T. Parker: Full Measure

A middle-aged woman was against this because the only thing any pedestrian needed to do was go to the nearest crosswalk — anyone could say they were too far apart. Did they need a crosswalk at every single corner?

A young man was in favor because he ran the streets of Fallbrook to stay in shape and the cars really were dangerous, especially at sunrise or sunset.

An older woman said that public safety was one of the sacred responsibilities of government, and if Fallbrook had the money and a boy had already died, then why not?

An older man said there were too many people in Fallbrook who didn’t have cars — the illegals, mostly — so building crosswalks would encourage more illegal immigration.

An obese woman rose and said this was just another example of social engineering by Democrats.

The young Magnus missionaries clapped and the woman turned and glared at them.

From their seats in the audience, two girls stood and held up a banner attached to two broomsticks. The banner said WHO KILLED GEORGE? and Patrick heard a murmur of approval ripple through the room, then a chorus of derisive grumbles and scattered boos.

“Friends of the dead boy,” said Boardman. “From down in the barrio where he lived.”

A well-known art gallery owner spoke in favor of the lighted crosswalks: anything to increase foot traffic up and down Main is a good idea, she said. With a glance at the skinhead couple she added that even Tattoo You might benefit from easier customer access. The female called out something that Patrick couldn’t catch.

The last person to weigh in said the whole boondoggle sounded like something the government would come up with, and he therefore stood opposed — it was expensive and unnecessary.

The councilpersons and Mayor Anders gave their views and the motion was made, voted on, and defeated — three against, two in favor. The girls with the George banner stood and raised it on their way from the room.

“Well,” said Anders, “that’s too bad. It really is. But on to other things. Fallbrook, let’s see how we can put you back together after this awful fire. We’ve lost three lives and three hundred homes and who knows how much livestock and farmland. We’ve got Fire Chief Bruck here to start things off...”

Patrick looked at Iris again, still tapping on the notebook balanced across her knees. Her fine fair curls caught the light. He had no idea so much was going on in little Fallbrook while he was out patrolling Sangin District. He settled further into the folding chair, positioning his shoulder blades to miss the uprights. He felt a small relaxation finally coming over him. It was more than jarring to jet from a violent, foreign world into a present that was also his past and possibly his future. He thought again about reenlisting. Combat was better than a drug and he wanted more. In combat he had purpose. Everything was important and had to be done right. He knew that home was where he was supposed to want to be, but he felt no such purpose here. Everything seemed trivial.

He took a deep breath and looked up at the old stamped aluminum ceiling. Home is what we fought for, he thought. Whether it helped the people over there or not. Whether we were pawns in a game. Whether it will ever mean anything to me or not. I found my brothers. He saw the flash of light again. It was bright enough to obliterate the world during its sudden, brief life. Myers and Zane were not a part of it, this time. There was no sound either, as if his memory was being polite here in public. The ghosts in his heart rose suddenly, then settled. Patrick lowered his gaze to the tiled floor and closed his eyes and let the voices swim around him.

That morning Ted had steered his taxi up Reche Road, past the junior high school. Fire ash was still settling onto his car, but the morning was warm and pleasant. He had no fare. He thought again of Patrick coming down the escalator at Lindbergh Field two days ago. It was so obvious that the war had been hard on him. It bothered Ted that his brother had found no meaning in what he had done. That was the worst feeling in the world. To him, the young man he saw on that escalator riding out of the sun was a hero, pure and simple. And soon, thought Ted, he would be working alongside that hero, as a brother and a friend. To save the farm. He wondered how long that would last. He knew he’d miss this taxi but everyone needed to sacrifice. Cleo, who owned Friendly Village Taxi, had already said she’d give him weekends and some evenings, just to keep a little money coming in.

He pulled over and got the glass spray and paper towels from the trunk. As he labored away at the windshield he saw Mr. Hutchins far down the road, walking toward him. Ted finished the windows and circled back to pick him up. The old man swung open the front door and looked in. “Hello, Ted. Air still smells like hell out here, so thanks for stopping.”

“Slow morning, Mr. Hutchins. Happy to.”

Ted felt sorry because Hutchins was eighty-two years old and his wife was in a board and care downtown. Of course the nanny state had taken away his driver’s license, and his wife’s facility was three miles from the Hutchins home. Which meant a six-mile round-trip walk for Mr. Hutchins, half of it steeply uphill, through heat, cold, and occasional rain. A man with bad feet understood the pain. Taxis were expensive and there were no buses. Hutchins was skinny as a minute and it riled Ted that government would do that to a man, and he considered himself patriotic in giving Hutchins a free ride now and then to see Alice.

Ted dropped him off at the board and care and Hutchins made a show of paying, but Ted put a hand on his arm and said no payment today.

“Sorry you lost your grove,” said the old man. “Tell your mother and father to think about selling everything. Get a smaller place in a city, one that won’t burn down. A place with a community pool. They can travel. Live off savings.”

“They don’t have any savings.”

“Mine went somewhere, too.”

He turned and waved as the automatic glass door slid open. Through the slats of a wooden fence Ted could see the patio area with its plastic chairs and tables, and the old people and their wispy white hair, their canes and wheelchairs and bottled oxygen. He watched for a while. It was nice to watch without being seen. That was part of the reason he liked driving the taxi, because he could watch life through glass, like on a TV or a monitor. On the wall of the building he saw still another offensive campaign poster for Evelyn Anders, which showed her face and proclaimed: THIS TOWN IS YOUR TOWN — RE-ELECT EVELYN ANDERS FOR MAYOR. She managed to look both professional and attractive, which Ted found underhanded.

Later he picked up Lucinda Smith at her condo on the golf course and took her downtown to Major Market. This was the fourth time she’d called Friendly Village Taxi in the last ten days. She was a pretty brunette, thirtysomething, though she hardly spoke to him. She never took her sunglasses off, never smiled or laughed. No ring on her finger. She was brief about her shopping today, as usual. In Ted’s view she was either sullen or brokenhearted but he couldn’t tell which. When she was done getting groceries he dropped her off at home and she gave him her usual two-dollar tip.

“Have a nice day,” he said. Lucinda gave him a curt wave and headed up the stairs to her front door.

He looped around to Mission and drove back into town, the air still pale with ash. He drove past where the boy had been killed. The girls were there again with their banner raised, WHO KILLED GEORGE? Ted noted their cheerless expressions and wondered why the kid hadn’t just gone to the nearest crosswalk.