The Floatplane Notebooks (19 page)

I might can walk in a year, they said. It don't feel like it now. I'll have to get an artificial bank. Lank. Bank.

Across the Pacific seemed like forever, but from Randolph to Fayetteville, which is a whole lot shorter, seems twice as long. For one thing we've stopped four times. It's like a carrot in front of a donkey. It keeps pulling away.

At least this time I'm in a wheelchair. Those stretchers suck. There's an Air Force airman who's in charge of three of us. The other two are in a hell of a lot better shape than me, so the airman spends most of his time with me.

We all three have got our uniforms on.

I got a Purple Heart. And two purple nubs.

When the feeling started coming back, they stung and tingled like crazy, and people look at you like what's wrong with you. But I figured out the way to do it is don't try to talk unless you've practiced something over and over because you try to say it and can't, you come across real stupid. It comes out like a goose barking sometimes. It's like you can't control it.

They got my coat sleeve and pant leg pinned up nice. They got a little book on all this for AMPUTEES. Man, I've thought that word a thousand times, and I ain't got the nerve to try to say it.

So they got this little book for all the Mr. Nubs. It shows you a couple of ways to fix your shirts, jackets, pants. I'll have to do it the easy way: put my jacket sleeve in my pocket. Rhonda don't sew. And the book goes into all this stuff about artificial limbs. It says that for most people, artificial arms
never work out, and only about half the ones that need it end up with an artificial leg. The rest rather do without it. I ain't made up my mind. I'll have to see what I think.

There's going to be a therapist for me at home and all that, and I'll be able to try out several different styles of artificial limbs in about two months. Something I look forward to.

I got my voice back and I can say a few words. I got a little movement in my right shoulder and right hip.

I had one wet dream, and when they cleaned me up I didn't give a shit because it was worth it. One thing I could use is a warm, soft hand down there. Jackie, Jackie, Jackie, Jackie, Jackie.

The problem with me screwing Rhonda is that Rhonda will have to screw
me
and how the hell are you supposed to hold onto somebody with a nub and a paralyzed hand. Grip her shoulders? This is going to be a tough part of readjustment. That so-called counselor at Da Nang was in the wrong tree. He talked about all the wrong stuff. Emotional adjustment and all that. I ain't worried about the emotional stuff. Frankenstein. I'm worried about jacking off, or somebody else jacking me off, and fucking; and I'm worried about when Rhonda's going to leave, before or after the baby's born, and I'm worried about how I'm going to look like I'm supporting a family; the government is supposed to take care of that, thank God; and one of the things that galls me and scares me is holding the baby. Without dropping him, or her, whichever: Floatplane Jack, Floatplane Jane. What kind of daddy am I going to be? Whoopee. Time to play catch, time to play marbles, time to jump rope, time to talk, sing cowboy songs. Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.

It's amazing how much time you get to think when you can't talk or go nowhere. And you start to figure out what life is, which is doing things. Things you've already done, or are getting ready to do. Like I am, you can't do nothing but think.

If I can ever get to the place I can drive, then I can buy some kind of van with a lift. They had them in the pamphlet, too.

The plane engines are cut back; we're floating into Fayetteville. This thing hadn't got any windows so I can't look out at the trees. There's a knot been coming up in my throat. The pilot announced North Carolina. Damn if I want to start crying. It's going to be Rhonda, Mama, Papa, and Thatcher picking me up, and the rest will be waiting at home. My home dog, Fox, died. He was too old. Papa had him put to sleep. Bliss has wrote me more than Rhonda has.

My shoe—Johnny One-Shoe—is spit-shined. I look pretty good actually, considering.

We touch down, hard. Taxi. This knot in my throat. We stop. The ramp in the back of the plane is lowered. The Air Force guy rolls me out, slower than he needs to. There are other Army guys coming on board to roll some of the others out. There's a strong breeze. My hat's in my lap. We're rolling across the ramp, toward the terminal. No bands. I see people through the glass. Not Rhonda, Mama, Papa, Thatcher. But they're there, I know. Shit, I'm losing it. I'm going to be crying like a baby. No loud noises, please. I'm going to be crying like a baby. I hate it. They might as well be carrying me in a goddamned cradle. Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle—

In through the doors. I straighten up.

There they are. Rhonda in a white dress. She's gained
weight. Besides in her stomach. Her face. I say out loud to myself: “Hi, Babe.”

Here they come. I practice: “Hi, Babe. Hi, Babe.” God, Rhonda's crying, too. Thatcher, shit, Thatcher looks like he has every day of his life. Mama looks great. Papa looks old, tired.

Rhonda's arms come out toward me. Okay—loud, loud and clear:

“Hi, Bake.” Goddamn it.

Oh, her arms.

Tight. No, no, LONGER. I WANT YOU TO HOLD ME A MINUTE. Standing back now in that white dress. And Thatcher standing there patting me on the shoulder. I can't get the arm up yet.

Papa.

I work it up from the upper stem of my spinal cord, through my tongue and spit it out: “Papa.”

He reaches down and grabs my hand. Shit, he's crying, face all jerked around. I try to squeeze back. Useless.

Mama gives me the longest hug, and she says something in my ear but I don't understand it. I think about asking her to say it again but I can't.

Thatcher rolls me. Rhonda walks on one side, Mama on the other, Papa behind. The Air Force guy, I'd forgot him, is carrying both my bags. The other two fellows, I wanted to say bye to them. I got “bye” down pretty good.

They roll me out into the parking lot. The bright sunlight does funny things to my right eye. Try to explain that when you can't talk. “… the sunshine in. Take it with a grin.”

Thatcher takes my bags from the Air Force guy—who's
got leave now. He told me on the trip. He's going home to his girlfriend, and his boat, and his ‘62 Chevrolet, and his daddy's sheep farm, and three shotguns, and a rifle, and a guitar. “Bye,” I say in my Golden Tone.

We roll up to the jeep. Same old goddamn jeep. And a dog. Oh yeah. Mark's new dog, but I can't remember his name.

Son of a bitch if Papa ain't put a shell over the truck bed and he's—damn if he ain't rigged it for head room, and him and Thatcher's pulling out two boards, and they got a
rope
and—shit, watch this:

Papa ties the rope to the front of the wheelchair, between my legs—leg. Get it in the center, Papa. I'll guarantee you nobody in the U.S. Marines today calls their papa Papa except me.

Thatcher is behind me. Papa gets up into the truck bed, holding the rope. They start me up. I look over at Rhonda and Mama standing there. Two or three other people have walked up, a soldier too, and are looking. The soldier is looking at Rhonda. Rhonda and Mama are looking a little worried about me making it. Well, what the hell might happen? I might break my goddamned arm or something. I might FALL for Christ's sake, and break my goddamned arm—whoa—and THEY MIGHT SEND ME TO VIETNAM. This is a major risk operation. I wish I could holler. I wish I could holler that it's good to be home, even with old Thatcher around. Glory be.

Shit, that was pretty easy. They turn me around and back me up against the bed and fasten the back of the wheelchair to the damn truck bed—something Papa rigged. Right on, man. If I were a carpenter and you were a baby. Or something.
And Rhonda's got a lawn chair back here and is going to sit with me on the way home. Shit, Rhonda, you'd be riding with that goddamned sergeant if things were a little different.

While we ride, I spend most of my time looking at Rhonda and her fat stomach. Cars come up behind us and people look in.

Rhonda tells me over and over that they got a banner and everything for me at home. And that I look good.

I dreamed I was home in the graveyard twice, and then that dream about Mark that was the realest I ever had.

The cab shell has got crank-out windows. I watch Rhonda and then the pine trees. It's pretty noisy to talk. I can't hear her sometimes. The dog is laying down nice. Rex, that's his name. Fox died.

We turn in the driveway, and then Papa backs out into the road and turns the truck around and backs in the driveway and across the lawn right up to this sign: a sheet drooped over a badminton net that says
WELCOME HOME MEREDITH
.

It's real good to be here, but I want to jump out and hug everybody, and go out to the dog pen and yell at the dogs.

There they all are—standing at the steps. There's Bliss. Who is—Noralee? God, she's a hippie. Good for her. I bet old Thatcher's pissed.

Bliss. Bliss has got that look on her face. Bliss could take care of me forever and wouldn't think twice about it.

Aunt Esther. Corncob up her ass like always. Damn if she ain't crying too. Whoopee. Oh, God, get me through this. Where am I going to live and who with? Bury me not.

Look at them new yellow-wood ramps. Papa is at it again.

Inside, Aunt Esther has these pictures of Mark and his
airplane. That's wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful Mark.

I try not to talk any more than I have to. I can shake my head yes and no, push up my shoulder for maybe. I don't want to say what I ain't practiced. The therapist is supposed to come this afternoon.

What I'd like to know is what happened to God. Aunt Esther, you got him locked up somewhere, afraid to let him out—afraid he might hear somebody cussing, for Christ's sake? If that's the way it works He ain't ever been in a war. And you figure in a posse of twelve fishermen, you're going to have some nasty language. That's the part that gets left out. Boy, if they knew I'd smoked dope. WHOA. But some of the church women wrote me nice long letters. I got to give them some credit. Credit where credit's due.

And here comes Thatcher with a puppy, a damn bird dog puppy, lemon and white, with a damn red ribbon. Bliss done the ribbon.

“His name's Floatplane,” Rhonda says.

They put him in my lap and he's up licking my neck, wagging his tail. Shit, I'm losing it again.

Papa ain't going to allow no dog in the house over a minute.

They have my favorites for supper—T-bone steak, french fries, apple pie and ice cream. Rhonda feeds me. I got a little baby bib and everything. That was in the packet they sent home with me. Rhonda don't seem to mind. But this ain't Rhonda, friends. This ain't going to be her style for very long.

They talk about the trip, the packet, and all it says about getting me in bed.

Then the therapist comes and explains. He's nice. He explains stuff about the shit pan, and getting me in bed and
all that, and then leaves. They all ask me some yes and no questions. I'm Mr. Congeniality or whatever it is. Hi Bake.

After supper, Bliss is squatting down, talking to me straight on. She hugged me long and tight, like Mama. She will always hug me long and tight.

Aunt Esther is already gone. She was pretty shook.

Thatcher pats me on the shoulder. “That hurt, boy?”

I shake my head. HELL NO, THATCHER, IT'S A REGULAR GODDAMN NORMAL SHOULDER. IT DON'T HURT ANYMORE THAN NORALEE'S OVER THERE. THE HURT IS OVER. HIT ME ANYWHERE. YOU DUMMY.

He bends over a little bit, and says loud, like I'm deaf, “I'm glad you're back in one piece.”

SHIT ALMIGHTY. I AIN'T BACK IN ONE PIECE, THATCHER. THERE ARE SEVERAL OTHER PIECES. SHIT. ONE PIECE? THE REST OF ME IS COMING HOME UPS. YOU AIN'T CHANGED A BIT, THATCHER. I give him the shrug.

If Mark had Thatcher's stupidness and Thatcher had Mark's sissiness, they'd be even.

I got a brace for the good leg—or for the leg, period. I got a brace for the leg and that gets clicked out straight and two of them get under my arms and stand me up and I always get dizzy and everything whites out and nobody ever gives me a chance to settle down before they sit me down on the bed, so I don't get a chance to enjoy standing up very much. The bandages are off my head. My hair's growing back. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. My ear drains a little. Neat.

So now here are me and Rhonda in bed and I can feel this
ain't going to work out. I don't know how I feel it, but I know, because I know Rhonda. It would work out with somebody like Bliss. Rhonda loves to sing better than anything and is afraid of being stuck with Mr. Nub, and Mr. Nub's baby, and laying here in bed with a man that can't talk, can't walk, can't hardly move, can't jack off, can't eat, could kiss a little bit if she'd move on over and get close. But that would just set her up for nothing, and I swear I don't believe she's going to do one damn thing but close her eyes and go to sleep.

On the third night home, Papa gets this idea to take me out and set me in the floatplane. This is after the therapist come again and explained my exercises to Rhonda and Mama. Rhonda hadn't been too sick lately, with the pregnancy. She's doing real good, Bliss says. She's working at the auto parts store and hates it worse than anything. I don't know how she got a job there, I swear I don't. She don't know a wheel from a radio aerial, but it's less than a mile away and she can come home for lunch, and the guy lets her come home when she feels bad.

But I see all this ain't going to work out too good. I'm one goddamned whole hell of a lot of trouble. I've got to work my ass off on the exercises so I can start taking care of myself. Mama and Rhonda are going to alternate days this first week. Bliss is going to help out the second week.