Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt Page 9

  My friend speaks.

  "I've lived here close to ten years, and I've never heard such craziness. If we start taking the law into our own hands we're going to end up sorry. You need to chill out."

  "Don't tell me what to do. I fought for this country while your type dodged the draft."

  My friend clenches his jaw and looks at me for some sort of support. I return an expression of disbelief.

  Our host removes a yellow piece of tablet paper from his shirt pocket, unfolds it, and speaks.

  "I've got it all down right here. This is the way I see our patrol operating. First, we should have men only over age eighteen, that way there won't be problems between the high school kids. Second, patrol members have to get a registered small caliber handgun, a twenty-two would be okay, but a thirty-eight would be better in case we actually have to shoot someone."

  "Why not carry assault rifles? I mean, gee whiz. I say we completely take over."

  I believe our host doesn't appreciate my comments. The purple hue his face is now taking illustrates my assumption. However, he refrains from replying and continues.

  "Every patrol member should take a gun safety course. The high school offers Hunter’s Safety. I think that would get people new to guns familiar with them. Members would have to demonstrate that they could use their weapons and be willing to take two two-hour patrols a week."

  My friend and I are not the only people present obviously bothered by all of this. The owner of the Harvester stands to leave.

  "So what do you all think?"

  "You're crazy."

  Our host turns a more vivid shade of purple.

  I follow my friend out the door.

  "That guy is insane."

  "He is a paranoid butthead. The problem is he's more than capable of stirring up the other buttheads in there."

  "We should do something."

  "I don't like the idea of going to the police, but I think they should know about this."

  "I agree."

  It is Thursday afternoon. I am standing in line at the General Store. The two cashiers working at the cosmetics counter chat about how the sheriff paid a visit to our host.

  "Why?" One of them asks.

  "He was trying to organize some sort of patrol that would carry guns.”

  "But the police caught the boys that broke into his house."

  "They did?"

  "Yep. It was two dropouts."

  "Dropouts? Who said that?"

  "My sister."

  It is Christmas day.

  My wife, the little one, my brother, and my parents, and I sit around the tree. The heat of the furnace flutters the tinsel. Short electric-light candles bubble, while small oblong lights flicker.

  It is good to be at my parent’s house. The dogs tramp around in the snow, chewing on their holiday treats, occasionally taking a break to bark at cars passing, while Mom's collection of cats romp in the discarded wrapping paper.

  Carols play softly from a portable cassette player hidden just behind one of the chairs. The little one, as well as everyone else's attention, for the time being is focused on the cat show. They chase one another, scrunch up under paper, and pause, tossing their tails side to side while they look wide-eyed. Even the older ones participate

  My friend and his wife gave us a 'cute' gift. It's a small ceramic egg that has an inscription reading ‘You'd smile too if you just got laid.' I remember seeing a variation of this gift when I was a teenager. I also remember not understanding what it meant.

  Mom begins picking up the paper.

  "Leave that, Honey,” my Dad says.

  “The boys will get it."

  Going home is like stepping into a time machine. I am not just a father and husband. I return to being a son as well.

  I look out the window of the front porch, drawing a deep breath, blowing it onto the window. A fog forms. It remains long enough for me to draw a smiley face. My wife catches me doing this and smiles herself.

  We are driving home. My wife and I have seen two dead deer and a dead porcupine by the side of the road. I am glad our daughter did not see the dead animals. She was asleep at the time. She is awake now though, asking any question that pops into her head.

  A joke a comedian made on TV last night comes to mind: Only three hundred and sixty-three shopping days left!

  It is New Year's Eve. My wife is emphatic about having to wear a certain outfit she pulled from the dirty clothes hamper to the party we have been invited to later, so, of course, the washing machine breaks.

  "I can't believe it! I need these clothes for tonight!"

  I stare at my wife's clothes soaking in the machine.

  "Can't you wear something else?"

  "No."

  I rub my forehead.

  "It figures that you would wait four hours before the party to choose what you are going to wear. And of course it's dirty, and of course there is nothing else you can possibly wear."

  "I forgot I wore those clothes! Okay?! Is it all right if I made a mistake?!"

  I avoid looking at her, staring at our washing machine.

  "Well, what do you want to do?" I ask exasperated.

  "Can't you fix the machine?"

  "Fix the machine?! I don't have time to do that now!"

  "Fine. We won't go then."

  I see the water begin to spin and have to blink several times before I realize it is my imagination. This makes me dizzy, so I decide to look at my wife.

  "I will take your clothes to the Laundromat. Doesn't our daughter need to be taken to the sitters?"

  "I don't know."

  "Look! I'm trying to deal with this! If you would wear something else there would be no problem, but since you are determined to be crazy, get her to the sitters. I'll take care of your clothes!"

  She yells upstairs for the little one, who is quick to appear.

  "Get your coat and toys.”

  She does as told. My wife leaves with her arms folded.

  I remove her clothes, wringing them out, dropping them in a clothesbasket. The thing that really bothers me about all this is that I also really want her to wear this outfit. It makes her look hot.

  There is hardly anyone on the street now. It is dark and cold. I'm having to trudge along in the snow with a soggy plastic bag holding her wet party clothes. The bar is hopping. I can hear its clamor a block away.

  Mercifully, the Laundromat is open. I walk inside and plop my bag on top of a chair, taking time to warm myself. I fish out several quarters from my jeans, looking at the wall of dryers.

  What the heck is that?

  One of the dryers contains an odd shaping of clothes packed tightly against its glass door. I walk over and open it. An arm falls out.

  Dear God.

  It's a body.

  The police arrive. I give them my statement as they remove a boy from the dryer who could not be more than thirteen. The body is lifted onto a stretcher, covered completely with a sheet, and driven away in an ambulance.

  I sit and stare out the front window of the Laundromat.

  A shadowman runs by and waves.

  Happy New Year.

  I am sitting among the many people gathered for the dead boy's service. The pastor eulogizes the boy. We all wait our turn to pass by and look at the body. Paying our respects? That seems odd. Death is a very disrespectful foe. Death has no courtesy or regard.

  I follow my wife up to the casket. We both look down, then walk out into the lobby, joining the quiet crowd.

  A co-worker of my wife greets us.

  "Hello. How are you?"

  He shakes my hand.

  "I'm okay."

  We talk for a while. Before leaving he says, "Your wife mentioned that you have experience working with the handicapped."

  "Yes."

  "Great. Have you heard about the summer program I'm starting?"

  "I think she mentioned something about it."

  "Well, would you be interested?"

  "I'm not sure.
"

  "I really need good people."

  I look away.

  I watch the coffin lowered into the earth, thinking about the final chapter of "Don Quixote." I finished reading it yesterday and thought the ending was sad.

  I am downstairs reading what I have written during the past year. My family is upstairs sleeping. I can no longer afford the luxury of an early retirement. It is time to get back to work.