Hope in the Shadows of War

by Tom Reilly

  “Okay, Tim. I’m here whenever. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, I do. Thanks, Father. Bye.”

  Timothy left the office and crossed the quadrangle to the parking lot. He felt like the damaged goods that he was. Everyone keeps telling me not to give up hope. A lack of hope isn’t the problem. It’s the lack of options that is getting to me.

  On his drive to the hospital, Timothy thought more about his conversation with Father Schmitt. What else is there but hope for a guy like me? Hope dies a slow death for the desperate.

  Timothy had not yet begun his new work schedule. Nights were tough on sleep patterns and relationships, but he would earn a thirty-five-cent-an-hour premium for working these hours. If he timed it right, he could get some sleep before work on Tuesdays and Thursdays and nap after school the next day. It could work if nothing else got in the way. He held out hope for the thirty-two-hour schedule and tuition reimbursement. Today, he had picked up an additional shift in the evening.

  The pickets stood by the front door this afternoon. When Timothy saw one approaching, he held out his arm like a fullback stiff-arming a tackler. He didn’t want anyone in the administration to see him talking to an organizer. He dodged the organizer but not Sister Mary Margaret’s watchful eye. As he entered that main door, he saw her talking to a member of the medical staff. She gave Timothy a perfunctory nod as he passed her.

  Did she see the picket approach me? “Good evening, Sister.”

  She responded coolly, “Timothy.”

  This is a woman of God? A “sister of charity”? The world is strange. Maybe Dez is right. Maybe it’s all a racket. Stop! I can’t start thinking like Dez. That’s like giving up on life.

  Timothy took the stairs to the second floor. Every step sent a sharp pain up his leg. He sucked up the pain and climbed. As he approached the nurses’ station, he saw Walter charting his notes for the evening shift.

  “Hey, Walter,” Timothy said.

  “Hey, Tim. Where you been?”

  “School. Work. You know. They’re moving me to nights.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Some nights are better than no nights.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Timothy asked.

  “Word’s out that layoffs are coming.”

  “What?” Timothy said.

  “Yeah. Man, these nuns are serious about this union mess. They say they’re gonna cut off the head of the snake,” Walter said.

  “Great, I’m probably on the short list,” said Timothy.

  “Don’t know, man.”

  “Timothy, I need to see you,” Loretta said.

  “Here it comes, man,” Timothy said to Walter.

  Walter raised his eyebrows and shook his head like a man who had seen plenty of trouble.

  Loretta, the head nurse for the Psych unit, ushered Timothy into the breakroom behind the nurses’ station. “Timothy, as you know, the administration is concerned about the organizing activity outside the hospital.”

  Here we go again.

  “Yeah, I heard firsthand from Sister and the director of nursing.” So you’re doing their dirty work, right? Timothy took a deep breath. Take it easy, big boy.

  “And because of that, they’re letting some people go—”

  Timothy didn’t wait for Loretta to finish the sentence. He had his fill. “Do I finish this shift or should I leave?”

  “Oh, heaven’s no. You’re not being terminated. We’re transferring you to a different floor. They need a night orderly because of the folks leaving that floor.”

  “Oh. Where to?”

  “You’ll be working nights on Three-Main,” she said.

  “The Med-Surg unit?”

  “Yes. They work a different pace than the psych unit. They do treatments and vitals all night. There’s no studying on nights there,” Loretta said.

  “Oh, I know. I’ve worked it before when they needed help. At least it makes the time pass faster. I guess the good news is I’m still working.”

  “Timothy, I know what’s going on and I don’t like it, but I’m just the messenger.”

  “Thanks, Loretta. I’m wondering how a religious organization can treat people like this?”

  “On the record, I cannot respond to that. Off the record, you’re not alone in your feelings. You start next week—enjoy this evening’s shift,” the head nurse said.

  “Okay, thanks. I guess,” he said.

  He left the breakroom. Walter looked up when he heard Timothy approach.

  “Still here, Walter,” Timothy said.

  “That’s good to hear, man.”

  “At least for this evening.”

  “Say what?”

  “Beginning next week, I’m moving to Three-Main on nights,” Timothy said.

  “Oh man, you know what they doing?” Walter said.

  “I know, but at least I still have a job.”

  “Now you know how the brothers feel. The man’s always messin’ with ya,” Walter said.

  “I hear that,” Timothy said.

  “VA may still have openings if you want me to check it out for ya,” Walter said.

  “Thanks, Walter, but I can’t work there. I’ve got the wrong kind of history with that place.”

  “Well, there’s always room for a good man who wants to work. Good luck, my brother.”

  “Thanks, Walter. And if you get bored here, we’ll probably need some help on Three-Main.”

  “Oh, hell no,” Walter said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TIMOTHY GOT A good night’s sleep Friday after working the evening shift at the hospital. Time passed quickly on Saturday at Schoen’s. They moved a lot of pine, which made Dez happy, and the tips made Timothy, Hoffen, and Kenny cheerful, too.

  Hoffen and Timothy finished their shift at four o’clock. Kenny worked a little later to help Dez get ready for Sunday. Hoffen told Timothy he wanted to go home and change for dinner and would meet him back at the store at six. Timothy agreed and went home to clean up for dinner. At six, Timothy picked up Hoffen in the parking lot at Dez’s.

  Hoffen dressed for the occasion. He wore a blue sport coat with gray trousers and a tie.

  “I’m glad you’re joining us tonight for dinner, Hoffen. The house smells great. Mom has been working on this most of the day. But you didn’t have to get so dressed up for tonight.”

  “It’s a generous offer, Timothy. I don’t often get a home-cooked meal made by someone else. I wanted to show my respect for the invitation.”

  Timothy nodded.

  “I was surprised at how busy we were today,” Hoffen said.

  Timothy nodded again, looking straight ahead. “Yeah, I think people are beginning to feel the urgency of the holidays. Cold weather does that. Did you notice Dez’s mood? Money makes him smile.”

  “Yes, I did notice. Unusual, for sure,” Hoffen said. “The smile, that is.”

  “I don’t know how to take him. Probably, the simplest explanation works best. His psychology doesn’t seem to run deep. He’s miserable most of the time. He seems mad at the world.”

  “Timothy, people like Dez never get over the anger of being born,” Hoffen said.

  “Wow, I never thought in those terms. I have to chew on that,” Timothy said.

  They rode in silence for a while. Hoffen wanted Timothy to digest his observation.

  “What do you mean angry over being born?” Timothy asked.

  “Some people enjoy being miserable and enjoy watching other people’s misery, too. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true. For one reason or another, they have learned not to expect much from life. No expectations mean no disappointments. In turn, they don’t expect to give much back, either,” Hoffen said.

  Timothy looked pensive. Hoffen let the silence simmer. Five minutes later, they arrived at Timothy’s home.

  “Well, we’re here.” Timothy slowed to a stop in front of the 1940s Cape Cod–style home—stained-glass window in the front door, faded green shingles, chipped white trim, and a
roof that needed some work. Timothy shut off the engine and, like most days, the car sputtered and gasped.

  “Have you lived here your whole life?” Hoffen asked.

  “Yes, except for the years I worked for Uncle Sam.”

  “Of course. It has a comfortable feel to it. Do you know who Edgar Guest is?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “He was a newspaper columnist, and he wrote a piece called ‘It takes a heap of livin’ to make a house a home,’” Hoffen said.

  “We’ve done a heap of livin’ here. Don’t ask Mom, or she’ll give you more than an earful,” Timothy said.

  “That’s fine,” Hoffen said.

  Timothy opened the heavy wooden front door. It squeaked, announcing their arrival. The smell of pot roast enveloped them the way clouds surround an airplane. Hoffen inhaled the aroma like a drowning man gasping for air. Every breath fed him.

  “Mom, we’re here,” Timothy said.

  Mom came out of the kitchen to greet them. They didn’t often have company for dinner, and Mom loved to polish the apple. She wore her best apron and wiped her hands with a fresh dishtowel. She’d fixed her hair and colored her face with some makeup. She called this “company-ready.”

  “Mr. Hoffen, it’s nice to meet you,” Mom said.

  “Mrs. O’Rourke, the pleasure is all mine.” Hoffen extended his hand. “It’s kind of you to invite me to dinner. It smells wonderful. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  “It’s nice to meet Timothy’s friends and coworkers,” Mom said.

  “Thank you,” Hoffen said.

  “Yes, Timothy was the kind of child who brought home the stray dogs.”

  “Mom,” Timothy said.

  “Oh, Mr. Hoffen knows what I mean. One time, Timothy even brought home that other man he works with. I think his name is Kenny. Deplorable table manners, but he tried to be polite. He must have been hungry since he ate a whole plate of my oatmeal raisin cookies.”

  “Mom, Hoffen doesn’t want to hear this,” Timothy said.

  “Oh, dear, I’m sure it’s fine, isn’t that right Mr. Hoffen?” Mom said.

  “Yes ma’am, it is. And please, call me Hoffen.”

  “Mom, I saw Cheryl’s car out there. Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen. I gave her a job to do. Honestly, I don’t think that girl has ever mashed potatoes before. I don’t know what these younger women are coming to.”

  “Well, Mrs. O’Rourke, if ladies like yourself show them the way, I’m sure they will be fine.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. Hoffen.” Mom touched her hair.

  Timothy smiled at Hoffen.

  “Come on, Hoffen, let me introduce you to Cheryl,” Timothy said.

  They walked past the dining room table. Mom used her best place settings, china and crystal from better times. Thanksgiving and Christmas were big family gatherings when his father was still here. That all passed away with his father.

  “Mrs. O’Rourke, you have set an elegant table,” Hoffen said.

  “I can tell you’re a man who enjoys the finer things,” Mom said. She beamed whenever someone noticed her preparations.

  “Cheryl, I want you to meet someone,” Timothy said.

  “Hi, sweetie.” She gave him a peck on the lips.

  “This is Hoffen. Hoffen, this is the best part of my life, Cheryl.”

  “I can see she is. And Timothy, I know you’re pretty good with words, but your words did not do her justice. Cheryl, you are breathtaking,” Hoffen said.

  “Oh my. Timothy told me a lot about you, but he didn’t tell me what a charmer you are,” Cheryl said.

  “All right, you two, get something to drink and quit distracting the help,” Mom said.

  Timothy grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge, and he and Hoffen retreated to the living room to wait for dinner. In the kitchen, Mom and Cheryl continued to work on dinner.

  “He seems nice, Mrs. O, doesn’t he?” Cheryl said.

  “Yes, Cheryl, he does. He’s certainly not like those other dreadful people that work at Schoen’s. Okay, put the potatoes and rolls on the table, and I’ll get the meat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cheryl said.

  In the living room, Timothy and Hoffen drank their beers and talked. Hoffen said, “How long has your father been gone?”

  “Ten years,” Timothy said. “Don’t raise his name to Mom or we’ll be here all night.”

  “Timothy, your mother seems like a delightful woman—a little lonely maybe, and I suspect she’s trying to get used to the idea there’s another woman in your life. Mothers get kind of funny that way,” Hoffen said.

  “Yep. That’s Mom. She’s funny that way.” Timothy gulped his beer.

  Walking into the living room, Mom said, “Okay, soup’s on. Who’s funny?”

  “You, Mom. You’re a scream,” Timothy said.

  They sat to a meal of pot roast, green beans smothered in mushroom soup, mashed potatoes, gravy, fruit salad, and Mom’s homemade rolls. Apple pie waited for them in the kitchen. They said grace, followed by the necessary small talk to move food around the table. They took their first bites and Mom broke the silence.

  “Mr. Hoffen, are you from around these parts?”

  “It’s just Hoffen, ma’am.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you Hoffen if you call me Dorothy,” Mom said.

  “Fair enough, and no. I’m not from here, but I’ve been in the area for the past few years,” he said.

  “Yes, I wondered why I haven’t seen you around here. You know this is a small community,” Mom said.

  “It is, Dorothy. I’m not from any one place. I’ve moved around most of my life.”

  “So you’re a traveling man?” Mom said.

  “You could say that. That’s a nice way to describe it. Cheryl, these mashed potatoes are excellent. You did a great job. Dorothy, you taught her well,” Hoffen said, deflecting the conversation away from him.

  “Thank you, Hoffen,” Cheryl said.

  “So, Mr. Hoffen . . .” Mom began between bites, “don’t you think Timothy works too hard?”

  “I do,” Cheryl said.

  “Yes, dear.” Mom shot Cheryl a dismissive look. Hoffen noticed the look and nodded at Timothy.

  “Yes, ma’am, he works hard. Too hard? I don’t know. Timothy is an ambitious young man. He has dreams and a lot of drive. And the world needs a lot of people like him.”

  “That’s true. But I feel he pushes himself too hard. With schoolwork, two jobs, and trying to keep things together around here for me, I think it’s too much,” Mom said.

  “He’s a good man,” Hoffen said.

  “Yes he is,” Cheryl added.

  “Cheryl, I understand you’re a social worker, is that right?” Hoffen asked.

  “Yes, that’s true. I mostly work with single moms.”

  “That’s wonderful, a real calling,” he said.

  “Mr. Hoffen, did you know Timothy was a war hero, too?” Mom said.

  Timothy turned red. “Mom, Hoffen didn’t come over to hear my life story.”

  “What? Well, it’s true, dear. You were a war hero,” Mom said.

  “We’ve talked about it a little,” Hoffen said.

  “He earned two Bronze Stars in that dreadful war. He’s a brave man. He doesn’t run when things get tough. I don’t know where he gets that from. Certainly not his father.”

  “Dorothy, he probably gets that from you,” Hoffen said.

  Mom started to put a bite of roast beef in her mouth but stopped at Hoffen’s compliment. She smiled. Timothy shook his head in disbelief. Cheryl smiled, and he returned it.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Hoffen. That’s kind of you to see that,” Mom said.

  “Hoffen, do you think the Cardiac Cardinals will make the playoffs this year?” Timothy said, trying to change the conversation.

  “They might. They certainly have earned that name this season, haven’t they?” Hoffen said.

  “They sure
have—”

  Mom cut him off.

  “Do you have a family, Mr. Hoffen?”

  “No, Dorothy, I do not.”

  “Have you ever had one?” she pressed.

  “Yes ma’am, but they’re gone.”

  “That’s a shame; what happened to them?”

  Mom would not let up. Hoffen noticed Timothy frown. Cheryl said nothing and stared at the pot roast.

  “I lost my son in the war, and my wife died about a year later of a broken heart.”

  “Oh my, that is so sad,” Cheryl said.

  “Was it the Vietnam War?” Mom said.

  “Oh, no. It was a long time ago—Word War II,” Hoffen said.

  “I didn’t know that, Hoffen,” Timothy said.

  “I guess it never came up,” Hoffen said.

  “That was a different type of war, wasn’t it, Mr. Hoffen? People knew how to treat the boys when they came home. Not like today. The boys today get no respect,” Mom said.

  “Different times for sure, Dorothy,” Hoffen said.

  They spent the next few minutes finishing dinner. Hoffen relaxed when the conversation ended. Mom went to the kitchen for the apple pie and coffee. They finished with customary small talk about the meal.

  “You put on a feast here this evening, Dorothy. Cheryl, I think you have a great teacher here,” Hoffen said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hoffen. Please come any time,” Mom said. “Would you like to take a plate of leftovers with you?”

  “That’s generous, Dorothy, but I will spend the next week working off this wonderful meal.”

  “Are you ready to head back?” Timothy said to Hoffen.

  “Sure. Dorothy, thanks again for your hospitality. Cheryl, it was nice to meet you,” Hoffen said.

  “Good night,” Mom said.

  “Cheryl, will you be here when I get back?” Timothy asked.

  “Probably not. I want to help clean up and I’ll head home. I’ll walk with you to the car,” she said.

  Hoffen got in first to give them a couple of minutes to say goodbye. They hugged and kissed.

  “What a night,” Timothy said.

  “It was fun. Nice to meet Hoffen. I see why you like him. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Cheryl said.

  “Okay, night,” Timothy said.

  Timothy cranked the engine twice to get it started. “Second try. That’s a good sign,” Timothy said. “I bet you didn’t expect that floor show to go with the dinner, did you?”