by Tom Reilly
“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 coa
ched 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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TIMOTHY KNOCKED BEFORE he opened the front door to Leslie and Ike’s home, a habit he developed a long time ago—knock and enter. Thanksgiving rushed to greet Cheryl and him. The smell of turkey, dressing, and Mom’s rolls baking in the oven filled the house. Two of Leslie and Ike’s children, Amy and Jeannie, played games in the background. The other two children, Peter and Albert, parked themselves in front of the television set with Ike, watching football. Leslie set the dining room table for this special occasion. Mom stood at the table arranging silverware. She looked up when she heard them come in.
“I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to make it,” Mom said.
“We made it, Mom,” Timothy said. “A little car trouble.”
“Again?” Mom said.
“Hey, man, get rid of that clunker and get a real car. That new Camaro’s boss,” Ike said. He rose to shake hands with his brother-in-law.
“Hi, Ike. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Timothy said. “Sometime—maybe next year.”
“Well, look who finally made it,” Leslie said.
She hugged Timothy and Cheryl. Leslie played the consummate big sister—part advocate, part voice of reason when family situations demanded a measured approach. Mom listened to her, too.
“Cheryl, it’s good to see you. Come on in, guys. We’re still getting ready. Peter, take their coats and hang them up,” said Leslie.
“Okay, Mom. Hi, Uncle Tim. Hi, Cheryl. Can I take your coats?” Peter said.
“Sure,” Tim said. He helped Cheryl take off her coat.
“Ike, make yourself useful and get them a drink,” Leslie said.
“On it,” Ike said. “Beer, wine, hard stuff?”
“White wine for me,” Cheryl said.
“I’ll take a brew,” Timothy said.
Leslie, Cheryl, and Mom went to the kitchen while Timothy joined the boys in front of the television. After giving Cheryl her glass of wine, Ike returned to the living room with a beer for Timothy.
“What do you think, Ike? Can the Dolphins do it again this year?” Timothy said.
“They’re not going undefeated if that’s what you mean, but yeah, they could make it back to the big game,” said Ike.
Timothy took a sip of beer. “What’s going on in this game?”
“They’ve sacked Staubach three times, and if Miami holds onto the lead, they will be ten and one.”
“On their way,” Timothy said. “Did you guys play your game this morning?”
“Yeah, muddy as hell,” Ike said.
“Mud and cold are a lousy combination, aren’t they?”
“I heard that,” Ike said.
The four of them sat watching a Cardinals game, chatting idly about the NFL, the weather, almost any neutral topic.
“Soup’s on, guys. TV off,” Leslie called.
“C’mon, Mom, the game’s almost over,” Peter said.
“Let’s go. Food’s ready,” she said.
They moved to the dining table. Mom sat closest to the kitchen. She motioned Timothy to the head of the table, which made him feel uncomfortable. Cheryl sat at his right with Ike and Leslie next to her. The children sat across from them.
“Albert, please say grace,” Ike said.
“Okay, Dad.”
They blessed the meal and filled their plates. Turkey, “smashed potatoes,” as Albert called them, bread stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and Mom’s homemade rolls. The plates seemed small by comparison, and one helping never sufficed.
“Cheryl, I understand your family had a little gathering today,” Mom said. The way Mom said “little” made the meal at Cheryl’s home seem small and insignificant.
“Yes, we did, thank you. Everyone was thrilled Timothy could make it. They know he’s busy, and it meant a lot to them that he came over. They really like him,” Cheryl said. She smiled at Mom.
“He’s so likable,” Ike said. He coughed as he laughed.
Leslie gave Ike a sharp elbow, and Timothy tipped his beer bottle in response.
“Yes, his plate is full with work and school. Not much time for anything else in his life,” Mom said.
“I know. That’s one of the things I’m most proud of—how hard he works,” Chery said. “He somehow manages to get it all done.”
“Really? I can tell you he didn’t get that from his father.”
“He must have gotten it from you, Mrs. O,” Cheryl said.
Timothy smiled at Leslie.
“Could be.” Mom took a bite of turkey.
Ike opened his mouth to say something when Timothy chimed in. “Ike, how’s it going at the post office?”
“Good. Far as I know, we’re doing okay. First-class is going up to seven cents next year, and we’re all hoping to see some of that in a raise.”
“Yes, Tim. Ike’s got a good government job. Secure and steady. Do they need help down there, Ike?” Mom said.
“They do hire a lot of vets. After that fiasco last year, I think it’s the law.”
“What was that, Ike?” Mom said.
“Someone blew the whistle on an internal memo that advised against hiring Vietnam vets.”
“Why on earth would they say that?”
Timothy jumped in. “Because they think we’re all nuts.”
“That’s terrible,” Cheryl said.
“Agreed,” said Leslie.
“So after that got out, the postmaster went on the record and said we would hire Vietnam vets. A lot of the guys drive the nightshift around town. If you’re interested, Tim, I could check into it for you. You might be able to get some part-time work.”
“Thanks, Ike. I’ve got my hospital job, and even though it’s not the best money, I get a lot of real-world experience working with the patients.”
“Timothy has his eyes on becoming a psychologist. He’s really focused on this,” Cheryl said.
“You’re some kind of counselor, aren’t you?” Mom said.
“I’m a social worker. I work mostly with single moms and children that have learning disabilities.”
“Well, I always thought those women should think about the consequences of their actions before having a child,” Mom said.
“Hold on a minute, Mom. Most of these unwed mothers had husbands that left them,” Timothy said. “They’ve had a tough go of it. A lot of them are not at fault for their situation.” He paused to let a few moments of silence emphasize his point.
“Yes, Mrs. O, once you get to know these women and understand how tough their lives have been, it’s pretty hard to judge them,” Cheryl said.
Timothy decided to let the awkward silence hang.
“Hey, Tim. I drove by the tree lot the other day. Man, that thing is full. You guys have your work cut out for you this year,” Ike said.
“Yeah, Dez ordered a couple of extra truckloads. He got a deal on them. We may need some extra help to move all of those trees this year.”
“I wish you didn’t work for that vile man. He’s crude,” Mom said.
“Dez? He thinks a lot of you too, Mom,” Timothy said.
Leslie laughed.
“Besides, you know how those people are,” Mom said.
“Those people?” Leslie said.
“Timothy knows what I mean, dear,” Mom said.
“Mom, you remember what Pope Paul said, don’t you? We Catholics don’t have a lock on heaven,” said Timothy.
Any conversation in which Timothy invoke
d Paul VI’s name caused Mom to cross herself and measure her words. As a faithful, old-school Catholic, she did not violate anything the pope said. She didn’t want to be banished from heaven on a technicality.
“Mother, little pitchers have big ears,” Leslie said.
“What does that mean, anyway?” Peter said.
“Never mind, Peter, Grandma understands,” Leslie said.
“Timothy, would you like another roll?” Mom said. “You know, Cheryl, it takes me twelve hours to make them. I make them from scratch.”
“That’s real love, Mrs. O. Timothy talks about these all the time. He’s a real salesman for your rolls. They’re every bit as good as he promised.”
“Do you cook, Cheryl?” Mom said.
“Not as well as Leslie or you, but I do know the difference between a pot and a pan.”
Timothy liked that Cheryl could bob and weave with Mom.
“Grandma, what does it mean when pitchers have ears?” Peter asked.
“It means, Peter, that your mother wants me to change the topic.”
“I’ll second that,” Timothy said.
“Here, here,” Ike said. He held up his beer.
“Mrs. O, I would love to learn how to make these rolls. Do you suppose you could teach me?” Cheryl said.
Timothy liked the way Cheryl called Mom “Mrs. O.” He thought this endearing term disarmed much of Mom’s sarcasm. How could anyone not like Cheryl?
“Well, uh, yes, I could. But you must understand, I put more love than dough in these,” Mom said.
Mom looked at Timothy and smiled. Timothy squirmed and Ike grinned. Leslie shook her head.
“I can see that, and it works fine for me,” Cheryl said.
Peter snagged a roll from Albert’s plate. Albert slapped at Peter and the girls giggled.
They finished their meal with typical family small talk. The children talked about school, Ike talked about work, and Leslie detailed her busy schedule of work and home life. Mom didn’t say much more.
“Who wants pumpkin pie?” Leslie said.
“We’re in, Sis. Right, Cheryl?” Timothy said. Cheryl nodded.
“Whipped cream?” Leslie asked.
“You bet,” said Timothy.
