A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  But the usually cavalier Walter Donovan was edgy today. The reason was the thin, sharp-featured woman sitting beside him. Wearing impossibly dark sunglasses, she was Martha Mays, his latest live-in. Martha Mays, with stretched youthful looks and a finely coiffed silver-blond ponytail, was a movie producer like Walt. It was a symbiotic relationship. Each needed something from the other, and it seemed to be more about business rather than love or even sex. They had been together for the past two years, producing, between them, three top hits. It turned out Walt had better contacts with the studio executives and A-list stars while Martha, an ex-Beverly Hills entertainment banker, knew more about digging up money, especially overseas, where the markets were lucrative.

  Martha Mays, to the surprise of all, had said she would be glad to join them today. Then it turned out she really wanted to drop off a spec screenplay to a director in Rancho Santa Fe on their way to Julian. And now, after lunch, a cell phone was again jammed to her ear.

  “What’s so special about today, Pop?” asked Walt from the front seat.

  “Today is the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of Leyte Gulf and there’s somebody who has to know something.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Yuzura Noyama.”

  “Whoosat?”

  “I’ll let you know when I meet him.”

  “Where did you find this guy, Pop?”

  “Slow down!” yelled Diane.

  “Sorry.” The speedometer drifted from eighty-five down to forty as Walt smoothly guided the Mercedes through a curve.

  “I found him in Fortune magazine.” He waved a copy of the latest issue.

  “I don’t get–hold on.” Walt picked up his cell phone and began talking loudly.

  “The Hollywood two-step.” Donovan said to his wife

  She responded with her own eye roll.

  Just then Martha Mays squealed and tugged Walt’s sleeve.

  He whipped aside his cell phone. “What, dammit!”

  Martha said breathlessly, “It’s Jerry Kingsley. Marty Saavedra is attached!”

  “What are his reading fees?”

  “A million five. Plus 20 percent of the gross.”

  “He’s screwing us.

  “Walt! Marty needs an answer.”

  “Let me think about it.” He resumed his conversation.

  They had lunched in the Driftwood Lodge Hotel located high in the mountains in Julian, in northeast San Diego County. Later they’d strolled through the quaint town buying trinkets, Mike, Diane, and Walt enjoying a marvelous apple pie à la mode at George’s Confectionaries. Martha Mays waved off her piece saying, “Sorry. I’m up half a pound this morning. Too much rich Japanese food.”

  “Up half a pound,” Donovan had snorted to his wife on their way out of George’s. “She couldn’t weigh more than one hundred. Hell, the wind’s going to blow her away.”

  “Shhhh,” said Diane. “She was nice enough to come.”

  The truth was, Maltha had jet lag and, unable to sleep, was bored. She’d flown in from Tokyo two nights after gluing together, with masking tape and chewing gum, a deal for financing a Soviet-era movie about identical twins separated at birth – one American, the other Soviet. The Russians, desperate for money, had given them clearance to shoot it at their super secret submarine base in Petropavlovsk on the Kamchatka Peninsula. The Japanese bankers inked the deal almost right away, and she returned early. But there was a problem, Donovan had heard. Something happened and Walt couldn’t deliver Brad Pitt. And then Chris Cooper fell out. A scramble for other actors was on with Walt rapidly digging through his bag of leading men. The deal was in jeopardy, and the Japanese bankers were sure to withdraw if they got wind of it. It was if a three-hundred-pound of block of ice rested between son and girlfriend in the front seat as they haggled on their cell phones.

  But not in the backseat. Donovan took his wife’s hand, now covered with age spots. To him, she was still beautiful. Unlike the temperamental toothpick in the front seat, Diane had kept her weight and figure. Yes, the years had taken their toll; her auburn hair was now gray and she moved slowly, especially after a stroke last year that had partially paralyzed her left side. But she’d recovered and almost regained full use. What hadn’t changed were her eyes. Quick and green, they skewered you. Or in Donovan’s case, they took him in and then gave it all back plus a lot more.

  The reason Walt was driving today was that the Department of Motor Vehicles had restricted his father’s license. Donovan had passed out with a minor heart attack just three months ago, and the cardiologist still hadn’t cleared him. Soon, he hoped. The motorcycle trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, this time last year was still fresh in his mind, and he wanted to do it again. The three tired has-beens, as they called themselves, John Sabovik, Owen Reynolds, and Mike Donovan, had bought Harley-Davidsons. Wearing black headbands and leather jackets, they rattled their way down Baja California’s sometimes wild peninsula, drinking beer, telling rotten jokes, and laughing themselves silly. Their wives met them in Cabo, where they sold their Harleys and returned to more civilized ways. They flew home after four marvelous days of just sitting on the beach and eating bananas. Then Mike had the heart attack last spring, postponing their much-vaunted return trip to Cabo.

  Another reason Walt was driving was that Donovan had fallen and sprained his leg the previous week. Now he walked with a heavy limp. Lucky you didn’t break it, the doctor said, clicking his teeth as if Donovan belonged in a rest home. So now, he and Diane had to put up with his bickering son and storm-trooping girlfriend. The specter of the return trip hung heavy over them, much of it on crowded freeways as the pair in front squabbled and punched cell phone numbers.

  Donovan snapped his fingers.

  “What’s that?” Diane asked.

  “Life. It’s all gone by so damn fast.”

  “Thirty-five years in the Navy can do that to you.”

  “Maybe so, but it seems like yesterday when I first met you.”

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Not for me; you’re a handful.”

  “What?” That surprised him. There was more buried in that retort than he could work out at the moment. “Want to go back and try again?”

  She smiled, “Come on, just kidding.”

  “Glad to hear it.” They couldn’t have done any better as far as children were concerned. Their daughter, Jennifer, was a schoolteacher and had presented them with two fine grandchildren. Their youngest son, John, was a commercial real estate appraiser and had given them a whopping seven marvelous grandchildren. It was their oldest son, the Harvard-educated Walt, named after Diane’s father, who was the handfull. After Stanford Law School, he had immediately gone into entertainment law and made a bundle. Now, as he rolled the dice again in movie production, it looked as if Walt Donovan was on the cusp of something really big. Thank God his previous two marriages had been childless; he lived his life so quick. Often glib with a strong Irish sense of humor, Walt was usually the life of the party. But many times, he just went too far.

  “Hey, throttle-jockey, slow down,” said Donovan.

  “What?”

  “Here, turn here,” Donovan pointed to the sign saying HIGHWAY 79.

  “Pop, for crying out loud. That goes to Palm Springs.”

  “Please, do it.”

  Miraculously, Martha Mays was off her cell phone. She turned in her seat and gave Donovan a thin smile. “We are on a schedule, you know.”

  “You’ll be home in time for your protein drink, honey.” Donovan smiled back and winked.

  Martha whipped her head around, her silver-blond ponytail rustling over the soft tanned leather headrest. Donovan could have sworn the three-hundred-ice block in the front seat had grown to five hundred.

  Diane pinched him. “What are you doing?” she hissed in his ear. “Can’t you see they’re close to finishing an important deal?”

  Donovan pursed his lips and imitated a loud Clark Gable. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
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  Diane folded her arms and looked out the window.

  Walt turned right onto Highway 79 and punched the accelerator, the Mercedes roaring down a straightaway. Diane again jabbed the floor with her right foot on an imaginary brake pedal.

  “Slow down. It’s only another half mile,” said Donovan.

  “You have something in mind?” asked Walt.

  “Actually, I do. I was trying to tell you back there when the cell phone rudely interrupted us. And please slow down. You’re scaring the crap out of your mother.”

  “Sorry.” The speedometer backed off to sixty.

  “Here, turn in here, please.”

  Walt slowed. “What’s this? An apple orchard? Wow! Snazzy place.” He turned into a large driveway and which led under a sign that read:

  TWO APPLE RANCH

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  A logo depicting two red apples on a square white field bordered by gold filigree was painted on either side of the sign.

  Martha Mays leaned over and whispered to Walt.

  “Is that right?” he whispered back.

  She nodded.

  Walt called to the rearview mirror, “Did you know that this place is owned by a rich Jap? The apple orchard is just a front for his U.S. real estate holdings.”

  “No, it’s owned by the founder of Kyoto Bank, Yuzura Noyama. He’s retired now and lives here with his daughter.”

  “How do you know?”

  He waved the Fortune magazine. “I found him in this. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  “So what’s he to you?”

  After a moment, Donovan said, “I’m not sure yet. But if he’s who I think it is, it will mean a lot to both of us.”

  “Gotta do better than that, Pop. You’re talking in riddles.”

  “That’s the best I can do for now,” said Donovan.

  “Well then, we’ll just have to go with that. So what do we have here? No country store. No apples, or apple pies, or trinkets, or gizmos for sale. Just that beautiful Spanish style – jeez – mansion. Get a load of that.”

  “Yes, pull up there.”

  Walt slowly drew to a halt before an ornate set of double doors, and a front porch decorated in tile and potted plants. He switched off the engine. “Wow!”

  It was a rambling two-story home with a lush green lawn extending toward a meticulously kept apple orchard. Behind them, they saw a swimming pool and outbuildings on one side. A bricked pathway led to a large interior courtyard where, visible through a filigreed wrought-iron fence, several children played around a fountain. The courtyard was cloistered on one side and festooned with potted geraniums and azaleas, English ivy growing up the opposite walls.

  “Nice,” said Walt. He rolled down his window, letting in a soft breeze.

  Diane took a deep breath. “This is for me.” She turned to her husband. “Is this it?”

  “Pretty sure,” said Donovan.

  Walt turned around. “What aren’t you letting me know, Pop?”

  “Never mind.”

  An Asian with a full white mane of hair sat in a wheelchair near the fountain watching the children. It wasn’t cold, but he wore a dark-gray windbreaker. A black patch covered his left eye, and a blanket covered his lap. Beside him was a beagle, which he petted occasionally.

  Walt turned in his seat and asked, “Pop, is this about willie willie twice?”

  Donovan leaned forward. “Look, kid. I think it’s about time you showed some respect. It sure as hell isn’t called willie willie twice.”

  Walt fixed his father with a barrister’s stare. “I mean no disrespect, Pop. But maybe someday you could let us in on what the hell happened out there. You never talk about it, so we don’t know.”

  Donovan felt as if he’d been run through by a sword. It was true. He’d been closemouthed about the war ever since he’d returned, hardly even sharing it with Diane. Only when John Sabovik or Owen Reynolds or another World War II vet was around would he talk, and then, only with them. On occasion he still awakened sweating with nightmares of Tiny or the shattered, ripped-open bodies of Richard Kruger and Cecil Hammer that he’d helped pull from the Matthew’s wreckage. To this day, he couldn’t look at a rack of lamb of spareribs, the similarities so vivid.

  He glanced at Diane, her face saying, He’s right, you can’t hold it in forever.

  Donovan gave a loud exhale. “Okay, someday soon, son.” He patted Walt on the shoulder and winked.

  “Okay.”

  “Whew! Getting hot in here,” said Martha Mays, raising her eyebrows and fanning herself with great exaggeration. “Think I’ll cool off.” She opened the door, walked over to a bench under a tall eucalyptus and sat, where she flipped open her cell phone and punched numbers.

  Walt nodded toward the house and asked softly, “Is this part of it?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’re talking in riddles again, Pop.”

  “I know. Here, this won’t take a minute,” said Donovan. He grabbed a large paper bag.

  “What’s that?” asked Walt.

  Donovan slid a large curved section of metal from the bag. Jagged around the edges, it was deeply smudged with a faded caricature of two apples on a white field with gold filigree.

  “The same damn apples. Where’d you get it, Pop?”

  “Would you believe me if I said willie willie twice?”

  “Here we go again,” said Walt, throwing his hands in the air.

  “Walter,” said Diane. “Give him some slack.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Walt.

  Donovan got out of the car and hobbled up five steps to the front porch. After knocking he stood back, the bag grasped behind.

  The door opened. An Asian woman with pulled-back hair stood in the doorway, bowed, and folded her hands. Donovan introduced himself and began speaking. Three times she shook her head. She began closing the door when Donovan brought out the bag and pulled out the metal section.

  The woman’s hand went to her mouth. She seemed to think for a moment then accepted the metal and closed the door, leaving Donovan alone on the doorstep. He turned and faced the car, spreading his hands.

  “What the hell is he doing?” asked Walt.

  “You’re watching your next film project,” said Diane.

  “Look!” Walt pointed. The Asian woman had stepped into the courtyard and walked up to the white haired man. With a deep bow, she handed over the metal section. The man held it up to the light and examined it for a minute or so, then waved his hand, resting the metal in his lap.

  Martha Mays walked over from the eucalyptus tree and got in, pocketing her cell phone. “Jerry Kingsley wants to see both of us.”

  “When?”

  She said, “Today, if possible. He says he can get Matt Damon.”

  “Cool. Lemme go find out what the deal is with Pop.” He opened the door to get out.

  “Right.” She sighed and turned to Diane. “We really should get going.”

  Diane looked away.

  “Only be a minute.” Walt walked toward the steps.

  Just then the door opened and the woman reappeared. She said something and opened the door for Donovan to walk in. Then she gently closed it behind them.

  Walt walked back and got in. “Dammit. I don’t know.”

  “Knock on the door,” said Martha. “Insist that they admit you.”

  “What?” said Walt.

  “Pound on the damn thing,” hissed Martha Mays. “I’m not letting you bungle this deal.”

  “Martha,” said Diane.

  Once again, Maltha Mays’s five hundred dollar ponytail grazed the head-rest as she turned her head. She lifted her dark glasses so Diane could see for certain she was raising an eyebrow.

  “I want you to shut up,” said Diane Donovan.

  Martha Mays whipped forward. “Walt!”

  “Shhh, check this,” said Walt. He pointed to his father, who walked up to the gray-haired man in the court yard. After a moment, they shook, and
the white-haired man held up the metal section. Donovan spoke for at least three minutes, all the times gesturing with his hands as a pilot might describe a dogfight.

  Gradually the white-haired man’s mouth fell open.

  Suddenly he threw his hands to his face and leaned forward. Donovan dragged over a chair and sat beside him, laying a hand on his arm. Then his arm went around the old man’s shoulder. The white-haired man was crying. So was Mike Donovan. They hugged and began talking and smiling; sometimes babbling and talking and smiling at the same time.

  Walt gasped, “What the hell? Now they’re saluting each other.”

  After a while, the old man waved over the woman who had admitted Donovan. Looking in the direction of the Mercedes, he spoke for a moment.

  The lady disappeared and soon reappeared at the front door. With a broad smile, she walked down the steps and up to the car. “Welcome to Two Apple Ranch. I am Kiyoko McLean. My father would be most appreciative if you could all stay and join our family for dinner this evening.”

  “Dinner?” snapped Martha.

  “Of course we would,” said Diane. She stepped out and shook Kiyoko’s hand. “I am Diana Donovan, Admiral Donovan’s wife. And this is my son Walter and his wife Martha.”

  Kiyoko bowed, then Diana awkwardly took her hand and they shook. Diana asked, “Er excuse me, McLean?”

  “My husband, Howard McLean,” said Kiyoko with an easy laugh. She took Diane’s arm in hers. “He’s president of the bank’s American division. He’ll be down in a moment.” She pointed to the courtyard. “Those are our children out there. You should meet them.”

  “I’d love to.” They walked up the steps.

  Walt watched them go. “I’ll be damned.”

  “But–” said Martha.

  “But what?” growled Walt.

  “What about Jerry Kingsley? And Marty Saavedra needs an answer right now.”

  “Screw Marty Saavedra. And screw Jerry Kingsley and screw you, too,” Walt said. “Come on. You might learn something. If not, here’s your cab fare.” He opened his wallet, dropped a hundred-dollar bill in her lap.

  Martha Mays sputtered.

  Walt Donovan got out. “Wait up, Mom.”