If you need to dig, a shovel will usually do the trick . . .

 . . . but in Pirkle’s case, it took a bulldozer.

I rapped on the door with a sinking sensation, not sure who would be behind it. It’d been three days since the underwear/combat boots incident, and I needed to return the key. And dig.

The man who answered was the dignified Mr. Pirkle. And the reserved Mr. Pirkle. But after our last visit, I wasn’t sure I’d be invited in.

“I’m returning the key,” I said by way of explanation. “I took it home with me the other night.”

“Oh, yes,” he said uncertainly dropping the key into his pocket. “Why . . . tell me again why I gave it to you.”

“I took it. In case I needed to get in. Do you want me to put it back in the hiding place?”

“Yes . . . no. That’s not necessary. I’ll do it.”

When I didn’t leave and the silence extended beyond the normal comfort zone, he invited me in.

“Would you like something to drink, Hudson? I’m afraid all I have is diet soda or water.”

“Water’s fine.” I followed him into the kitchen. “I thought I’d drop by and return the key. I was going to stop by your neighbor’s afterwards.”

“You sweet on that girl?” Pirkle asked. “I’ve seen you over there. Seem to be spending a lot of time together.”

I thought about the times I’d seen him peering out the front kitchen window when Fritzy and I were shooting hoops. “No, nothing like that,” I said. “We’re just friends, and we play on a basketball league together.” That last sentence came out with feigned indifference, but I was prickly with pride when I said it.

“Pretty girl,” he handed me a glass of water. “Should we sit here in the kitchen?”

“Mr. Pirkle, I have another reason for coming.” I’d rehearsed this scenario multiple times in the past few days. “I’m doing a project for my government class about WWII, and I wondered if I could interview you about your personal experiences.”

He’d never know this wasn’t the truth. And what older person could refuse to help a young person working on a school project? This would be my gateway to his mind. Or so I hoped.

“Government class. What does WWII have to do with government class?”

I’d actually thought about that too and realized it would have been better to say history class. But I was a terrible liar, and although I was lying about the school project, I couldn’t bring myself to lie about the actual class I was taking.

“We’re learning about the Department of War and how it ceased to exist right after WWII and eventually became the Department of Defense.”

This was the answer I’d fortunately prepared ahead of time even though it still didn’t explain where his personal WWII experiences fit in. I was hoping he’d buy it. He gave me the head-ducking, skull-examining look.

“I told you I was a WWII vet?”

“You mentioned it once.”

“I don’t know how interesting my experiences would be to anyone.”

“It would be very interesting to me, if you don’t mind.”

“I suppose I could answer a few questions,” he said cautiously.

I pulled out the folded piece of paper and pen from my back pocket which I’d brought to make it look like I was taking notes for my class. Where to begin? I just wanted to get him talking, hoping something useful might be spilled.

“Were you drafted, or did you enlist?” I began.

“I enlisted,” he said. “Before the war. Before Pearl Harbor. My buddy and I. We grew up together, and after high school it seemed like a good idea since we didn’t have any other plans. We were working at dead-end jobs, and a lot of us thought that war was coming. Better to enlist and determine your future, than get drafted. Shows you how much we knew.”

“What was your friend’s name?” The chances of him still being alive were remote, but I kept digging like Mom said.

“His name was Charles, but he went by Chuck.”

The “was” made clear that Chuck was past tense. And of course, he didn’t volunteer a last name. It would have been strange if I asked for one.

“How did you feel after you enlisted?” Stupid question.

“I don’t remember. I s’pose I felt all right.” Ask a stupid question, you’ll get a stupid answer.

“Why did you decide to join the Marines?”

“How’d you know I was a Marine?”

“You mentioned it that one time.”

He seemed to ponder that before going on.

“Why did I decide to join the Marine Corps? I don’t know. It seemed like another good idea. Chuck’s father was a Navy man. I suppose that might have influenced his decision, and I went along with it.”

“Where did you fight during the war?”

“We fought everywhere. You throw a dart at a map of the Pacific Ocean, and I s’pose we fought there.”

“Were you married when you enlisted?” Here goes!

“Nope. That came a little later. A gal I met at a USO dance before we shipped out.”

“Was your daughter born after the war?”

“How’d you know about my daughter?”

“You showed me her picture. The little girl with the curly hair.” As if I had to remind him who his daughter was. My mouth was dry and my hands were sweaty, anxiety having taken moisture from one body part and redistributed it to another.

“She was born while I was off fighting.”

He looked so sad I was almost relieved when he ended the “interview.” Almost relieved even though I’d gotten no useful information.

“Hey, I bet that gal is waiting for you,” he said, and I knew my time was up.

>>>

“I need your help, but I can’t tell you why,” I said to Fritzy after I left Pirkle’s house.

“If you can’t tell me why, then why would I help?”

“Why not? I thought we were friends.”

“I like to know what I’m getting into, Wheeler.”

We sat at her kitchen table, glasses of eggnog in front of us. With Thanksgiving just ahead, I even kept a carton of the stuff in my fridge, in case Fritzy ever stopped by. Mom wasn’t big on it.

“It has to do with client confidentiality,” I said. “And if I told you, I’d be breaking the unspoken rule.”

“Pirkle?” she asked, one eyebrow shooting up.

“Client confidentiality,” I repeated.

“If it’s an unspoken rule, then it doesn’t really exist. Besides, I’m almost part of your business, with our agreement about Liza and all.”

“I guess.” I wiped away my eggnog moustache with a paper towel. “I guess you’re kind of an employee in a way.”

“Employee? More like I’m like a part owner.”

“Part owner? Excuse me? Just because you brought in a piece of business, which by the way I paid you for . . .”

“And I’m on call if you ever can’t get to Liza.”

“And also by the way, you said you were going to take her for a drive.”

“Which I did last weekend. And you said you were going to hook her up with the Senior Center.”

“She didn’t want to go. Mrs. Dickinson had it all arranged, but the day she was supposed to go, she called and told me it wasn’t her thing—hanging around a bunch of old people.”

“A bunch of old people? What does she think she is? She’d rather be alone with her once-a-day phone calls to you? That’s pathetic.”

“I put a lot of effort into those calls. She looks forward to them.”

“Anyway, what’s the big secret, Wheeler? Enough with the bullshit. Spill it.”

And I did.

The little girl in the picture with the curly hair. The nighttime phone calls, one of which Fritzy had been present for. The so-called burglary, if it was even that. The confusion about what house he was in. The combat boots and underwear. Mom’s unofficial diagnosis of dementia. The girl in the window of his neighbor’s house. I felt disloyal for revealing the information, but I trusted Fritzy to keep it to herself. She wasn’t a gossiper.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said when it was over. “You’re bound by client confidentiality too.”

“Don’t worry. What do you take me for?”

“I’m not worried. Just needed to say that. So we’re good with everything, right?”

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked. “Are you going to turn him in?”

“Turn him in for what? It’s not like he committed a crime or anything. I’m just trying to find out if there’s someone who can step in to help. Family or close friends.”

“And?”

“So far, I haven’t been able to find out anything. It’s like he has no one. Or at least nobody he wants to tell me about. But I’ll keep trying.”

“I never see anyone go over there.” Fritzy put down the empty glass and belched. I must have grimaced because she looked right at me and belched again. “I’ll watch out for any unusual activity. It’s like that movie where the kid’s spying on his neighbor who turns out to be a killer.”

“Slow down. Pirkle’s not a killer, and we’re not in a movie.”

“So, what do you want from me?” she asked.

“I was wondering if you know the people in the house that backs up to his. And if you know anything about the little girl who lives there. Maybe I could have the parents bring her by to prove to him she’s not his daughter. Or at least I could be ready if it ever happens again. I’d know what to say to him.”

“I know some of the people in the neighborhood. I used to have a paper route when I was younger. Show me which house you’re talking about.”

We walked around the block until we got to the street behind Pirkle’s. Then we counted back until we were at the house which would have been directly facing his backyard. I recognized the brown shingles and steeply-sloped roof. The front yard was unassuming. Manicured hedges lining the sidewalk. Flower beds along the walkway leading up to the front door. A few ordinary-looking trees here and there. No sign of kids’ toys or tricycles.

Fritzy stopped in front of the house, hands on hips, and gave the house a once-over.

“Congratulations, Wheeler, this is Scolari’s house you were spying on. You peeping Tom.”

“Scolari?”

“Your future piano teacher.”

“Woah! I guess it’s good we know him. That’ll make it easier to explain to Pirkle if it happens again. How old is his daughter?”

My gaze strayed to the second floor.

“He doesn’t have any kids,” Fritzy said. “He moved here a few years ago, and he doesn’t even have a wife or a girlfriend that I know of. Wanna go for our run now?”