”

To Tony it wasn’t real, wasn’t fully tangible. Bobby looked frail but not so frail. Back on IV antibiotics and transfused he sounded healthy. Whatever unacknowledged fatalism his body held, his conscious actions did not betray. Then his crit would fall. Then a new infection or an unfound infection would erupt, re-erupt. Then Bobby’s mind would sag, cave in upon itself, and he would have to fight to rise to zero, to overlook positive; and his doctors would grasp at new treatments, attempting to find the specific yet elusive magic bullet for his changing condition.

—Another bone marrow. “To see how fast the leukemia is spreading, growing,” Doctor Dachik told him. “If it’s the slow-growing kind, a very slow-growing leukemia ... well, the chances of you surviving a slow-growing leukemia are greater than of you surviving chemotherapy.”

“Huh!”

“If it’s the fast-growing variety ... chemo will be ...”

“A last ditch effort?”

—“Ahhh! No change from the last biopsy. No chemo.”

—“Sorry. Low-level chemo. A continuation of the August treatment but changing the mixture ...”

—“Sorry. Another bleed. We need a chest X-ray. Need a gallium scan. Need a CAT scan.”

—“You’re still popping fevers.”

“I know. One oh one, eight. That’s the highest ...”

—“Seems to be a hairline fracture.... Can’t find it.... Could be a pleural effusion.... Could be ...”

—“The multiple transfusions and the ensuing bilirubin have caused gall stones which may be the source of the infection ... gall bladder ... removal ...”

“Forget it! It took you guys seven times to do my arm. We’re talking periphery there. You’re talking deep inside ...”

—Tony: 20 September: “What the hell you doin here, Man? Are you ready to die? What are you stayin in the VA system for? You got leukemia. That’s curable, Man. You don’t have to die from leukemia. Hey! Look! What the fuck do you think the VA’s goina do for ya? The VA wants you to die! It cost them money to have you in here. You’re not payin. They’re not makin a profit on you. You cost them money! It is in their best interest if you die quickly. They’re not trying to cure you. Get your fuckin act together, Man. Get the fuck out of this hospital. Get your ... Aah, stop feelin sorry for yourself and get your ass up to Boston General or to that Jewish hospital out on Long Island that specializes in leukemia. Man, they’ll have you in remission in five, six weeks.”

Bobby chuckled. “And who’s going to pay ...”

“I will. I’ll sell my house.”

“No you won’t.”

“I’m serious, Bobby. It’s not you. It’s not part of you. Why do you need it? You don’t need to be sick for me. We’re all sick of you being sick.”

“Me too.”

“Man,” angrily, “you’re letting it do to you whatever it wants. And you’re saying, ‘Look what it’s doing to me.’”

Joking. “Makes a good media show.”

“Fuck it! Fuck them hangers-on. Those bastards hooked on tragedy. Don’t mean nothin, Bobby. What means somethin is what you’re going to do about it. Your words.”

“My words?”

“Uh-huh.”

—On Friday the 23d Sara and the children arrived to celebrate Paulie’s sixth birthday with Bobby. Aside, while Bobby blew on a noisemaker, Noah explained to Tony, “I’m eight and a half. Pop’s going to buy me a bicycle when I’m nine.” And a little later Am said, “Pawpee, know what? For my birthday I want you to get big and strong again.”

—On the 26th: “Don’t tell Sara.”

“What?”

“Do you remember Stacy Carter?”

“Oh yeah! Great—”

“She sent me a card.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You know, nothin much. Just a blank card. An Ansel Adams photo of Half Dome in Yosemite. And a ‘Get Well Soon’ written inside.”

“Who’s the cute doctor down there with the nice legs?”

“Her? I don’t like cute doctors. She makes me nervous. She always wants to see my butt. I hate that. Leave me alone. I’m sweaty. I stink ...”

—Tuesday the 27th—Tony on the phone to Linda. “They just aspirated 300 cc of blood from a pleural effusion which was causing his lung to collapse. They want to reenter the cavity with a larger needle but they’re afraid that might create even more bleeding. They want to try but his bleeding time, you know, in you or me it’s maybe two minutes, they can’t do surgery if it’s over nine minutes, and even after infusing ten units of platelets and rushing him to the OR his bleeding time was twenty-five and a half minutes!!! It’s driving him crazy. Sara too. It seems, you know, because of potential liability ... Good God! Like how much more liable and how much greater remuneration ... Shit ... Seems every night they ask him to sign a permission and liability release agreement okaying the next day’s procedure. And he knows full well that he’s approving a procedure that could cause him to bleed to death....”

—On the 28th of September they suspended the chemotherapy, explaining to Bobby that it might be the chemo, not the leukemia, which was causing the bleeds; explaining further his options: full guns chemo, change the chemo, no chemo. Over the next few days he agreed to a two-month ceasefire to give his body a chance to regroup, rest, rearm enough to sustain him through the next chemo battle.

—“Bob, the problem is we can’t seem to stop the bleeds.”

—“Bob, the problem is you keep spiking these temps.”

—“Bob, I’ve got to be straight with you. There’s only a ten percent chance you’ll survive a full course of traditional chemo.”

—Sunday, October 9th: “Don’t tell him.”

“I know. But he should be told.”

“It’ll kill him. You know how attached ...”

“What if one of the children says ... It would be better if he were told.”

“No. Shit! Poor Josh.”

“You know he couldn’t hear anymore. I’m sure he never heard the car. You know how he was always down there at the road.”

“Yeah. Rodney’s really broken up over it. He blames himself.”

—Monday, 15 October: “Full guns chemo, Bob. Your choice. It’s designed to force the cells to differentiate and mature but it will make you very ill. Nauseous, vomiting, hair loss, and there’s only a ten percent chance ...”

To chemo or not to chemo?

Bobby explained it to Sara, detached, as if he were saying, “One b.l.t. coming up. Mayo or no mayo?”

She couldn’t answer. She let him talk on. “It’s like attacking a hill,” he said. “You attack it because if you don’t, it means eventual defeat and loss of the entire country. But by attacking we risk immediate defeat, yet there is hope for eventual victory. Even if it’s only one percent, you go for it.”

Sara touched her chin, ran her hand down onto her neck. She despised the green walls of his room, the buffed aluminum frame of his bed, the uncomfortable chair for visitors in which she’d spent so many days. If it means ... she thought but she could not say that. She tilted her head, gazed at Bobby. “When?” she asked softly.

“Not till after Thanksgiving,” Bobby said. “When my strength’s up.”

Bobby reached out his arm. Sara grasped his hand. Bobby winked. “You better go,” he said. “It’ll be dark before you hit New York.”

“Um. Guess I’d better.”

“Give me a call when you get in so I know you’re safe.”

“I might wake you.”

“I’ll feel better if I know. Give the kids a hug for me, too.”

Through October, into November, Sara came every weekend. Every weekend she brought the children. They visited twice each day but spent most of their weekend time at the Boyers’. Tony had stayed Monday through Friday in September, but less time as the fall progressed. Don Wagner filled some of the gaps: and Jeremiah Gallagher, and Carl Mariano, Tom Van Deusen, Kevin Rifkin, Rodney Smith, Renneau, Denahee, Fernandez, Bechtel and Hacken. Each pulled his stint at guard, at watch, never leaving Bobby without someone close by.

Through October and into November Bobby’s condition worsened. Some days he read. Some days he wrote letters. Some days he talked with other patients or with official visitors—a local Catholic priest, a national reporter—or with whichever vet was up from High Meadow. But visitors were discouraged. Bobby was technically, if not practically, in reverse isolation. Visitors were required to wear masks, gowns and gloves so as not to expose his frail immune system to worldly viruses. The rules were not enforced and Bobby seldom mentioned it to anyone. Instead he closed his door. A week before Halloween, he began recording the tapes.

Hi Noah. This is your pop. I’m talking to you on a tape recorder at the West Haven VA. Today is Wednesday, October 26th. I’d rather be with you but right now I can’t be and I want to say some things to you I may never have the chance to say.

You are my eldest son and I love you very much. The day you were born was the happiest day of my life. If I close my eyes I can see you and hear you on the day you spoke your first word, the day you first learned to walk holding on to Josh, the first time you went to camp, your first day of school. How proud you were to walk up the steps of the bus that first time. Most recently I think of you at the beach, burying me in the sand, then running for the surf and turning back to me and saying, “Let’s go!” You’re already a great person, a great brother to Paul and Am. Always believe in yourself. Listen to your heart. Noah, you’ve a good heart and a good mind. When someone’s yelling at you for something, judge yourself. Trust yourself. Trust your feelings, Noah. Even if it is Mama yelling at you. You’ve a good soul, a good mind, and a good heart. Look inside yourself for answers.

That’s the essence. Here come the particulars. The drug that I’m about to take might kill me. And if it does, then you’ll have this tape to remember me by. If it doesn’t, you’ll simply never have this tape. There’s so much I want to say to you, because I love you so much. I don’t want my death to be something that ruins your life. I don’t want it to be an excuse for you to not achieve all you’re capable of. Rather it should be a reason for you to succeed. To be the best person you can be. And the happiest. I guess I worry more about you than I do Paul or Am because, well, you are the oldest.

And I guess the biggest problem right now is, I don’t feel I’m going to die. I think this drug is going to work. And I’m going to get better. And you and I, Paulie and Am and Mama, we’ll have a great life together.

One of the most important things I want to say, Noah, is I don’t want to see you in a war. I don’t want you killing anybody. And I don’t want anybody hurting you. That may sound selfish, and people are going to give you arguments about loyalty to country and duty to humanity. You remember this. You remember how sick your Pop was. And you see what loyalty and duty did for him. See how loyal the country was to him when he needed them most. Noah, you don’t have to go into the service to prove to anyone you are a man. You are going to be a fine young man. There is no doubt about it. Should you need to fight, pick your causes and your battles carefully. And be equally careful picking your allies. No matter your strength, no matter your fire power, a weak pointman can lead you into a kill zone.

I hope you stay active in sports all through school. It shows respect for your physical body. And please study. Do your best. It shows respect for your mind.

I don’t have to tell you to love your mother. You do. And you always will. I know that. But don’t forget that you have your own life, too. And don’t be afraid to explore that. I hope that you and Paul and Am will always be friends, and that all of you and Mama will always be a family that helps each other. And if you get married and have children, you can go to Mama’s house and the grandchildren will be there, and that you’re all happy. That’s what I want for you, Noah. I want you to experience the elation of learning and doing, loving and growing, living and expanding.

I want you to remember that you have responsibilities, too. When you get old enough to drive, don’t you do any of that drinking and driving business. And when you’re dating, remember, treat the girls with respect. You have responsibilities. I certainly hope you don’t get any young girl pregnant. That’s one of your responsibilities. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin when you graduate high school. I was, and you still were born.

I wish I could hold you right now. You’re always the one that comes back for a special hug. You were such a beautiful baby, and are such a handsome boy. And strong! I love you, Noah. I loved you from the moment you were born. I was so proud and so worried that day. You had respiratory distress and had to be suctioned a number of times and I stood by you every time watching over you. Someday you’ll be on your own, standing on your own two feet. And you’re going to do just fine. You’re very fortunate. You have a mother who really cares, who loves you and takes care of you. And you have a brother and a sister who put up with you when you become “the Director.” You’re good at that. As you get older you’ll learn how to do that with a lot more class. It’s called selling. And it’s called leadership. Lead by principles. By a code.

I think about all the things that could have been between you and me. All those little milestones in your life when I’d like to be there. When you turn sixteen. When you graduate from high school and college. When you get married. When your children are born. I’d like to be there to see the smile on your wonderful face. To pat you on the back and say, “Way to go, Kiddo.”

I feel so frustrated. I never knew my father. And I want to be a Pop for you as long as I can. I hate this disease, Noah. It’s taking me away from you. It’s stopping me from being a Pop. I made it without a mother, too, so you’re light-years ahead of me. Your mother and I love you so much. We’re rooting for you all the way. I want to be there with you just to see the look in your eye.

This is an important point, Noah. You are worth all the good things that can happen to you. You are worth having a good life. You are worth all the blessings of God. One thing I don’t want you to worry about, you’re not going to get what I have. It is not something that is passed down from father to son. You’re healthy. Agent Orange has not affected you. Don’t worry about it. Just go out there and live your life.

I don’t want to say good-bye. There’s so much I want to say, I could ramble on for hours. I want to hang on, Kiddo. I don’t want to leave you. Don’t blame yourself for what’s happened to me. You had nothing to do with this. Don’t blame God, either. All the good things in the world came from God. You and Paul and Am came into Mama’s and my lives from God. And Mama came into my life, not by some fluke, but she was a gift. When you were little babies people used to say, “What do you do with little babies?” And we’d say, “You cherish them. Ya hug em and you hold em close.” I cherish you, now, Noah. Still. Always. I’d love to see you become a man. I can imagine what you’re going to be like when you’re a teenager. Oooo-weee! It makes me happy right now thinking about you having a great time.

It’s hard to talk right now. There’s a lot of noise in the hall. I feel good today. I think I’m getting better. I want to get better. I don’t ever want to give you this tape. I’d be happy just watching you get up in the morning, making you breakfast, seeing you go off to school. Maybe that sounds boring but to me it sounds like a great life. You know, Mama brought your picture, and Paulie’s and Am’s. It’s on my bedside table. I look at you, at all of you and I say to myself, “There it is! Because of them, I’m going to get out of here.” That’s what you do for me. Because of you and because of Mama, I’m fighting real hard to get better.

You’ve brought so much joy into my life, Noah. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for being you. I’m not going to say good-bye. I don’t want to say good-bye.

Take care, Noah. Love yourself. Think good things about yourself. I love you.

On Thursday the 27th Bobby made a similar tape for Paul, with specifics just for his second son. In this tape Bobby’s voice was weaker. And he did not mention recovering. On Friday the 28th he made a tape for Am.

... God blessed me with being able to be there when you were born. And it was scary and it was beautiful all at the same time. We counted your fingers and your toes. I counted them for Mama. And I told her you were definitely a girl. And all your fingers and toes were there. And the tears that your Mama cried, the tears of joy. She was so happy. You were so beautiful. And all your fingers and toes were there. You were perfect. You were the prettiest baby born that day. When other parents would come to see their babies they’d see you in the little bassinet in the nursery, they’d point to you and they’d say, “Isn’t that a beautiful baby.” And it’s true. I was in love with you—well, I was in love with you the moment I knew Mama was pregnant. And I fell in love with you again the day you were born. And again the first night I changed your diaper. And the first night you slept in the crib that Granpa made. As a matter of fact, I slept under the crib that night because I was afraid you’d be lonely. Now you’re getting older and I love you even more. I guess that’s why this is so hard. I want to get big and strong for you again. You’re going to be a beautiful young lady and by the looks of it, I won’t be there.

That’s not really true.

I will always be there—my spirit will be with you—never to look over your shoulder but there for you, to give you strength. That is what comes to us and is available to us always from our ancestors and especially from father to daughter. I’ll always be there with you, I’ll always enjoy your pleasures, your joy at having your first child, at winning games, at every achievement—when you have your own company, when you are chairperson of the board, when you are president. Know that when things are tough, when things look bleakest, that I am in you to help you and to give you strength. You are a precious person. You are my daughter.

When I die, my spirit will pass on to you. You will have all my strengths plus all of your own. And because there is Noah and Paul, the strength is multiplied. When I spoke to Noah, on his tape, I said I will miss most of all not watching you three grow up. But I know now that I will not miss that. No, I will always be watching. I will smile with your smiles and cry with your tears as I now know my granpa and granma have watched over me. My wonderful children, if ever you feel sad or weak or down, if ever all things seem to be set against you, dig down, dig deep into yourselves, and you will find strength. There is strength in you that you don’t even know. Some of it comes from me, through me, from the beginning of time. My love for you grows every day and in the next life it will know no bounds.

Mill Creek Falls, 31 October, 6:00 P.M.—They looked like the descending bars of a xylophone. Michelle was dressed as a skeleton, Gina as a ghoul; then Adam, Nate (John and Molly’s boys) and Noah as Ninja warriors; then Paul as He-Man; Am as She-Ra; Johnny as a pumpkin; and finally Mark Jr., the newest Pisano, as either a mummy or a bowl of spaghetti. Mark and Cindy had agreed to take them all trick-or-treating. John and Molly went to get the pizzas. Linda and Tony were alone, setting the table for the return of the masked marauders, ooooing and ahhhing at the costumes of the children who rang their bell. Tony was in no mood for the party, felt guilty not leaving for West Haven, not being with Bobby on this Monday.

“Don’t pour the soda yet,” Linda said.

“Why not?”

“It’ll go flat before they get back.”

“Oh.” Dull. He sounded and felt numb.

“Babe, please don’t pour it.”

“Oh! Geez. I didn’t even realize ...” Tony stopped, stood still, blurted, “What do you think of macrobiotic diets?”

“You’re thinking of Bobby, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen some articles that suggest they can be effective. I’ve seen others which say they lack basic nutrients.”

“You know what he said to me? He said he wanted a pine coffin.”

“Oh.” A pause, then, “How’s he looking?”

“He ... he’s wasting away. He’s just wasting away. He’s getting these sores on his arms and in his mouth. There’s nothing left to him.” Tony’s voice dropped off. He began filling the plastic cups with soda again.

“It’s terrible,” Linda said. “It’s a terrible thing.”

“I don’t know....” Tony stopped again, realized again he was pouring the soda. “He said he wanted it lined with burlap. And he said it should be pegged not nailed together and the handles should be pine also. He wants me to make it.”

“His coffin?!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why would he want—”

“So it’ll rot. He wants to be buried near his grandfather and grandmother. Without any concrete vault. So his body might return to the earth and nourish—that’s what he said—nourish future plants and animals.”

“Are you going to do it, Babe?”

“I ... I hate thinking about it. I hate playing his nurse. I hate playing his good buddy. Do you remember, he used to have blond hair. He used to be really hard. Sinewy. I don’t know what’s keeping him alive.”

“You are, Babe. All of you.”

Sara too was depressed, exhausted. Though she had spent the weekend in West Haven it had almost been as if she’d never left Pennsylvania. The exhaustion was numbing. And frightening. Sunday night, on the way home, with the children in the car, coming up the last stretch of dark road from Eagles Mere, she’d nodded at the wheel, been jarred awake by the tires bouncing in the grass and by the slapping of small branches against the windows.

She sat in the bedroom. The children were with Tony and Linda. She sat, numb, slowly gazing from one object to the next, not actually seeing them, thinking though she did not want to think it, What will it be like after he dies? Will I meet someone else? Someone who doesn’t have all these problems? Oh, what a horrible thought. What a horrible person I’ve become. How could I ... I didn’t even call ... Thank God Jo’s helping. I couldn’t ... Oh God, this cancer has taken over my life too! I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t sleep. How can I teach? How can I bear this cross?

For three weeks all was status quo—the trips, the worry, the prayers, the exhaustion. Except for Bobby. He’d gained a few pounds. His voice was strong, and the sores in his mouth and on his arms were healing. On Wednesday morning, the 23d of November, the day after Am’s fourth birthday, Bobby called his mother.

“Three-one-five-four.”

“Hi. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s your son, Rob.”

“Oh, Rob. Thanksgiving isn’t until tomorrow.”

“I thought I’d call early. How are you?”

“My condition’s worse. My ankles are swollen. My knees ache. And you know how my stomach is. I went to the doctor’s, three different doctors in the past three weeks. But they can’t find anything. I think they say that so they can do more tests. Did you know that most of the labs are owned by doctors?”

“Really?”

“Yes. And ...” Miriam rambled on, “this one said ... Then that one gave me ... Then I took ... I already had that test but I couldn’t tell Doctor Denham because I didn’t tell him I was seeing ...” Finally, “Why did you call?”

“Just to say Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Did you catch something from one of those girls you go with?”

“What?!”

“Those floozies. That redhead! I don’t think our family will ever live that down.”

“What red ... You mean ...”

“And that Carter girl! She’s been married five times.”

“I don’t think s ...”

“But you’re all right?”

“Huh? I’ve got ...”

“From that floozie. Is she part Negro?”

“Sara?!”

“Oh, if Mrs. Meredith ever saw her ... You know, you could move back here. You could leave that floozie and come home.”

“Back off. That’s not what I called for.”

“Well, if that’s not what you called for, why did you call?”

“Do you know that I’m very ill? From Agent Orange.”

“Oh, come, Rob! Agent Orange is a crock of poo. I saw that on TV. Now if you’d been a decent young man ...”

“I don’t believe I’m listening to this.”

“Just as long as you remember the check. Why didn’t you sign it last time? How come she signed it? It wasn’t even—”

Bobby hung up. His arms were shaking. His breathing was shallow.

By the time Sara and the children arrived, along with Tony, Linda, and their children, and Don Wagner and Tom Van Deusen, Bobby had calmed. But tiredness lingered.

Sara acted as gatekeeper. She would not allow the visitors to enter en masse. She parceled his time, granted them brief audiences, even Noah, Paul and Am.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“What, Pawpee?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Am wiggled. “Uh-huh.”

“Give me your hand.” The little girl reached up, grasped Bobby’s hand. He squeezed. “How’s that?”

“What?” She giggled.

“Pretty strong, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You told me you wanted me to get strong for your birthday. So I did.”

“Can you give me a piggyback ride?”

“I don’t have any clothes on.”

“Ye-ees youz do!”

“Just pajamas. Maybe next time. I ... I gave Uncle Tony your present. Did he give it to you?”

“Uh-huh. I got a crown.”

“A tiara, huh? That’s because you’re a princess. It’s a magic tiara.”

Paul came in. Shy, quiet. “I love you, Paulie. Hold my hand a minute.”

“I love you too, Papa.”

“Trust your own heart in all things. Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“Trust yourself.”

“Don’t go, Papa.”

“I won’t. I’m so glad you’re my son.”

Then came Tony. “How ya doin, Man?”

“Ah, the kids ... you know, I really want em here but it’s a real struggle.”

“Hey—” Tony’s face brightened. “You know the definition of a real good buddy?”

Bobby began to chuckle. “No.”

“He’s a guy,” Tony said, “who goes to town and gets two blow jobs, then comes back and gives you one.” They both laughed. “Maybe,” Tony continued, “you heard the one ...”

Noah entered, remained, came out, came to the solarium waiting room, sat on Tony’s lap. “Pop says, on my birthday, he’s going to teach me to ride a bike. He’s going to tell me tomorrow. I’m going to come back tomorrow and he’s going to tell me. Just Pop and me.”

On Thanksgiving morning Noah had the sniffles and Sara decided neither the children nor the adults, except Tony, should enter Bobby’s room, should expose him, immunologically spent, to a potentially lethal virus. Instead they talked, gestured, waved from the hallway. By evening Sara would not let the children be exposed to the sight of their father.

He was frail. His hair was gray. A large patch had fallen out from one side making it look as if there was a hole there. From morning to evening his entire countenance changed. The sores that had been healing cracked and oozed and Linda helped the nurse re-bandage Bobby’s arms and legs with white gauze, and his back with large patches. His eyes teared. He drooled, coughed up bloody mucus.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at the West Haven VA.” Sara’s voice was firm, controlled.

“Is this our house?”

“Yes.”

“We live here?”

“Yes. We live here.”

Bobby’s words began to slur. “You and me?”

“Yes. You and I.”

“Just you and I?”

“Yes.”

“What about Josh? Where’s Josh?”

“He’s ... upstairs.”

“Good.”

In the hallway, Sara, “Tony, take the children home.”

“Okay. I’ll drive em, then come back. Or Linda could drive ...”

Word spreads quickly in a small town. By Friday it seemed everyone knew Bobby was dying. And everyone was upset.

She banged on the door.

Miriam answered. “Yes.”

“Mrs. Wapinski?”

“Cadwalder-Wapinski. Who are you?”

“Josephine Pisano. I’ve been taking care of your grandchildren for three months.”

“Oh. Which ones?”

“How could you?! Your son is dying!”

Now defensive, her voice sharp, piercing, “How could I what?!”

“If I had only one kidney, or one lung, or my heart, and one of my children needed it ...”

“Well, I’m not you!”

“You didn’t even go for the blood test. Three hundred of his friends went. They’re his true family. You wouldn’t lose anything. You—”

Miriam slammed the door.

The road, the dirt mud road with the stone wall running to the mountain, the paddy. Why am I in white? In white! Snipers! In white. Next. Cover me, Man. One more assault, Sir. We almost had em last time. We lost three bodies ... Ty? Ty! Ty, go over ... up Man, cover me, we’ll have a beer when this is over. Then we’ll talk. Next. Not that one. Put him in the ... One more sunrise. One more first light. Are you my dad? Dad! Dad, I’m just like you. Am I just like you? Death is unlife. Death is not being part of life. Death is an inducer of false exile, false estrangement, false expatriation. One more first light, Josh, ol’ Buddy. Good buddy ... two blow jobs ... mallards on the pond. You don’t have to scare em. Look at those hinges. They’ll last a hundred years. Who’ll cut the Christmas trees? Put this one in the corner ...

For a week Bobby’s hallucinations, flashbacks, periods of confusion and delirium flip-flopped with periods of total lucidity. His physical deterioration was erratic. At times, though bedridden, he seemed strong. Emotionally, when lucid, he was confident. Twice he received whole blood transfusions. Twice he received platelets. Three times his antibiotic mixture was adjusted. On Wednesday, 7 December, the hematologists began a new chemotherapy, a totally new treatment that had never before been used on leukemics. Dachik was hopeful. Wilcoxson had reservations. Before deciding, he had outlined the procedure, the theoretical response, the actual response in culture and animal studies. Bobby, totally lucid, had asked a multitude of questions, had read the new permission-to-treat form, signed it, signed too a form titled Permission to Perform Autopsy. “Don’t withdraw on me now, Doc,” Bobby had said to Lily Dachik.

“As long as you understand the risks,” she’d countered.

Bobby’d smiled. “Let’s give it a shot. No pussy-footin around. We’re not politicians. We don’t have to do just enough to appease ...”

“Bob—” Wilcoxson had laid a hand on Wapinski’s bed but had not touched him. “We’re at a very critical point. But I don’t want you to think last shot and give up.”

“No, Doc. Really. I understand. We’re going to get through this.”

“We’re going to get through this,” Bobby repeated to Tony that evening. He was nauseated. The new chemo was kicking in.

“Yeah.” Tony wanted to believe, wanted to sound up, sound positive. “Hey, I ever tell ya—”

“About the good buddy?” Bobby chuckled.

Tony laughed too. “Naw, I was doing the farm books. This last spring, we got a hundred and fifty gallons of medium amber syrup from two hundred taps. At fifteen bucks a gallon that’s over twenty-two hundred bucks. Not bad, huh?”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation lapsed. Bobby became more nauseated. He coughed. Tony cleaned his chin.

“How old am I?” Bobby asked.

“Thirty ... Yer about a year and a half older than me. Thirty-seven, huh?”

“Um. I thought I’d die at twenty-five.”

“Across the pond?”

“No. I mean even before Nam. When I was a kid. I thought I’d die by twenty-five. Even after Viet Nam—” again the cough, the cleaning, “I thought, you know ...”

“Yeah. I think I ... When I was bumming around. I figured ...”

Bobby wasn’t listening. He wanted to talk. He cut in. His words began to slur again. “God gave me twelve more years. I did a lot in twelve years, didn’t I?”

“Come on, Man. What kind of talk is this?”

“I married Sara. Then Noah—” coughing more frequently now, “Paul, ha! you should have seen your face when we named him Paul Anthony. Am ...”

“Paulie’s starting swim classes in January. I remember last summer, in the pond, he’s going to be a hell of a strong swimmer.”

“Um. Twelve years. The farm. The ...”

“Cut the shit, Bobby.”

“Really ...”

“Shit, Man! You’re bleeding. You’ve got blood in your mucus. I’m getting the nurse.”

Alone, in the solarium—Bobby in his room asleep, being watched by the floor nurses—they took special care of him—Tony sank into a cheap chrome-framed armchair. He too wanted to sleep but he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he should call Sara. He’d talked to her earlier. Talked to Linda, too. Had angrily told Linda about them asking Bobby to sign the autopsy permission form, but she’d answered that it was pretty much standard. He told his wife about Bobby, fully lucid, saying, “If it ever comes to where I’m on a respirator, I don’t want anybody but you or Sara deciding on the quality of my life. If I want the plug pulled, I’ll pull it myself.”

“Don’t,” Tony mumbled, “go unassing this AO, Man. Just don’t.” He slid farther down in the chair. His head rested on the hard seatback, his butt hung two-thirds over the edge, his knees were bent at ninety degrees supporting him uncomfortably, almost lying down. Tony’s eyes closed. His face sagged. He was in the room with Bobby but the room was dark, dank, small. They could not stand, could not sit, had to lie prone. Bobby was coughing, spitting up. He needed to pull him up, pull him through. Above, far above, outside the tunnel, they pulled, pulled the rope he’d looped over Bobby in the deep. Tony coughed. In sleep, dream, he raised his hand to clear his mouth but his hand was filthy with others’ sputum. His stomach tightened, churned ...

Tony sat up. He was stiff. His neck was sore, his legs below the knees were asleep. He could go to the Boyers’. Could find an all-night diner. Could sleep on the floor except the floor was dirty. He rose. It was after two. He checked on Bobby. The night-duty nurse was sitting in the chair beside his bed. The table lamp was on. In its light she’d been writing her shift notes. She looked up, put a finger to her lips. Bobby was not asleep but seemed to be resting. Occasionally his chest trembled in a feeble cough.

On Friday night Sara and the kids arrived. Bobby’s condition had remained stable. He had not eaten in two days, was being fed intravenously. His cough persisted. The blood content of the mucus had increased though not substantially. His eyes were bloodshot, the surrounding skin was black and blue as if he’d let his guard down and been pummeled. His skin was chalky. He was semilucid, semidelirious.

“Bob.” She went to him, kissed his forehead.

The children remained in the hallway with Tony. Bobby turned his head, looked at her, didn’t answer.

Sara kissed him again. “I’ll be right back.” She exited. In the hall she whispered to Tony. Tony nodded. To the children she said, “Pappee is very sick right now. And very tired. We’re going to let him rest. Uncle Tony will take you to the Boyers’. I’m going to stay here. Right now he needs me more than you need me. Tomorrow we’ll try to have you come in.”

Bobby coughed again, and again. He hadn’t slept since the onset of the coughing. “I talked to Mark Tashkor, today,” Sara said. “He heard from Victor Yannecone. The number of claims against the chemical companies has risen to two hundred and thirty-three thousand. Eighty thousand are for serious ailments. Something beyond chloracne.”

Bobby looked at her. His eyes showed no comprehension of her words. Sara gritted her teeth. She talked calmly of the children, of school, of the call from Vertsborg and of Jo having gone to see Miriam. Then she simply sat with him, held his hand.

Tony returned. He stood in the hall. He did not want to interrupt. He watched as Sara spoke, as Bobby watched her, as she repeatedly cleaned his face, as she silently cried, and as Bobby responded by crying too.

Then his coughing became much worse. There was much more blood. He gagged. Tony ran for the nurse. Sara stood. Her arms shook. She tried to clean him, his face. Her gentle hands bruised his chin. His platelet count had dropped to nothing. The nurse found no blood pressure. No pulse. Another nurse came. A technician, a medic. Immediately they began CPR, injected him, through the IV tube, with digitalis and/or other drugs.

“Call Dachik. Call Wilcoxson.” “Start a unit of platelets.” “Call the unit. He should be down there.” “Where?” “ICU.” “No time.” “I’ve got a pulse.” “Start another IV.” “Tony, call the Boyers.” “He’s bleeding everywhere.” “Dachik’s on her way.” “Is he still on that new chemo?” “What should I do next ...”

Next. Bobby tried to sit up. There are wires everywhere. Trip wires crossing jungle trails. His face is covered with blood. There is blood everywhere. Its stench permeates the room. He can smell it, taste it, see it. They’ve left him behind. Boyers. Bowers. Bowers and Eton. There is mud everywhere. The hillside is slick as blood mucus, sliding down, sliding down. “Cover me.” Bobby’s voice in the commotion. “I’m going back up.”

“Stop the antibiotics. Just saline. And platelets.”

They did not move him but worked on him, over him, worked him over, all night right there in his room with Sara right there, Tony there, Bobby totally docile, flaccid, then springing up wide-eyed, shouting, being restrained, shouting, “Bowers! Eton! L-T ...” Then mumbling, “L-T ... L-T ... I can’t remember his name.” Then docile again. Coughing, being suctioned. Resting. Then lucid, semilucid, “Tony. Tony, are they on the wall?”

“He’s hallucinating,” a nurse said. “Spiders on the wall. It’s common.”

Tony eyed her. Shook his head. Said to Bobby, “Yeah, Man. Their names are on The Wall. Right there in Lincoln’s thousand-yard stare.”

“Good. I think of them ...”

On Saturday, they had moved him to the ICU, with the chemo and antibiotics suspended, with additional platelets, Bobby regained a sense of the present. His breathing came easier. His coughing subsided. His pulse was steady, his blood pressure palpable. He rested. Occasionally he woke, looked to see Sara, now in a surgical mask, beside him, holding his hand. “They stopped all the drugs,” she told him. “Lily said they’ll reintroduce them one at a time to make sure they’re safe.”

“Um,” he answered.

To her it was the sweetest thing he’d ever said.

“They said I could stay in your room,” Sara said. She yawned. “Bobby, I’m going up to the room. It’s all cleaned up. Tony’s here. Bobby, I’ve got to rest.”

“Um,” he hummed again. Then he said to her, “We’re going to get through this.”

By Sunday Bobby had improved enough to sit up, to be propped up, for short periods. He was lucid, yet confused. When Tony came in Bobby thought he was the doctor. When Sara sat with him he thought she was his Aunt Krystyna. The children came but Tony told Sara he thought it best if they did not see him. “Not yet. Not until he’s a little better.”

Sara acquiesced. She was exhausted. To Lily Dachik she said, “How much longer do you think?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor answered.

“He’s going to kill me,” Sara said. “I can’t stand this. I’m going to be dead and he’s going to be lying in his bed. I hate this. I hate chemicals. I hate veterans. I hate what this has done to us. Why do we have to use up our energy for this?”

Doctor Dachik tried to soothe her.

“You don’t understand.” Sara burst into tears. “I’ve watched him lose.... He’s lost the business. Lost the institute. Noah keeps collecting books for him so he can have more god damn books when he comes home. I’ve tried to be here for him. I have to work. I have to be in my classroom. It hurts. I’ve tried to be his wife. To take care of him. And ... I can’t watch him die.”

“Go home, then,” Dachik said. “He’s responding well. It could be two or three more months.”

Sara was too tired to drive home the night of the eleventh. She called her school principal, asked for Monday off. She spent the night at the Boyers’.

On Monday, the twelfth, Bobby was returned to his old seventh-floor room. The crisis had passed. He ate an entire breakfast, his first food in four days. Mentally, too, he was back.

“Oh, my God,” Sara beamed. “I thought we were going to lose you.”

“Naw. I’m okay. Are the kids at the Boyers’?”

“Yes. They’re packed up. We were going to drive back.”

“How’s Tara?”

“You know.”

“I don’t know how they handle that.” Bobby grinned. “Maybe I do.”

“Um.” Sara smiled.

“I saw him last night.”

“Who?”

“It was very beautiful. Like coming out of dark water. Like our wedding.”

“What was?”

“The Holy Spirit. I could feel his hand on me. I can’t describe it. He was speaking in a tongue I didn’t know yet I could understand. He told me to believe.”

“Bobby!”

“Really.”

“This is amazing.”

“It was like a bright light but not glaring. Not like looking into a headlight but very bright. Very white. It came from the cathedral of the eastern hemlocks. I could see the hemlocks around us. It was very bright. And it was the light telling me ... telling me about the healing side of believing. About the baptism in water and the baptism in fire.”

“Bobby—” Sara said. He had never spoken this way before, spoken about a supernatural faith. They were Catholic but this went far beyond their religious learnings. If she were not so thrilled to have him back she would have been embarrassed. Still she did not know how to respond. “This is phenomenal!”

“We have this power,” he said. “We’ve been given it by the Holy Spirit. I’m ... I’m trying to believe. I’m struggling ... I’m trying to get in touch with it each time. This isn’t the first time but I didn’t understand.

“Tell the kids,” Bobby continued. “Tell them there is a God. That he loves them tremendously. That he loves me, too. Just as much.”

“You tell them. Let me go back and get them.”

When Sara returned Bobby was not in his room. “Where ...”

“They’ve taken him back to the ICU. They shouldn’t have brought him up so soon. His friend’s with him.”

“Tony?”

“I think.”

Then, downstairs, Tony, pacing, to Sara, the children in chairs in the corridor, “Damn it. The shit’s hit the fan.”

Sara, “What? How? He was just ...”

“His blood pressure fell through the floor. His white blood count’s back to nothing.”

“This isn’t supposed to happen!”

“He’s bleeding again. Coughing up ... He thinks he’s on Hamburger ...”

“Is Lily ...”

“She’s in with him. Damn.”

“I ... I’ve got to take the children back to the Boyers’.”

Later that night Lily Dachik said to Sara and Tony, “The quality of his life has reached a point that we have to know if anything should happen, which is possible at any moment, ah, how would you like us to handle that? We really feel that resuscitating him at this point would be of no value. It would be bringing him back ah, ah ... only to die again.”

Now Tony couldn’t handle it. He kicked the wall. Stamped his feet. “Goddamn it! My best goddamned friend is dying. Best goddamned human being who ever lived ... Goddamn Agent Orange ...”

Sara sat with Bobby, alone, holding his hand. His eyes were shut. He was semicomatose. She was afraid to speak, to open her mouth, afraid she’d wail. She took a deep breath. “I’m back,” she finally said. “I’m with you now. Do you understand that?”

Bobby squeezed her hand.

“Noah sends his love. Paul and Am, too.”

“Um.” Bobby’s hum was very quiet, very weak.

Again she sat quietly, feeling helpless. Then she rose, left.

Tony entered, hugged Bobby.

“... omm.” Very weak.

Tony put his ear to Bobby’s mouth. “What?”

“... omm.”

For a time he tried to understand but he couldn’t decipher the word. Sara returned. “ ... m ... omm,” Bobby said.

“Are you saying ‘home’?” Sara asked.

“hi ...” Bobby said.

“High Meadow?” Tony asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Bobby opened his eyes. “... m. take care of Noah,” he said. “And Paul Anthony. And Am.”

Tears flood Sara’s eyes.

“... tony ... take me home. I want to die at home. carry me home.”