When he was finally rescued—the town was relieved near the end of the war—Carl didn’t return directly to Indianapolis. Wealthy with back pay, he went first to the Mayo Clinic, for plastic surgery and other repairs; then he rejoined Rico and Concha, and two or three others from the RAF—there was an ex-prizefighter, whose only name, so far as I could find out, was Meat-Nose. They collected others—a singer named Joey was one—and formed a dance band. One or two got jobs as test pilots, on the side, and together they rented a ramshackle old house on the coast of California, which they all shared.
Leaving Minnesota, Carl came first to Indianapolis, staying only overnight—his manner as affable, his personality and presence as broad, hazarded, and infrangible as it had ever been. When I asked him once, only vaguely, about the war, he leaned back in his chair—I thought he would fall, or the chair would break; he laughed heartily, his great head rocking as I had seen it so often before—and changed the subject.
But he left his notes for me—though I didn’t find them until later. I don’t know how he did it—I was with him when he unpacked his duffle—saw him take out the dirty clothes, the spare airplane parts, pieces of sheet music, photographs of friends and bartenders; trinkets and lucky charms, Indian relics and archeological fragments; a thumbed and tattered collection of pre-war comic books—the circulating library of the pow camp; and, at the bottom of the sack, down among the last of the comics, a book that he must have picked up in England, published by John Lehman of London: Melville, H.: THE CONFIDENCE-MAN.
Again, for a long time, we heard nothing. Then a letter came from Meat-Nose . . . he had heard that I was Carl’s brother, and a doctor, and he was asking my help. He’d had a talk with Carl that he tape-recorded, without Carl knowing it, and he transcribed some of Carl’s words and sent them to me:
“I don’t expect you to understand, it’s a feeling that can’t be described. Joey is different . . . even after I’m through with him, the sensation of pleasure goes on and on and builds up until I’m drunk with it . . . nothing seems real, I’m above everything human, I see nothing but red streamers of blood widening out . . . For hours afterward I can see the kid’s eyes wide with pain, his face twisted, and I can hear that voice everyone admires so beating in my ears, in my blood . . . after I’m home in bed, I can relive the whole thing . . .
“I know he’s insane. I wish I could stop. I never felt this way with anyone before. There have been others who were afraid of me, but none like Joe. When he’s panicked to the edge of madness, I think my veins will bust . . .
“When his voice is gone, and he can’t manage to get on his knees without pulling himself up, I look at him, and I’m sad because he doesn’t die. I tell him I hate him, I swear at him, and he tries to get to his knees and starts kissing my feet and looks at me with those wild eyes . . . Even after I’ve thrown down the whip I like to sink my fingers into his flesh and twist it. He begs me to stop, prays to me, swears he wants to make me happy—then he says that if the only way I can love him is to hurt him, then hurt him more.
“What in hell keeps him alive? How does anyone survive . . . ? I thought sometimes that I’d reached the end with him, and I’ve even considered taking him away like he begs me to . . . let his hair grow, dress him like a woman, take him where everyone will think he’s my wife. I was about to make up my mind to do it, when he refused to let me cut him up so he’d look like a woman. Why in hell he wants to hang on to such a sorry mess of stuff as he has, I don’t know, but the little bastard clings to it as though it were made of gold . . .”