by Tom Reilly
“Um-hmm.” Hoffen shook his head, trying to make sense of Kenny’s comment.
They walked through the lot, which looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster. Some trees were stacked like cordwood while others looked like scattered piles of wood and needles. The leaners rested against each other, and a few lucky trees found their way to wooden tree stands.
“Hey, Dez, Ed told me to bring ya this fella. Name’s Huffin’. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout him,” Kenney said.
“It’s Hoffen.” He extended his calloused hand to Dez.
“You gotta a pretty good grip for a creaker,” Dez said. Hoffen smiled.
They stared at each other for a few pregnant moments, the way old acquaintances who haven’t seen each other in a while size each other up. Hoffen had about four inches on Dez. Dez closed one of his hawkish, brown eyes and cocked his head.
“Hoffen? What kind of name is that—Kraut? You a Kraut? We don’t like Krauts much around here. Fought ’em in the war.”
“Me too,” Hoffen said.
“How’d you fight the Krauts? You look too old to been in the war,” Dez said.
“I’m talking about the first war. You know, the one to end all wars,” Hoffen said.
“Yeah, well that didn’t work out too good, did it? If ya kicked their butts good, we wouldn’t have had to fight ’em again in the ’40s. We licked ’em good that time,” said Dez.
Hoffen nodded. Kenny flashed his yellowed grill.
“What do ya want? You sellin’ somethin’?” Dez asked.
“I’d like a job.”
“A job! Doin’ what? Pushin’ up daisies?” Dez said.
Kenny cracked up at the insult. “That’s a good one, Dez.”
“Selling Christmas trees,” Hoffen said.
“Any putz can sell a Christmas tree, even this one here.” Dez pointed to Kenny.
Kenny nodded.
“There ain’t much to sellin’ Christmas trees. The suckers come in here and do all the buying. We take their money and load the trees up on their cars. Ain’t that right, Kenny?”
“Yup,” Kenny said.
“You’ve got a lot of trees here. It looks to me you could use some help selling them,” Hoffen said.
“Yeah, we got a lot of trees. Too many, maybe. Kenny, go get me a Nehi.”
Kenny nodded and left.
“What do you know about selling trees?” Dez asked.
“I know you won’t sell all of your trees with your lot looking like this.”
“What are ya talkin’ about? What’s wrong with my lot?”
“First things first. That pile of trees is a mess. People come out here and want to have an experience for the holidays,” Hoffen said.
“I don’t care what they come out here for as long as the suckers leave with some pine tied to the roof of their cars,” Dez said.
“Dez, people want to remember the experience. They want this to be a tradition. It’s special for people. That’s repeat business,” Hoffen said.
“Keep chewing those words, ol’ man.”
“You’ve got three types of trees over there.” Hoffen pointed to a stack of pine. “You’ve got Scotch pines, firs, and spruces. They’re mixed together like vegetable soup. It’s too much work for the customer to find what they want. You have to make it easy for them to buy.”
“Keep chirping, ol’ man. I like the sound of it,” Dez said.
“Once you group them by needle, arrange them by size. Start with the small ones up front and the bigger ones in the back. People can walk down the path and see how the bigger trees compare. Make it easy to choose and buy. Isn’t that the point?”
Dez nodded. “What other ideas you got?”
“Play Christmas music. I can see the speakers on the light pole,” Hoffen said.
“Yeah, I use the PA system to yell at the mole head when I need him in the shop.”
“Use it for Christmas music. Create a holiday atmosphere. Give the children candy canes. It’s like the pine smell and smoke from the fire barrel. It reminds people of what Christmas tastes, sounds, and smells like. Make it a holiday experience.”
“Yeah, that stuff is pretty cheap. Give it to the kids and the parents feel like they owe ya. Guilt them into buying.” Dez nodded like a barnyard chicken. “You got a pretty good head on you, ol’ man, and you’re dressed for the work You done this before?”
“Yes, a few times,” Hoffen said. “I told you I could help. Everyone coming in here wants a Christmas story to go with the tree. What do you say? Do I get the job?”
“Well, you ain’t bashful about asking. That can’t hurt. And you talk a pretty good story, but you’re kinda old to be schlepping around Christmas trees, especially the eight-footers.”
“I can handle the trees.”
“Well, why not? I got a gimped-up college kid and a retard working for me. Might as well throw an ager into the mix. Maybe the three of you combined add up to one good employee. I pay two bucks an hour cash money and you get paid daily.”
“Sounds fine to me. When do I start?” Hoffen said.
“Be back here Thursday morning at nine. And if you can’t carry your load, you’ll be home early for Thanksgiving dinner,” said Dez.
“Fair enough. See you then.”
“Hold on a minute, old man.” Dez stopped Hoffen before he left. “Have we met before? You look familiar. Seems like I know ya.”
“Maybe. I’ve been around here for a while. Brentwood’s a small town. I have kind of a common face.”
“Yeah, maybe. All you whitebeards look alike anyway.”
“Okay. See you Thursday.”
“Hey, on your way out, go in the shop and tell that nitwit to bring me my Nehi.”
“Will do.”
CHAPTER FOUR
TIMOTHY ARRIVED HOME from Tuesday’s day shift at the hospital. The Thanksgiving break freed him up from class so he could work a normal workday. He planned his evening—home after work, a decent dinner, and a date with Cheryl. Between school and work, Timothy and Cheryl didn’t get as much time together as they wanted. As he opened the front door, he smelled Mom’s afternoon efforts.
Mom peeked around the kitchen doorway and saw Timothy coming through the house. She was wearing her standard dinner attire—house dress, black granny lace-ups, and her favorite apron. She was nearly a foot shorter than Timothy and thick around the middle. She had blue eyes and duller-blue hair.
“I made your favorite tonight, honey,” Mom said. “Pot roast, carrots, potatoes, green beans, and lemon meringue pie.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Timothy said.
“That’s the least I can do for you as hard as you work. I don’t know how you do it all.”
“At twenty-three, people can do a lot,” Timothy said.
“With school, work, and studying, I don’t see how you manage it all. I don’t think it’s good to push yourself like that. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Mom, I’m getting a late start. All those other students are at least four years younger than I am. I have a lot of catching up to do.”
“That’s only because you chose to serve your country. I know. It’s the only way poor kids get an education. Those rich kids don’t have to worry about that stuff. That’s why they can burn draft cards and demonstrate against the war. There are no consequences when you’re rich.”
“Mom, a lot of poor kids demonstrate, too. I chose to serve. I thought it was important, and I still think what we did was important. I’ve got plans that require an education. The GI Bill is helping me with that.”
“Even at twenty-three you need a break from time to time,” Mom said.
“You know what Dad used to say—too many breaks and you end up broke.”
“Yes, your father knew a lot about that—being broke that is. Anyway, you’re safe now, and that’s all a mother can ask for. That’s why I went to Mass and communion every morning you were in Vietnam. I prayed you home. No one knows the love a mother has for her son.
” As she said this her worry lines deepened.
Mom never missed an opportunity to lay it on a little thick. Most of the time it amused Timothy. Sometimes, it made him uneasy, especially when other people were around.
“I know, Mom, and I appreciate that.”
She hobbled to the kitchen and returned with the beans and spuds.
“How is your leg? Does it still hurt?” Timothy asked.
“It’s better. The doctor said it would be sore still for a couple of weeks. Not like your leg. Mine will get better. You’re going to have to live with that leg the rest of your life.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
Timothy stared at his salad. Mom had been sick on and off since his father, Frances, died. She turned grief into illness. Enough amateur psychiatry, he thought. Cataracts, hernia, blood pressure, skin cancer and, of course, depression. He knew she felt isolated and lonely, something he often experienced. Frances left nothing but unpaid bills and barely enough insurance to bury him—a good man with no head for money. He spent it faster than he made it. Timothy remembered his father mostly as a loving man. Mom loved her husband, but Timothy knew she was still pissed at him for dying too soon.
“I talked to your older brother this morning,” she said. “He won’t be coming in for Christmas. His job and all requires so much of his time, and Washington’s far away.”
“You mean he finally called?” Timothy was never that close to his older brother. The ten-year age difference was part of it, and he didn’t like the way Frank ignored Mom. She deserved more respect.
“No, I called him. I wanted to be sure about the holidays.”
With a sister in town who had a husband and four children, Timothy felt responsible for looking after Mom. He didn’t mind the responsibility and wanted to be a good son.
“Doctor Carmel said I should consider the vein-stripping operation. It would repair this leg permanently. No more temporary fixes. I’m not sure what he means, but it would take care of those clots once and for all.”
“That sounds like a good idea, Mom.”
“I worry about the expense. I’m not sure how much the insurance will pay.”
“That should be your last concern, Mom. We’ll figure it out.”
“You’re a good boy, Timmy. Every mother should have such a son.”
Tim smiled and Mom changed the conversation.
“I suppose you have to study tonight?”
“Actually, I planned to take Cheryl to the movies. She wants to see that new movie, The Sting.”
“Oh, I was hoping you could take me to the store so I can get the ingredients to make those rolls you like for Thanksgiving. Maybe your sister can take me. I’ll call her after we finish.”
“That’s okay, Mom. Cheryl and I can go to a later movie.”
“Are you sure sheeee won’t mind?” Mom stretched the word when referring to Cheryl. Tim found it amusing but understood the dynamics of the situation. Mom felt threatened by Cheryl, and maybe even jealous of the attention Cheryl garnered.
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Timothy said.
Mom began to clear the table to make way for the lemon meringue pie. She went to the kitchen and returned.
“Sure. I’ll be there. Thanks.” Timothy hung up and returned to the dinner table. “It was the hospital. They want me to work the graveyard shift tonight.”
“How can you do that with everything else you’ve got going on?”
“I’ll take you to the store and back, pick up Cheryl for the movie, and I can make it to the hospital by eleven.”
“What about studying? Shouldn’t you stay home and study or take a nap?”
“Nah, I can take my books with me. Not much happens on the night shift, so I can get some studying done at work.”
Mom placed the pie in front of Timothy. “I feel bad you must work this hard. It’s not fair.”
“Says who? Who said it was going to be easy? I’m fine, Mom. How about we change the subject?”
A few minutes of silence passed as they finished dessert. Mom broke the silence. “I saw in the paper today that Connie’s engaged. She looked real pretty.”
“Yeah, that’s nice.” Timothy did not want to talk about Connie.
“She was such a sweet girl. Always nice to me, especially when you were gone at first.”
“Mom, that bus left the station a long time ago.”
“I know, I thought you would be interested. You know she’s marrying that Goodenough boy. He’s the one whose father got him a job at the railroad.”
“I know who he is.”
“Mrs. Bean told me he earns one hundred and fifty a day at that job. That’s a lot of money. That’s more than you make in a month working at the hospital.”
“I know, Mother, but I am part-time, remember?”
“I’m thinking you might want to see if they need any more help at the railroad. That’s good money.”
Timothy scraped the last bit of pie from the plate.
“I still don’t see why she had to send you that letter when you were in Vietnam. It wasn’t right. You cared a lot for that girl,” Mom said.
“I know, Mom. Like I said, I’m done looking at the taillights of that bus. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore, please. Besides, if I hadn’t received that letter, I never would have met Cheryl. We’re really happy.”
“Yes, she’s a nice girl, and she does have a good job. That’s important to young women today. What does she do again?”
“She’s a social worker, Mom.”
“Yes, that’s right. I don’t know why I can’t remember that.”
I do. It’s because you don’t want to remember, he thought. “How about we go to the store now, Mom?”
“What about our family dinner on Thanksgiving? You’re coming over to Leslie and Ike’s house, aren’t you? Your sister’s cooking a big dinner, and I’m making your favorite rolls.”
“Yeah, well, Sis’s family has to eat, too. Don’t they?”
Mom ignored Tim’s sarcasm.
“I suppose you plan to see Cheryl, too?”
“Yes. I’m going by her house after I get off work to see her family and have a small meal. Then she’ll come over to Leslie’s with me to be with you guys.”
“Oh, you’re bringing her, too? I guess your brother-in-law can pick me up after his football game. You used to enjoy playing that game with them on Thanksgiving, didn’t you? Now, with your leg and all—”
“Let’s go, Mom, if you want me to take you to the store.”
“Okay, I’ll finish clearing the table. Can you go downstairs and check out the furnace? It’s been making some funny noises today.”
“Sure.”
“You’re a good son, Timmy. I bet that railroad job sounds pretty good right now?”
Timothy said nothing as he walked to the basement.
CHAPTER FIVE
TIMOTHY THOUGHT ABOUT his date with Cheryl while driving home from his night shift at the hospital. Even a couple of hours with her gave him the lift he needed. She lifted his spirits. Today, he planned to go home, sleep for a while, study for a couple of hours, and meet Scoot for a couple of beers. Boy, it will be great to see Scoot. Work, school, and life seem to get in the way of our seeing each other.
Scoot was Timothy’s crew chief in Vietnam and one of the few people Timothy trusted. They were closer than two coats of paint. Timothy was grateful they lived in the same hometown and kept the friendship alive.
He arrived home at breakfast time. The smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee greeted him at the front door.
“How was work, honey?” Mom called from the kitchen.
“Good. Not too busy. I got in some good reading.”
“I have some breakfast for you here in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Mom. I think I’ll go to bed. I’m tired.”
“I bet you are. Do you want me to wake you at any special time?”
“No, I’m planning to get about six
hours’ sleep. Then I’ll study a couple of hours before I meet Scoot for a couple of beers.”
“That’s nice. He’s a good friend. I’m glad you two still see each other. I think it helps both of you,” Mom said.
“Well, it helps me,” he said. “Anyway, night, Mom—or day—or whatever. We’ll talk later.”
He went to his bedroom and immediately fell asleep, still in his hospital uniform. It didn’t take long for Timothy to begin dreaming.
“Tiger Six, this is Papa Four. Be advised, LZ is hot. Victor Charlie’s echo side of LZ,” the team on the ground tells Timothy.
“Roger that, Four. Coming in hot. Tiger Five, you copy?”
“Tiger Six, copy that,” Tiger Five says. “Going in one-eight-zero. Hot on the echo side of LZ.”
“Popping smoke,” Papa Four shouts.
“I see purple smoke,” Timothy responds.
“Affirmative,” Papa Four says.
As they approach the landing zone, tracers streak by the helicopter. Timothy feels the thuds. He yells to his crew chief, “Scoot, we hit?”
“Yeah, couple through the tail, but we’re okay. Pretty nasty on this side.”
“Tell these guys to jump right, Scoot.”
“Got it.”
The troops jumped off the helicopter at six feet.
“They’re off. Let’s get outta here,” Scoot says.
“We’re gone,” Timothy yells.
As Timothy pulls up on the collective and pushes forward on the cyclic, an RPG strikes the belly of his Huey.
“Papa Four, Six took an RPG in the gut,” Tiger Five screams.
“We see it, Five. We’re on it. Get outta here.”
Bobby lifts off and performed a quick 360 to see what happened.
“Tiger Five, get outta here unless you want to join him on the ground. This place is erupting. Get the rest of the troops out here. We need them.”
“My friend, Six—”
