Veteran’s Affairs
Malcom started work the following week. In spite of my misgivings, he did well.
Walt and I toured around the city to enjoy the Christmas displays. We attended tree lightings. We visited with everyone we knew. We ate and drank and exchanged gifts.
Right before Christmas, Owen’s bank loan came through, and we signed the papers for him to buy into Walt’s Special. On Bea’s ex-husband’s advice, we reorganized the restaurant into something called a ‘Limited Liability Company’ with Walt, Owen, and me as unequal members on a board of directors. Owen had two votes and Walt and I each had one vote. I didn’t know what we had to vote on, but if there was anything, Walt and me together were equal to Owen.
Now that we were an LLC, Owen could more easily assume control of the remaining half of the business upon my and Walt’s eventual deaths. The LLC would remain intact after our passing and Owen would become a board of one. Kirk said it would be a better arrangement for tax purposes as well. None of it made any sense to me, but I trusted him not to steer us wrong.
On Christmas Eve, we received a card and a letter from David. He wrote in response to Walt’s letter about coming for a visit. David was elated that we finally wanted to see his farm. He told us to come in May. He planted the crops in late March and April. May was still busy, but not the same rush as plowing and planting. Harvest wouldn’t start until July. We were invited for the entire month.
Christmas came and went. New Year’s came and went. We celebrated both events much more than we did in past years. Walt and I were getting used to life as a retired couple.
Walt had several checkups with his new doctor and was recovering very well. The doctor remained cautiously optimistic that he would make an excellent recovery. He still wouldn’t be fit to run a business, but he could live very well as long as he took basic precautions and stayed in shape.
My one objection to the doctor’s advice was when he said we should fly to Montana instead of take the train. I was incredulous when Walt relayed the doctor’s advice. “You want me to fly, up in the air? Are you out of your mind?”
Walt explained. “The doctor said train travel is actually harder on a damaged heart than plane travel because it takes so long. It would take four days to get to Montana from here and I’d be under stress the whole time. If we take a plane, we’ll be there in one day. The stress will be more intense, but it’s over in hours instead of days.”
I agreed for Walt’s sake. “Alright, we’ll fly. What’s the worst that happens?”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m as sure as I’m going to be.”
He kissed me. “Thanks, Love.”
“Sure.”
I hated the idea of flying and wanted no parts of it. Walt didn’t seem bothered by the prospect of being thousands of feet in the air with nothing under him but a flimsy airplane. He was a great believer in modern technology. I wasn’t but I made my peace with the idea. I lived my life, and if the worst came to pass, Walt and I would enter the next life together.
The flight to Montana was something to think about, but it was still months away. In between, Walt wanted me to have a complete check-up and physical with my doctor. I objected because I felt fine, but he insisted. We were planning to undertake a major adventure, and he wanted to make certain I was fit to travel. He also hoped I could head off any health catastrophes before they struck. I agreed to see the doctor before the trip.
The whole time I worried about Doc. I’d done everything I could think of to find him and didn’t know what else I could do. I didn’t have any contacts at the police department anymore, so I couldn’t ask anyone to help me look. I telephoned Alex Scofield, who was still a public defender, to see if he could help. He suggested I talk to Jimmy Weaver, who was now a missing persons investigator. Jimmy promised to make inquiries but was busy with his caseload and couldn’t promise when.
In the meantime, everywhere I went, I kept my head on a swivel to look for a scraggly brown beard on a gaunt face. I accosted more than one ill-kempt youth on the street in my constant search. I never noticed how many young people wore beards and how many of them didn’t care for how they looked. It was a disturbing trend.
Once, while Walt and I were driving somewhere, I almost ran us off the road because I saw what I thought was Doc’s Oldsmobile wagon at a car repair place. Walt yelled at me for almost wrecking us, but he made a U-turn so I could investigate. The car I saw turned out to be a 1949 Oldsmobile sedan delivery. It was the same physical shape as a station wagon, but had metal panels where all the back windows should be and was for delivering goods instead of carrying passengers.
I thought about visiting the YMCA again, but Lion promised to let me know if anyone there found him. I kept up with Ben to make sure he remembered to look out for Doc. I also reminded the staff of Walt’s Special to keep their eyes open as well. I hated not being able to do more, but I didn’t know what else to do. I added Doc to my nightly prayers and asked the Lord to look after him.
* * * *
Right after the New Year, Harrison Stiles telephoned that he had a free evening and would be happy to see Walt and I. We welcomed him over and had dinner. After the meal, we sat around the kitchen table and reviewed everything I knew about Doc. Harry didn’t know how much help he could be.
“You’ve done everything I would. This Doc of yours didn’t leave you much to go on. He told you about his troubles, but never named his friends. Even if he had, he as much said he wouldn’t see them unless he had to. His family is a bust. The boy has made himself into an island. How the hell do you find an island in the middle of the ocean with no charts? You can’t.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Come-on, you’ve got to have some idea. You’re a smart guy.”
He grinned like I told a good joke. “I don’t know what gave you that impression.” As soon as he said it, he came up with a suggestion I hadn’t considered. “Did you try the VA?”
I shook my head. “Why would I?”
“Doc is a veteran. The Veterans Affairs people have resources for homeless vets. All you have to do is go to the VA Hospital and ask. If he was down on his luck and didn’t want to go back to the YMCA, maybe he went to the VA.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. I’m due for a checkup over there anyway. I’ll make an appointment and see if they’ll tell me anything while I’m there.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t cost anything to ask. As for the rest of it, you’ve done all you can. You know the drill; keep up with the contacts you’ve made and don’t let them forget you’re interested. If your man is still in the city, he’ll cross paths with someone who knows you’re looking. He’ll either need his car worked on and will go back to see your friends at the garage, or he’ll run into someone he knew from the YMCA. He might even visit his folks and get his ear beat by that awful mother of his.
“All that aside, he sounds like a capable young man. Maybe he got his head on straight and started to fend for himself. Who knows? If he was in trouble, ‘specially if he was in bad trouble, you’d have heard something. People in trouble turn up like bad pennies. People doing well tend to go about their business. I bet he’s going about his business.”
I didn’t see his point and asked about it. “Why do you say that? I mean about people in trouble verses people who aren’t.”
He explained. “I was in trouble once. I was in trouble for years. If not for our mutual friend Alex Scofield, I don’t know where I would have ended up.”
He shook his head. “I know exactly what would have happened. I would have died just like you knew I would when you made me quit drinking. When I was on the sauce, I was always turning up at Scobie’s door, drunk, sick, liquor shakes, the whole thing. He’d do what he could for me, look after me as best he could, and I would be alright for a while until it happened again. Now that I’m a new man, I’m my own man. I don’t need Scobie to stop me from freezing to death in the summertime or to force me to eat when I’ve been living on liquor for days or weeks. If I never saw him again, I would miss him, but I would be fine. I bet your Doc is the same.”
I hoped Harry was right and said as much.
He tried to reassure me. “You’ll see, my friend. He might’ve been mad when he ran out of here, but if he’s even a little honest with himself, he’ll realize you were right. If he’s really a stand-up guy, he’ll thank you one day.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Maybe, but I doubt it.”
Harry grinned like I told the best joke he ever heard. “I thanked you eventually, didn’t I?”
I teased him. “You did. I guess that makes you a stand-up guy.”
He stood from the table and hitched his pants up. “Damn right. Whew! I always eat too much when I come here. Walt, your food puts meat on a man’s bones. Now I know how Law maintains his figure.”
I objected. “Hey!”
He ruffled my hair like I was a boy. “Don’t be sour. It wasn’t a slight, just some jealousy. I’d love to have a Walt of my own to come home to.”
I almost promised he would find one ‘someday,’ but Harry was in his fifties and running out of somedays.
He clapped his hands to dispose of the topic. “My standards might be too high. I lived next door here for almost three years and I expect everyone to be either a Walt or a Law. Maybe it’s time I accept what I’ve been offered instead of looking for what I dream of. I don’t even know what I dream of. If Prince Charming tried to wake me with a kiss, I’d probably bust his jaw.”
He shook Walt’s hand and waved to me and left.
Walt spoke into the silence that remained. “He’s still sad.”
I agreed. “He’ll probably always be sad, but he’s much better than he was.”
“Do you know who he meant when he said he should accept what he’d been offered?”
“Him and Jimmy Weaver have been keeping time. You remember Jimmy; he was the other investigator who worked for Scobie. They’re about the same age. Harry is maybe five years older. They’re both detectives. They’re decently matched physically, especially after Harry lost all that weight. Jimmy is smitten but Harry holds himself apart. Sound familiar?”
He nodded. “Too familiar. Is there anything we can do to move things along?”
“I spoke to Jimmy between Christmas and New Year’s. He and Harry are looking for a place to move in together. As far as I know it’s all settled, they just need to find an apartment. Harry is probably just being Harry and worrying. They’ll be alright, and if not, I’ll knock their heads together.”
Walt laughed and rolled his eyes. “I’m certain that will help.” He changed the subject. “What about Doc? Do you think the VA people will help?”
“Maybe. I can’t be the only vet who ever wanted to find another vet. They probably get requests like mine all the time. I’ll telephone for an appointment in the morning and see what I can find out when I’m there.”
“Good luck.”
* * * *
I made the appointment but the clinic’s schedule was backed up because a lot of the doctors had taken vacations during the holidays. They couldn’t see me for a physical until the end of the first week in February.
That was a month away and I didn’t want to wait. I went to the Veteran’s Affairs Hospital so I could see what I could see. Walt wanted to come with me, but I didn’t know how long I’d be and didn’t think he’d enjoy a long morning of standing in lines. He agreed to stay behind. He said he’d start to box up the Christmas decorations instead.
I drove down to the hospital and reluctantly paid four dollars to park. I crossed the street toward the enormous building and shook my head over the location. I always wondered if it was just ironic or a very bad joke. When the federal government wanted land to build the hospital back in the early 1940s, they went to the city and asked. The city offered them space right next to the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. That was all well and good, except the property was a section of the huge Woodlands Cemetery, much of which still existed on all sides of the hospital.
I wasn’t sure if putting a hospital on the edge of a cemetery was a good idea or not. On one hand, it would remind the doctors and staff what was at risk if they made mistakes. On the other hand, it was cruel to the patients because it couldn’t help but remind them of where we all inevitably wind up. I shook my head over the thoughts I had whenever I visited the building and went into the lobby.
I stood in line at the reception desk for an interminable amount of time until I could speak with a harried young woman who I hoped would be able to direct me. She snapped her chewing gum as she inspected my veteran’s ID card. “Yes, Mister Edwards, what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine and…”
She interrupted. “What’s your friend’s name?”
I had to think for a second to remember Doc’s ponderous full name. “Lowell Sherman Docherty the Third.”
She opened a long drawer like a card catalogue in the library and ran her pink fingernails through the manilla cards. She muttered as she went. “Da…De…Di…Do…Dobbs…Dobbins…Dobson…Docherty, Brian…Docherty, Eric. I’m sorry Mister Edwards, we do not have a Lowell Docherty as a current patient.”
“He’s not a patient. He…”
She slid the drawer closed and picked up a red binder. “I’m sorry, I just assumed he was a patient. If he’s an employee, he’ll be in here.”
I rapped a knuckle on the counter to get her attention. She looked up from the pages she was flipping. “Miss, he’s not an employee.”
She slapped the binder shut and crossed her arms in disgust. “If he is not a patient and he’s not an employee, what would he be doing here? If he’s here, he’s either a patient or an employee.” She tilted her head and amended her assertion. “I suppose he could be a contractor. We always have work going on. They put a new coffee vending machine in the employee lounge just yesterday. We don’t keep records of the contractors here.”
I was growing frustrated but I didn’t want to get huffy with her. “Miss, my friend is homeless. I think he came here for services.”
She finally understood. “That’s a different matter entirely. You need room 604.” She pointed vaguely behind me. “The elevators are over there.”
I thanked her and started to back from the counter. Before I took a full step, I repeated the room number to make certain I had it right. “Room 604 on the sixth floor.”
She shook her head and stared like I was nuts. “Third floor, not six. Six is for psychiatric care. Why would you assume the sixth floor?”
I rubbed my face with both hands and muttered. “Maybe I do need the sixth floor.” I apologized for getting it wrong. “Sorry, miss; I don’t know what I was thinking. Room 604 on the third floor. Thank you.”
I took the elevator to the third floor while I pondered the absurdity of putting a room that began with the number six on the third floor. “Government funding gets you government logic. If it makes no sense, it must be government.”
I got off the elevator and perused a sign that listed the rooms. The reason room 604 was on the third floor was because the room numbers were four digits and not three. The actual room number was 3-604. The floors were so big, they divided them into sections. 3-604 was on the third floor, section 6, room 04. The desk woman had given me incomplete information. I was tempted to blame her for neglecting to tell me the floor, but I left my blame on the government for thinking a room number with a hyphen made sense to anyone.
I wandered the endless corridors until I found the room and went inside. I spoke to a preemptive and difficult secretary who told me to take a number and sit. I didn’t know why I needed a number because I was the only person there. I tried to sit without a number, but the secretary glared until I took one of the paper tickets from the dispenser and sat.
Even though I was the only one there, I still had to wait forty-five minutes. Eventually a door opened and a bookish, medium-size, middle-age man poked his head out and shouted like the tiny waiting room was a crowded movie theater. “NEXT!”
I struggled out of the chair and walked up to the door. The man wouldn’t let me in until I presented my number. I handed it over. He inspected the ticket like it had the Gettysburg Address written on it even though it only bore a two-digit number, then he let me inside.
He sat at his desk and pointed at a visitor’s chair. I sat. He tossed my numbered ticket in his wastebasket, then opened a fresh manila folder, and got out a fresh form to put in it. He took a fresh pencil from a box of fresh pencils and sat poised to write on the form. “Name?”
“Law Edwards.”
He wasn’t satisfied. “Full name?”
It was obvious he thought I was there for services. I tried to correct his misapprehension. “Mister, uh…”
He tapped the placard that bore his name. I used it. “Mister Ingalls, I’m not homeless.”
He set the form aside and put down his pencil. “You can’t be here for an inspection. We’re not due for another month at least. We only just had our New Year’s inspection.”
“I’m not an inspector. I’m…”
“You can’t be the new man. He’s not scheduled to start until Monday. The day aside, the new man is supposed to be a newly discharged serviceman. Nothing personal Mister…uh…”
I repeated my name.
“Yes, well, Mister Edwards, I suspect your discharge was some years ago.”
“1919.”
He smiled with genuine pleasure. “That was some years ago, wasn’t it?”
“A great many.”
He sat back in his chair. “If you are not an inspector and not the new man, who are you, sir?”
“I’m a worried friend.”
“Are you now?”
“I am. I met a man in November who was a Vietnam veteran. He needed help and I took him in. He and I had a disagreement of sorts a few weeks ago and he left. I’m worried about him and want to see if he’s alright. I’ve tried to find him on my own, but I’ve had no luck. As far as I know, he was without resources. I wanted to see if he came here.”
His smile became a frown. “I cannot help you.”
I tried to convince him. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I don’t want to find him for anything bad. He was a wonderful man and he helped me a great deal. I actually want to apologize and thank him. He also left some money behind and I want to give it back.”
It was his turn to correct my misapprehension. “You don’t understand. It’s not that I won’t help you, it’s that I cannot.”
I pressed him. “If it’s a matter of policy, you could bend the rules, couldn’t you? The man I’m looking for is in his twenties. Even if I wanted to cause him harm, you must see that I’m harmless.” I held my hands up to display my swollen and painful joints. “I’ve got arthritis so bad I couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You still don’t understand. It’s true, there are policies that protect our…our clients if you want to call them that, from those who may wish to do harm, but that isn’t what stops me. I don’t have the records. When men come to me for help, I take their information and transmit it to a caseworker. The caseworkers manage the records.”
“Could I talk to the caseworker?”
He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “There are many and they take cases in turn. If your friend was merely homeless and had no case modifiers, he would be assigned to the next caseworker in the rotation. I would have no way of knowing who that might be.”
“What’s a ‘case modifier?’”
“A modifier could be a psychiatric diagnosis, what you might know as shell shock or battle fatigue. It could be a history of violence or a police record. It could be trouble with addiction. Anyone with these modifiers is assigned to specialized caseworkers. Perhaps your friend was one of these?”
I shook my head that Doc wasn’t any of those. Mister Ingalls continued his oration. “Without a modifier, your friend would have been assigned to any of a dozen caseworkers. I would have no way of knowing which. I would further have no way of knowing what arrangements they may have made for him.”
My hopes for an easy answer were dashed. “What am I supposed to do, then? I can’t be the only one who ever wanted to find one of your clients.”
He opened one of his desk drawers and selected several forms from it. He passed them over with a fresh pencil from the fresh pencil box. “We get requests from time to time; usually from estranged family members. There is a mechanism to do what you ask. Please complete those forms with all the information you can provide about your friend. Also fill in your name and address.
“Put your veteran’s ID number down as well because that will add weight to the request. I will circulate the request to the caseworkers and ask that they check their records. If your friend is among our clients, they will let me know. If your friend wishes to speak to you, the caseworker will facilitate contact. If he does not wish to, I will personally notify you. At least then you will know he is ok. How does that sound?”
I didn’t like it, but it was the best I could hope for. I set to work on the forms. Ingalls tapped his desk to get my attention as I stretched my painful fingers to the task of writing. “In triplicate, please, Mister Edwards.”
“Yes, sir.”
I filled in the forms and thanked Mister Ingalls. Just before I left, I asked how long it would take to hear. He lifted his hands again with the helpless gesture. “A week, two weeks, maybe more. The caseworkers are very busy. It’s a difficult thing to admit but we have many homeless vets in this city. The caseworker’s hours are better spent helping those who desperately need it than reuniting people who may or may not wish to see each other.”
I shrugged with my own helplessness. “Fair enough. I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“Thank you for coming in. I hope your friend wants to see you. Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
I left his office and wandered down to the cafeteria for a moment to think. I bought a cup of weak coffee and sat at one of the long tables to figure out what to do next. I was disappointed that the whole machinery of the VA seemed ranged against my mission of finding Doc. I had no idea that he’d gone to the VA, but I had no reason to think he hadn’t.
I was most frustrated that no one seemed to care. The lobby receptionist couldn’t be bothered to listen to what I wanted long enough to provide any useful information. She hadn’t even directed me to the correct floor for the homeless vet’s office. The secretary at the office was a sour old bitch who just wanted me to take a number. Ingalls had been the most helpful, but he’d offered nothing definite.
I wished I knew someone high up in the military that I could ask for help, but I didn’t. I was discharged from the army in 1919 and never looked back. I was alone in my search and had gotten nowhere.
I sipped my coffee and looked around the cafeteria like Doc might be one of the men in the chow line, or one of the people hunched over bland food at the long tables. All I saw was a sea of people, none of them who I wanted them to be. There weren’t even any scraggly brown beards present.
I got a creepy feeling that someone was looking my way and tried to figure out who it was. I spotted a lab coated physician all the way on the other side of the room, near the open entryway into the cafeteria. He was a good-looking young guy but nobody I knew. He seemed to look right at me, but there were a lot of people around and he was some distance away. I waved to see if it was me that he wanted. He darted through the door and was gone before I took another breath.
“Weird.” I said aloud.
I sipped my coffee again and stuck my tongue out at the cup. It was wretched. “Walt’s dishwater is better than this coffee.” I gathered myself and left.
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