by Jo Barney
“We’ll go to one. After work one of these days, on the bus.”
Jim cannot believe what has just happened. Janey has invited him to go somewhere with her. “Alone?”
“No, silly, together.” Janey grins. “Guess you don’t get out much. You and I will plan a trip. I’ll help you with the bus schedules, and you’ll help me with the chair. It will be fun. You’ll see.”
When William asks him whether he’s ready to be tutored, Jim takes out his lunch and nods. William has a book with pictures in it, and under each picture is a word. “This is a way of my finding out how well you read right now.” For the next half hour, William covers the pictures and asks Jim to read the word. At first it’s easy: cat, dog, boy. And then the words get harder. When he can’t read the word, or sound it out, William shows him the picture and marks the page.
When it is time to get back to work, William hands him the book. “You surprised me. You know a lot of words, and sometimes you can sound out the ones you don’t know. I’m giving you homework: Try to learn the spelling of the pictures I’ve marked. Use your fingers to feel the letters on this piece of sandpaper as you practice the words. Our fingers have memory, too. Try this for a couple of days. That is, if you want to, Jim.”
“Of course, he wants to. I’ll help him on the bus when he needs it.” Janey has been listening. “Good job, you guys.”
“Our little cheerleader,” William says. “Another word to learn, Jim.”
Jim can’t name the feeling filling him up, but he knows it is a new one. He’ll ask Janey on the way home.
When he leaves work, his mother is waiting for him. He wants to tell her about the tutoring, but she points to the car. “Therapy day, Jim. I almost forgot, and I bet you did too.”
This is good. He’ll tell Dr. Kauffman about the tutoring, about the feeling.
* * *
Jim always feels comfortable in Dr. Kauffman’s room. He has been coming to see him for a long time. At first, they played games and built things with Legos and blocks, and his doctor practiced with him about looking at people when they were talking to him. He also taught him to say thank you and please, and to use his words when he wanted to say something. At first, Dr. Kauffman joined him in flapping arms and laughing, making a game of what Jimmy did without thinking. Not so much lately. Now they mostly practice talking back and forth until looking, listening, and answering has begun to feel okay. Sometimes Jim just wants to quit and not talk, though. Dr. Kauffman says that is all right, but now that he has a friend, perhaps he won’t need practice as often. He is talking about Janey. Jim’s first real friend.
Sometimes, though, they talk about feelings, like they are now. “After you left William, you said, you felt a new feeling that made you smile inside and outside. Do you have a word for it?”
“Good?”
“Yes. And you perhaps felt proud that William said you knew more than he thought you would.”
“Is proud what I felt when I helped trim the hedge? Or when Janey said she’d help me with my homework?”
“Maybe about the hedge. Another word for Janey might be grateful. Can you think what you might say back to her?”
“Thank you?”
“Yes. Anything else on your mind?”
“A while back we talked about worry—like when I missed the bus. Worried. I’m worried now, I think.”
“About?”
“A while ago I came home. My mother was lying on the grass, a plastic bag over her head. I took it off, and she said she was trying to kill aphids. What are aphids?”
Dr. Kauffman’s chair creaks as he sits back and looks at the ceiling. “Maybe aphids are your mother’s word for worries. She was perhaps trying to get rid of her worries. Did it work?”
“I don’t think so. She said she wouldn’t do that again, though.”
“Did she say anything else?
“She said thank you to me.”
“You mother will find a way to get rid of the aphids sooner or later. Perhaps you’ll be able to help her, like with the hedge.”
Jim nods. “Maybe.” He sees the doctor glancing at the clock on his desk. Must be time to finish up. Jim feels…he can’t think of the word. Grateful? he thinks.
“You are getting very good at noticing things, aren’t you? See you next time.”
Jim remembers to say thank you to his doctor as he leaves.
27
Eleanor isn’t home when Hank lurches into the house. She’s probably off somewhere with that neighbor, cutting down someone else’s hedge. She’s never around when he needs her, like right now. He picks up the newspaper, pours a glass of vodka after finding the bottle under the sink, and lowers himself into his chair. But he cannot read the words. All that he can do is remember what happened this afternoon.
Hank had looked at his watch and had seen that his shift would be over in ten minutes. Finally. The whole day had been soured by rumors. Someone heard that they would get their pink slips and final checks soon. Maybe even this afternoon. Just as he was breathing a little easier, the day almost done, his machine and those around him slowed and stopped. He looked around and saw everyone else doing the same thing. Someone moaned, “Here it comes.”
And it did. Several men in suits walked the aisles, handing out envelopes, shaking hands, not smiling. Hank watched the new guy from the HR department, the one that Hank had met the day he passed out and was helped to the cafeteria. Holding out his right hand, the envelope in his left, the man approached him.
“Everyone?” Hank asked as the HR man apologized, passing the envelope to Hank like a graduation diploma. Only the opposite. No one was clapping. “Everyone?”
“Just about all of this shift. The company is in deep trouble.” And, in what seemed to be an afterthought as he turned away, he asked, “Are you feeling better?”
“Asshole. What do you care about me or any of these guys?” Hank stepped toward the door and heard the HR man mutter, “I’m leaving too. I do understand.”
Hank didn’t look back.
Outside he had joined a parade of guys shaking their heads, swearing, some waving arms and yelling, others barely able to lift their feet or their heads as they filed through the gate. A few goodbyes; cars started in a funeral dirge of motors as the parking lot emptied. On the way home, Hank had to stop the car on the side of the road. Tears blurred whatever was ahead. He pounded on the steering wheel, yelled, “Fuck, fuck it all, fuck the world, fuck…” He rubbed his bruised hands as his head dropped to the wheel. His breaths scraped against the collar of his jacket.
Sounds at the window startled him. “Okay, guy?” A man and his dog stood beside the car.
“Fuck you, too,” Hank growled as he dug out and left them behind in a squeal of tires.
* * *
He throws down the newspaper. He can’t read about other people’s news when his is so bad.
Moments later he hears, “Hank! You’re home early. What’s happened?”
He points to the envelope on the table, sips at his drink. “If you ever listened to me, you’d know. Today’s the day we all got fired. Why do you look surprised?”
“I just thought it would be later, that you’d have a warning. Did you?”
“Just rumors.” He raises his drink again. “Get yourself the last of the vodka and we’ll toast to a life of poverty.” His lips twist into a chuckle. “What will we do without our bottle?” He feels himself whirling and closes his eyes.
“Hank, what’s wrong?”
When he comes to, he is on the floor, covered with an afghan; Eleanor, holding a glass of water, is wiping his face with a washcloth.
“Hank? Are you back? Hank?”
“I’m back. Help me up. I think I peed my pants.”
“Doesn’t matter. What just happened?” Eleanor lifts his knees, tries to raise him up and into his chair. She takes hold of his arm, but she can’t move him.
Hank brushes her off. “I need help, not from you, from someone who knows ab
out what happened in the war, the nightmares, this thing just now.” He wipes his cheeks with his sleeve and tries to stand up. He falls into his chair and feels Eleanor’s hand on his forehead.
“The VA?”
“Or somewhere for crazy people.”
“You aren’t crazy. You are under a huge pile of stress. I’m calling the VA. They must have an emergency wing at their hospital.” She goes to the kitchen; he hears the drawer that holds the directory open. He hears her voice as she asks for Emergency and then says, “You’re kidding. What are we supposed to do? My husband just passed out for no good reason.” She hangs up.
“I’m going to call Providence Hospital. They’ll send an ambulance and get you to a room and a doctor.”
“No. I’m not sick. I’ll go up and lie down. I just need to sleep.”
As he lies, still trembling, in their bed, he hears her voice, talking to someone. Patsy, of course. “What are they called? Flashbacks? What should I do? I’ll try to be calm, but he lost his job today. Yeah, lots of stress around here.” After a pause, he hears, “Would you? Would it help? Even a maybe is worth trying. Call me if you get some info.” Hank hears what might be a sob and then, “Thanks, Patsy.”
He feels the bed sink as she sits next to him and takes his hand. She believes he is asleep, but he isn’t. He cannot allow the kid in the red T-shirt to sneak into his dreams again.
28
“Flashbacks, after twenty-some years. And nightmares.” Patsy explains the details of her friend’s symptoms, not giving a name, part of the rules she has worked under as a social worker. Private information. One is not supposed to share what goes on in a social worker’s room with anyone, not even a boss, especially not a husband. Since she has neither at the moment, the secrecy is a habit, but the person she’s talking to—an old work partner—is experienced with the traumatic disorders that show up after men leave the battlefield and attempt to bury the fears and memories that follow them to their civilian lives.
Kathleen nods as Patsy lists what she’s noticed beyond the hedge in her backyard. “Has he applied to the VA for help?”
“They’re saying it’ll be three months before his name will come up and he’ll be given an appointment. In the meantime, he’s lost his job and is concerned about his son, who’s been handicapped since birth. The boy is twenty and still lives at home. The wife is overprotective, and the husband is angry, sometimes to the point of violence. Can you help him?”
“Damn, Patsy. The VA at this point is really messed up. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of vets are waiting for services, for follow-ups on their wounds, for hearing aids because they’ve lost their hearing on the battlefield, for prosthetics for lost limbs.”
Kathleen sighs. She opens a folder on her desk. A long, silent moment follows as Patsy watches a pencil scratch along a list.
Then Kathleen says, “Wait a minute,” and reaches for her phone. She asks someone, “When is Amy coming back from her maternity leave? I don’t see her name in the appointment book.” She waits, says, “Hold that slot, for a three-month treatment. Write in…”
Kathleen looks at Patsy, and Patsy says, “Hank Ellison, Korean War veteran, late forties.” Patsy gives whoever is on the line Hank’s address, his phone number, and the name of his wife, to whom messages can be given, if necessary.
Kathleen holds her hand over the phone. “Hank has an appointment in two weeks with a female psychologist who is also a veteran—Vietnam War—and she is very experienced in working with vets with PTSD. Her advice for now is that he rest, read, not try to solve any problems until they have their first meetings. They’ll call to confirm. Tell his wife to stay calm. Help is on the way.”
“Kathleen. Thank you. I know you had to bend the rules and I appreciate it.”
Kathleen goes serious, professional. “So when are you going to come back to us? We need you badly.”
“When I figure out my own life. I’m working on it.” Patsy realizes that she is gaining ground in that project. Izzy is walking; Ray is getting help. She herself has regained a friend. And her meds are working so well she’s considering going off them. All is good.
29
I pick up the phone, hoping it is Patsy calling. It is not.
“Goodbye, Lloyd. Our agreement was that you would leave me alone once I started paying you.”
“Yeah, but I have some debts I need to pay, besides first and last month rent requirement on the apartment I found. The five hundred bucks is gone. I need more. A couple hundred. Right away.”
“And if I don’t pay? You used to be good for your word. At least I thought so back then, when you said goodbye and stayed gone. You’ve become a greedy liar. I will not give you any more money than what we’ve agreed on. Find another ex-lover to blackmail.”
“You and Jimmy will be sorry if you don’t cooperate. You won’t want that, I’m sure.” Lloyd’s words slop over each other; he’s on something, but I get the message.
I hang up. I have no way out of this. I’m out of vodka. I pour a cup of coffee. But I miss the vodka. At least I could escape for a few hours. Before I can give that thought more time, the phone rings again. If it is Lloyd…no, he wouldn’t be that persistent, in his condition, would he?
“Hi, Eleanor. Put on the coffee, I have good news and gingersnaps.” Patsy knocks on the back door minutes later, carrying a laughing Izzy, who has slobbered gingersnaps all down her bib. Patsy and Izzy, cookies in hands, sit at the table in front of a cup of coffee, and I hold my breath.
“I got Hank an appointment at the VA in two weeks. They’ll call him with the details, but he’ll be working with a former Army nurse who is now trained to work with veterans with Hank’s kind of problem. She comes highly recommended by a friend of mine, and she was available because she took some time off to have a baby. So what do you think?”
“I’m thinking I’m very lucky to have you for a friend. Thank you. I think Hank will be appreciative of your taking time to do this. I can breathe now.”
The door to the hall flies open. Hank stands in the doorway, his bent elbows knocking into the doorframe, his face contorted with what must be anger. “What are you doing behind my back? Talking about me to a person you hardly know, who will send me to a woman who is supposed to be able to deal with my problems, a woman who is young enough to be a new mother, and who knows what else. Do you even know her name?”
I see Patsy tightening her grip on Izzy. “You’ll know when she calls to confirm the appointment.”
“Get out. Get out of my kitchen. Get out of my life. I don’t need help from nosy neighbors like you who think they know everything when they don’t know anything except the lies my wife tells them.” Hank grabs the back of Patsy’s chair, tries to overturn it.
“Hank, the baby!”
Frightened, Izzy wails. Patsy stands up, detours around Hank. My friend looks at my husband straight on and says, “I do know one thing about you: You like gingersnaps.” She pushes the plate of cookies toward Hank, opens the door, gives me a “phone” signal and leaves.
Hank moves closer to me. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to find out the truth about a conversation I overheard this morning. Who is this guy you’re giving money to?”
Hank’s sweaty face is inches from mine. “I know something is going on. Is the neighbor in on it? Is this why you are suddenly best friends?”
I try not to cringe. “Patsy doesn’t know about that phone call.” I need to lie again. and not about aphids...Someone from years ago…Vincent, yes!!Not even a lie, a long-lost memory. I babble in relief. “I knew this man a long time ago, a customer who used to come into Lerner’s and buy women’s clothing from me. I thought he must know a lot of women because he came in regularly, and I finally asked. I couldn’t imagine what he was up to with all those dresses and underwear, large sizes.”
Keep going, I tell myself. Hank is listening. “I finally got him to admit he was buying the clothes for himself. He said he was a cross-dresser. I wasn’t sur
e what he meant at first. Then he said that I couldn’t tell anyone because he would lose his job as an accountant if anyone knew. I told him that he should go somewhere else for his clothes because my supervisor kept track of all purchases and she would begin to ask questions.”
“And?” Hank, his face a rigid mask of disbelief, isn’t buying my story.
“And I didn’t hear from him until a few weeks ago. Vincent saw me on the street, and I didn’t recognize him, he was so terrible-looking, like a street person. He stopped me and said he was glad he’d run into me because he knew I was responsible for his being fired back then, and he would punish me by telling you we had been lovers. I couldn’t think what to do, Hank, because you had just lost your job, and you were depressed and maybe worse. I thought that you might kill him. Or maybe me, if you believed his lies.”
“Sure. Blame me. Like always.”
I had to keep talking. “So I agreed to pay him once a month. I made one payment and decided that I would tell you about this once you were getting help with your own problems. Vincent isn’t your problem; he’s mine, and I will handle it. You have enough on your mind.”
“I wish I could believe you.” Hank’s shoulders drop. “I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.” His hands cover his face, his words sound like sobs. “About Jim and Wilcox House; about going to the VA; about, dammit, about the hedge.” He laughs or weeps, I can’t tell. “I can’t even make that right.”
“The hedge is up to nature, Hank.” I wrap an arm around his unsteady shoulders, whisper, “The rest is up to you and to me.” I take his arm. “Maybe The Mary Tyler Moore Show will help us forget all this.”
Hank nods, walks to the TV, turns it on, settles on the couch. “Any popcorn?” he wonders.
Thank God, I have popcorn, if nothing else. And thank God for Vincent.
30
