Carry Me Home Read Online Free

that girl,” she said. Then she added, “My stomach’s been acting up.”
    At the gate to the flight to Philadelphia Robert Wapinski did a curious thing. He was dressed in summer-weight class-A greens, bedecked with ribbons, pants bloused, jump boots spitshined. He believed it would be the last time he would ever wear a military uniform and he wanted to wear it properly, proudly, this one last time. And yet, perhaps because he was alone amongst civilians preparing to board the flight and he wished to hide, perhaps because he had just been discharged from an institution that had owned him for the past thirty-four months and the freedom was producing an identity crisis, or perhaps because he just wished to be left alone with his own thoughts, shortly before boarding he went to the airport shop and purchased a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He had never owned sunglasses, had resisted buying a pair of aviator glasses while in-country partly because so many rear-echelon officers wore them and he despised their clique. He put the glasses on, adjusted them at the nose and behind the ears, boarded.
    He took a window seat. The plane was nearly full yet both seats beside him remained vacant. The plane taxied, waited, taxied, thundered down and was airborne.
    In the aisle seat one row up from him a man, perhaps in his early fifties, turned and looked back. Wapinski tensed. He turned his head as if looking out the window but cocked his eyes toward the stranger. The man was skimming through a news magazine. Every few pages he stopped, turned around, looked at Wapinski.
    What’s your story, Jack? Wapinski thought. Still he pretended not to notice the man. What’s he lookin at me for? The man put his magazine down, stared at Wapinski. What the hell’s goin on? Wapinski tried to take in every detail. He was a large man, over six feet, at least two hundred pounds. His suit was well made, looked expensive. His tie was conservatively striped, his shoes were heavy wingtips, good for walking. Wapinski decided he must be a salesman. But his unshaven face was not a salesman’s face. I bet he’s queer, Wapinski thought.
    The man stood, crossed the aisle, came back toward Wapinski. Wapinski searched the clouds below looking for a break to the ground.
    “Mind if I sit down?” the man asked.
    “Go ahead.” Wapinski choked on the words. He cleared his throat, continued to search the clouds. If this guy puts his hand on my leg I’ll kill him.
    The man motioned for the stewardess. When she came he ordered two small bottles of scotch. “Bring two glasses,” he said to the stewardess. “With ice, please.”
    From behind his sunglasses, out of the corner of his eye, Wapinski watched the man. The flight attendant set the bottles and glasses on the man’s fold-down table. He opened both bottles, poured one into each glass. “You just got back from Vet Naam, huh?”
    Vet Naam, Wapinski said to himself. Christ, we’ve been there a decade and Americans still can’t pronounce the name of the country. “Yeah,” he answered. “Why?”
    “Naw, naw, naw. Here. How bout a drink?”
    “I never drink scotch.”
    “Never? An army captain who doesn’t drink scotch!”
    “Nope,” Wapinski said. “Beer. A little vodka. I don’t drink much hard stuff. Never scotch straight.”
    “Well, you know, you’re a man now, right?”
    “I guess I am.”
    “Aw, you can drink it. Don’t worry about it. It won’t do nothin to ya. Besides, you look like you need a stiff drink.”
    “Okay,” Wapinski said. He took the glass, tasted it, tilted his head back, gulped. The man did the same. Then he ordered two more. They each downed another drink without talking and the man ordered two more. Wapinski downed that one and removed his sunglasses.
    The man smiled. He downed his drink, loosened his tie, ordered two more, finally said, “Well, what was it like over there?”
    “It was all right,” Wapinski answered. “It was okay.”
    “You see a lot of