Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt Read online

  My wife asks about her brother, which brings a cool response from her mom.

  "He's out of work again."

  "What happened?"

  Her father stands, moves over to the curtains, opens them slightly and pretends some interest outside as a distraction to his answer.

  "He had some run in with his supervisor. Kept coming in late or not showing up at all... One of these days he'll learn that in order to get by you need to abide by the rules."

  "I'd think that with the responsibility of a family to support he'd make an effort to hold a job."

  "You know your brother. The only responsibility he feels is to himself. Sooner or later he's gonna realize that the rest of us aren't here to serve him."

  I hold my tongue, watching my daughter, who, oblivious to the conversation around her, flips through a coffee table book of photographs chronicling one day in the life of America. An uncomfortable silence hangs awhile until my wife turns to me and says "We should be going. It's already after six."

  We both stand. Our daughter closes the book, awaiting her good-bye kisses and instructions. My wife kisses her.

  "You have a good time at the circus and be a good girl for grandma and grandpa."

  "I will."

  "Thanks again for watching her this evening. We really appreciate it."

  "We love having her. You couldn't ask for a more perfect granddaughter."

  I cough softly, cupping the little one's chin in my hand.

  "Have fun, Sweetheart."

  "Okay."

  It's been three weeks since the end of the school year, and during that time, my wife as well as sixty other elementary school teachers from her district have received notice that their contracts will not be renewed due to budget problems. My solution was to buy things. A new gas barbecue, a croquet set, toys for the little one and clothes for my wife.

  I'm sure that when the burden of her present situation is lifted she and I will actually be able to enjoy the new stuff. Except for our daughters' toys the purchases are being ignored. Right now, my wife won't even try on the clothes I bought even though I know one blouse is her favorite color.

  It's Sunday, and upon returning from going out for breakfast, my wife and me send the little one to her room to change clothes, and go to our bedroom to do the same.

  I watch my wife undress, hoping for conversation. I catch a displeased look from her in the mirror. She turns her back to me, snatches a summer dress from the foot of the bed and huffs off to her bathroom.

  I throw my clothes by the dresser and decide to leave them there because that will bother her. Pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt I run my hand through my hair, listening to her mutter to herself.

  "We're going to where I grew up."

  "Why?"

  "I want to show you some things out there."

  "What kind of things?"

  "Horses, cows, sheep... Big fields and farms."

  "I've seen farms before."

  Our daughter's last comment carries the tone of a daughter not exactly thrilled with the outing her father has chosen for her. I smile and roll my window down all the way, letting the wind blow our hair.

  "Whatcha thinkin' about, Sweetheart?"

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  "Is anything wrong?"

  She turns from the window and looks into her fidgeting hands.

  "Did Mommy do something bad?"

  Her question overwhelms me, and not knowing quite what she is referring to, I ask her to clarify.

  "Why do you think she did something bad?"

  "Because she lost her job."

  "Mommy lost her job because there wasn't enough money to pay her. A lot of teachers where she works lost their jobs."

  "Sometimes I think she's mad at me."

  "Mommy and I love you very much. She's not mad at you. It's just that she's worried about getting another job."

  "When's she gonna get a job?"

  "I don't know."

  She looks at me for a more specific answer and I raise my eyebrows to try to ease her. After a few more quiet moments I decide to ask the question I've been saving.

  "Honey how would you feel about moving?"

  "I dunno... Are we gonna move?"

  "I suggested it to Mommy."

  "What'd she say?"

  "She wasn't sure if she wanted to."

  "I'm not sure if I want to either."

  I pull the car over to the side of the gravel road and watch the stirred dirt settle. I step out and the little one hops onto the side of the hill. I take her hand. We walk up to a short barbed-wire fence. On the other side several horses and cows graze while a lamb butts her Mommy’s belly for more food.

  One of the horses trots slowly over to us and I lift my daughter to pet its nose. The horse steps away and I kiss my daughter's cheek. She wraps her arms around my neck and looks out at the pasture.

  We stay about fifteen minutes. Just long enough for a little girl to be bored with standing by and watching her father stare at someone's farm. I look at my watch.

  "Let's go, Sweetheart. I still need to get you home before I head over to the nursing home."

  "I want to come and play Bingo."

  "Okay. We'll just have to call and let Mommy know."

  My daughter stands and brushes off the seat of her shorts, while across the way the owner of the farm waves.

  It is Saturday afternoon and the girls are out buying last minute Father's Day gifts while I watch a baseball game. New York vs. Boston. There have already been eleven hits and at the end of the first inning the score is four to three in favor of Boston.

  New York's lead off batter steps to the plate and there's a knock at the door.

  "Hello. Got a cigarette?"

  "What?"

  The man catches me off guard with a shove that sends me reeling backwards. I fall and hit my head hard on the floor. He is quickly inside and shuts the door.

  "Remember me?"

  His words and the surroundings have an otherworldly -like quality. I strain to focus. The man kneels down and straddles me and out of sheer terror I give him a terrific punch to the face. I grab the stair railing and get to my feet as he springs up and grabs at my shoulders.

  "Don't do this, Eddie. I need you."

  Eddie?

  I give him a shove, breaking his grip and sending him into the door. Then with all the effort I can muster I open the door and push him outside.

  "I’m not Eddie!"

  I lock the door and stand shaking not quite sure what to do.

  Should I call the police?

  I don't really want anyone to know about this.

  What about my family?

  What if something happens to them?

  I hold my head and close and reopen my eyes several times in an effort to get my bearings. My stomach's all knotted up and I feel like I'm going to get sick.

  I better call the police.

  I get enough composure to dial 911, keeping my eyes closed as I tell the dispatcher an assault took place. She tells me an officer is one the way. I hang up the phone.

  I now begin to fully feel the effects of my head hitting the floor.

  I’m spiraling.

  I black out and then awaken, finding myself sitting in front of the television.

  Full count.

  Three and two.

  Yesterday was Father's Day. The family zipped around visiting the Dads, staying long enough at both households to dispense presents and report my wife's job situation.

  The hit on the head I took the other day from Eddie's visitor has taken a toll. I've been hallucinating off and on ever since, seeing small animals dart across the carpet that aren't there and shadowy figures behind bushes. I haven't told my wife any of this because she's finally starting to come around from the shock of her dismissal.

  The personalities on a Monday morning talk show discuss the video store owner I saw arrested.

  Apparently he was selling kiddie porn.

  My wi
fe and her friend sit at the kitchen table and chat. I lean back against the counter and continue to watch our small television, trying not to eavesdrop.

  "I'm really glad you dropped by today."

  "Well, you haven't called lately, and ever since you lost your job, you've been hard to get in touch with."

  My wife looks at me.

  "Hey, I told you she called."

  "I know... It's just that I've been really busy lately submitting applications."

  "How's it going?"

  "Basically all the districts around here are hurting. It's going to be difficult to get a job."

  "Have you checked into any positions out of town?"

  "Not yet... I'm not sure how our daughter would handle moving."

  "She would be fine."

  My wife and her friend trade disdainful looks.

  "You can't be sure of that."

  "Honey, she'd be fine. My parents moved when I was just a kid and I'm all right."

  "That's your opinion."

  Her friend smiles and sips her cup of chocolate coffee. My wife does the same and I turn my attention back to the television.

  "You don't really need to work, do you? I mean, didn't you say that the accident left you with a decent sum of money?"

  "She wants to work."

  My wife cuts me a look and taps a finger on the table.

  She hates it when I answer for her.

  "I enjoy teaching. It makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something. Like I'm doing something good. I love my family, and that's really the most important thing in my life, but I still need to teach."

  "I'm sure something will come your way."

  "I hope so. I can't imagine not working. I've always worked. Ever since I was fifteen I've had a job. The only time I didn't work was the first year after the baby was born and that was really hard."

  "I imagine it's difficult to get motivated to return to work after being away from it for awhile."

  "It is for him."

  I ignore her.

  "... But not for me. It's harder for me not working. We were fortunate that our mothers were able to watch our daughter until she started preschool. If I would have had to take four years off, I'd be crazy by now."

  "And probably fat."

  "Well, I always manage to put on a few pounds no matter what I'm doing."

  "Honey, you look just fine."

  I mean this to ease any concerns she might have about her appearance, but for some reason it doesn't sit well with her.

  "He always says that. It took me forever to lose the weight after my pregnancy and the whole time he said 'You're not fat.'"

  "They don't realize that's not helping things. We can tell when the old clothes start getting too tight."

  "We know better than they do."

  I take this as my cue to leave.

  Standing on the porch I watch the mail car drive and stop, drive and stop. The mail carrier steps out with a large parcel and I swear I see a shadowman jump inside the back of the vehicle.

  Another hallucination.

  Great.

  If I don’t stop seeing things, I will have to go to the doctor.

  My wife and I sit on a bench near an exhibit in the children's Museum watching our daughter join several children in the fun of jumping around a small room filled with plastic balls.

  "Let's go to the make-up room!"

  Our daughter grabs us each by the hand and leads us excitedly down the hallway.

  "What's the hurry?"

  "Daddy, you just can't sit around all the time."

  My wife laughs. I turn and make a face that conveys 'I wonder whom she takes after?'

  She returns my expression with a warm, deep, smile that has rarely been shown lately.

  "I wanna be a clown."

  Looking into a large mirror surrounded by bright light bulbs we work with the make up provided and paint our daughter's face.

  "Hold still. I'm almost through... Don't scrunch your nose."

  "It feels funny."

  "Almost done... there!"

  The little one bounces up and down in her chair, giggling as she looks at herself in the mirror.

  "Now you're an honest to goodness circus clown."

  "Thank you, Mommy."

  "You're welcome, Honey."

  I lean close to my wife. We smile at one another. I give her a quick kiss, and as I lean back she dabs some red grease paint on my nose.

  Our daughter stands.

  "Let's go to the telephone room."

  The rest of the day is spent playing with different phones, shopping at a miniature grocery store, pretending to fly a plane, and watching our daughter climb on a large stuffed sneaker.

  Driving home my wife sits close to me humming and our little clown plays with a balloon.

  The moon has no borders, boundaries, titles, or deeds. The only creatures that might hold claim are the Mother Goose cows that hurdle it at bedtime. A full moon. There is something powerful about it. Tides and currents are directed by its force. Calendars were constructed by its math. People may be changed by this sky- bound presence. Werewolves? Vampires? All one needs to do is look around to see that these monsters are very real.

  I'm sitting on our back porch looking up at the perfect circle in the sky, waiting for it to wink its eye, knowing that there is someone across the continent looking up at the same moon, and thinking the same crazy thoughts that I am.

  Some believe we have the right to claim this property as our own. First come, first served. Finders keepers. They want to colonize it, offering shuttle service to those willing to serve as space squatters.

  This probably sounds great to a lot of people. Not me. The moon is history's. The moon belongs to the entire globe and its inhabitants. It is not commercial property. It is a night light for us all.

  The knight of the sorrowful figure heads home, bound and caged, as my wife returns from taking our daughter to a friend's house. She is in a huff. I mark my place, close the book, and give her my attention only to catch her backside as she throws down her purse and storms into the kitchen.

  "Honey!"

  I put the book on the coffee table and rub my head.

  "What?"

  "Come here!"

  I go to the kitchen, finding her standing arms crossed by the counter.

  "Is it too much to ask for you to clean up after yourself?"

  I don't answer, shooting her a blank stare. She quickly turns and brushes the breadcrumbs off the cutting board into her hand, fiercely tossing them into the trash.

  "What's this?!"

  I sigh as she removes a sweaty package containing two slices of bologna from the garbage.

  "It smelled funny so I tossed it."

  "I just bought this last week! It should be fine!"

  "Bon Appetite."

  She throws the bologna at me, sending the package flying several inches past my left ear.

  "What's your problem?"

  "I just would like to be able to come home without having to clean up after you!"

  "That's your problem?"

  "No, that's our problem."

  "Just because you're upset about something stupid doesn't make it my problem too."

  "Oh, well, thanks for your support."

  "Support? How am I supposed to be supportive when you won't even tell me what's really wrong?"

  "What's really wrong is that I spend a whole Monday morning carting my daughter around looking for a job and come home to find a mess, while you're sitting doing nothing."

  "What mess?"

  "These bread crumbs. I mean, take the time to clean up after yourself. It's not like you're doing anything else."

  I narrow my eyes, giving her a mean look. Fearing a head on collision, I decide to put on the brakes and hold my tongue. She seems to welcome a crash and stomps on the gas.