by Mike McKay
Chapter 8
Mark came home after nine, and the younger kids were already in bed. David-senior smoked his pipe at the front porch, while Michael, William, and Clarice had tea in the sitting room. Mary was not at home – she went to Baytown to visit her sister. A ride of over twenty miles from Sheldon-Res was a big undertaking, and Mary did such family visits only twice a year. Besides maintaining the family ties, the trip had more pragmatic targets: Mary planned to buy salt and seafood at the Baytown market, half-price than around their own neighborhood.
Clarice set a plate with cold dinner in front of Mark and went out to check the mailbox. She tumbled in, smiling, and proudly demonstrated Mark and the others a legal-size envelope.
“Guess what we have? All the way from the Pentagon! This must be Billy's compensation papers!”
William turned towards her voice: “Open it then!”
Clarice opened the envelope and extracted three stapled pages.
“Oh, it's just a letter…” She shook the empty envelope with a little disappointment, “nothing else inside.”
“What did you expect, honey, – a bundle of cash? Read on,” William said.
She started reading: “To: Private (PV2) William M. Pendergrass, the USACE, honorably discharged. Dear Sir. By the orders given to me from the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff G-1 Personnel of the United States Army, I am pleased to inform you that your application dated August 12, 2029, in regard to compensation for the injuries you have sustained at active duty while in US Army Corps of Engineers, has been granted a positive decision… Sounds cool, is it?”
“…Positive decision. The injuries, you have sustained, include, colon… Then, there are numbers… One. Amputation of right upper extremity through the shoulder joint, with satisfactory healing. Two. Amputation of left upper extremity at the level of… Why do they need to list all these? As if you forgot what's gone?”
“Such are the rules, honey. It's a legal document,” William said. “You may skip the medical stuff. What do they say about tax?”
“About tax – nothing yet,” Clarice continued. “Let see. A fragment wound of the left eye… Residual vision not exceeding three per cent… Here in brackets: three percent as a number… Oh! Here: a permanent and irreversible disability of seventy-nine per cent… Brackets, with a number… Why they write percent with a space? Per cent! Funny. Wait a sec! Why only seventy-nine? Take Paul, our neighbor across the road. He came back from Egypt completely blind, right? He boasted they gave him fifty-five percent!”
“So what? To be blind is not a piece of candy, I can tell you this much.”
“And your buddy at the end of the street? Darrel or Damian, what's his name? The one who took you to do the Loop, when I had flu? He is without both hands… Just hands, not all arms, – forty-five percent! Fifty-five plus forty-five is one hundred. I don't get it! They should give you one hundred percent, pumpkin!”
“That is not how it works, honey,” William said. “They count not what is gone, but what remains. It's called ‘residual functions.’ They explained this on the Dumpster. I have two legs, ten percent each. One hundred minus twenty is eighty. Obviously, they deducted one percent for the residual vision in my left eye. Twenty-by-twenty pixels, ha-ha… Fair enough…”
“Fair, not fair… Who is one hundred percent then? A Quad? No arms and no legs?” Clarice slapped the letter on the coffee table.
“Huh… One hundred percent is a total brain damage. Like a vegetable. Feed on one side and remove shit from the other. Make sure you do both from the correct end… Never mind, rules are rules. I'm happy with my legs and my seventy-nine percent. Please, read on. I'm dying to know how much they calculated…”
“OK, pumpkin… It says: rest assured that no effort will be spared to re-integrate military veterans into society. Please allow us to use this occasion to outline the opportunities that exist for your rehabilitation process… Here are the numbers again… One. The Presidential program Limbs for Life provides veterans with free access to modern prosthetic devices in the Government clinics…”
“Skip it. On the Dumpster, they told me I'm not qualified…”
“There is a half-page story here… Blah-blah-blah… Ah, it does say at the end: due to the nature of your injuries, the participation in the above program is not presently applicable… Regretfully… OK got it, moving on. Two. The State of Texas program New Hope Homes provides eligible disabled veterans with assisted living in the open type institutions… What does the ‘open type’ mean?”
Mike explained before William opened his mouth. “It means, Rissy, you may leave at any time. It has been scientifically proven that armless and legless people represent no danger to society. But in case you're total bananas, they lock you up in a completely different institution. The closed type! With guards and barbed wire.”
“OK, got it. …Open type institutions… Blah-blah-blah again. Peaceful surroundings… Recreation facilities… A medical practitioner on-site… Dedicated schooling facilities for children… Looks like a bloody advertizing.”
“For complete idiots only,” Mike said from the corner. “Our neighbor at the 'Fill told us about one such ‘Home’ in Waco, Texas. Imagine an old railway depot. In the middle of nowhere. Peaceful surroundings, my ass! Roughly, four hundred people. Three hundred and something cripples, three dozen women – wives, sisters, and such. Six dozen kids. For those, they make a school, – every morning, for one hour. No books. After the ‘school,’ the kids go around the city: collecting food scraps for dinner…”
“But you have to agree, if a vet has no family, the New Hope is not the crappiest option,” Mark said.
“Never mind,” William interrupted. “Ris, darling, please keep reading.”
“OK, here at the end it says: because your disability exceeds the minimum requirement of seventy-five per cent, you and the immediate members of your family are eligible for placement in the New Hope Homes program.”
“Good news!” William said. “Ris, we're moving into a shit-hole. Tomorrow! Besides the jokes: what do they say about money?”
Clarice shook her head and kept on reading: “…Three. The disabled veterans will benefit the most by living within their native communities. Supported by the family members and the neighborhoods, the veterans with most severe injuries can live happy and fulfilling lives and become useful members of the society. Blah-blah-blah. You may consider applying with any non-government and/or religious charity organizations, as well as any veteran self-support groups available in your place of residence. Kindly note that different charity organizations may stipulate different requirements for the participation in their support programs. The permanent disability, assessed with relation to the compensation payment hereby, does not guarantee your eligibility for any particular program in question…”
“We are already through two pages, and learned nothing new,” Mike said. “I wonder why these Pentagon assholes waste all the time and all the money writing this garbage!”
“I don't think they wasted too much on this letter, Mike,” Mark disagreed, “It looks like a computer-generated document. Boilerplates. I think they have special software: you type in the vet's name, and it spits out the entire letter, plus the addressed envelope.”
“Let's get through it, please,” William said. “How much did we get, finally?”
“OK, pumpkin…” Clarice was getting bored. “The following information outlines the terms and conditions of the lump-sum compensation payment, which will be provided to you by the US Federal Government, along with your rights for any further claims. Please read it carefully. The lump-sum payment constitutes the whole and final compensation for the above listed injuries, or any other medical or physical conditions, which may arise or be sustained as the consequence of these injuries. However, in case of a medical condition, which arises due to your past service and not related
in any way to the injuries listed above, an additional claim may be made, providing satisfactory medical evidence exists to the latter… What a crap! They said: read carefully. I don't understand a word…”
“Simple enough, honey,” William said. “For example, we had chem warfare training in the boot camp. Pepper spray, nothing special. Imagine, ten years from now, they discover this particular spray gives you a brain cancer. So if I develop a tumor, I still can come back and claim extra money. The faulty spray has nothing to do with the booby trap I've triggered.”
“OK.”
“Just the opposite, if I trip on the stairs, because I'm blind, and crack my head, because I have no arms to stop the fall. Then, I cannot claim more, because my broken skull is related to me blowing myself on that particular booby trap back in bloody Venezuela. Therefore, honey, don't hold your breath. You won't cash the remaining twenty-one percent of me. If I become a vegetable, you will have to look after me for the same money.”
Clarice threw her leg over and sat on William's laps. Pressing her pregnant tummy over his chest, she kissed him in the forehead. “I live with you, no matter what, pumpkin. Although, please don't break your skull left and right and become a vegetable! Talking of which, your flip-flops are slippery like hell. If it rains, don't put them on. Remember, how you crashed last Fall?”
“You, honey, keep telling me about my 'flops every day. Read on!”
“OK, pumpkin.” Clarice reluctantly got off William's laps. Right now, she wanted to throw the stupid letter to wait for another day and proceed with her usual hugging and kissing session.
“…Medical evidence exists to the latter… OK, here starts the interesting part. Listen, pumpkin… Your lump-sum compensation entitlement is calculated based on the peacetime off-duty daily allowance, corresponding to your rank and qualification at the moment of your discharge from the armed forces. In your case, such allowance equates to one hundred and forty-five dollars, zero-zero cents… It's like this in the text: cents. Who cares about the cents? Ricky read from his math book: at the shop, partially used pencils costs ten dollars and thirty cents, and new pencils – three times that price. How much is a cent, Rissy? I say: one hundred cents is one dollar. And he says: Rissy, you're talking garbage. At Bell's General Store, a new pencil costs three hundred dollars, and a used – one hundred. So one cent must be equal to three dollars!”
Mike giggled. “Next time, send our genius mathematician to me. Exactly my type of math.”
Clarice looked into the letter. “But one hundred and forty-five a day is a bit low, pumpkin. Less than we collect for Salvation Way. I remember, you told me you were getting six or seven hundred a day in Venezuela.”
William wiped his left eye with the stump. “Right. That's in the war zone and on-duty, honey. In the boot camp, we were getting two-ninety a day. One hundred and forty-five is exactly a half. Off-duty peacetime, as they said.”
“OK, pumpkin… The payable daily allowance is prorated to the proportion of your permanent disability at the moment of the present assessment, or seventy-nine per cent of the full amount entitled, resulting in equivalent daily wage of one hundred and fourteen dollars, fifty-five cents… Again, number in brackets… One hundred and fourteen backs a day?”
“This is the trick they play while calculating the lump-sum compensations,” Mark said. “A draftee private pay is not much, but on-duty, the pay doubles. Then, there are coefficients for war zones. While the soldier is deployed, his salary is pretty good. Besides, almost everything is for free: the food, recreation, uniforms, and so on. One would spend the money only on beer and girls. You can have a good life and save a bundle… But as soon as the draftee goes on disability, they whack the pay back down to the peacetime off-duty, and to add an insult to the injury, multiply it by the disability percent. Another trick they play, is to assume that this low-wage income is all a healthy man can get in his life-time, as if there are no better paid jobs than to be a conscript private.”
Clarice nodded. “Yeah, it says exactly this… The lifetime income is calculated as the product of the equivalent daily wage by the earning period. The latter is assumed the number of days between the date of the discharge from the armed forces and the person's sixtieth birthday, rounded to the nearest one hundred, with the minimum of 200 days. In your case, it is established at 15,300 days, resulting in the estimated income loss of one million seven hundred and fifty-two thousand, six hundred and fifteen dollars, zero-zero C… And the same number – in brackets… Mark, how much do you get per year?”
“Now? Seven hundred and sixty thousand, but it's pre-tax. Slightly less than six hundred, after tax, Clarice,” Mark said. He expected William's compensation to be not too generous, but was unpleasantly surprised with the figure far less than three million he estimated all way long.
“OK, this would be about the same Dad makes in three years,” Mike said from his corner. “Not bad. It would take me at least five or six years to make the same bundle at the 'Fill.”
William sat quietly, biting his lips. Surely, he also expected something far more significant.
“Cheer-up, pumpkin,” Clarice said, “The glass is half-full! One-point-seven-five mil! Not a fortune, but better than nothing…”
“OK, honey, the glass is half-full, and I'm looking at the better side. Looking. With all my twenty-twenty vision. Read on.”
“The lump-sum compensation of one million seven… The same number, pumpkin, mil-seven-fifty… Will be payable in four separate installments over eight-year period, each installment not exceeding four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Please note that the permanent disability compensation payments are considered a taxable income, and as such… Ouch… It says, pumpkin: a taxable income… subject of tax deduction at the moment of payment…”
“Goddammit! First, they give you peanuts, and then – send a tax man after you!” In the remnants of William's left eye, teardrops glittered. Clarice hugged her husband from behind and wiped his eye with the palm of her hand.
“Calm down, pumpkin. Tax, or no tax? Does it matter? Good news, we get some cash before the baby comes out. Why are you so crazy about this ‘compensation?’ You're making enough in Salvation Way!”
Right: making enough! The damn Social Optimum again; perfectly optimal optimum: enough not to go hungry. From the official charity, expect nothing else.
Since February, Clarice frequently went to do the Loop in bare feet, and Mark suspected she was trying to delay the inevitable purchase of new footwear. Her only pair of sneakers, recently fixed by the market cobbler, quickly approached the end of use. Next time, there would be nothing to fix, the cobbler said. Every time William and Clarice amassed enough money, something more urgent popped up, and the new shoes would have to wait once again.
On several occasions, Mark tried offering Clarice money to buy spare sandals, and every time she childishly waved her hand and refused. Sometimes she pointed that walking barefoot was good for her spine, the other times she joked that always had a dream of being barefoot and pregnant.
Under big secret, William told Mark that Clarice visited the Thrift Store supervisor, but returned empty-handed. Obviously, the Social Optimum standards charted a no-pay pair of second-hand shoes in the unthinkable heights of immoral and uneconomical opulence. Or perhaps, Senior Officer Todd pointed out that with a barefoot guide, the Walking Cash Machine had better chance to get his Collector of the Month, had he not?
“How much is the tax bracket, Dad?” William asked.
“For four hundred and fifty K? Twenty percent. Would be going to twenty-two if above five hundred, which is why they chop by the installments every two years. Still, you will get three hundred and sixty grand in hand. Not too bad, considering…”
“OK, then. I guess it's fair. Everybody got to pay tax, after all,” William nodded. “Read on Ris. Did they say how we extract all this cash out of the system?
”
“OK, pumpkin. Right here… The first installment is available at the Department of Veterans Affairs Houston office, located at 2700, Post Oak Boulevard, Houston, Texas. The collection has to be made in person, with a valid photo ID… Shit! It means we have to go all the way to the Post Oak? No motor-bus this year. Omnibus – seven hours one way. It's a two-day trip!”
“For three hundred and sixty grand? Surely worth the visit,” Mike said, “I can take a day off work and give you a ride on my tricycle. Better yet, we can borrow a two-seater bike, and Billy and I will go. You, Rissy, in no shape now to pedal all the way to the downtown, and will not be much use for safekeeping the cash either. In the downtown through the night, with cash in your pocket, – a risky business…”
Clarice nodded. “You have a plan for everything, Mickey. You are so practical! Billy and me – no place near. All theoretical. Hey, I liked the ride this morning! The collection was pretty good, and we even visited the Arcade! I'm thinking: we should do the Beaumont Loop every week. Can you give us a ride on your trike, can't you?”
“Weren't you tired, honey?” William asked.
“A little. But – never mind. They say: walking is good for your heart,” Clarice said.
Mark chuckled. The next, she will tell us that riding Merry-Go-Rounds is good for pregnant.
“We can plan our Loop later. Read on,” William said.
“Oh, OK. What are their working hours? …valid photo ID, not… What?”
“What?”
“…Not earlier than the fifth of July 2033…”
“Two thousand thirty what?”
“Check yourself. Thirty-three!”
“How can I ‘check?’ With my twenty pixels? Read it again!”
“…in person, with a valid photo ID… the fifth of July 2033. The dates of further payments will be advised to you upon the initial installment collection…”
“It must be a typo…” William said. “Can you read again, slowly?”
“I've read it twice already! It says: ‘the fifth of July 2033.’ Besides, it says it's Wednesday! This year, the Independence is on Friday, so the fifth must be Saturday. It's not 2030, for sure.”
Mike giggled. “This means, Rissy, you're not delivering your new baby with a bundle of cash in your naughty hands. No punch intended, but with your efficiency, you have plenty of time to pup another two, or even three, before the Pentagon gets Billy's payment in-order!”
“Never mind: nothing gained, nothing lost,” Mark said philosophically. “The good news, you two will have enough cash to send little Davy to school. In 2033 – he will be exactly five. Bigger kids – higher costs.”
“Is there anything else?” William asked. He sounded deflated.
“Yeah… The office working hours is from eight-thirty AM to four-thirty PM, five days per week. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to contact us at… Looks like a help-desk. We wish you all the best in the new life as a war-time amputee veteran. Sincerely, Lieutenant-Colonel such-and-such. Signature, date… That's all, pumpkin.”
Clarice too had tears in her eyes. She dreamed so much about redecorating their room prior to the baby birth, and almost all the plans hanged on the long-awaited compensation payment.
William made a careful swipe with his armless torso and touched Clarice. The letter dripped to their feet. She wrapped her arms around the husband's shoulders, and they started kissing, with their usual intensity.
“Happy and fulfilling lives? Become useful society members, ah?” William said, momentarily separating from her lips. “Spot on! How about we go to bed now, honey? I can show you how to be fulfilling. And one very useful member too!”
