Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt Page 7

"We met at the store. How are you?"

  "Can't complain."

  We step inside.

  "Here, I hope you like peanut brittle."

  "Well, thank you."

  My friend's wife takes the paper bag of peanut brittle from my wife, unfolds the top, peeks inside.

  "This looks delicious. Home-made?"

  "Yes."

  "Let me get your coats.”

  We look around the place. I watch our host’s interactions. All antagonism appears put on, so I resolve to enjoy their company, not dwelling on their odd way of getting along.

  Dinner is pleasant. And after my friend helps his wife clear the table we adults sit having coffee, talking, while the little one watches a movie rented for her. Our host's twelve-year-old daughter, who according to her mother is "just like her father" is spending the night at a friend's house.

  "Did either of you hear about this new law that is supposed to make dope dealers buy tax stamps to put on their drugs?"

  "One of the teachers at school mentioned something about that."

  "It's such a joke."

  "What's this?"

  My friend thanks his wife for topping off his cup and explains.

  "The state has just passed a tax stamp law where controlled substances are taxed one thousand dollars per ounce and marijuana at one hundred dollars per ounce. A dealer pays the tax on the stuff by buying the stamps at the department of revenue."

  "That's absurd. Who in their right mind expects those people to do that?"

  After asking this, my wife looks at me for an answer. I shrug my shoulders.

  “I imagine the justification is that the Revenue Department is now involved in part of the prosecution. I read that if drugs were seized with no tax stamps they slap on a fine- another ten times the tax that is owed."

  I look at my friend. He leans back in his chair, runs a hand through his ponytail.

  "Pretty crazy, isn't it?"

  "I wouldn't buy stamps."

  "You'd wish you had if you got busted. You can't mess with the government in that area. Just look at what's brought in the big time bad guys: tax evasion and tax fraud."

  My friend leans forward.

  "The thing is, those folks leave little or no paper money trail, so discovering and seizing their assets is hard. I doubt if they can really collect any of the proposed fines."

  I am struck by our host's knowledge of this, and apparently it shows on my face, because he answers without any prompting "Don't worry, we aren't druggies."

  His wife laughs.

  "I don't even like taking aspirin."

  "Hell, it's the pharmaceutical conglomerates pushing their products that's got us all medicating ourselves."

  My wife responds to my friend.

  "Exactly. The truth is most symptoms of the common cold can be relieved with rest and liquids. I read an article that scientifically backed up the healing power of chicken soup."

  "So we moms do know best."

  "Always have."

  The wives look at my friend and me with an air of superiority.

  "You'll get no arguments from us." I say.

  My friend laughs.

  "Veni, vidi, vici."

  His wife points a finger at him.

  "You best not forget that."

  His expression turns sly.

  "I know who's in charge."

  The little one looks our way and says, "You guys are weird."

  "Out of the mouths of babes" my friend's wife says as she stands.

  "She's not a babe anymore." My wife says looking at her.

  The little one holds her attention our way, kicking her feet playfully behind her.

  "Would you like more soda?"

  "No thank you."

  "She sure is a polite girl."

  My friend's wife extends this complement to me, exiting the kitchen. I smile at my daughter. She turns her attention back to the television.

  "Wait a few years. You both better brace yourselves for one heck of a ride."

  "You don't have to tell me” my wife says, tapping the side of her coffee cup "I went through it myself."

  My friend’s wife steps back into the room

  "The horror of adolescence."

  My friend reaches in one of his shirt pockets, removes a hard pack of cigarettes. He shakes one part way out, offers it to his wife. She takes it, waiting for a light.

  My friend's wife takes a long drag from her cigarette, exhales, at the same time continuing her observations of puberty.

  "How old were you when you got your period?"

  I am a little taken back by her bluntness. My wife answers rather matter of factly though.

  "Eleven."

  "You started early."

  "There were two other girls in my class that got it about the same time."

  "My breasts hurt so much when they started to grow."

  "Mine too.”

  "Could we please talk about something else?" My friend asks.

  "It is so typical of you to change the subject."

  "The topic is rather uncomfortable" I answer, making a head gesture towards our daughter.

  My wife answers.

  "I'm not uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable?"

  "Not at all."

  Both women realize the edge they've acquired and lean forward, continuing the tease.

  "Two grown married men with children and they can't even handle talk about the basic facts of life."

  My friend's wife smiles at her husband. He folds his arms and stares sternly. I rub my forehead and give my wife a look of exasperation. She musters some mercy for me, suggesting for my friend's wife to show her the house, patting my shoulder as she moves from the table.

  My friend and I watch our wives start up the stairs, waiting a good thirty seconds before talking.

  "I've got myself a real pistol."

  "We both do."

  I watch my daughter. My friend lights another cigarette.

  "So how's your house fixin' comin' along?"

  I turn, facing him.

  "Pretty good. I'm looking at re-insulating the attic fairly soon."

  There is a lag in the conversation that I fill by asking about his animal bone jewelry.

  "I have a few pieces dryin' out in the garage. Wanna see 'em?"

  "Sure."

  "You'll like these. Made 'em out of snake skulls."

  "Great."

  We both stand." Sweetie, if Mommy asks we're in the garage."

  "Can I come and see?"

  I pause to think. My friend answers for me.

  "You sure can. Let me get your coat."

  He leaves. My daughter springs to her feet, switches off the television.

  I am letting her see carcass jewelry. Why not? According to the wives, in a few years something like this is going to seem pretty tame compared to the reality of becoming a young woman.

  A fellow townie adjusts his dog’s collar. I stop and say hi.

  "Hello."

  He answers and studies me.

  I introduce myself.

  "Oh, yeah, you're the fellow tearing up his back yard."

  "Fortunately, I finished that project."

  "How are you?"

  "Fine."

  He finishes fiddling with the dog collar, stands.

  "Haven't seen you at the Harvester lately."

  "The family has been eating at home."

  "Oh."

  I know this guy from eating out with my family. This is a weak excuse to bring about conversation, but it would have been rude to walk by him and his dog.

  "That is an interesting collar your dog is wearing."

  "It's a special one I designed myself."

  "Sure is fancy."

  "It's for training dogs to stay away from rattlesnakes. I’m letting him get used to wearing it"

  "Oh yeah?"

  "You bet."

  He picks up the dog's leash, ready to continue his walk.

  "How do you train dogs to stay clear of
rattlers?"

  He smiles, buttons the top button of his jacket.

  "Where ya headin' now?"

  "Nowhere particular."

  "Just out walkin' huh?"

  "I can't stay inside when it's snowing. I've got to be out in it."

  "Me too. Well, if you wanna walk with us I'll be glad to tell ya' about snake training."

  "All right."

  We walk along the path behind the police station.

  "The first thing I do is catch a rattlesnake, preferably a big one that'll get the dog's attention. Then I force open the snake's mouth and clip its fangs with a pair of scissors. The fangs grow back in about two weeks."

  "Next, I put the snake on the ground and bring on the dog, which is wearing a radio controlled electronic collar like this one here... I walk the dog toward the snake, and when it strikes I press on a transmitter attached to my shoulder holster. The transmitter activates the collar, sending a jolt of electricity through the dog."

  "The dog thinks the snake did it."

  "Exactly. Then I move the snake to a new location, bring back the dog and watch to see if the dog goes near it. If it does, it's zapped again. If he avoids the snake, he's learned the lesson."

  I look blankly at him.

  "I don't like shocking a dog, but when it's weighed against a rattlesnake bite, it's worth it. I don't know any dog that has ever been bit after it was snake broke."

  We stop. The dog lifts his leg on a bush.

  "Why is it necessary?"

  "For hunting. A good hunting dog like this one here is expensive to replace."

  "Okay."

  He looks at me.

  "Why'd y' think I was snake training dogs?"

  I laugh.

  "I dunno."

  The dog finishes. We continue walking.

  With the weather being the way it is, trick-or-treating at our house drew a very slim crowd. Which was fine because that means we get to eat the leftover candy. We always buy candy we like in case of a turn out like tonight's. Chocolate covered peanut butter cups.

  I took our daughter around some of the houses in the neighborhood, but with her bundled up like she was it was nearly impossible for anyone to see her princess costume. People would still make out what she was supposed to be by the tiara on her head, but a thick jacket and felt-lined galoshes go a long way towards down playing any royal image. Her mom did get pictures of her at the school's Halloween party, and when I got her back inside from the cold she paraded around the house in costume.

  "Daddy, do you think I look like a real princess?"

  "Absolutely." I said.

  And she did.

  I knock on my daughter's door.

  "Come in."

  I go inside.

  "You know you don't have to knock, Daddy."

  She is lying on her back with her hands folded under her head. I can tell that she is not doing anything.

  "Whatcha doing, Sweetheart?"

  I sit on her bed.

  "Nothing."

  "You feel like going for a walk and getting some ice cream?"

  "Okay. Daddy, is Mommy mad at me?"

  "No."

  "She sure is acting funny."

  She ties one of her shoes.

  "Someday I'm sure you'll understand whatever it is she's going through."

  She ties her other shoe.

  "I suppose."

  We go outside, walking down the sidewalk, across the street, weaving our way between pools of melted water and mud onto the path behind the police station. I try to hold my daughter's hand. She pulls it away.

  "Is it all right if I tell you something?"

  "Of course."

  "I don't like school."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know..."

  "Come on, tell me what's bothering you."

  "I don't like Mommy teaching at the same school I go to."

  "Why does it bother you Mommy teaches at your school?"

  "It's not fair."

  "Do the other children bother you about it?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Your friends don't bother you about it, do they?"

  "No."

  "Well then, who cares about what the other kids think."

  She doesn't answer. I can tell my advice didn't register adequately with her. I stop walking, kneel down, and look her straight in the face. She looks down at her shoes.

  "Honey, there is something important you should always remember: Mommy and I love you very much. And it is okay to be angry with us, but there are some things we can't help. Like Mommy being at your school. That can't be changed because it's the only school in town. Okay?"

  She nods.

  My wife pushes my shoulders up from hers. She rubs her stomach slowly and turns to her side, pulling my arm around her waist, steering it clear of her breasts. I don't know why, but she has shown clearly that they are currently off limits.

  I've managed to spend some of our money on the material needed to redo the downstairs: Paint, wallpaper, tarps, brushes, and rollers. My wife did not object to that, but she definitely didn't approve of my proposal to buy a home video game system. I didn't buy one.

  She says she wonders what I'm going to do when I get the house finished. I wonder that myself. We will cross that bridge when it is time. I jokingly told her that by the time I finish the house it would be time to remodel again. She pretended not to hear me.

  "I can't stand the way you are always straightening up after me! Is it too much to ask that my stuff be left alone?"

  I ignore her, continuing to pick up the front room.

  "Stop that!"

  I don't heed her request. As payment for this she steps over and knocks the pile of papers cradled in my arm to the floor. The sheets scatter. I stare straight at her. I call for my daughter.

  She steps from the kitchen, looking meek.

  "Go upstairs, Honey."

  She trots up and away.

  "Don't touch those papers."

  I kneel down and begin sorting.

  "Those are my papers. Leave them alone."

  She falls to her knees and tries to grab the papers from my hand. I have a tight grip. She tries to pull them away, but I hold firmly. After several seconds of fierce pulling she screams and begins hitting me on the chest with her fists. Her sudden action, as well as the force of her blows, catches me off guard. I try to grab her arm, but this only lands me a punch on the cheek. I push her back, sending her reeling into the sofa.

  "You hit me!"

  "I pushed you! You hit me!"

  This breakdown has us both breathing hard. Our shoulders heave and we look like frightened animals.

  I am not sure how much time passes before I speak.

  "What's gotten into you!?"

  "Leave my papers alone!"

  I really don't care about the papers. I just need to know what is bothering her. Why has she been so distant? I ask her this. She looks away. I ask again. She turns, snarls.

  "I may have cancer, okay?"

  I sit down flat on the floor trying to make sense of this.

  I notice her trembling. I stay back out of fear and watch her quiver.

  "What makes you think you have cancer?"

  "The nurse at school gave me a booklet about breast examination, and I have some symptoms the pamphlet mentions."

  "Like what?"

  "My breasts have been very tender and swollen. Also I can feel several lumps."

  "Didn't you just start your period?"

  "So what?"

  "You told me that your breasts are always more sensitive when you're having your period."