CHAPTER SIX

TIMOTHY SLEPT WELL Wednesday night. The beers with Scoot and his irregular work schedule had zapped him. Thursday morning’s uneventful drive to Schoen’s suited Timothy fine. His car started on the first attempt—a good omen. Light traffic—another good omen. The short line at the service station for gas was unusual because of the Arab oil embargo. Three good omens on the way to work. This is going to be a good day.

The Chinese called 1973 the Year of the Ox—a year of hard work, strength, loyalty, dependability, and honesty. This described Timothy’s life perfectly. He worked two part-time jobs, attended college full time, wrestled with memories of the war, and felt responsible for his mother. If Timothy were completely honest with himself, he would admit he didn’t feel so strong in the year of strength.

As he opened his car door, the smell of pine trees from the lot, smoke from the fire barrel, and the morning chill welcomed him to the workday. Kenny stood at the fire barrel warming his hands. Kenny wore a torn sock cap, fingerless derby gloves, tan Dickies overalls, and an insulated flannel shirt. The Parodi hung from his lips.

“Where you been, GI Joe?” Kenny said.

“Hey, Kenny, how’s it going?”

“Good. The ol’ kike hired a geezer to help us out.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Wonder of wonders. I knew he was thinking about it,” Timothy said.

“He’s over there with Dez. Wanna meet ’im?” Kenny said, pointing to the two men talking.

“Sure.”

As they walked from the fire barrel to where Dez and Hoffen stood, Timothy thought about Dez hiring someone else. This is out of character for Dez.

“Did your mama send those cookies?” Kenny asked.

“Not yet, but I know she’ll be on it soon.”

“Okay, but ya gotta remember.”

“I will, Kenny. What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“The old man,” Timothy said.

“Oh, you mean the guy Dez hired? Huffin’ or something like that.”

“That’s an odd name,” Timothy said.

“Yeah, don’t know nothin’ about it. Hey, Huffin’, come here.”

Hoffen turned from talking to Dez and approached them, limping with age. Timothy favored his bad leg.

“Well, if that ain’t a pathetic sight—a gimp and a limp,” Dez mocked them.

Dez cackled at his own joke, and Kenny coughed up cigar phlegm. Timothy extended his hand. Hoffen grabbed it.

Bright eyes, a warm smile, and a strong grip made Hoffen look to be in good shape in spite of his limp. Hoffen stood eye-to-eye with Timothy. The piercing depth of Hoffen’s eye contact caught Timothy’s attention, showing confidence without being competitive the way some men liked to stare each other down. Timothy sensed these eyes had seen a lot of life. Hoffen had a good spirit about him. Timothy instantly liked this man.

“Hi, I’m Tim.”

“Nice to meet you, Tim. I’m Hoffen.”

“Hoffen. First or last?” Timothy said.

“Neither. Just Hoffen.”

Timothy nodded. “Okay.”

“Hoffen, tell him your ideas to sell more trees,” Dez said. “This old goat may not be dead in the head yet.”

Hoffen grinned, and Timothy noticed it. He’s got a sense of humor, and that helps if he’s going to work for Dez.

“Sure. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dez.”

Hoffen impressed Timothy with the way he handled Dez’s insults.

“I told Dez if we separated the trees by type and size, it would make it easier for the customers to choose their tree,” Hoffen said.

“Good idea, Hoffen,” Timothy said.

“Tell ’im what else . . . the rest of your ideas,” Dez said excitedly.

“I also suggested we play Christmas music over the PA system and give the children peppermint canes.”

“Hey, I like those things. They take away the taste of my Parodis,” Kenny said.

“Kenny, I told you a million times. The only thing that gets rid of the taste of those shit sticks is if you brush your teeth with Borax after you smoke ’em,” Dez said.

“Hah, that’s a good one, Dez,” Kenny said.

Timothy and Hoffen laughed.

“Those are great ideas, Dez. Are you going to do it?” Timothy said.

“If it helps me sell trees, I’ll do it.”

“Why not have a Santa Claus here for the kids to visit?” Timothy joked, but Dez jumped on it.

“Good idea. If it brings in the suckers and makes ’em buy trees, I’ll dress up in the suit myself,” Dez said.

“Hah, Dez. You can’t be Santa Claus. You’re an old kike,” Kenny said.

“Shut up, Kenny. What do you know? You ain’t no smarter than those pine trees,” Dez said.

Timothy shook his head. Though accustomed to this banter, Timothy tired of it. Hoffen didn’t react either way—laugh or frown.

“They’re always like this. I think they actually like each other, and that’s how they show it,” Timothy said to Hoffen.

“Could be. That’s a great idea, Dez, dressing up like Santa Claus. I bet you’ve done this before,” Hoffen said.

“I don’t know, maybe. I’ve been at this a long time. I got to get inside. The ol’ lady needs her ten o’clock bathroom break. Hoffen, tell these guys about the different trees we got so they have a story for the suckers when they come in.” Dez turned and walked to the shop.

“Okay, Dez,” Hoffen said.

“What’s he mean about a story? I don’t know no stories about Christmas trees. The only story I know is about a three-legged chicken,” Kenny said.

“I’d like to hear that sometime,” Hoffen said.

“There was a farmer who raised three-legged chickens—” Kenny started.

“Later, Kenny,” Timothy interrupted.

“I suggested to Dez we give customers some background on the trees they’re looking at. Each has a different story. The right tree with the right story can make a family happy. It adds to the holiday spirit and makes it special. You’re giving them a Christmas experience,” Hoffen said.

Timothy nodded, and Kenny scratched his head.

“For example, we have three types of trees on this lot. Some come from Ohio, some from Wisconsin, and some from Colorado,” Hoffen said.

“Why do people care where trees come from?” Kenny asked.

“When you can explain to people the tree they’re looking at came a long distance just for them, they feel special, and that’s what this season is all about,” Hoffen said.

Kenny nodded. Timothy smiled.

Hoffen had an easy spirit, and Timothy liked it. For the next few minutes, Hoffen explained the difference between Douglas firs, blue spruces, and Scotch pines. Hoffen shared with Timothy and Kenny the legends of the different trees and how to care for them. Kenny sat on a stack of pallets, listening as a child listens to a bedtime story. Timothy smiled and nodded. He enjoyed the lesson and the stories.

“Makes sense to me. I like it. It sounds like you’re no stranger to Christmas trees,” Timothy said.

Hoffen nodded. “I have been around them for a while. Might as well learn something about them.”

“I like the idea of some cheer for the customers. A festive atmosphere puts everyone in a better mood. It’s good psychology,” Timothy said.

“Yeah, maybe we’ll get bigger tips, too,” Kenny said.

“Tis the season,” Hoffen said.

In the background, they heard Elvis singing about a blue Christmas. Dez already figured out a way to get Christmas music on the PA system.

“I guess Dez is serious about this?” Timothy said.

Hoffen nodded. “I hope so.”

Around eleven, a rush of customers showed up, and for the next three hours, the whole crew—Timothy, Kenny, Hoffen, and Dez—sold trees as fast as they could. With good tips and lots of pine moving out, everyone seemed happy. About two o’clock, Dez told Timothy he could take off.

“Like I promised, O’Rourke. You get the rest of the day off. The old man and the mole head can finish up here,” Dez said.

“Thanks, Dez. See you tomorrow.” He turned to Hoffen and Kenny. “Have a good Thanksgiving, guys.”

“You too, Timothy,” Hoffen said.

“Plan to, soldier boy,” Kenny said.

Timothy walked to the car feeling good about his day. Good tips, home to shower and clean up for Cheryl’s family dinner, then to Leslie’s for dinner with my family. A lot to be thankful for. His car started on the first twist of the key.

Timothy celebrated an early Thanksgiving meal with Cheryl and her family. He ate enough to be polite but not enough to prevent him from eating again with his family later. After dessert, Timothy and Cheryl said goodbye to her family and headed out to his car. He opened the door for Cheryl, and it squeaked itself awake. He never locked the doors because even car thieves had some pride.

Cheryl sat quietly as he tried to start it. As usual, the Fairlane woke lazily. He shook his head as the car coughed its way to life.

“Maybe I ought to rename this heap Lazarus, as many times as I’ve brought it back to life,” he said.

Cheryl smiled. She knew this embarrassed and frustrated him. As usual, Timothy’s default was to grin and bear it. She thought, I wonder how long he can go on like this, dealing with all these frustrations.

Timothy looked at her and said, “I replaced the battery this week, and it’s still hard to start.”

“We could take my car,” Cheryl said.

“No, it’s fine once we get going.”

The car belched a black cloud and coughed before settling into an irregular rhythm.

“See, I told you this beast still had some life in it,” Timothy said.

Cheryl smiled sympathetically. “Thanks for coming today. My family wanted to see you. They like you, Tim.”

“I know. It worked out fine. I appreciated the invitation.”

“You work hard,” she said. She could tell Timothy didn’t want to go there. With most people, he appeared stoic, but Cheryl saw through his façade.

“Your family is nice. In fact, they are so nice they’re dysfunctionally normal,” Timothy said and laughed. “I thought Norman Rockwell holidays happened only in picture frames.”

“That’s sweet.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for my family,” he said.

“Oh, Tim, your family is fine. They’ve had to deal with a lot, and that affects people. They’re trying to get through life.”

“Always the social worker, eh?” he said.

Cheryl smiled. Even though he wanted to become a psychologist, Cheryl was his therapist. She enjoyed this nugget of delicious irony.

“We’ll have a good time tonight. It’ll be good to see all of them. I don’t get to see Leslie and her family as often as I would like. Everyone is so busy these days. And your mom, I want to see how she’s feeling,” Cheryl said.

“Leslie likes you, too. You know, she’s your champion with Mom. She’s on your side.”

“Tim, there are no sides here. Your mother has dealt with a lot. Your father’s death, you in Vietnam, her health; that’s a lot for anyone to process.”

Timothy sat silently as Cheryl’s words took root. Then he changed the conversation.

“Professor Leibert is giving me grief again,” Timothy said. “He thinks he’s a political science genius, and he’s never been outside of this country. I bet he would have gone to Canada if he hadn’t had that 2-S deferment as a student,” he said.

“Yeah, I remember him. He’s pretty opinionated,” Cheryl said.

“That’s about the nicest thing you can say about this guy. He has this whole thing about the military-industrial complex. He probably loves Uncle Ho and Mao’s Little Red Book. He’s got it in for me and the other vets. He goes out of his way to antagonize us. We’re all pretty fed up.”

“Guys who served make it difficult for people like that to look in the mirror. They’re not happy with what stares back at them. So they take it out on you,” she said.

“Are you apologizing for him?” Timothy said.

“No, I’m not excusing anything. I’m explaining what I suspect is really going on.”

“You’re way more understanding than I am. All I want is my B in this class and to be done with him.”

“Good strategy. No sense trying to win an argument with him,” she said.

The monotony of road noise comforted them. Cheryl thought, He will grin and bear it, but warriors are wired to fight, not to yield to someone like Professor Leibert.

“Are you thinking about Bobby today?” she asked.

“Whoa, where did that come from?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, and the holidays make people think. It’s natural for you to think of him.”

“Yeah, he’s been on my mind the last couple of days. I wonder what he’s doing today. Scoot and I talked about it last night.”

“Scoot’s a good friend,” Cheryl said.

“Yep, he’s the best. He’s always had my back.”

“We’ve been studying gross stress disorders at the clinic. It used to be called combat fatigue, but new theories are beginning to emerge. I know you’re not fond of the VA, but have you considered talking to them again? They have experience with this, you know. Unfortunately, too much,” she said.

“I told you. I went there one time, and the shrink laughed at me. I’ll never go back. Besides, I’ve got you. You’re my therapist, right?”

The road noise absorbed the silence until the car did its second act. At a stoplight it stalled again. Timothy coached it back to life.

“See, I told you. Still some life in this old heap,” he said.

Cheryl liked to hear him talk like this. She hoped this optimism would spill over into other areas of his life. As they pulled up to the curb in front of Mom’s house, the car jerked to a stop. He looked at her.

“Are you ready for this?” he said.

“Let’s go, big fella. I want some of those rolls you’re always talkin’ about,” she said.

They walked arm in arm up the front steps of Leslie’s house.