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Yes, Dear

Written by Terry Howard and James Copley

"Wives . . . more trouble than the Methodist church." The Devil, in Damned Yankees.

Lili Trainer entered the office and without a word to the receptionist, the clerk or Dwight Rogers' secretary, walked straight into the site manager's private office. When your husband is the manager's boss and your late father owned part of the company—which you expect to inherit when the estate gets through probate—you can get away with doing things like that.

"Dwight, I'm sick and tired of the mud and the dust, and tripping on the damned cobblestones. Do something about it." There was cobblestone on the old part of the street in a little village just outside of Celle where the oil company had leased land to build an office and some modern housing for senior staff. The new section of the street was just packed dirt. The duke owned the village and he hadn’t done anything about extending the paving.

"I suppose we could put down oil on the roads for the dust."

"Now that would be a waste of oil." Lili made it sound like an accusation.

"Not really. Bunker fuel is too heavy for diesels. The steamboats out of the naval yard can burn it, what we don't burn to run the refinery. That still leaves the stuff that is too thick to be bunker fuel and too light to be tar."

Lili shook her head, "You’d end up with oil getting tracked into the houses. Then when it rains it just makes the mud worse. You've got that asphalt stuff. Don't tell me it's not asphalt! I looked it up! It's that bitamen stuff they make asphalt with! Don't tell me that isn't what you've got in those big thatch-covered piles, at Weitze. Why can't you spread it over the roads?"

Dwight sighed. He had just had this same argument with the army liaison when he came to negotiate their fuel prices. "Lili, that's impossible right now." He began his well-rehearsed explanation. "It isn't that simple. What we need to do is mix the 'bitumen' with aggregate, to make bitmac. Even then you can't just spread it on the ground, and believe me it's not as simple as just pouring it like cement. You first have to have the proper road base, which means you need surveyors because once you put in a hard road it's kind of permanent. So after the road is staked, then it has to be graded and stabilized. Ideally that calls for stabilized gravel, over a bed of larger stone. Stabilized gravel means gravel with sand and the right clay in the right mix. Then you can put down the bitmac."

"So do it."

"Happy to. I don't like muddy streets either. Tell your husband to get me a steady supply of gravel in different grades, plenty of sand, and the right kind of clay." Dwight ticked off the items on his fingers.

"Along with an endless supply of gravel and sand, I'll need a roller, and scrapers. And we'll need culverts for the cross streets and some way to get an even layer of asphalt spread over large areas. An asphalt laying machine would be nice. Hilton Steam Works in Grantville can build one, but for now we don't have one. Nobody does.

"Get me my shopping list and I'll get started. Until then the bitumen is just going to sit there."

"Is that all, Dwight? I thought you said it was impossible."

"It isn't going to be easy or cheap, which is the same thing as impossible."

"No it isn't, Dwight. It's not anywhere near close to being the same thing. You and Jerry, two big-shot engineers! How many times have I heard you two say that the first step in solving a problem is stating it clearly? You might as well be talking about an alcoholics' anonymous twelve-step program. The first step is admitting that you have a problem. Well, at least you've admitted it. But from your shopping list I don't see why it's a problem at all."

"Lili, we'll have to re-invent some of the equipment, 'cause Grantville sure isn't going to give up any of its up-time equipment just so we can have a smooth ride. Besides, the county's hot asphalt machine wasn't inside the ring, so they don't have one to loan us anyway."

"I still don't see why we can't do it. We've got the asphalt. We know how to do it. Grantville has paved roads. Why can't we?" Lili walked out into the what passed for the heat of an August summer in northern Germany.

Dwight rolled his eyes skyward.

****

The sunshine announced it was Sunday morning, a lazy time to lie about and take it easy. The Baptists in the area decided one Sunday service was enough and that an afternoon service was more amenable. They had to gather from Wietze to Celle and beyond. Since the sermons were kept short and the Baptists were willing to share the pulpit, the English speakers came together every Sunday. It wasn't just the Church of Christ and the Methodists who turned up. Some Lutherans and Catholics, and some un-churched showed up too. Worshipping in German or Latin, on top of living in German and polyglot jargon, just wasn't the same as back up-time. Besides, the ladies arranged for an old-fashioned, West Virginia dinner to be served up after the service. People had been known to socialize until they had to leave to be home by dark.

Perhaps the oddest thing about it was the number of down-time English speakers who showed up. As long as they stuck to English they were welcome. The old deacon, Dotty Mase, had held a German-language Baptist worship service for his growing class of converts on Sunday morning until he got too feeble and retired again. Then a down-timer took over as pastor. Without the old deacon to link them together they were two different congregations now.

Hanna, the Trainer family's maid, knew that on Sunday mornings breakfast didn't happen on a schedule, but hot biscuits were not required. A short order menu was fine. Often a pastry bought on Saturday from the bakery in Celle was all she needed. She knew Mr. Trainer would still wake up at five o'clock. He would hit the bathroom, brush his teeth and go back to bed and back to sleep. Around seven Mrs. Trainer would wake her husband up. Helga would become aware of them whenever they came down for breakfast.

On the last Sunday morning in August 1636 Helga did not have to wait for them to come downstairs. The whole house, from basement to attic, was very aware of Mr. and Mrs. Trainer—starting at twelve minutes after seven.

Helga heard it all. At a volume that would not stop rising until it was rattling the shingles, Lili started with: "Jerry Trainer, you ungrateful, selfish pig! I've given you the best years of my life! I even got a job to pay the bills so you could get your masters degree! I'm not asking for all that much, just a decent, civilized place to live with a few basic amenities! It's not surprising you like the mud; you're a pig. A selfish, self-centered, arrogant pig! Don't tell me it can't be done. Dwight says he can do it!"

"I didn't say it can't be done. I said it can't be done right now!"

"Dwight says it can!"

"Well, he doesn't have to pay for it!"

"Neither do you! It's company money we're talking about here. My money! Not yours!"

"It isn't your money until the probate is settled. It can't be settled until the court rules on the claim your dad was co-mingling public and private funds. Then there's the charges of profiteering, and conflict of interest! That will take awhile. The probate is a mess."

"So what?" Lili crossed her arms as she looked away. "That just means it'll take longer for me to pay it back to the company."

That didn't make any sense at all to Jerry. Did she think she could spend some portion of the company's money as she wished and in advance? Clearly the facts were whatever she wanted them to be and when she looked away like that he knew there was absolutely no way of getting her to see reason.

"Even if your mother does go ahead and sign her interests over to you like she says she's going to, if and when she actually gets any, you still won't own anywhere near a majority."

His arms waved wildly as he emphasized his point. "Even if you did, you couldn't do whatever you want! It's a publicly traded company! I know your dad acted like he owned it all. That's what all the fuss is about. At the time nobody cared as long as he got the oil flowing. Now, it's the money flow they're interested in. I can't run the company that way. I've got to look out for everybody's interests, what is best for the bottom line. Paving the street in front of the office and our homes is out of the question!"

"Dwight says it isn't. Dwight says all he needs is gravel!"

"Well, if that's what Dwight said, then Dwight is an even bigger idiot than you are or he's lying through his teeth just to get your goat!"

Oops. It really wasn't wise to make a remark like that. Jerry knew that as well as he knew his name.

"I'm an idiot? I'm an idiot?" Her volume climbed with every repetition.

"Lili, look. We'll be putting down gravel this spring. Okay?"

"Why stop there when we've got all of that stuff on hand that can be asphalt as soon as you add gravel?"

"Time, trained people, and equipment that we don't have and can't get!"

"Dwight says we can get it."

"Laura Lee Trainer!" His voice was straining with exasperation. "Just who is going to pay for it? I can't justify spending company money on it!”

"But, Dwight said . . ."

"I don't care what Dwight said!" Jerry replied, barely restraining himself. "It isn't going to happen! It costs too much!"

"Jerry, that's your answer to everything! I'm damned lucky you wanted flush plumbing and hot running water or that would have cost too much, too!" Lili's voice was practically a howling growl. "It's your answer to everything. If you don't want it, then it costs too much. But you can always seem to find a way to do it if it is something you want. That golf course you laid out between the oil wells was the dumbest thing I ever heard of! But I guess it didn't cost too much!" The last part was a rising shriek.

"All right! Listen, we've got gravel coming. I've got to pay the crews to put it down anyway. I tell you what, Miss Smarty Pants. If you think it is just that simple, you figure a way to pay for the asphalt machine and I'll find a way to cover the other costs! Okay?"

"And you think I can't, don't you? You just make sure you keep your end of the deal!"

"Yes, dear!" Jerry snarled.

Helga watched Jerry grab his golf clubs and stomp out of the house. He didn't come home for lunch and he didn't show up at church that night either. When he did come home he slept on the couch.

****

"Dwight? Why in hell did you tell my wife you could pave the streets if I wasn't being a stubborn, pig-headed idiot about getting you the gravel you needed?"

"I never said that."

"Yeah, well what did you say?"

"I said I'd need aggregate, scrapers, rollers, a paving machine, surveyors, a trained labor force and lots of time."

"Do you have any idea what that is going to cost? Shoot, just getting the equipment made up is going to cost a fortune."

"Sure, I know that. That's why we haven't done it already. I told your wife as much."

"Well, she didn't hear that part of it. All she seems to have heard is that you can do it if I get you the gravel."

"Sorry, Jerry."

"Shoot, Dwight, I know it's not your fault. The woman has selective hearing. I know; I've lived with her for years. But since her father died and she knows she's going to own a big chunk of the company she acts like she owns the world."

"Ha!" Dwight snorted. "Can you imagine what she'd do if she did? We'd be out of a job in a hurry!"

"Nah!" Jerry got a shit-eatin' grin on his face and dropped into a hillbilly cant, which he only did when he was wantin' ta be nasty and ridicule someone, "She'd miss us. Come a light bulb needin' changed, we'd be back on suffer'ce. Just you watch . . ."

****

After a quiet breakfast in the solar, Georg, duke of Kalenberg sat reading dispatches from the engineers at Wietz, while his wife, Anna Eleanor, busily applied embroidery to one of her daughter's new dresses.

"Georg, I was talking to Mrs. Trainer. Wouldn't it be nice to have an asphalt road, like they have in Grantville, from the docks to the manor? I wonder what it would be like to have roads that didn't wash away or turn to mud," she said as she glanced his way. "Darling, you said so yourself when we were in Grantville that the roads there were superb. And I, for one, think it would be a fine investment, what with all the new trade going on down by the river.

"What a market district we could have. And surely it would draw some of that Grantville business you've been harping about."

"Yes dear," Georg replied, without really listening to what his wife was saying.

"I can't imagine it would be too expensive to get it done. A good portion of the things we need are right here."

"Hm . . ."

"Then I can go ahead and order it done?"

Georg mumbled something indecipherable. It might have been, "Yes, dear."

"Also, Mrs. Trainer was telling me that they will need a machine or two that they don't have but could get made in Grantville, and some rock and such from the quarry.

"Oh, and this should make even a pfennig-pincher like you happy; Lili said if we paid for the machines then the oil company would undertake the cost of scouting out and training the crews and working out the . . .'bugs' is what she said. I think she may mean the new machines might have problems and they would have to work them out."

Grumble . . . Mumble . . .

"Thank you, darling, you're such a dear. It's so nice to talk to you in the mornings." She gathered up her sewing and left the room.

"Huh? What was that, love?" Georg looked up. Anna Eleanor wasn't in the room.

****

On April first a servant hurried into the telegraph office just outside of Celle in Oil Town. "I need to send a telegram," he said. "Then I will wait for a reply."

Somewhere near Grantville a telephone rang, "Good afternoon, Hilton Steam Works. How may I help you?"

"That you, Anna?"

"What's up, Maria?"

"Got a telegram for you. You want it over the phone? Or you can pay to have it hand-delivered, or you can send someone to pick it up."

"Give it to me over the phone. And hold the hard copy. Someone will pick it up maybe tomorrow."

"Doesn't sound like a happy customer. It says:

April 1, 1637

To: Hilton Steam Works, New Street, Schwarza

From: Georg, duke of Kalenberg, Celle

You want how much—stop—

For what—

—End—"

"Anna let me call you back after I check this out."

****

April 1, 1637

To: Georg, duke of Kalenberg. Celle

From: Hilton Steam Works, New Street, Schwarza

We're ready to deliver the asphalt paving equipment you ordered—stop—

The balance is due and payable upon delivery—

—End—

****

April 2, 1637

To: Hilton Steam Works, New street, Schwarza

From: Georg, duke of Kalenberg, Celle

I never ordered any asphalt paving equipment—stop—

What is asphalt paving equipment—stop—

I don't even know what asphalt is—

—End—

****

April 2, 1637

To: Georg, duke of Kalenberg. Celle

From: Hilton Steam Works, New Street, Schwarza

We are in receipt of an order signed by Duchess Anna Eleanor along with a draft on an account with OPM, for materials cost—stop—

As verified previously, Duchess Anna Eleanor is authorized to draw upon said account—stop—

OPM requires that final payment be made by you directly or additional approval documents must be provided to them, due to OPM's withdrawal restrictions—

—End—

****

Georg scrubbed his face hard after placing the telegraph form back onto the table. The servant who delivered it, anxiety showing on his face, slowly started to slide away along the wall as he attempted to avoid his lord's wrath.

With a deep sigh, the duke placed his hands flat on the table, and raised his head, piercing the servant with his gaze.

"Would you kindly request that the Duchess Anna attend me here at once." It was a capital O Order, not a request.

Hearing more than a little steel in the voice, the servant scampered off, relieved the lord's wrath would strike elsewhere.

****

"Anna, what has possessed you?! Because of your order, our investment account at OPM has reduced by half!" Georg ground his teeth as his wife calmly entered the study and gracefully ignored his outburst of anger. She looked over the papers sitting on his desk, noting the telegrams from Grantville.

"Anna! You simply cannot do something like that without my permission."

"Don't you remember? I asked you about this, over breakfast, months ago, back in September! You didn't object then, and besides, it's a wonderful investment. Imagine the prestige of being the only city outside of Grantville with asphalt roads."

"We can't just build roads wherever we want! Agreements must be negotiated, documents drawn up, approved and signed. I have no right to . . ."

"And who tells the duke what to do in his own duchy? Are you a duke or a mouse? If you want to build a road, you simply buy the rights to build a road. Simple, no?"

"Simple? Yes, if want to start a revolt. But that is beside the point. Are you trying to bankrupt me? Why should we spend money on asphalt? We have plenty of roads, and the streets by the docks are just that, by the ...