Full Measure: A Novel Read online

  “There’s nothing in the world I’d rather do than help this family. Nothing. I’ll give my notice to Friendly Village Taxi tomorrow after work. Cleo will have to understand. It may take her a day or two to find someone else, but I’m needed here. Right here now.”

  “Yes. You are.”

  Ted smiled. “Tell me about the war.”

  “Later.”

  “I fully understand. You need some time first.”

  Back in the house Patrick refilled his glass with ice and bourbon and lay in his old bed, the same one he’d slept in as a high schooler. As he waited for sleep to find him, the present stepped aside and his memory barreled in with an explosion of light, then Myers and Zane, and then a split second later the unforgettable sound of a bomb finding flesh. The roar startled him back to the now, where he smelled the smoke of many things native and distant that had burned. Much later, as sleep tiptoed toward him again, Patrick saw in his mind a white with black trim Triton 240 LTS Pro Series fishing boat with the outboard four-stroke Mercury, a twenty-five gallon bait well, plenty of deck storage, stainless-steel hardware and grab rails, nonskid casting decks and gunwales. She was strong and capable. She streaked across the water with Patrick at the helm and she was his.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next evening Patrick drove his pickup to City Hall for the council meeting. Not having driven in a year found him boldly speeding through Fallbrook’s winding roads with the windows down and the cool evening air on his face. Snippets of joy.

  The Fallbrook city council met on the second Tuesday of every month and the meetings were covered by Village View reporter Iris Cash. One night not long before his deployment, Patrick had gone before the city council to ask for a setback variance for a new Norris Brothers grove fence, and he had discovered Iris. She had caught up with him after his presentation that night and asked questions about the variance, but had a spark of curiosity in her eyes. Six weeks later Patrick was gone, carrying his memory of that spark across the continents and into the hot desert of the war, tucked away, a private jewel, something to have that was durable and good.

  Tonight he wound through the crowded council chambers toward her and caught her eye. She broke away from a small group. “Patrick Norris? It’s so good to see you again! It’s been a year.”

  “Thirteen months.”

  Iris was blue-eyed and curvy, with wavy blond hair. She wore a snug black T with the Statue of Liberty in red, white, and blue sequins, jeans, and black slip-on sneakers. Her expression was withholding. She held a small computer tablet in one hand. Her gaze roamed his own. “Are you back for good?”

  “Yes. Done with all that.”

  “I thought a text or something might come my way.”

  “I just needed to get it done. I thought of you.”

  “Okay. You’re looking well.”

  “So are you, Iris.”

  “I’m so sorry about the farm.”

  “We’ll put it back together.”

  “You came back just in time for that.”

  Patrick nodded, picturing himself in the Domino’s Pizza shirt, carrying a heat-insulated extra large to a Fallbrook front door. At least he wouldn’t be sitting in an office. The tips weren’t bad. It was the only job he’d ever had, other than being a high school student, a farm laborer, and a killer with a choice of machine guns—M240 or SAW.

  Neither spoke for a long beat. “Why did you come here tonight, Patrick? Another variance?”

  “I came to see you. And what the town has been up to.”

  She gave him a look of assessment. “Stick around then! Fallbrook’s been up to a lot. Call me at the paper sometime—there’s a new coffeehouse we could try.”

  He sat near the back and on the right where he could see Iris in profile. The council chamber was a stately twentieth-century brick edifice with high coffered ceilings and an air of Protestant thrift. The four councilpersons and mayor sat at a raised dais that curved out from the far wall. They each had a slender microphone. The local cable outfit had a tripod and camera set up stage left, manned by an operator with a headset clamped on. The seal of the city—a robed woman with her back to the viewer, facing an avocado grove that stretched forever before them, the sun either rising or setting in the distance—hung on the wall behind the officials. Patrick estimated thirty rows of folding chairs, thirty across. He thought of how hard it was to find a place to sit at forward operating base Inkerman, which had three chairs, always taken, and rock-hard sandbags and Hesco blocks. He mostly ate standing up. As Mayor Anders called the meeting to order, the chairs were all but full and more citizens stood in the back and more outside the open doors, straining to see in over one another. Lew Boardman found a seat next to Patrick.

  When the minutes were done, the mayor opened with old business. A stocky man in his early forties stepped to the podium. He wore a brown suit that looked too small, a white button-down shirt, and a striped necktie. Patrick was surprised. He recognized the man as Cade Magnus, the middle son of onetime Fallbrook scourge Jed Magnus. The Magnus family had left town almost a decade ago—to the great relief of most of its citizens—but Patrick instantly recognized Cade’s smug demeanor and haughty smile.

  When the Magnus family lived in Fallbrook, Jed had published a racist newsletter and hosted a hate-filled radio show that had a national following. Young Cade, obviously enthralled by his charismatic father, was the heir apparent to the then White Crusade. Patrick remembered their car repair shop, Pride Auto Repair, where only American and German cars were worked on. Later a lawsuit had crippled the White Crusade but the Magnuses had stayed on in Fallbrook while father and son continued to publish racist literature and speak at Aryan, Klan, and white separatist events across the country. Patrick had seen them many times over the years, walking around downtown as if they owned it, openly baiting people with their loud voices and braying laughter.

  When Cade tapped the mic a low murmur came from the crowd then subsided.

  Evelyn Anders looked down at him with some irritation. “Cade, I wish I could say it was good to see you again.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I heard you moved back here two weeks ago.”

  “I’ll plead guilty to that.”

  “First you arrive, then we get the worst fire in our history.”

  “You’re not implying I set the fire, are you?”

  An uneasy murmur rippled through the room. Patrick heard a gaggle of laughter from up near the front where Cade had been sitting.

  “So, you guys are the Rogue Wolves now, not the White Crusade?” asked the mayor.

  “We can’t use the words White Crusade or you’ll take what little money you left us with.”

  “I’ll take it?”

  “Government will. Government is government—public enemy number one.” More laughter from his cadre.

  “Cade, I read this Rogue Wolf proposal that you sent in last month, about the weapons ban protest. I see no merit in it at all, nor does this council. The city attorney says that legal open carry of weapons would provoke violence and has no chance in the courts. We don’t want people carrying guns around here. The City of Fallbrook is the avocado capital of the world, not the gun capital of the world. We will not sanction such a protest. We will not place this item on our agenda for public input.”

  “Yet the bylaws of this city allow me to address the council at this time.”

  “Don’t trivialize our city, Mr. Magnus. Fallbrook has just suffered a major catastrophe.”

  “It was punishment from God for your ignorance.”

  “You have exactly two minutes.”

  “Thank you. Boys and girls, in these days of spiraling gun violence, such as in Columbine, Tucson, Aurora, and Newtown, we believe more than ever that citizens must bear arms. The Supreme Court guarantees this as a constitutional right. It is not a privilege. An armed citizen is a protected citizen. A self-defense weapon locked in a safe at home is no protection against the rapist in a late-night parki
ng lot. I would not be motherless now if Ellen Magnus had been allowed to defend herself in our family’s place of business. But this is not about her or myself. So, our society encourages a woman to defend herself against such an attack, yet leaves the crucial question of weapon access to the states and municipalities. Arizona and other states have the right idea—legal carry. California must follow suit. So, we call on the city leaders of Fallbrook to recognize November twenty-second of this year to be ‘Self-Protection Day,’ during which Fallbrook’s good and law-abiding citizens over the age of twenty-one can legally carry, in public and on their persons, and loaded if they desire, the weapons of self-defense upon which this country was founded and built.”

  “Complete with thirty-shot magazines?” asked Anders.

  “Let’s work out the specifics later.”

  “Did you choose the anniversary of President Kennedy’s assassination on purpose?”

  “Of course I did.”

  One of the city councilwomen moved to table the proposal for further study and it was seconded by the councilman sitting beside her. The council swiftly voted.

  “Tabled it is, Mr. Magnus,” said Mayor Anders.

  “You’re just hiding your head in the sand.”

  “We appreciate your input. Welcome back to Fallbrook and behave yourself.”

  Anders whacked her gavel on the desktop and Norris heard the sharp ring of it over the jeers. Magnus remained at the podium and turned toward the audience, and Patrick had his first good look at the man in more than a decade. He was handsome in a cunning way, his hair brown and full, his eyebrows disingenuously arched, eyes wide in feigned innocence. There was a trace of a smile on his lips. “You dumbass liberals with your cheap Third World labor don’t know one thing about this country. Time to take it back, boys and girls.”

  Some people sitting with Magnus stood and clapped and hooted. Patrick saw a young pierced and tattooed skinhead couple. There was an older biker in chains and leathers with an obscure patch on the back of his vest. There were two fresh-faced man-boys wearing white shirts and black ties and they looked to Patrick like Mormons, though this was doubtful. The man-boys couldn’t be much more than teenagers. The big biker fell in behind Magnus as he left the podium and strode down the center aisle toward the exits. Magnus looked at Patrick on the way and Patrick caught the gleam in his clear blue eyes—mischief or menace, hard to tell, he thought. “Welcome home, Patrick,” Magnus said to him. “Thank you and well done.”

  “Go to hell,” said Patrick.

  When Magnus had passed by, Patrick saw Iris Cash looking at him from across the chambers. He waved at her awkwardly, as if trying to conceal his action from the hundreds present, many of whom were looking back in his direction at Magnus. After thirteen months of living in close quarters with men, it felt strange to Patrick to intend anything as private. Iris smiled. He smiled too and felt fortunate that he had carried her with him into the war and back, and that she apparently bore him no grudge for not calling. He had cast her as a weightless ideal rather than a flesh-and-blood human being, far easier to transport and protect, and he knew this was a selfish convenience even as he had done it. Now seeing her again she was exactly as he had pictured her: very real and beautiful.

  * * *

  Mayor Anders called the last old business on the calendar. A woman in the audience set up an easel on the dais, and set a foam-backed photograph on it. Even from far back Patrick saw that the image was a boy’s smiling face, probably an enlargement of a school picture.

  “That boy was killed on Mission Boulevard two weeks ago,” said Lew Boardman. “Ten years old. It was late and dark and the car that hit him didn’t stop. A late-model white four-door is all the witness could say. It was weaving. The car threw him up and the windshield caught him again and he flew twenty feet. And the car kept on going.”

  A city safety engineer presented a PowerPoint proposal to construct two lighted crosswalks. On a city map he ran the pointer along Fallbrook’s two busiest streets and stated that some stretches of them were hundreds of yards from the nearest traffic lights. He said that without stops or crosswalks, Fallbrook’s pedestrians would continue to walk long distances, or take substantial risks to cross. He mentioned Clair Michaels, the elderly woman seriously injured by a car two years prior on Main. The safety engineer turned and looked at the photograph of the boy. The room quieted.

  Patrick looked at the smiling boy in the picture, the gap where his front teeth would have soon been, the shirt collar buttoned all the way up. The safety engineer turned back to his mic and said the cost estimate was $84,000 per crosswalk, half paid by California DOT, another twenty thousand for each coming from the county. The annual operating cost would be small because on-site solar panels would power the small lights embedded in the asphalt. Mayor Anders said such a project would leave a $44,000 obligation to Fallbrook but the city had such money—barely—available from the general fund, earmarked for public health and safety. She looked at the councilpersons and noted that this sure seemed like a good use of that money. Public input?

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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.