Called to Arms Again: A Tribute to the Greatest Generation

by J. L. Salter

  “A kidney?” Roger squinted.

  “Here. Take a look at this satellite picture.” Pete retrieved it from a small desk in the nearby guest room. “My daughter found this on her computer and printed it.”

  “Well, you have to be real careful with satellite pix. They might show a relatively current date, but maybe they’re a year or more old. How many duplexes had already been built by…” Roger looked for the date. “…January of 2007?”

  “Almost all, except the two farthest west on Cordial and two here on Placid.” Pete peered closely. “Oh, I see what you mean. This picture shows probably a dozen or more empty lots.” He thought for a minute. “Well, doesn’t really matter. Nobody would be interested in up-to-the-minute maps of our Community anyway.”

  Roger peered again at the satellite image. “Aunt Lucille lives down here on Cordial.” He pointed at the spot. “But I didn’t think her street had that much curve in it.”

  “Lucille’s street curves like a real relaxed S shape. My street is a broad bow-shape. They started with just these two — Placid and Cordial. Units on both these streets had to have additional retaining walls, because of the steep grade we’re on.”

  “I just noticed regular retainers in the front yards, between every other unit or so. Where are the others?”

  “Well, the way we tell it out here, the surveyor and engineer had a bottle of moonshine when they decided where to put retaining walls. I’m right on the crest of the big slope so I can understand mine going south twenty-five feet from the back of my unit. But there’s some down below me on Placid, and all those on Cordial, that look like they just had a dozen extra loads of concrete ordered and didn’t know what else to do with it.”

  “So they quickly set up forms and poured retaining walls all over?” Roger chuckled. “Maybe there’s more engineering to it than meets the eye. Grade, slope, drop, curve, erosion, drainage. Who knows? Might even be the only thing that keeps your duplex from sliding down the hillside.”

  Pete ignored that last comment. “My retaining system also extends out another twelve feet of real thick hedge. Supposedly for erosion. But Norm, over across my street, also has a retaining wall in back because we’re on the same part of the slope. Well, he has a long bed of heavy rocks on the far end.”

  “That’s the more typical treatment for erosion dampers. Wonder why you got hedges instead?”

  Pete shook his head. “Wonder why lots of stuff got built like it is out here. Norm’s bed of rocks must be a good six feet wide.”

  They had to separate briefly as a distressed-looking man, who didn’t acknowledge either of them, passed right between them to get through the narrow hallway.

  Roger looked again at the framed drawing.

  Pete sighed. “You can also see how messed up it is with those utility trenches, for water and sewer lines to that new section. Adding that many new housing units would way overload the existing systems.” He pointed to the places where two of the three main streets were blocked. His fingertip tapped the intersection of South Pleasant Drive and Serenity, which bordered the western edge of the subdivision. “This southernmost trench was dug to repair a forty-two-inch drainage culvert that was crushed. You know what those workers hauled in here? A long low-boy trailer with a dozer and a grader on it. That kind of heavy equipment doesn’t belong on these residential streets. Plus, they should’ve used concrete culverts anyway.”

  “I’ve heard those reinforced PVC culverts are pretty strong.”

  “Well, somehow that culvert got crushed like an empty toilet paper tube. I walked down there Monday evening.” Pete pointed again at his grandson’s drawing. “The east end of your aunt’s street is also blocked, by a deep trench waiting on the new utility lines to be run. Right now, Placid is the only thoroughfare for residents to get from the east side to the west side.”

  The man who’d previously passed came back through the hallway and eased between Pete and Roger again. This time he smiled lamely. Must have gone to the bathroom.

  Pete greeted him with a nod. “Anyway, now we’re getting all the traffic that would be using South Pleasant. It’s a mess. The folks living on Cordial can still drive to the west, but they’re blocked on the east side.”

  “Whose bright idea was it to dig the utility trench up here when that culvert was already crushed and blocking the road down there?”

  “Not much logic with contractor timetables.” Pete put the satellite picture back on the guest room desk. “It’s all about weather, cash flow, and available labor.”

  “And equipment. I noticed a grader and dozer over there in that northernmost section.”

  Pete nodded. “And they left a backhoe in the east corner of the common behind my place. Just switched off the engines, hopped out, and they were gone. Maybe they were ticked off about not getting a holiday on Monday. Anyhow, they didn’t come back at all yesterday, and you can see they’re not working today.”

  “Wonder if that’s because of the big drill.” Roger checked his watch.

  “Huh? Oh, that. I doubt it. It shouldn’t affect us except when the siren blows we’re supposed to hike up the curve and hill and check in at the main complex where the nursing home buildings are.”

  “When’s the siren going to sound?”

  “Nobody knows. That’s part of the drill.” Pete looked around and lowered his voice. “Some of these folks say they aren’t going anywhere, siren or not. Especially if it goes off during lunch.”

  “Can’t completely blame them.” Roger was thinking about their average age when he spotted someone about six decades younger. “Who’s that young girl over in the corner?”

  Pete smiled broadly. “Oh, that’s my Ashley. Youngest grandchild. She’s practically in her own category — so much younger than our other grandkids, but a good bit older than any of the great-grandkids.”

  “Does she live with you?”

  “No. She used to live in Bowling Green with her mother, but in August she moved to Richmond to live with our son. She comes down here every chance she gets. Nearly eighteen and she’s a good driver.”

  Roger paused before asking. “It’s none of my business, but shouldn’t she be in school?”

  “She had to start attending a new school in Richmond and it’s been hard on her.” Pete was answering the wrong question. “Oh, and it’s a teacher training day. She’ll have to go back tonight for classes on Thursday.”

  “Well, she’s very lovely.”

  Pete nodded. “Really means a lot to me and Irene. She’s special.”

  “I noticed a lot of garage doors partway up.” Hardly anything escaped Roger’s attention. “Kind of late in the season for that, isn’t it?”

  “Truth be told, I don’t know that it works all that well even during the hottest days.” Pete shook his head. “But some folks swear it makes the house cooler to vent the garage door like that.”

  “It might let hot air out… but it can also let varmints in.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Wednesday at 11:30 a.m.

  On his way from the funeral, Herb the goat man had stopped at home and quickly changed clothes. But it never occurred to him to leave the animal.

  Presently, he drove up, got out, and slammed the pickup’s creaking door with a loud crash. It always sounded like a collision of unmatched metal masses. Didn’t seem possible that door also latched shut, but somehow it did.

  As he passed, he trailed his fingers through the truck bed’s homemade wooden railing with the intention of petting his goat, but the contrary Billie tried to bite his hand instead. The old man examined his hand carefully. No, Billie didn’t actually bite him — that was just the goat’s strong, prehensile upper lip nibbling at Herb’s flesh.

  Herb was still shaking several fingers as he approached Pete’s front stoop and noticed Melvin watching him. “Got a fine goat for sale. I’d also consider a trade.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Melvin, who lived two duplexes east of the Henleys, was a natura
l-born skeptic whose facial expression was a perpetual sneer.

  “Oh, he chases my great-grandkids, he nipped the delivery guy and meter reader, and he tries to ram anybody wearing purple.” Herb sniffed his fingers and realized they were still covered with goat slobber. He wiped it on his trousers, about where his left hamstring would be.

  Melvin looked down, probably to see what color he was wearing. “What’s his beef with purple?” Melvin’s well-earned neighborhood reputation was that he didn’t believe much of anything he heard and argued about everything else.

  “Not sure. I wasn’t aware of it for a long time, because I don’t have all that much purple around. But one time I made the mistake of hanging a purple neckerchief in the side pocket of my overalls.” Herb rubbed his backside with the memory. “Billie sneaked up on me, rammed into my butt, and nearly knocked me to Kingdom Come.”

  Melvin was built like a fireplug: short, thick-bodied, with short arms and legs. He was mostly bald except for an exaggerated comb-over. He’d been divorced for a good while, but nobody knew how long. “So why’s he on search and destroy missions for purple, instead of red, like a bull?”

  “It’s something to do with his former owner.” Herb sniffed his fingers again. Goat saliva was as thick as syrup gone bad. “Billie goats are very impressionable while they’re weaning, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t. I figured anything that eats briars, tin cans, and wire would be pretty unimpressionable.” Melvin heard something at Herb’s truck and turned to watch the goat. Billie was fairly sedate. With that camel-jawed, sideways grinding motion, he was chewing several blackberry branches which Herb had cut from his fence row.

  An old woman wearing an open purple windbreaker pedaled her three-wheeled cycle with a big basket in the rear. She was headed up the hill toward the main complex where lunch was served daily. When Billie saw the purple-clad cyclist, he started trying to butt his way out of the truck bed railings.

  “You can see he’s got lots of spirit, too.” Herb couldn’t remember if he’d used nails or screws for those railings. Hope it was screws.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s real useful in a goat.” Melvin watched the cyclist very nearly crash as she veered sharply away from her unexpected encounter with aggressive livestock. “Okay, you ever figure out why your goat hates purple?”

  “Well, about a week ago, I ran into the guy I got him from and asked him that same question. He said his stepson couldn’t stand the goat, even before he was a yearling. So every time he’d go in the back yard, he’d take a cattle prod. If that goat got within five feet of him, he’d zap it. I guess the goat didn’t take it kindly.”

  “So why even go near the stepson?” Melvin had a point.

  “Stepson fed the livestock.”

  Melvin thought for a moment. “I’m guessing the stepson wore purple a lot.”

  “Yeah. Shirt and cap too. Must’ve been a big football fan of that Minnesota team.”

  “Or maybe pro basketball. One of those teams wears purple.”

  Neither questioned whether goats could actually discern purple on a color spectrum. Herb’s position was that a goat’s eyes could detect subtle shades of grey whereas human eyes would lump all those greys together.

  “So how much you want for him?” Melvin squinted like he knew something about livestock values.

  “You can’t hardly put a price on prime stock like Billie. Make me an offer.”

  “Cut the hustle. You’ll be lucky if you can pay some schmuck to take him off your hands.” Something about ruminants of the Capra genus evidently got Melvin’s goat.

  “I gotta do something. Purple is the school color where my great-grandkids are starting elementary. That goat will kill them if he sees a purple shirt or backpack.”

  “Okay, let me think.” Melvin patted down his comb-over though it didn’t need the attention. “You know, old Norm might be just the sucker, I mean, the lucky winner of Billie the kid. But Norm won’t part with any money, I bet. You might ought to make him a trade.”

  “Aw, I’ve already been working on Norm… I see him at most of those funerals.” Herb thought for a moment. “What you reckon he’s got to trade?”

  “Plenty. I’ve seen inside his garage. He’s never thrown anything away in the past sixty years, so I figure he’s gotta have something you could make use of.”

  “Oh, all Norm’s got is pure junk.”

  ****

  Pete had monitored the early arrivals, including Kelly, several Honor Guard men, and then Roger with his aunt. Besides Melvin, most of the nearby neighbors evidently waited until the announced noon starting time since they were all on foot. Those other neighbors had started to arrive as Pete was speaking with Roger in the hallway.

  Leo was the Community’s person whom nobody believed — to the point he was known by many as Leo the Liar, or sometimes Lyin’ Leo. So nobody had paid particular attention when Leo reported, the previous Friday, that he’d seen a car with New York plates cruising very slowly through the Community several times. He lived in the unit directly across Placid from Pete and was the adjoining neighbor to Norm. Leo was medium height and distinctly fat. He was also nearly deaf but refused to wear the expensive hearing aids his grown children had insisted he purchase. His wife Gladys was already in the nursing home at the main Community complex and he visited her daily. He drove an enormous 1998 Ford Crown Victoria, powder blue.

  Leo’s story of the day was about an eighteen-wheeled tractor trailer which had supposedly flipped over and was lying across South Pleasant Drive — thereby blocking the only southern route to the Community. Nobody believed him, of course. Why would a big rig be on the narrow streets of the Community?

  Another neighbor, Earl, lived in the far half of the duplex next door — to the Henleys’ east. He was likeable enough, but he hadn’t been in the military and simply wasn’t involved in anything Pete or Irene did regularly. So they’d speak when they saw one another in the Community, but did not have a deep friendship.

  Earl was in his early seventies, average height with a pencil thin mustache — a style not seen very much anymore. Plus, he wore an awful toupee. His pride and joy was a big yellow Cadillac El Dorado; purchased brand new, it was now twenty-five years old, with its original engine and only 92,000 miles. Earl was widowed, but nobody remembered how many years. He entered carrying a long apparatus.

  Pete saw him coming. “Earl, let me introduce Lucille’s nephew Roger Jenkins.” Pete stepped back enough for them to shake hands. Roger had not yet washed the wheel grime from his hands.

  Earl shifted what he was carrying to his left hand, so he could shake. While Roger was still present, Earl wiped the transferred wheel grime onto his trousers. “Lucille, down there on Cordial Lane? She’s practically my neighbor, across that big field anyway.” What he carried looked like a cross between a harpoon gun for skin diving and a sprayer-wand for washing second-story windows.

  “New gadget from TV, Earl?” Pete pointed.

  “Yeah. Special high-pressure garden sprayer and power wash apparatus that attaches to your garden hose. Runs regular household water through a patented device that pressurizes it enough to shoot about eighty-five feet.” Earl was always buying gadgets from TV infomercials and couldn’t wait to show them off. Sometimes he repeated bits of the lingo he’d heard in the sales pitch that hooked him. “Shoots far enough to wash the peak of your roof without getting up on a dangerous ladder, and strong enough to knock the mildew off your heavy wooden picnic table.” Actually, Earl no longer possessed such a table, though he’d used one at his former residence.

  Melvin, immediate neighbor to Earl’s east, came inside to look at what Earl had purchased this time. “That the new space age enema?”

  Earl just gave him a look. “You can just run regular water through it, or it has a reservoir for lawn and garden chemicals — or for detergent if you’re washing your RV.”

  “You don’t need that here in the Community.” Melvin tapped it roughly. “Th
e Association does all the outside washing and spraying. Plus, you don’t have an RV.”

  Earl’s enthusiasm for TV products was seldom diminished by the troublesome fact he might never use it, didn’t need it anymore, or would not be able to operate it. But he was clearly disappointed his new item didn’t get a better reception. It had cost him three payments of $29.99.

  Melvin wandered back outside the front door.

  Earl leaned his expensive, apparently purposeless pressure wand in the corner nearest Pete’s front door and headed toward the kitchen.

  Pete waited until he was gone. “His favorite salesman is that loud feller with the thick black beard. Myself, I like the ones with the Aussie accents that don’t shout as much.”

  “I can understand the appeal. Not that particular item, but some of the things they feature.” Roger took another glance at the pressure sprayer.

  “Well, I think they victimize senior citizens — nearly always talking about emergencies and such.” Pete frowned. “They make wasteful things seem indispensable.”

  “Or, if you order right away, two gizmos for the price of one, plus additional shipping.” Roger smiled. “Seriously, though, those infomercials are a big industry. I read there’s about $300 billion in the ‘yell and sell’ business.”

  Henley whistled softly. “Well, the only thing he didn’t buy from TV is that old yellow Caddy out there.” He pointed to the east. “Earl drove it in the Somernites parade a couple of times. But they told him not to come back because he couldn’t stay in his own lane while he was busy waving.”

  Earl was one of the first residents in the Community and he had planted a small eight-by-eight garden before the Association realized they needed a rule prohibiting it. So his was the only garden in that entire subdivision — except for a few window boxes and some shelf gardens attached to rear deck railings.