Terry Sanville
Forgiveness
– 1 –
In 1959, the Los Angeles Dodgers played the Chicago White Sox in the World Series. For us Catholic School boys, the games made it almost impossible to concentrate on classwork. Pete Scarlotti sat next to me at the back of the room in fifth grade. He’d sneaked a tiny transistor radio into class and had it turned on low, listening to the game.
Stupid me, I leaned into the aisle and tried to hear Vin Scully give the pre-game commentary. But I guess I was too obvious. Sister Mary St. John came storming toward us, her hard leather shoes slapping against the linoleum.
“Give me that,” she snapped and Pete handed over his radio, Vin’s tinny voice still chirping from its speaker. The class laughed.
“I’m sorry, Sister. Can I have it back?” Pete pleaded. “I promise I won’t—”
“You can have it back at the end of the day . . . from the Principal.”
Pete groaned. We both waited for Sister Mary’s famous punishment.
“Peter, I want you to copy the letter A.” She turned to me, “And James, you get the letter T. Have your work on my desk before you leave school today.”
Sister Mary favored a peculiar form of punishment. She would have the offending student copy a section, word-for-word, from our children’s dictionaries. If your offense proved egregious, you’d get something like Pete got – the “A” section. If your offense was less serious, you’d get something like I got – the “T” section. I think she thought that particular punishment would improve our vocabulary and give us practice writing.
I lifted the lid to my desk, stored my books inside, and took out a yellow lined tablet, my dictionary, and a handful of sharpened pencils. I decided to work through the lunch break and continue throughout the afternoon so that I wouldn’t have to stay after school.
I made good progress. The words and letters that flowed onto the pages seemed like the symbols etched into the tomb walls of Egyptian pharaohs, beautiful, each telling a story. We had an hour to go before the final bell. I came to the word “trigger,” my eyes aching from hours of squinting at bug print. My writing hand almost moved on its own volition, covering each of the tablet’s lines with neat cursive.
Trigger. I thought about guns and my father’s old .22 rifle that we’d take into the back canyons north of Santa Barbara for target practice. Then I thought about Roy Rogers’ stallion, Trigger, a palomino that had a full mane and long golden blond tail. It reminded me of my older sister’s ponytail that she kept washed and combed to perfection. Carolyn was beautiful and all the boys wondered if she came from a different family since she didn’t look anything like plain ole me.
I had chosen my fifth grade desk because it had been the one she had sat in three years before. You could see her initials gouged into the desk’s heavily scarred surface, then stained with blue ink from a fountain pen. Next to her initials someone had carved the outline of a dagger that dripped red blood. Sometimes on hot stuffy afternoons, just like the one last May, the blood almost looked real, like it could flow across the desktop onto the floor and form a huge puddle.
I sucked in a deep breath and kept writing.
“Carolyn sure has developed early,” Mrs. Lockheart had told my mother over Saturday morning coffee.
“Yes, she is pretty,” Mom said then laughed. “Just what I need, a bunch of teenage boys beating a path to our door.”
I eavesdropped from the hallway and grinned, the comments somehow making me proud to have something beautiful in our house.
And Carolyn sure loved rock ’n’ roll. At night after she and I finished with homework, watched TV then went to bed, I could hear music coming through her bedroom door. She had commandeered our family’s ancient Motorola and listened to the local station’s late-night offerings.
“Can’t you turn that crap off?” I muttered to her one night.
“What, don’t you like music?”
“Sure I do, but that stuff gets me all juiced up and I can’t sleep.”
“Why don’t you come listen with me?”
“Really?” My sister never let me in her room.
“Just keep quiet so Mom and Dad can’t hear.”
“They’re downstairs. They won’t. Just let me get my robe.”
On most school nights I’d sit on the edge of her bed and we’d listen to Elvis, Rickie Nelson, Little Richard, Connie Francis, The Platters, and the Everly Brothers until we both got sleepy. I’d sneak back into my room and drift away to memories of Twilight Time and Who’s Sorry Now.
On afternoons with Mom down the street at her coffee klatch and Dad still at work, we’d close all the windows in her bedroom and turn up the radio. She showed me how to dance, all the cool new steps that her girlfriends had taught her. We’d sing along to the radio and after a while could harmonize and stay more-or-less in tune.
That year they started telecasting Pacific Bandstand on KEYT, a dance show hosted by some guy named Lou Stumpo. Mrs. Lockheart drove Carolyn and me to the TV station on top of the Mesa. My sister had dressed up like a high school senior with lipstick and makeup that she applied in the car. I stood in the background and watched the couples dance to fast and slow tunes. A negro singing group came on. With slicked-back hair and dressed in sequined jackets, they lip-synced slow songs while the dancers clutched each other and moved to the rhythm.
On the way home, I thought Carolyn would burst out of her skin. Her smiling face still fills my dreams.
And she helped me with my homework and I with hers. It turned out that I was good with words and she with math. If we worked together, we could get our homework done quickly, leaving more time to watch our favorite TV programs: hers was Sea Hunt and mine Red Skelton. She loved watching Lloyd Bridges apprehend the bad guys wearing only his tight wet suit, scuba gear and a knife, the action all-quiet except for the dubbed-in music. Carolyn moved like a fish in the ocean and could swim the entire length of the municipal pool, holding her breath and gliding silently underwater.
Every time I thought about last May I’d hold my breath until spots formed in front of my eyes. That day, I walked home after school with Jerry who lived down the hill from us on West Valerio Street. We talked about what we would do that summer and the grand adventures we’d have. About half a block ahead of us, my sister walked with one of her many girlfriends. The friend peeled off down a side street. Carolyn strolled up to the stoplight at Highway 101 and Micheltorena. Cross traffic roared past. I yelled at her to wait up. The light turned green. She turned and waved at me then stepped into the road.
With a sickening crunch, a delivery van hit her full on. She sailed through the air, her blonde hair a streamer hiding her face, and landed on the concrete. Jerry and I screamed. I dashed forward. The van’s driver had climbed out and stared at the body lying before him. He collapsed onto the pavement, crying. I tried not to look. But I couldn’t help it. My dancing, singing, swimming, smiling sister lay in a pool of slowly expanding blood, broken, bleeding, not moving, not breathing.
I couldn’t see right and darkness closed in. Jerry yelled something at me but I couldn’t make out what. Then sirens, lots of cars, firemen, cops, a white van with County Coroner painted on its side, all crowded in. In a daze, I rode home with a kind policeman who came inside and talked with Mom. I went upstairs to my sister’s room, sat on her bed and clicked on the radio, listened to Tommy Edwards sing All in the Game. But I could still hear my Mom downstairs, sobbing. It would go on for days with me thinking: If I hadn’t called to her, distracted her, if she hadn’t turned, would she still be alive?
Trigger (trigar) v. 3. Cause something to happen or exist.
Yikes, I’ve only got a half hour to go. Better pick up the pace. I stared at the pages before me and froze. All my thoughts about my sister stared back, neatly recorded with perfect penmanship. Would Sister Mary notice? Would she make me stay after school? Would I miss my bus, lose my way? Did I want anybody reading how I felt about Carolyn? Maybe, somehow, I did.
I turned to the end of the Ts and hurriedly copied the last seven or eight words and their definitions. The buzzer sounded. An explosion of activity followed. Groaning, I stood and shook my writing hand, it hurt from that day’s effort. I tore the pages from my tablet and moved forward, laid them in front of Sister Mary.
“Did you learn any new words, James?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Did you finish copying the T section?”
“Yes, Sister.” I felt my face flush. I told only half a lie.
“Well, let me see.”
A coldness washed over me as she slowly turned the pages. Then she stopped and drew them closer. Her mouth began to quiver. Her left hand pressed against her heart. She continued reading, retrieved a handkerchief from a secret pocket and dabbed at her eyes.
“Very . . . very well put, James,” she said in a quiet voice. “I remember Carolyn. She was such . . . such a lovely girl.”
I nodded and stared at my shoes. Sister Mary stayed silent.
“Can I go now? I have a bus . . .”
“Yes, yes, go. And tell your friend, Peter, he can go too.”
Pete and I left quickly before she could change her mind. But on the bumpy bus ride across the West Side, all I could think about was Carolyn and how she would have laughed at my easy escape. I couldn’t wait to get home and turn on the radio.
– 2 –
I hadn’t been that excited since Becky Gutierrez kissed me on the mouth in seventh grade. I read an ad in the classified section of the Santa Barbara News-Press:
1958 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz Convertible, one owner, needs some work, cash only, $850 as is. Call Woodland 6-3027. No dealers.
I immediately went to the public library and searched my favorite magazines for photos of that car. I found full color glossies that took my breath away – dual headlights, wraparound windshield, and small sculpted fins in back. The two-door looked smaller, more balanced than other Cadillac land yachts. The one in the magazine had pearl white paint with red leather interior. A monster V-8 with a gold air filter filled its engine bay.
Four months before, I’d passed the multiple-guess test at the DMV and had gotten my learner’s permit. Every weekend Pop braved the twisting roads of Hope Ranch, with me behind the wheel of his Studebaker, trying to work the three-on-the-tree shifter without grinding the gears or burning up the clutch. He could take about an hour of my punishment before we’d pull into the Modoc Club’s parking lot and he’d disappear inside to down a couple quick ones.
When I told Pop I wanted to buy a five-year-old Cadillac, the neighbors could probably hear him laughing halfway down Calle Poniente.
“What the hell, Jimmy? That boat will barely fit in our driveway; and you’ll burn a gallon of gas just drivin’ to school.”
“I thought you’d be pleased,” I answered. “That Caddy is solid and can take a direct hit from a tank without anybody getting hurt.”
“That’s true, that’s true. A good thing.”
Mom and Pop felt super protective ever since my older sister, Carolyn, tried to walk across the 101 on a green light and was killed by a delivery van. After that, Mom wouldn’t go near highways and insisted that I take the bus home every day.
But once in high school, I had to have a car. Every boy trying desperately to be a man needed a driver’s license and a car. And the bigger its engine, the more macho we appeared, except maybe Bobby Burnhart who drove a Chrysler 300 but looked like a dweeby grammar school kid behind the wheel.
“And it’s a convertible,” I continued.
“Yes, that’s pretty neat,” Pop said, grinning. “I remember drivin’ a friend’s ’36 Olds during the war. We had the top down on a back road outside of Philly. I was home on leave after Marine Corps boot camp before shipping out and we decided to tie one on. Afterward, my friend was too drunk to drive so I took the wheel. I could hit a hundred in that Olds, no problem.”
“Gee, Pop, that’s a swell lesson – go out drinking and drive fast.”
“Don’t get smart. We were on our way to fight the Germans, like gladiators before entering the arena. Besides, it was years before I married your Mother and she straightened me out.”
“So what do you think of this Caddy?” I wanted to get Pop focused on the car. If he got sidetracked on wartime stories and his bachelor days, we’d never get anywhere.
Pop stared at the ad that I’d clipped from the News-Press. “Something must be wrong with it. I’ve seen this model goin’ for two or three grand, easy. They’re kinda rare.”
“Yeah, I know. Only 815 were made. But I’m taking auto shop at school and I’m pretty sure we could fix whatever’s wrong.”
“What do you mean, we?” Pop smiled and bit down on his cigar. “We don’t have tools to do squat. And that thing won’t fit in our garage.”
“Sure it will, Pop, if you park your Studebaker in the back lot and—”
“Just hold on, son. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“So, will you call this number for me? You’re so much better on the phone and know how to haggle.”
Pop grinned. “Sure, kid. But if I help you with this, you gotta let me drive her. Having a Caddy in our driveway, even an old one, will class up the place.”
“Sure, Pop, sure. Anytime you want to take her out.”
But I knew if I bought that Caddy, with money I’d saved from working as a box boy at the A&P, he’d have to fight me for the keys. I had visions of cruising Santa Barbara’s State Street, top down with my bodacious girlfriend (to be named later) snuggled up next to me, her hair wrapped in a scarf as the wind off the Pacific enveloped us. Or roaring down some highway at 120, the car filled with my geeky buddies, on our way to some place where they played hot rock ’n’ roll and wouldn’t card us before serving whatever drink we wanted.
Pop agreed to make the call. “Is this the party that’s sellin’ the ’58 Eldorado? . . . uh huh, uh huh. Where can I see the car, take her out for a test drive? . . . uh huh. That’s an automatic, right? . . . Look, me and my son will be right over to check it out. You have the pink slip, right? . . . uh huh. And you are? . . . All right then, Carl, be there in a few minutes.”
It turned out that the seller lived down the block from where my sister used to take piano lessons, in the San Roque neighborhood. Pop seemed as excited as me as we climbed into his Studebaker.
“We’d better go to the bank and get your money. If we like the car I want to close the deal this afternoon.”
“Sure, Pop.” I wasn’t about to delay buying my first wheels.
Carl, the guy selling the Caddy, looked like he should have a yacht tied up at the marina, a real stuffed shirt. When Pop asked him what’s wrong with the Caddy he mumbled something about it needing new gaskets and that it dripped a bit of oil, but “nothing serious.” He handed over the keys to Pop. We climbed in and cruised State Street with the top down, the car’s big engine barely murmuring. She had a pale rose-colored paint job and a white and rose interior, both in good shape.
I opened the glove box and found a pint of booze and some snacks.
“Hey Pop, she comes with her own bar.”
He grinned. “Close that up. We don’t want to get stopped.”
We drove around town for half an hour, took her onto the highway and ran her up to 100. She drove smooth, no major rattles. When it was my turn to drive, I thought I’d have to throw Pop out of the car to get behind the wheel. The Caddy felt so much easier to drive than his clunky Studebaker, what with the automatic transmission and power everything. I could spin the wheel with one hand. The radio worked as did the electric windows. I was sold. So was Pop. He didn’t even haggle with Carl over price. I handed over the money, my not-so-long life’s savings, and Carl signed the pink slip. The car was mine.
It took Pop ten minutes to back the Caddy up our narrow driveway and into the garage, the roll-up door barely clearing her chromed front end.
Over the next few weeks, I discovered all the things wrong that I should have noticed when buying the beast. The power seats didn’t work, the air conditioning didn’t blow air, the brakes were squishy, and the convertible’s top had major rips and tears. She continued to drip oil, but not enough to lose any sleep over.
Going for driving lessons with Pop was a snap. No more recovery stops at the Modoc Club. And instead of our isolated training grounds in Hope Ranch, we cruised State Street, the radio blaring, Pop’s arm planted on the door top, his face wearing a Cheshire cat grin. I think his thoughts floated somewhere back before the war, before family, kids, mortgages, his struggle to establish his own plumbing business, when his future looked as rosy as the Caddy’s paint.
When school started in the fall and I had my license, I rolled into the parking lot, pulled next to Eddie Marsango’s lowly Chevy and clicked off the radio. I chose that spot because it was easy to maneuver into without damaging the Caddy’s mirrors or scraping a fender. I climbed out, pocketed the keys, and sauntered off to class. George Slack and all the cool guys stood on the walkway and stared, mouths open. I had given the car two coats of Turtle Wax. Every piece of chrome, and the Caddy had plenty, gleamed in the sunlight.
After school, a bunch of the guys hung around as I popped the hood and showed them the monster engine with its three Rochester carburetors.
“She makes 335 horsepower,” I bragged.
“Yeah, but it’s gotta weigh three ton,” George Slack countered. “This thing rides like a rolling sofa.”
“So what? I’m not askin’ you out on dates. And I can still beat your ugly-ass Edsel.”
“In your dreams.”
The carburetor love talk continued as I showed them the car and all of its details, including the trunk, big enough to hold two or three bodies. But to my chagrin, the girls continued to ignore me and word got around that they thought the Caddy looked too flashy, or like a car their fathers might drive. To prove their point, Pop frequently borrowed the keys to run the simplest of errands and would be gone twice as long as necessary. And he never paid for gas; it cost me over five dollars to fill her.
But for the first time since my sister’s death he wanted to go fishing with me. We’d drive up the coast to El Capitán Beach and surf fish, our backs against the white cliffs, a cooler of soda and beer planted in the sand, along with our rods and reels resting in their sand spikes. He’d stare at the ocean and tell stories about his early life fishing off Montauk, long before WWII.
From hours of listening I noticed that Pop’s life so far had been divided into two eras: years before the war; and years after. The pre-war stories were the best and he talked with me as I envisioned he’d talked with his Marine buddies. Whenever we were together, I let him drive the Caddy.
The trouble started in mid-November, right before Thanksgiving. The car started running hot and leaking enough oil to turn our garage floor black. Power was down. Pop followed me in the Studebaker to Dave’s Westside Auto.
Dave stared into the Caddy’s engine bay. “Well, she looks like she needs a head gasket on the left side, maybe a new thermostat. You should replace those old hoses before one of ’em blows and leaves you stranded. And I should check the brakes.”
“How much will all that cost?” Pop asked.
“Don’t know until I dig into her. I’m a little worried about that left-side head. You run these big cars hard and the heat can crack her. Need to magnaflux both heads to be sure.”
“When will we know how much it’s gonna run?” I asked.
“I’m pretty busy this week. Maybe next week or the week after. But it’s gonna cost you just to find out what’s wrong.”
I sighed. Pop didn’t look happy either. He’d have to drive me to school in the morning before work and I’d have to bum a ride to the A&P from a classmate and explain to everybody what happened to my cool wheels.
When Dave called, it wasn’t good news. We both went to his shop after school. I had already run up a $50 charge just for the testing and nothing had been fixed.
“The overheating cracked the left side head and it has to be replaced,” Dave said. “The cost of replacing all the gaskets and hoses . . . and the brakes really should also be done . . . will run the bill up to about $525.”
Pop and I stood in silence and stared at the quiet motor under the Caddy’s mile-long hood.
“What do you think, Pop?”
“How much money do you have?”
“About two hundred.”
“I can spare a hundred.”
“What if we didn’t do the brakes now?” I asked Dave.
“That’ll save you some.”
“Look, Pop. I’m working full time at the A&P, taking home fifty a week. What if we leave the car for a month then have it fixed.”
Pop nodded. But I could tell he didn’t like my solution.
“I got a spot in the back lot to park her,” Dave added. “I won’t charge ya anything. But you’ll have to help me push her.”
For the next half hour we grunted and groaned as we pushed the five thousand pound beast into a shaded space and pulled a plastic tarp over her shredded convertible top.
In a month I collected all the money I had and Pop and I drove to Dave’s. The Caddy looked beautiful, polished, the interior vacuumed and wiped clean. When I turned the key, the engine started right up and ran smooth. But the brakes felt different.
“What’s with the brakes? They feel real touchy.”
Pop grinned. “Well, I talked it over with your Mother. She agreed that the brakes should be done now. It’s a safety thing.”
“I’ll pay ya back, Pop. I’m still working almost full time. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy the car. I know I’ve missed our fishing trips.”
“So have I.”
“Maybe we could drive up to Cachuma Lake and try some freshwater fishin’.”
“Sounds great.”
***
Gradually, throughout the rest of my junior and senior years in high school, I gained confidence, didn’t try so hard to be cool, and developed enough courage to ask girls out. Making out and the potential for love and affection shoved my gearhead mentality into the trunk. The car became a vehicle to take me somewhere else, to shake loose from the petty schoolyard rivalries and the machismo of my classmates.
After graduating in ’64, I went to work for Pop. I figured in two to four years of apprenticing I could take the test and become a licensed plumber. Pop had three journeymen working for him. The company made good money, with me digging trenches, crawling under houses to check on leaky pipes, or busting my knuckles on corroded faucets while Pop puffed on his cigar outside and bragged about his youthful bass fishing adventures in New York’s Finger Lakes region.
When I started working for Pop, Vietnam and the war involved something called “advisors” and there wasn’t much on the news about it. Then in 1965, the US started sending Marines and Pop and I paid attention. Young men my age started disappearing from our street and one week Mom came home from her coffee klatch in tears with bad news from the Braddocks. More and more men got drafted. I held my breath.
“What do you think, Pop?” I asked one night after watching the evening news with Walter Cronkite.
“Don’t like it. Fighting in that jungle isn’t anything like the Ardennes. The Viet Cong could be anywhere and you’d never see ’em.”
“I’ve been lucky so far.”
“Yeah, you have. But if this thing keeps goin’, the draft will get you.”
“I’ll probably end up fixing latrines at some Army base.”
“Maybe. But I don’ like the looks of what’s goin’ on.”
As our black-and-white Zenith flickered, Mom got up from the sofa, her eyes red and dripping, and hurried from the room.
Pop lowered his voice. “We better not talk about this kinda stuff in front of your Mother. Gets her upset.”
“But it’s all over the news.”
“Yeah. They got cameras everywhere.”
“What do you think I should do, Pop?”
He puffed on his cigar for a few minutes before answering. “I don’t know. Maybe wait to get drafted, do well on their tests and hope for the best training.”
“I could go back to school.”
He scowled. “You can’t run away from your duty to serve. Besides, it’s only a two-year hitch.”
As it turned out, I didn’t quite make it two years. I got drafted in early 1968, at a time when the military needed everyone they could get for the infantry. I did well on my tests, but apparently that didn’t matter. They needed bodies to go hunt down the VC, to fill the Hueys for search-and-destroy missions, to fill the nightly news back in the World with how many Commies had been killed. We were winning, by the numbers.
On one such mission, just north and east of Saigon, I moved as point through the jungle, leading our platoon through the snarl of growth so thick that I had to push away vines and creepers with every step. I didn’t see the trip wire nor feel the explosion. I awakened in a Huey heading for the evacuation hospital on Long Binh Army Base. A medic bent over me holding an IV bag. Looking down, I could see my lower legs, slashed and bleeding. My back hurt but not my legs.
I spent two days at the evac hospital before flying to Japan where they removed the shrapnel. I couldn’t feel my legs from the knees down. When I lifted them at the hips, they just hung limply, like sodden wash on a clothesline. The doctors said the nerve damage couldn’t be repaired.
Three months later I was home in Santa Barbara, in a wheelchair, wearing dress khakis and carrying my Purple Heart in its case. In preparation, Pop had built a ramp up the back steps off the driveway. Inside, he’d installed a lift that took me to my room on the second floor. I looked out the window at the garage, its door rolled up, exposing the Caddy to brilliant sunshine.
“So, Pop, you’ve been driving the Caddy?”
“Yeah, son, to keep the battery charged, ya know.”
I grinned. “Sure, Pop, sure.”
“Wanna go for a ride after lunch? I think you’ll like what I’ve done with her.”
“Done?”
“You’ll see, you’ll see.”
After eating, I rolled out the back door and down the ramp to the driveway where Pop parked the Caddy. I opened the door and slid onto the passenger seat. Then, as I had practiced during rehab, I folded my wheelchair and hefted it into the back seat.
“That’s damn impressive,” Pop said. “I’ll get a canvas tarp to put over the upholstery so ya won’t damage it.”
“Thanks, Pop.”
He started the car then backed it down the driveway and drove to Hope Ranch, our old driving lessons haunt. At a wide spot in the road he pulled over.
“Now watch what I do,” he said.
He put the car in Drive and worked a hand control and the Caddy pulled away, moving at normal speed. A stop sign appeared and Pop worked another hand control and the Caddy rolled smoothly to a stop.
“Pretty neat, huh?”
“Yeah, way cool.”
“When we heard what happened, I talked to Dave at West Side. He designed and built the controls. They take a bit of gettin’ used to but I’m sure you can do it.”
“Yeah, Pop.”
I wasn’t sure at all. Fortunately, I could one-hand the steering wheel with a Brodie knob while working the hand controls for the gas and brakes. I practiced all that winter on back roads away from traffic. The Caddy’s ashtray filled with remnants of Pop’s Dutch Masters cigars. I still had a driver’s license and could go by myself. But Pop insisted on tagging along. One time, we talked about Vietnam, what life was like in the field: torrential rain, the heat, clouds of mosquitoes, the villages, mama-sans, skinny boy soldiers, coolie-hatted women tending rice paddies, and the B-52 bombing runs that shook the earth. Pop finally asked me how I’d been wounded. After I told him, he sat chewing on his cigar. We motored up Highway 154 and over San Marcos Pass in the early morning light, on our way to fish Cachuma Lake.
“You might not have made it in my war,” Pop said. “It took ’em too long to get the wounded to field hospitals. A lot of ’em bled out before they could patch ’em up.”
“Yeah, Pop. In Nam, the dustoffs saved lots of folks.”
That’s all we ever said about my injury. I could tell his thoughts had drifted back to the snow-covered Ardennes. He never talked about the fighting itself. He had his secrets. I knew not to pry. Besides, I had my own secrets.
The VA gave me some cool polio crutches and braces for my lower legs. I could lurch around my parents’ house and managed to maneuver pretty well in stores and offices. I always had pretty good upper-body strength. After my injury, I lifted weights at the Y and got stronger.
Pop’s business grew as the Santa Barbara area became more packed with people. I thought I couldn’t work any more as a plumber. Pop wouldn’t let me quit. At first he’d send me out on small jobs in the Caddy, or larger jobs in the trucks with one of the other crew. Over time, I could crawl around under houses and snake sewers as well as the rest of them, it just took me a bit longer. The customers didn’t complain. But it took me a while to get used to their reactions to my disability. Doubtful housewives looked at me with sympathy, hovered over me, offered to hand me tools, or gave me iced tea or lemonade on hot days. As time passed I’d get requests for my services from repeat customers.
One summer Saturday, Mom told me a parade was happening on State Street and it might be fun if I checked it out. As a kid I really liked the parades on Veterans Day or the Fourth of July. Pop would put on his dress blue Marine Corps uniform with all the ribbons. We’d stand at attention as the color guards and military bands passed before us. I remembered how Pop’s legs would tire and we’d have to find a bench to rest. I figured it was my turn.
Locals and early summer tourists crowded the downtown. I had to park five blocks off State Street and use my wheelchair to reach the parade route. Unlike other parades, this one started in mid-afternoon. People made space for me at the curb in front of the Art Museum. Looking down the closed-off street, I strained to hear the first notes of the military marching bands, the rattle of snare drums, the blare of brass horns. Instead came the sound of bongos, congas, guitars, screeching trumpets and saxophones, all to a calypso beat. The sound of hard sandals slapping in time against the asphalt mixed with whistle blasts, shouts and the rumble of singing.
A huge mob moved up State Street. Young tanned men stripped to the waist with long hair and bra-less women wearing beads, feathers and flowing dresses danced before a float that held a makeshift band. More musical groups followed, all playing the same freewheeling rhythms, trailed by children and their parents dressed in sunflower costumes or tie-dyed T-shirts and jeans. The whole gang reminded me of the hippies in San Francisco during the Summer of Love.
The parade passed quickly and the crowd of onlookers emptied the sidewalks and followed the music up State Street.
“You wanna follow ’em?” the guy standing next to me asked.
“What is this parade?”
“It’s the Summer Solstice celebration.”
“Huh. Never heard . . . ”
“Come on, you’ll like it.”
The guy and a couple others, their faces painted with yellow swirls, lifted me in my chair into the street and pushed me forward, following the last calypso band and crazy floats.
We turned onto Micheltorena Street and passed in front of my Catholic elementary school. I wondered what Sister Mary would think. We ended up at Alameda Park. I thanked my pushers, rolled along a walkway and pulled up next to the central gazebo. The crowd swirled around me. The strong scent of marijuana filled the air. I had smoked enough in Nam to recognize its fragrance and in no time I was grinning along with the rest of them.
Families had spread blankets on the grass. Everyone shared food. Children ran crazily through the throng. The music continued its steady beat, like the sound track of that art film, Black Orpheus. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun flow through me. I felt naked but unashamed, even with my damaged legs. The music pulsed and I dozed.
Someone gently shook my shoulder. “Would you like some help?”
“I’m . . . I’m all right. Just a bit tired.”
“That’s okay. But the party is winding down and you’ll have to leave.”
The woman smiled at me, her brown face covered in bright paint with glitter. But she wore a modest summer dress and looked a bit older than the others.
“That was one crazy parade,” I said. “I was expecting marching bands and color guards.”
“Yes, it’s the city’s first Summer Solstice Parade. I think they wanted to do something totally different, something non-military.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, well they succeeded.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes . . . yes. It was nice to see so many people, you know, happy.”
“How about you? Are you happy?”
“Now that I’ve met you I am. My name’s Jim.”
“I’m Camilla.”
“That’s pretty.” In the soft light, her brown body glowed. She looked beautiful.
“Thanks. So you have someone picking you up?”
“No. My car is over on Olive Street.”
“You have a car?” Camilla’s eyes widened.
“What, you think a cripple can’t drive?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I can get around just fine.” I felt angry but forced it down. “What about you?”
“What about me?” she said, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s getting dark. Do you have a ride?”
“I’m supposed to go home with my housemate. But I can’t find her. She’s probably at the beach, partying. I’ll just take a cab.”
I sucked in a deep breath. “I can take you, if you want.”
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, I’m a good guy. Besides, you can outrun me.”
She grinned. “I guess it’s all right. But I live in Carpinteria.”
“All right, let’s go.”
“Do you . . . do you want a push?” she murmured.
“No, I got it. I’m not tired anymore.”
On our slow roll back to the Caddy we talked. Camilla worked as a teller at Crocker Bank with goals of becoming a loan officer for the high-roller customers. I told her everything except the details of Vietnam. Disclosing those secrets would have to wait. But she was persistent.
“So, did you get hurt in . . . in Vietnam?” she asked.
“Yeah. I can’t control anything from the knees down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It could be worse.”
“Yes, I know Hispanic families who’ve lost sons.”
“Yeah.”
We moved slowly down Olive Street, my wheelchair bumping over the uneven sidewalk, until coming to the Caddy. I stopped, leaned forward and opened the passenger door for her.
“This is yours?” she asked, eyes wide.
“Yeah, she’s big and rides smooth.”
“Can . . . can we cruise State Street before you take me home?”
“Sure can.”
“I’ve never ridden in a flashy convertible.”
I started the car. Camilla smiled at me. She took a scarf from her purse and tied it around her flowing red-brown hair. We cruised State for over an hour, from the harbor all the way out to Petersen’s Drive-in and back. We waved to people on the sidewalks. I leaned on the horn, never tiring of the Rose Caddy’s elegant call.
Camilla slid across the seat and snuggled next to me, her body warm against mine, the wind off the Pacific enveloping us. I wanted that feeling of joy to never stop. So far, it hasn’t.
– 3 –
On my way from my apartment to the restaurant on Santa Barbara’s State Street where I always ate Sunday brunch, I stopped rolling my walker, set the brakes, and sat on its bench seat. Reaching down I adjusted the newly-issued braces on my lower legs. Fifty-five years from that explosive day in Vietnam and I still couldn’t feel anything below the knees. But once in a blue moon, I’d wake at night to violent itching in my left ankle. I’d scratch it until the skin was raw, relishing the pain. But it never lasted.
“The doctors say it’s just old nerves firing off,” I told Omar, the restaurant’s bartender. “All this time later and they still can’t do jack.”
“I’m sorry. That must drive you nuts,” Omar said. “But they’re findin’ something new every day.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve already lived longer than most.”
Omar grinned. “That’s because I pour you the finest California Chardonnay and make the best Bloody Mary.”
I chuckled. “I’m sure that’s it.”
But sometimes I felt like just another bearded old guy at a bar, biding my time. What the hell does biding mean anyway? Some archaic word with no ties to my dead sister, the war, my rose-colored Cadillac, joy, Camilla, family, crawling under old houses to fix broken pipes, the used-to-be. My life is like flashes from a black-and-white rock video – people staring at me lurching down the street behind my walker. At 73, that’s what I’m all about in the here and now, the fucking here and now.
I maneuvered my walker away from the bar and sat at my favorite table. I could watch people come and go and check out games on the big screen TV. Brianna, her dyed red hair flaming, smiled and moved toward me. It was an honest smile. More than a tick past fifty, she looked great. I knew everybody in the joint, from the kids bussing tables to the head chef in the kitchen and all the managers. I used to work on the restaurant’s plumbing before I retired and sold the business.
“So how you doing today, Jimmy?” Brianna asked. “Have you already ordered drinks?”
“Oh yeah. You got anything special on the menu?”
“Same ole stuff. But the quiche looks good.”
“I’ll have that.”
I watched her walk toward the kitchen, her hips swaying, showing off just for me, I’m sure, well . . . maybe, a Sunday treat anyway. The restaurant filled with the after-church crowd mixing with the recovering Saturday-night-blowout folks. Sometimes I thought I was the only sane one there.
Brianna brought me my first glass of Chardonnay, “good to cleanse the palate”, she said. I gulped it down. The cold numbed my throat and in a while it would help numb my mind.
I watched football, not giving a rat’s ass who was playing or winning, just enjoying the catches, the tackles, the swiveling hips of the running backs, just the running. I remembered my high school years, on the track team, a dork, running mile after mile to get in shape for the next meet. I recalled the exhaustion after each two-mile run, not wanting to take one more step, grabbing my shaking knees in the cold winter wind, drool dribbling from my mouth onto the crushed-brick track. I’d do anything to feel that sweet agony again.
Brianna walked toward me with my first Bloody Mary on the tiny tray, weaving her way between tables, never spilling a drop. A sharp pain stabbed at my lower gut, forcing a low groan that surprised me. I pushed myself up, turned and shoved the walker away from the table.
“I’ll . . . I’ll be back . . . in a minute,” I gasped.
“Sure, hon, sure. You okay?”
Another spasm and I bent over but kept moving down the hall toward the alcove and the side-by-side unisex restrooms. The one on the right was locked and occupied. I hustled to the left side door. It popped open and a young woman emerged. I brushed past her, my walker’s wheels clacking over the tiles. Twisting, I locked the door, shoved the walker away and staggered toward the toilet. The room was sheathed in gleaming white tiles and smelled of Pine-sol mixed with air freshener.
I struggled with my belt but couldn’t get it undone. Finally, I yanked it tighter and it released. I dropped my boxer briefs. It was too late. In a final spasm I emptied my bowels onto the floor and the commode, the stench overpowering.
I leaned against a wall and gasped, heart thundering. The sight of my accident reminded me of bad days as a plumber. Wiping myself off I scanned the room, looking for cleaning equipment. I tried a shoulder-high cabinet but it was locked. I washed my hands and slowly opened the door. Nobody was there.
I hustled back to my seat, smiled at Brianna, and took a big gulp from my Bloody Mary. A soft cry came from down the hall. Brianna and Omar turned and hurried off. Hushed conversations. A bus boy dragged a mop bucket, its metal wheels rattling over the wooden floorboards. Sherry, the sous-chef, emerged from the alcove, pale, shaking. She walked through the restaurant and out the front door to the street, lit a cigarette and puffed.
Omar approached. “Was that you, Jimmy?” he asked, his voice loud and shaking.
The room quieted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you crap all over the restroom?”
I hesitated, conscious of all those listening. “No, it wasn’t me, man.”
“Yeah, it was. You were the last one in there. The bus boys saw you.”
“Hey, Omar. It . . . it wasn’t me. How can you insult me like this?”
“How come you can’t wear adult diapers? You know what’s goin’ on. Be . . . be responsible.”
My face burned. Brianna looked away. Omar shook his head and returned to the bar. The room remained quiet. People stared, new flashes added to my rock video life.
I couldn’t possibly stay. I pushed himself up and took a huge gulp of my Bloody Mary. I struggled to remove my wallet and dropped some bills onto the table. Omar and Brianna watched me go, unsmiling.
Back on State Street, I took a deep breath and shuddered. Just one more thing to lose – first my older sister, then my legs, then parents and the business, and then Camilla, ah Jesus, Camilla. My kids were so far away and Skype just didn’t cut it. How was I going to live if I lost control like that? Was that one step closer to the rest home, to the ultimate indignity?
The look of disgust on Omar and Brianna’s faces burned into my brain. I hustled back to the apartment, hips aching from the effort, and struggled to peel the cover off my rose-colored ’58 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz. I’d kept it in perfect condition; it didn’t leak anything. Someday I’d give it to my son, if Taylor even wanted it. The kid liked Jeeps and Land Rovers. I worked the Caddy’s hand controls and swung out of the parking lot. In no time I blasted along Highway 101 with the top down, heading north toward Goleta and the airport. In a lot near the old terminal I parked and watched planes take off and land.
After the kids left home, Camilla and I used to hang out there and talk about what it would be like to travel abroad, to Morocco, Buenos Aires, Athens, Shanghai. As a teacher, she loved geography and each time at the airport she would tell me stories about some far off place, the people, the countryside. I’d close my eyes and almost see it. That day, I tried to recapture my visions of Paris, Stockholm, of Alaska with its pure white snow. But my mind returned to the soiled white tiles of the restaurant’s restroom.
I started the car and headed home to my TV, computer, and two adopted cats that cuddled with me at night, probably because I kept the electric blanket on and the two fur balls were heat-seeking scoundrels.
Two weeks passed. I hadn’t left the apartment, afraid of another accident. Finally, I drove to a drugstore I’d never shopped at and entered. After searching the entire store, too embarrassed to ask for help, I found the aisle with the adult incontinence products right next to the one with baby diapers. I studied the packages, different brands, different designs for men and women, different sizes. Old women customers did the same thing. Nobody looked at each other, avoiding eye contact.
At home I donned my first pair of male briefs. They didn’t show under my trousers, but rustled when I walked and made a soft crackling sound when I sat. In the days ahead I noticed other old people making the same sounds, a select club of the aged that none of us wanted to join. But as time passed, the briefs provided enough comfort and security to let me venture out of my apartment with some level of confidence.
On Sundays I returned to State Street, hurried past my old haunt to a new restaurant a couple blocks farther down. It had a full bar that served lots of specialty cocktails along with the old standards. The waitresses were kind, the food good, the atmosphere congenial. It was my new here and now, but not as good as I remembered the old. I missed Brianna and our make-believe flirting, and Omar’s stories about his family’s history in Syria.
The weeks passed. Autumn rains wet the sidewalks lit by nearby neon. But I was determined and the storms couldn’t keep me away. One Sunday, I approached my old haunt. Omar and Brianna pushed through its front door and stood on the sidewalk, waiting. I sucked in a deep breath and moved forward, then stopped. We stared at each other. I pulled at my white beard.
“Look, guys . . . I’m sorry . . . sorry for the mess . . .” I stood swaying in back of my walker, as if it somehow would protect me from attack.
Brianna nudged Omar who cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry . . . we’re sorry for embarrassing you in front of all those people. You probably couldn’t help it.”
I nodded. “Yeah . . . it was the ultimate embarrassment. But the mess was worse.”
Omar grinned. “We know, we know. Sherry wouldn’t go in there for weeks.”
Brianna elbowed Omar. “I miss you,” she said. “Not the staring at my ass so much but . . . but just having you there.”
I nodded. The rain increased. Brianna stared at the sky and crossed her arms.
“Well . . . it’s Sunday and I haven’t eaten. Can . . . can I come in?”
“That all Depends,” Omar said and winked.
“Don’t worry. I’m safely wrapped. Got more stashed in my walker.”
Brianna moved to open the restaurant’s door. “We have your table ready.”
“Thanks for having me back.”
She hesitated, then placed a hand on my shaking shoulder. “You are welcome.”
I lurched inside to a warm room with the TV flashing a football game, the here and now just a bit more kind on that rainy Sunday morning.
– 4 –
Binh pushes his cart into 198. The room holds two nursing home residents. The man in the window bed next to the patio died the week before and they moved me into his spot. Binh pulls the drapes back and opens the sliding door to let in golden afternoon light and the fresh ocean breeze. The stench of body odor and feces slowly fades.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The TV flickers in the background, its sound muted.
“Time to change you, give you new pee bag.” Binh smiles. “You be clean for dinner.”
“Thanks. I’d help you with the diaper but I’d just make a mess.”
We talk quietly, trying not to wake the other snoring resident. With an age-spotted and bruised arm I pull back the covers. The cool Pacific air feels good on my withered body. When I get a shower tomorrow I’ll feel even better. At 82, it’s the little things.
Binh closes the entry door to Room 198, gloves up, and tends to me: removing my soiled briefs, cleaning me with scented wipes, and installing a new pair. He attaches a new urine collection bag to my catheter tube. He rolls me onto my side and replaces the protective bed pad, then pulls the upper covers off the bed and retrieves clean ones from his cart. He’s not in any hurry. The old men in the next room are in even worse shape than me. And they don’t like Vietnamese and let him know it. They think he’s still the enemy, the VC (Viet Cong), Charlie, one of those child soldiers that rigged trip wires and booby traps that killed or maimed Americans.
“So how long have you been in America?” I ask.
“Long time, 1982.”
“Where did you live in Nam?”
“Phuoc Vinh. You know place?”
“North and east of Saigon, right?”
“Yes.”
“I knew that area . . . or at least I thought I did. You have family in California?”
“Yes, wife, two sons, one daughter, all married. Six grandchildren. They do well, good jobs.”
“Good, good. I always wondered what happened to those we left behind, or even the VC. So many dead.”
At the mention of the Viet Cong, Binh flinches but keeps arranging the bed covers. He probably remembers his time spent in the jungle, not even old enough to lust after women, rigging booby traps, fearing both us Americans and the VC but doing what they ordered.
“So how you hurt legs?” Binh asks.
“In Nam, didn’t see a trip wire and got blown up.”
Binh slowly sucks in a deep breath and focuses on bed duty. He slowly shakes his head. Not looking at me he says, “You . . . you must hate us.”
I lay back in bed and stare at the ceiling. “I used to. But after all this time it takes too much effort to hate people you never really knew. We killed lots of civilians over there. Their families probably hate us too.”
Binh nods, “The napalm . . . the bombs . . . burn villages.”
We go quiet. I study the flickering TV. “So, do you know what’s for dinner tonight?” I ask.
“No, I stay out of kitchen.”
“The lunch wasn’t bad. But what I really miss is an ice-cold glass of Chardonnay. Cleanses the palate.”
“That wine?”
“Yeah, wine.”
“Maybe I buy you some? You got money?”
“Yes, look in the drawer.” I point to the tiny dresser next to my bed.
“Maybe tomorrow, I bring.”
“Yeah, in the afternoon, like it is now. We can drink to friends and enemies long ago. Maybe they all will forgive us.”
Binh grins, showing off ivory teeth. “Yes. We forgive.”
