Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt

  The last thought I remember before my head hit the windshield was that I still needed to stop and buy milk. The next thing I know I'm coming to in the back of an ambulance and some paramedic is telling me not to worry.

  Now, one day later in a hospital room shared with a man about to undergo open-heart surgery, I'm just able to sort out what happened.

  Apparently I was hit head on by a famous person. My doctor said the seat belt I was wearing probably saved my life and that I should feel lucky. All I feel is weak. He says I've suffered a serious concussion and have several cuts on my face. That explains the gauze and why it hurts so much to even try to think.

  My wife stands over me stroking my hair. Her eyes look tired. We look at each other for several moments without speaking. Finally she says, "Nice to have you back."

  I love her.

  My effort to convey this to her fails. The words form clearly in my skull, but become twisted and disappear into incoherent babble. It's like being underwater. Everything seems liquid-like and remote. Unreal.

  "Don't strain yourself."

  I look at my wife and feel confused. She continues stroking my hair. I relay to myself a slowly realized procedure and follow it. Close your eyes. Now keep it brief. What do you want to say? A phrase forms. Now concentrate. Don't lose the words.

  I open my eyes and speak.

  "How's our baby?"

  The words fall from my mouth thick and retarded, and for a moment I'm not sure if I even spoke.

  "She's fine. I have her at Mother's."

  The confines of thought slowly clear, and speaking is easier and more natural. It's just like riding a bike, someone might say, only much more frustrating and tiring. I stop pedaling and coast, listening as my wife tells me about the legalities she is pursuing. She already has a lawyer handling our situation.

  My stamina leaves and I surrender. Everything becomes confusing again and I close my eyes. Images of job, family, and day to day trivialities flash, fade, and reappear with greater importance and I strain to make sense. What's happening here?

  A profound panic strikes me. My heart pounds and I feel my back wet with sweat. For a moment I'm convinced I'm dying, and I throw back the covers on my bed and hurry to leave, desperate to escape the inevitable.

  "Honey, honey, take it easy. I'm here."

  Right. Okay. But who are you? Gradually the panic subsides and my wife comes into focus. She helps me lay back down and resumes stroking my hair.

  She looks at me soothingly.

  A connection forms.

  Mommy, read me a story.

  spend the next few days getting better. For the most part I rest. People stop by and visit and bring me magazines. At first, I just look at the pictures because it's too hard to read. But the effort to comprehend lessens.

  I learn that the mean temperature of the human vagina is very, very warm. And that the average American in a lifetime spends six months sitting at stoplights, eight months opening junk mail, one year looking for misplaced objects, two years unsuccessfully returning phone calls, four years doing housework, five years waiting in line, and six years eating.

  I never learned how much time we spend in hospitals.

  My doctor stops by regularly and shines a small skinny flashlight in my eyes, turning my head from side to side. He replaced the gauze that was wrapped around my forehead with a few large square bandages.

  The TV talk show host hands her microphone to a woman in her audience and my doctor steps into the room and walks over to my bed.

  "I've got good news. The tests show no internal damage. So, if you're feeling up to it, I'd like to have you released." "When can I leave?"

  "Tomorrow morning if you like."

  "I like."

  "Fine. I'll get the paperwork started. Now, you've had quite a blow to the head. I want you to take it easy at home. Rest. I'm going to schedule you to come back in a week for a follow up examination. Pay close attention to the cuts on your forehead, don't aggravate them, and make sure when you change the dressing, that it's secure."

  "Will do."

  He shines his flashlight in my eyes, twists my head and leaves. I call home and leave a message on the machine telling my wife the news.

  Riding home from the hospital I look out the window and watch the steel girders of the Fifteenth Street Bridge. My wife took the day off work to bring me home. I was hoping our daughter would join her, but with my wife being a third grade school teacher, the chance of our daughter missing school without being ill is remote. Still, I thought my release warranted a special exception and my feelings are hurt.

  We turn onto our street and are met with a curious sight. Our neighbors across the street have a tree resting in their side yard. A police car is parked askew in the driveway. The officer is refereeing an obviously heated exchange between the tree's owner and his neighbor.

  My wife drives slowly into our driveway and we both step out and stand by the car's trunk, watching and listening.

  "I can't believe he cut down my tree!"

  The police officer turns to the next door neighbor.

  "Did you cut down the tree?"

  "It was messing up my reception. I just got a new dish and that tree screwed up my picture."

  The tree's owner steps closer.

  "It took that tree close to one hundred years to grow! How can you just destroy a forty-foot tree?!"

  "I'll pay for the damage and haul it away... I just wanted to watch

  wrestling."

  "Wrestling?! You could have killed somebody!"

  The police officer restrains the tree owner.

  "Daddy, why do giraffes have long necks?"

  The hard questions. Brain, I guess you've had enough rest this last week. Be grateful she didn't ask where babies come from. My wife is definitely going to draw that detail.

  "Well, that's a good question. Climb up on Daddy's lap and he'll explain. Upsee daisy. There you go. My, you're getting big... Giraffes have long necks because they need long necks."

  "Why?"

  She crinkles her nose, that mercifully, is her mothers'.

  "They need long necks to eat leaves from tall trees. So, over time they changed and grew."

  "Do all animals change?"

  "Yep."

  "Even elephants?"

  "Yep."

  "Even frogs?"

  "Everything changes."

  My wife steps into the room dressed for an afternoon of shopping.

  "You ready to go to the mall, Honey?"

  "I need my jacket."

  Our daughter hops off my lap and darts to her room. My wife watches her scurry and chuckles.

  In an effort to surprise my wife and put her in a good mood I decide to have dinner ready when her and the little one return from the mall. Hopefully this will put her in a decent frame of mind to digest what I plan to say. I'm going to quit my job.

  Two days ago my wife and I met with our attorney. We were presented with a seven-figure check. The money we got in the settlement, although by no means a fortune, carefully invested and handled, is indeed a nice little nest egg. She could even leave her job if she wanted.

  The little one is tucked in for the evening and my wife and I sit at the dining room table talking. Here goes nothing.

  "I want to quit my job."

  "Why?"

  "You know I'm miserable there. The place is going downhill and I can't be a part of that."

  She looks extremely concerned and thinks before speaking. The tense pause before her response pulls at my patience. I'm used to it, so I wait.

  "What are you going to do instead of working?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Well tha
t's good to know."

  "That's not important now. We've been given a large amount of money. If we invest it properly it can last a long time and allow us to pursue other things. You could even quit teaching if you wanted."

  "I'm not a quitter."

  Boom.

  A direct hit.

  I fill with anger. To avoid anything being broken or something being said and later regretted, I stand and quickly escape to the sanctuary of the garage, locking the door behind me.

  I hate her.

  For a long time I lean against the car and stare at my workbench.

  There is a tap on the door.

  "Honey?.. Please come out so we can talk. I'm sorry."

  I open the door. She tries to console me with a touch and I step back. She follows me into the living room and sits on the sofa. I remain standing. Neither of us knows quite what to say. We face each other, straining. Finally I speak.

  "I'm not a quitter."

  I can see some relief in her posture. She leaves her hands folded and leans forward.

  "I didn't say you were."

  "You insinuated it."

  "I'm sorry. You caught me off guard."

  I'm not quite sure what to say so I move over and sit on the sofa.

  "There was really no subtle way to tell you."

  "I know. It's just with getting the money and your accident... "

  She begins to tremble.

  "I don't know. Everything's been so crazy lately... when you got hit and were in the hospital I felt so scared."

  She lowers her head and begins to cry.

  I kneel next to her and she buries her face in my shoulder. I hold her close and let her sob, restraining my urge to cry. She calms and pulls her face away.

  I push back her matted, fallen hair and stroke her cheek gently.

  She smiles, shivers.

  I'm driving to work in order to tell my boss that I'm quitting.

  Factories spew their pollution.

  The air stinks and the streets are full of trash.

  The walls of the recreation center and the corner grocery store are covered with graffiti. Unless you live or work here, you stay away.

  I park my smashed up car in front of the liquor store. The store has steel bars on its door and a metal cage inside.

  I lock my doors and step across the street. This is where I have worked for the past five years.

  The place is a large institution. It focuses on developmentally disabled children and adults.

  Its facilities include administrative offices, school classrooms, a cafeteria, an auditorium, a gymnasium, an indoor swimming pool, two recreation rooms, a playground, a rubber workshop, a tile workshop, and dormitory housing.

  I was hired as a Residential Program Coordinator after spending a few years out of college managing a group home as part of a mainstreaming program. My job consists of organizing employee inservices, supervising the program managers, organizing and presenting the first aid and CPR proficiency classes, orientation of new employees, and dealing with the state in various capacities.

  I took the job because it allowed me to put my bachelors degree to work and the pay is decent. Moreover, I wanted to make life better for these people. My bosses are phonies. I didn't know that then. I know that now. I don't believe my work here's been in vain, though it's difficult to totally convince myself of that.

  I open a chain-link gate and step into the front courtyard. On the lawn a group of children enjoys a break from the classroom. Down's Syndrome students with dull round faces and puppy eyes chase their hyperactive classmates. They laugh huskily and squeal. A high chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire surrounds them. Instead of providing an aura of protection this creates an atmosphere of internment.

  Butterflies locked in the void.

  Entering the front door I'm reintroduced to the brick building's stale smell. A large painting of the founder's two retarded sons hangs on the far wall. To the right is the receptionist's office. Directly across is my bosses office. I knock out of courtesy and step inside.

  Of course he isn't here. One of the things about this place is that no one is ever where they should be. I check my watch and sit. I spoke to my boss last night and arranged for a meeting without giving him a reason. Let him guess.

  "Good to see you. How are you feeling?"

  My boss pats my shoulder as he steps around me to his desk. I don't answer him because I know the truth is he doesn't care. I feel elated. Finally I can speak freely.

  He sits behind his desk and folds his arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

  "I quit."

  My frankness strips away his insincere manner and causes him to lower his arms and lean forward.

  "Come again?"

  "I quit. Today I'm picking up my last paycheck and cleaning out my desk."

  He looks at me blankly and forces a weak smile.

  "This is quite a surprise. What brought this on?"

  "I'm fed up with this place. You operate under supposed caring and concern and in reality turn away from the neglect and abuse."

  His face turns red and he holds his jaw clenched. He doesn't speak for several moments, and I'm sure his brain swells with the thought of added scandal. He rubs his chin.

  "That's a very serious allegation."

  "It's the truth."

  A wonderful release overtakes me. For the first time in a long while I feel totally refreshed.

  "It's quite unprofessional of you to leave without any notice."

  "That's not unusual for this place. Your kitchen supervisor and personnel director did the same thing."

  The insolence that I find invigorating he finds threatening.

  "So tell me then, what are your plans now?"

  "Don't you mean, am I going to squawk and add another lawsuit to the many still pending?"

  He glares at me. I answer myself.

  "No, I'm not."

  "Really? I thought you were the shining example of goodness around here."

  His sarcasm slides like water off my duck back.

  "I want to leave on good terms. As strange as it sounds, I still have a loyalty to this place and I really don't want to tarnish its image more than it is."

  He closes his eyes and sighs with relief. Once his eyes open his manner is less defensive and harsh.

  "I'm glad to hear that. We're in enough hot water already."

  "Well, unfortunately it's deserved."

  "We're making changes. I just hired several new counselors."

  "I'm sure they're just as unqualified as all the other counselors."

  "That's unfair. We've been striving to hire the best people we can."

  "Save your PR for the reporters. The people working with the clients in the dorms are thieves, junkies, and perverts. We both know that."

  "If you have proof of those charges I'd love to see it."

  "I've filed so many incident reports that it's not funny. Televisions, stereos, household items and kitchenware are constantly disappearing, and the incident involving that maintenance man and the two woman clients from long term that turned up in the paper isn't an isolated one. We both also know that."

  "Don't get cocky. Your performance is only as good as your records."

  "Are you threatening me?"

  "No, not at all."

  Regrettably, he's right. I know it's happened before. Files disappear and former employees are discredited with allegations and lies.

  "Let's just stop before things get out of control. like I said, I want to leave on good terms."

  He's silent for a moment, tapping his fingertips together.

  "Why don't you reconsider. You're a good worker, an honest worker, and that's hard to find."

  "Thanks, but I've made up my mind."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Well then, best of luck."

  We stand and shake hands.

  "Thanks, same to you. I hope this place is able to weather its crisis and continue."r />
  "We will."

  "Good-bye."

  I step through the door and receive a solid stomach punch of realization.