An Accounting

Saturday, June 13th, 1953

Dean opened his eyes the next morning and found his plant manager, Howard Jenkins, hunched in a chair.

Howard was in his late fifties. His brown hair receding, leaving a wide swath of pink, shiny skin that caught the lights overhead. In his lap were a pile of reports. The man was jotting notes, oblivious.

“Howard.”

The man started, his pen skittering sideways on the paper as his head jerked up.

“Dean, I,” the pile of papers on his lap tilted, and Howard grabbed at them, losing his pencil in the process. He stood up and put the pile on a nearby table.

“Sorry. You were asleep when I arrived and I wasn’t sure if I should stay or not. They called and told me you had woken up. I came as soon as I heard.”

“Is everything going okay at the plant?” Dean asked. As the words left his mouth he realized he didn’t give a damn one way or the other.

Why had he even asked it?

“The plant? What? Oh yes, yes.” Howard waved his hand in dismissal. “Everything is running on time. We caught up, even finished ahead of time on several projects. I was just here because, well. I’ve been here every day but then my wife wasn’t feeling well, and...” He stopped again, running his fingers through his hair. “Dean, I’m so sorry.” The man looked a decade older. “I hope, I mean, I made the arrangements. For the funerals, caskets, everything. I made sure,” His voice broke, and he stared at the floor, struggling.

“Thank you, Howard.” It came out wooden, expressionless.

“My wife, Doris, you met her at the Christmas party.”

“Yes.”

“She helped pick out the, the...”

“Please tell her thank you.”

“I will. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Dean.”

Dean could see that Howard was searching for the right words to say. The older man had two children of his own, one was in his late teens now. A son, if Dean remembered right. His wife, Doris, was a short, round, mousy looking woman. Despite her plain appearance, the few times Dean had seen her, it was obvious that Howard doted on her. Howard was everything Dean’s father had never been - a devoted husband, an involved father and leader in his son’s Scout troop. It was no wonder he looked so tormented over Dean’s loss.

Dean changed the subject, “How has that fellow who had the accident on the line been doing? What was his name?”

“Jimmy Tannenbaum,” Howard answered.

“Yes, right. How is Tannenbaum doing?”

Howard smiled, “The hand is still in a cast, and we put him on the sales team. You would not believe it, Dean, the kid is a natural. He pulled in a major account last week. A new bomber Boeing is calling the B-52. They need subcontractors for a few of the parts. The contract has the potential of doubling our sales for next year.”

Howard rattled on and Dean nodded, saying little but asking questions each time the man seemed to run out of steam. It was a diversion of sorts, listening to talk of work meant he didn’t have to think of June and the kids, at least for a few minutes.

A knock sounded at the door and Maggie peeked in, pulling her cart in behind her.

“Good morning, Mr. Edmonds. Good to see you as well, Mr. Jenkins. I thought I heard voices coming from this room.” She smiled at them, eyes scanning Dean, taking in his haggard expression.

“Good morning, Miss Aaronson,” Howard smiled, “Dean, this young woman is phenomenal. She spent hours reading to you, although I’m sure you don’t remember it.

Dean nodded, “I remember some of it.” Her voice had led him back from the darkness.

“Well, I do hate to interrupt Mr. Jenkins, but we need to do a couple of tests on Mr. Edmonds.” She stood there, a friendly yet firm look on her face.

Howard appeared to take the hint and stood up, “I’ve talked long enough. I’ll check back in tomorrow. If you need anything, you just have the hospital call and I’ll come right away.”

Dean nodded, “Thank you Howard.”

Maggie waited until the door had closed before she began to move about the room. “Mr. Jenkins has been here every day.”

“He’s run the plant for over twenty-five years.”

“He seems kind.”

“Yes.”

The room fell silent. Maggie checked his IV, changing out the bags and then plumped his pillows. Dean winced as he shifted position. His right leg, encased in the heavy cast, ached.

“What tests do you need to do?” he asked, after watching her move around the room.

“What?”

“You told Howard you needed to run tests.”

Maggie pursed her lips, “Oh, that. It looked like you needed a break from business talk.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“It’s my job to notice when my patients need their rest.”

“That isn’t it. I have had more than enough rest.”

Her eyes were steady on him, “I know.”

“The accident was my fault.” The words, now uttered, sounded matter of fact. As if he was commenting on the weather.

Maggie paused in clearing the bedside table of the dead flowers.

“Your daughter, Betty, you said she had an asthma attack that night, didn’t she?”

“Yes. We were on the way to the hospital.”

“Did you somehow cause your daughter’s asthma attack?”

Dean paused, he could see where she was going with this. “I allowed myself to become distracted.”

“In a downpour? With a truck in your lane?”

“I was miserable.” There, that was the truth of it. “I was married to a woman I no longer loved. My children weren’t angels. They were self-entitled, greedy, rude little creatures.” Dean laughed then.It was a short, bitter laugh, devoid of mirth. “So much for not speaking ill of the dead.”

“Mr. Edmonds...”

“Call me Dean.”

“Dean, then. I have found that, no matter how hard we try to make it otherwise, life is not black and white, evil or good. Children are rarely perfect angels, nor are they irredeemable hellions.”

The dam inside of him, he could feel the cracks opening up. “But all of this, it was my fault. I have no one to blame but myself. For the crash, and even before that. I was miserable. I hated my job, I let my relationship break down and I wasn’t a proper father to my children.”

Maggie stared at him. “I wish I knew what to say to you, Dean.” Her hand touched his arm, warm and gentle. “I think that, no matter what memories you hold of your family, you still must reconcile this loss. It isn’t easy, no matter how you look at it.”

He took a deep breath in and then released it.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Thank you for not uttering useless platitudes about my children being in God’s arms.” He looked down at her hand on his arm, “I have never found it reassuring or honest in any way.”

She nodded, a small smile on her lips. “You are welcome.” She paused as if unsure what to say next.

“So, it looks like you will be with us a while, especially with that leg and those ribs still needing to heal.”

“Yes,” Dean grimaced, shifting gingerly, “So I’ve heard from the good doctor.”

“I brought you something that might help pass the time.”

“Oh?”

Maggie walked to the door, where her cart stood. “I brought another book for you to read. I found it fascinating. And I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I used to think I would die if I didn’t read every day,” Dean mused. “It has been years since I’ve sat down and read anything but sales or production reports.”

Maggie handed him the book, “Well I hope this will keep you entertained.”

“My God, I loved this book!” Dean said, staring at a copy of The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand.

“Oh dear, you’ve read it already then,” Maggie’s face fell, “But of course you have. It came out ten years ago, after all. I just recently found it at a rummage sale.” She reached out her hand to take it back from him.

“Oh no, please, I would love to read it again. I found it...inspiring.” He stared at the book in his hand. “The thought of being true to one’s dreams, despite adversity and even scorn. It spoke to me.”

He said nothing for a moment and then added, “I was still in college, and dating June at the time. It was my second year at William Jewell. I dreamed of changing my degree from Business to English. I wanted to become a writer.”

“Did you really?” Maggie smiled, her lips curving up, tiny laugh lines appearing near her eyes.

“I guess you could say I was a dreamer. Even after working for my father’s company after school and every summer I still dreamed of earning a living writing books. I must have started writing half a dozen stories, possibly more.”

He stared at the book, his thoughts eight years in the past.

“My father insisted that I major in Business Administration. I hated it, it bored me to tears. He had never finished college, and I guess he figured my degree would take us to the next level. The business would move into the big leagues, you know?”

“And did it?” Maggie asked as he sat there, staring at the book for a long moment.

“What? Oh, yes, I guess it did. My grades were high.” He straightened, “I graduated with honors. Within three years business had doubled.”

Dean sighed, “But I still dreamed of something different. I filled my days alternating between those tedious textbooks and reading Rand, Orwell, and Hemingway. I think they kept me sane. Reading some of the textbooks made me want to jump out a window. Anything but have to read another marketing strategy.”

“I almost told him to stuff it.” He held up two fingers, “I was this close to telling him I was changing majors.”

“You didn’t, though.” Maggie’s voice interrupted his reminiscing.

“No. I didn’t.” He paused, “I got engaged instead.”

“She wasn’t keen on marrying a writer, was she?”

“No, I guess she wasn’t.”

Maggie cocked her head to one side. Unlike his wife June’s curly locks, Maggie’s was straight, and her eyes were a stunning blue instead of light brown.

“And this is where we avoid speaking ill of the dead.” She said gently.

Dean’s heart gave a painful thump. “That would probably be for the best.”

Maggie was quiet for a moment. “My favorite author is Kahlil Gibran.”

“That book you brought me to read, The Prophet, it was amazing.”

“Isn’t it, though? There is another poem he wrote that has stayed with me over the years. I actually memorized it I loved it so.” She concentrated for a moment, “‘Half a life is a life you didn’t live. A word you have not said. A smile you postponed. A love you have not had. A friendship you did not know. To reach and not arrive, work and not work, attend only to be absent.’”

Dean sighed, “I think I need to read that one as well.”

Maggie smiled. “I have the rest of my rounds to make, but I do hope you enjoy re-reading the book. I’ll see if I can’t find something in the hospital library later today for you.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” he turned the book over in his hand, “This was thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.”

She smiled at him, “It isn’t too late to follow your dreams, Dean. After all, all we have is time. Why waste it being unhappy?” Without waiting for a reply, she slipped from the room.