Catalina Cherries

XI
Vaya con Dios

Berto and I were painting the Astimendi house; it would have been nice to have Johnny and Gary helping, but, well, shit happens. We had put two coats on the trim and the eaves and were now starting on the sides. We could use rollers on the sides; way faster than the eaves and sills where we had to use brushes. I heard Berto say, “Good morning, Ma’am,” and I went around the front where I immediately saw the Van der Leyden Chevrolet with the Commander standing on the sidewalk in her khaki uniform. I also wished her a “good morning”. She smiled, “I just thought I’d let you know that Gary arrived safely in Japan. He wished you two could be with him.”

Mercedes emerged from the house and stood on the front porch looking the question. Our street only looked sleepy. Hardly anything actually went unobserved. We introduced Mercedes to the Commander and all the appropriate pleasantries were exchanged. Mercedes excused herself as she was cooking; she would have been very relieved to know that the Commander, an obvious representative of uniformed officialdom, was a friend and an ally. Nothing was wrong.

The Commander went on to say that we could use their pool whenever we wanted so long as she or Miss Jean was present. I assured her that we’d be happy to clean the leaves out as Gary had shown me how to do this. But, I confessed, “I don’t know about the chemicals.”

“Not to worry,” Berto assured us, “Gary showed me all about those. I’ll tell Miss Jean whenever we’re close to running out of anything.”

The Commander was pleased and was preparing to go; but now, here was Granmum coming down the sidewalk with her air of determined majesty. We introduced the two of them. The Commander immediately accepted the offer of a cup of tea and the two of them started up the sidewalk. They only got a step or two before I asked if we could swim this afternoon after we were finished painting. The Commander smiled, “Certainly.” And as they continued up the sidewalk I heard her assure Granmum that the two of us were always welcome at her house.

Mercedes called us into the house for lunch. I’d never been in the Astimendi house before. The first thing you noticed were the smells: there were pleasant smells from the kitchen cooking that were warring with the older smells of musty disuse. There was a slight but sharp smell that I couldn’t identify. But those smells, in turn, seemed to be yielding to an assault of vacuuming, polish, and cleansers. The furniture was well worn and sagging in places; the carpet was threadbare. Everything was clean, or gleamed with polish, but otherwise kind of faded and worn. I noticed a portrait of Jesus Christ on one wall and a large mountain scene in oil on another. There was another large picture of an army officer; but my attention was quickly riveted to the framed photo of a young man who, like the officer, wore the uniform of the Great War. He was looking out upon the world with a smile. With hope and joy. I recognized the uniform from books my father had and things he’d shown me. His insignia told me that this young man was an artilleryman.

There was a display case on the mantle that contained four medals. I wasn’t sure what any of them were, but I tried to memorize them so I could ask someone. I sensed that they were important. Mercedes had to call me again. I was last to table.

We were back at work when I saw the Commander coming down the sidewalk to her car. I dashed up and asked her to wait a minute. I'd like to show her something; but I had to ask Mercedes first. Mercedes was gracious. I brought the Commander into the living room and directed her attention to the medals. “My goodness,” she exclaimed as she looked carefully at the medals. “Mister Astimendi was a fine soldier indeed. This one is the Silver Star; it’s awarded for bravery in action. This one is the Purple Heart; it’s awarded if you're wounded in action. This is a French medal, also for heroism, it’s called the Croix de Guerre. And this one is the World War One Victory Medal. I think it has the most beautiful ribbon of any medal.”

The Commander pondered the medals for several long moments. “Excuse me, Dave, I’d like to talk to Mercedes for a minute.” She went into the kitchen and I went back to painting.

About an hour later, as we were almost finished for the day, she came out and called me over. “I want to thank you for your interest and your curiosity. Mister Astimendi was a corporal in the war and he’s entitled to a number of veteran’s benefits that he didn’t even know about. I'm going to make some calls for him and get this taken care of. You’re a good soul.” She kissed me, but no hug as I was spattered with paint.

I was further surprised at dinner that night. Pobbin was talking about orange groves. I pretty much took these for granted as they were all around us. “David, would you ask young Roberto if he knows anyone in the orange business?”

“Certainly. And I’d bet that Mister de Galves does. He’d be the one to ask.”

“That will be excellent, then, thank you.”

Next morning, when I got down to the Astimendi house, there was the man himself. Sitting in a rocking chair that hadn’t been there before. Dressed for the occasion in a long sleeved shirt and tie, tan slacks with a matching vest, a golden chain stretching from button hole to pocket across his vest. Neat as a pin, he was almost military in his poise. Berto was sitting on the porch steps next to him.

Berto promptly stood and introduced us very formally. Mister Astimendi had not risen, but he had taken our introduction seriously and formally. He was slender. His hair was full, silver at the temples, graying on top, neatly brushed, longer than usual. More like Papa than my Daddy or Pobbin.

When we were exchanging handshakes and pleasantries, Mister Astimendi had spoken in a sort of hoarse whisper. I remembered what Granmum had said about him being gassed in the war; I remembered his medals.

“My Daddy was in the army.”

Mister Astimendi smiled and nodded. “In the war?”

“Yessir. He was in the Second Cavalry.” I thought this was great common ground for a first conversation.

“Yes.” In his whispery tone. “I knew them. Their horses were always in fine fettle. Beautiful. But that was the Great War, of course.”

“General Lee was a Colonel of the Second Cavalry. You know. Back before the Civil War.”

Mister Astimendi drew himself up in his chair and regarded me solemnly.

“No!” With absolute finality.

“Yes. Colonel Lee was a Colonel in the Second Cavalry.

“But no. General Lee was the enemy!”

I was stunned and I think I must have looked it. Robert E Lee was something of a saint. An American hero. But this veteran American soldier had just called him the enemy! This decorated veteran American soldier!

“But everyone calls him a hero.” I was somewhere between scandalized and horrified.

“Oh he was a fine soldier,” my decorated veteran of the Great War hoarsely whispered. “But when you drop the hammer on the US Army. You are, perforce, the enemy.

“I was in the front lines too many times. When you’re shot at, you take it personally.”

I’d never heard it stated so starkly. So forcefully. I’d never thought of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville in quite that way, before. Yet, I was compelled to admit the truth of it. Robert E Lee had certainly dropped “the hammer” on the US Army. I was going to have to talk to Daddy about this.

At which point, Mercedes arrived, “come sir. Lunch is ready.”

Corporal Astimendi, upright veteran of the Great War, stood slowly but without assistance. “I’ve enjoyed our chat. Please come again.” He entered the house as Mercedes held the door.

“Jesus,” I whispered to Berto. “I’ve never heard it said that way before.”

“Come on, Doh-Mingo. We need to talk to Pobbin about oranges.” We were off. But I wasn’t thinking about oranges.

We had just finished dinner. Pot roast with spaetzle and gravy, Brussels sprouts, with a glorious blueberry buckle for dessert. Pobbin finished his coffee with a gentle clink as the cup met the saucer. “Davey, will you go pull the Packard out of the garage, please? We’re going to go talk to Mr de Galves about oranges.”

At Berto’s, Pobbin and Papa visited amiably for a few moments. Coffee was served, and then they retired to Papa’s office to talk business. Berto and I went out to the backyard and played catch. I was thinking that maybe we could make out a little when it got darker; but that was not to be, the conference was over, Pobbin and I returned home. He was very pleased about meeting Papa.

With Gary and Johnny gone, and Berto frequently working with Alejandro, I was frequently at loose ends as the day for my departure grew closer. I was looking forward to going home and being back with Mommy and Daddy and Gramercy. To say nothing of my horse and my pick up truck. Our dogs and cats. I would miss my friends, but Berto would be coming to spend ten days with me just after Christmas. Mister Astimendi had paid us for painting his house. Plus, Emily had us do two more modeling jobs for which she had paid us handsomely. Train fare and some spending money would not be a problem.

I had been downtown to the post office to send a letter to Gary. I had assumed there would be extra postage due as it was going to Japan. But the clerk had been very friendly. She pointed to the letters “FPO” in the address Gary had provided and told me that they stood for “Fleet Post Office” and that meant the letter would go at the standard rate. I thought that was pretty amazing. “We want our boys to get their mail,” she smiled as she took my letter.

Since first meeting Corporal Astimendi, I had developed the habit of stopping by to chat whenever he was on his porch. I was pleased to see him there this morning so I dashed up with a proper salute and a, “Good morning Corporal”.

He smiled and returned my salute. He had told me that it wasn’t proper to go about saluting corporals when I saluted him the first time. I had answered by telling him that ‘I was saluting him, not his rank’. So now it was routine.

“Why don’t you ask Mercedes to get us some lemonade, or iced tea?”

“Yessir.”

Moments later we had tall glasses of iced tea and Corporal Astimendi was telling me how Roberto and Alejandro were going to add a ramp to his front porch so he could get out and about with the wheelchair that the Veterans Administration was going to provide.

“So what devilment are you up to this fine day,” he wondered.

I told him about my trip to the post office with a letter to Japan.

“You’re a good lad. Mail call is really important when you’re overseas.” He looked quietly into the distance. “Getting mail at mail call is what I really mean. Getting mail is important.

“Particularly in this day and age, when the lads don’t have horses or mules to care for and talk to. I was in the Field Artillery you know…”

He went on to tell me about the war. About mud. About caissons and limbers and the gun itself. And of his team of horses. And mud. There were eight of them and he told me all of their names. “They’re all different, you know. Like people.” They each had their foibles. What they liked. And what, well, not so much. They hated the mud. And how brave they were under fire. They loved a hot mash: grain with some molasses and warm water. They were a team when the chips were down. They wanted to do their duty. When they love you, they want to work with you. He spoke of them as if they were absent friends. Which they were. As if it were all only yesterday when last they paraded. Which, in his mind’s eye, it was. And when last they galloped into the guns of the “Hun”.

But of his medals, of his personal combat, he spoke not a word.

Granmum saved me. She called me to dinner as my eyes grew moist. I saluted and departed, but I could not help but notice that Corporal Astimendi was pulling his handkerchief from his sleeve as I answered Granmum and stepped off the porch.

All too soon it was my turn to board the train. In previous years, my Grandparents and Johnny would see me off. This time, Johnny was in exile in Chicago. Gary was in Japan. Both were more than just ‘friends’. Way more. But Berto was there. So was Papa. He and Pobbin had become thick as thieves. Pobbin was buying orange groves, but he was keeping them in operation as he waited for land values to improve. This was Papa’s job. The Commander and Miss Jean were there. As were Emily and Victoria. Most importantly, Corporal Astimendi was there in his new wheelchair. We had exchanged salutes like we always did. I was hugged by all and kissed by most. Berto and I had spent the night together and we’d said goodbye lovingly and sensuously. Several times.

I looked back as I climbed aboard. I was last. The porter followed me and fastened a little chain across the doorway.

“Vaya con Dios Domingo,” Papa called. “Vaya con Dios.”

finis