"What about the lumpiness?"
"I don't remember you ever taking the time and physically examining yourself this closely before. I may be wrong, but maybe that lumpiness has always been there."
She looks away, pouring herself another cup of coffee. Lately she sure has been drinking a lot of coffee and eating a bunch of candy. At least one chocolate bar a day, usually when she gets home from school.
"Why don't you go see a doctor?"
"The closest good doctor is probably back home."
"So?"
"So I don't even have the faintest idea who to go see."
"I'm sure your school nurse could suggest someone."
She speaks softly.
"Maybe. Anyway, to change the subject..."
"Hold on. Change the subject? I finally find out what has been bothering you. Let’s discuss this a bit."
"There's nothing to discuss. I'll go and see a doctor then we will know for sure."
She has been acting like a caged cat ready for a tear. Now she answers as if everything is okay. As long as I live I swear I will never be able to make sense of her.
I turn off the coffee maker. She rinses out her cup.
"Anyway, back to changing the subject. A teacher at school is starting a summer program just outside town that will work with mentally handicapped kids from the city. I told him you used to deal with people like that."
I shut off the kitchen light.
"I think it would be good for you to start back into doing some kind of work."
"I don't know..."
"Well, he said if you were interested to call. The application deadline isn't until the end of March."
It is Thanksgiving and I am thinking this has been the fastest year of my life.
Zoom!
The odds must be incredible for one family to encounter so much in one year. It seems surreal, and if I had not been living it myself I would not believe it possible.
So now the stuffing day is upon us all.
I thought that perhaps this year I would somehow get out of having one of our shared holidays with my wife's family. The thought of the holidays at my parents never bothers me, but the anticipation of time spent with my acquired mom and dad is always a little uncomfortable. And every other year that mental annoyance is accompanied by the physical aggravation of eating too much. Actually it is better when Thanksgiving is the holiday given to my parent in laws. It is a drag when Christmas is spent agreeing with them twenty different ways.
Today is the little one's birthday.
Our daughter is unaware of it, but she received her best present indirectly via the doctor my wife visited last week.
Mommy does not have breast cancer.
The symptoms she manifested were due to her excessive consumption of caffeine and chocolate. My wife said she is still having trouble shaking the feeling of needing to be perfect and may have been using coffee and candy bars like she used to when she was a teenager. I said that perhaps she should speak to someone about it. She said she wasn’t forcing herself to vomit, but she knows it is something to pay attention to, and that she would speak to someone if she needed to.
"Thank you for letting me have a party."
"You're welcome, Honey."
My wife is stroking the little one's hair. I am sitting on the floor with my legs stretched out, leaning back on my palms.
"Feel any older?"
"A little."
I chuckle.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"Why has so much happened to us?"
I lean forward.
"What do you mean?"
She looks up at the ceiling. My wife continues stroking her hair.
"First you had your accident, then we moved because some one broke into our home, and now it's almost Christmas."
My wife answers.
"It probably seems like we are the only family things happen to, but we're not. Everybody has their own stuff that happen to them."
Our daughter reflects for a moment, then speaks.
"My friend told me her Daddy was broke."
I answer.
"We are very lucky."
"I know... a couple of boys in my class said they moved before."
"Sure. I bet if you asked around you would find that a lot of things have happened to other people."
"I know."
"Do you also know that Mommy and I love you very much?"
She answers brightly, quickly.
"Yes."
"And do you know that Daddy and I are always here for you no matter what?"
"Yes."
"Good. Did you have a nice birthday today?"
She speaks quietly.
"I had an excellent birthday."
The weather has turned weird the last few days. It has warmed. And instead of the snow that should be falling, it has been drizzling rain. This, I am sure, must be one of the reasons a friend of my friend decided today would be a good day to shoot guns.
I got a call from my friend this Saturday morning. He said a friend invited him over to his farm to shoot guns, and would I like to come? I said sure. It wasn't as if I was doing anything important. I was trying to stay busy and out of my wife's way. Once breakfast was finished, and the dishes were done there wasn't anything obvious for me to do. The little one is at a friend's. My wife is working on grades.
"Ever shoot a gun before?"
"No."
"Man, you're gonna love it."
My friend holds his truck's steering wheel firmly as we bounce along this unpaved road leading to his friend's farm. The tires are throwing mud and gravel everywhere.
"Shotguns have got quite a kick to them. You have to brace it against your shoulder."
"Okay."
He smiles.
"I'll see that you don't knock out any of your teeth."
"Thanks."
A dip in the road sends us both bouncing up off our seats.
After some slipping and sliding, we pull up to a farmhouse, parking next to the barn. My friend steps out, slams the door, hitches up his jeans, walks up the small wooden steps, and knocks on the loose screen door. I follow.
A large slow-moving man wearing a cap and glasses greets us.
"Howdy. How's the gamehead business?"
"Can't complain."
"Come on in."
My friend shakes the man's hand as he goes inside, pausing to introduce me.
"Pleased to meet you."
"Likewise."
We shake hands. He closes the door behind me.
"He's never shot a gun before."
"Ready to learn?"
"Yup."
We sit around the kitchen table drinking coffee.
"I'm gonna bring the twenty-two along with the shotgun. It's a good piece to warm up with. Especially for you... Did you bring your rifle?"
"I'm out of ammo."
"I've got cartridges."
"I didn't think of that."
"So, in other words, you left your rifle at home."
"Sorry."
"Aint nothin' to be sorry about, I was just wondering what bullets to bring along."
I look behind us, seeing the trail the Jeep's tires have cut into the dead, wet, field grass. We stop in a small valley. Several stacks of hay bales stand close by.
"We'll have to keep an eye on the weather. It's been kind of squirrelly lately."
We step out of the Jeep. Our host surveys the area, then hands me a box of shells. He shows me how to load the handgun and then he fires it into the sky.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
He gives me the gun. I fire the remaining shots at the hay bales.
"Not too bad. Hold your arm stiffer though, next time."
He takes the gun, empties the shells onto the ground, loads it, and gives it to my friend.
My ears ring loudly.
We trade off like this and our host decides we are ready for the shotgun. He goes into great detail about the gun's proper use, and after
several demonstrations it is my turn.
Ka-blam!
The kick hurts my shoulders. My ears continue to ring.
"Not bad. Try it again."
We continue taking turns firing, but stop when my friend sees dark clouds moving over the horizon.
"Let's unload and wait in the Jeep."
A quick wind puts us in the midst of a storm. We all begin jogging toward the Jeep when a lightning bolt strikes and sends the three of us to the ground. All the hair on my body feels electric. My friend and I stand. Our host remains lying on the ground.
"Holy Jesus!" My friend shouts. He runs to help. I am fast beside him. We find our host with blood on his face. He is not breathing.
I tilt back his head and begin to blow into his mouth. My friend leans over him with both hands pressing on his chest. We alternate until finally our host begins breathing on his own.
"We've got to get him to a doctor."
"I don't know if he should be moved."
"He can't be left here."
I run over to the Jeep opening both doors. My friend follows, placing the guns on the floor in back. We return to our host. He is still breathing. I grab him just under the knees, while my friend gets a firm hold under his arms.
"Ready? One, two, three, lift!"
We get him into the back seat of the Jeep. My friend digs keys out from our host's pants pockets and starts the Jeep.
The nearest hospital is about thirty miles away. My friend keeps the pedal pushed to the floor while I watch our host. We arrive in just under twenty minutes.
My friend and I have been here in the hospital waiting room a little over an hour. He has been on the telephone to his wife for at least half of the time. I watch him shift his feet, raising his hand occasionally to punctuate whatever he is saying.
A little while ago a paramedic told me that they found the entry and exit points of the bolt on the top of our host's head and out his nose. He is in stable condition.
Now maybe my friend can hang up the phone and we can leave. I hope this is not bad to think, but I don't like hospitals.
A tall man enters the waiting area, checks in with the receptionist, and sits next to me. His left hand is bandaged. He holds it up, putting an elbow on the chair's arm. I smile at him out of courtesy.
"This hand's a modern miracle."
"Oh?"
"Yes sir. Five months ago I'm picking it off the ground, blood spurting from my arm, and now the fingers are pink and warm."
"Huh?"
The man laughs.
"I was framing a house this summer and I accidentally cut off my hand with a saw. It was weird. I looked at my arm and my hand was gone, but it felt like it was still there."
"How did you get it back on?"
"Well, after I picked my hand up, a buddy I was working with put a belt around my arm for a tourniquet. He got me to a hospital, and a couple hours later doctors were reattaching it."
"This hospital here?"
"No. I was working out West. But things have kind of dried up there, so I'm visiting friends nearby."
"Incredible."
"Why'd you ask if it was this here hospital?"
"It's that this is such a small hospital. It would have surprised me if it had the capability to attach a severed limb."
"My doctor told me to get it checked out here."
My friend finally hangs up the phone. He walks over, asking if there is any news and I tell him.
"We might as well go."
I stand and say good-bye to the tall man.
"Good luck. You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand."
"It won't fall off!"
He extends his hand.
We shake.
On the drive back home my friend goes on and on about his wife. I listen, nodding, tossing out the standard responses.
The sun sets. The muddy fields take on an annoying, almost menacing look. I flip down the visor, turning it over my window to cut the glare. I have always disliked this time: The hours between day and night. I prefer to be settled indoors during this transition.
We return our host's Jeep. No one is home, so we leave a long, detailed note taped to the door, stating what happened and both our phone numbers.
We drive away.
I see a shadowman run behind the barn.
I am spending a cold Friday afternoon in the Harvester drinking coffee. The conversation at the counter flip-flops around.
"Did y' hear about what happened?"
"No."
My neighbor watches our waitress bend over and brush something off her shoe, then continues.
The gist of what happened is that a house was broken into, which is something extremely rare around here.
"I’ll bet someone from out of town was casing the place." My neighbor says.
The front door bells jingle. Everyone turns to see who is here. It's my friend. He sees me. He walks over and removes his sunglasses.
"What's up?"
He sits next to me.
"Not much. Just listening to a lot of hot air."
The other men chuckle. They will laugh at anything.
He got a call from the wife of the man who was struck by lightning. He will be coming home tomorrow.
He has a cup of coffee and we talk. After a while he asks me if I feel like going for a ride. I pay for our coffee and leave a two-dollar tip.
My friend takes us bouncing along frozen back roads. His ponytail flips up with the hard bumps and beer splashes his chin.
"You sure you don't want one?" He says, pointing to the six-pack between us on the seat.
"Yeah."
This bothers him.
"Why is it you won’t drink with me?"
"I don't drink with anyone."
"You don't drink at all?"
"No."
"Oh."
"You thought I just wasn't drinking with you?"
"Yeah. And it was starting to make me mad. But if you don't drink at all, that's cool then."
I look at him and shake my head. He smiles, stares straight out the windshield.
We weave up and around mountain passes, driving roads I haven't been on before. I think about the shadowmen. I have now seen three of them, or maybe the same specter has visited me every time, either way, I no longer believe I have been hallucinating. And if that is true, what have I been seeing?
"I think it's a good idea.”
“We should band together."
"The proposal is a bit drastic. I mean, the police are capable of dealing with situations like this."
"I think they're slippin.'"
"Me too."
I am sitting on a sofa in the house that was robbed thanks to my friend. He brought me to this gathering because he thought I should be aware of what is happening. Actually, the only thing holding my attention is the local classifieds. I'm flipping through them, letting the others rant.
"If we don't do something soon we're going to be sorry.”
"I propose our patrol be armed."
"I agree."
"Me too."
Now I'm interested.
My friend runs his hand along his ponytail and sighs. I close the paper, giving the situation my full attention.
"Hold it a second. Carry guns?"
"Damn straight."
The owner of the Harvester speaks again.
"I'm all for some sort of patrol. But chasing down culprits with guns should be left to the police."
"That's easy for you to say, you weren't broken in to."
"Did someone here even think of inviting the sheriff tonight?"
"There wasn't a need to. We're just talking about organizing a neighborhood watch."
"Sounds like a vigilante group to me."
Derek Henkel - The Tender Fire.txt Page 8