Ordinary Sins - Jim Heynen

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lap when people visited, constantly stroking his trembling body, and saying, There there, my sweet. There there.

      She had pictures of Pee-Wee sitting on her piano. She had an assortment of little sweaters for Pee-Wee hanging by the front door. She had a lavender silk-covered cushion for Pee-Wee to sleep on, though Pee-Wee rarely settled down long enough for a nap.

      When people first saw this woman with her dog, some thought she was more than a little strange to love an uncontrollable freak of nature named Pee-Wee. Those who saw them together often felt something else happening. Their eyes moved past the jittery dog and to the calm hands and eyes of the woman. Her affection for the dog moved out and around her like an aura that filled the room. Some felt their own eyes staring, almost bulging, in the direction of the lady, as if they were trying to understand the small creatures that trembled inside themselves.

      This man loved combustion engines. All kinds. All sizes. He loved the sound of ignition, the firing up—from the calm purr of his large car engine to the fierce whining of his chain saw. He loved them all equally, like children with different but admirable talents: his self-propelled lawn mower, his leaf blower, his Jet Ski, his snowmobile, his speedboat, his motorcycle. He had a combustion engine for his wood splitter. He had a combustion engine for his back-up electrical generator.

      This man understood not only how but why a combustion engine works. He knew which lubricants were best for the tireless throats of the cylinders. He knew the kind of exercise and treatment the knuckles of the pistons needed. He knew how every flexing muscle of the combustion engine needed a regular workout, pumping iron. Use it or lose it, he said, as he fired up one of his combustion engines to fit his mood and the occasion. He was an expert on nutrition and preferred the high-calorie fuels to the wimpy low-octane blends. He knew the delicate ecology of the combustion engine, how everything needed to stay in balance to keep the world moving, to keep his world moving. He loved the world of combustion engines the way an eagle loves the open sky. He loved the smell of gasoline as it went in. He loved the smell of the exhaust as it came out. He loved the circulation of the combustion engine, the natural cycle of things.

      While others might plan to eat and drink their way through their storage cellars if calamity should strike, for him the key to survival was in the spark and explosion of the combustion engine. Let them eat and drink, he figured. I’ll turn to my combustion engines, and I’ll be out of here! He kept spare combustion engines sealed in plastic on his cellar shelves. Just in case. Just in case.

      This man always wanted to help, whether he was asked or not. It made sense when someone was stuck in a snowbank or had trouble opening a stuck door. Just the decent thing to do. But there were other times when he surprised people with his smiling face and helping hands. Once he took the lawnmower from the grip of someone who was sweating profusely.

      I’m all right, the man protested. I’m in shape and have a strong heart.

      Take a break, said our helper, you deserve it.

      The helper mowed the lawn and asked for nothing in return. The two parted with a handshake and a mown lawn.

      It was when he picked lint off people’s sleeves in a department store or stooped to tie a runner’s shoelace that people looked at him suspiciously. There was something unthreatening about him, though—mostly his voice and the comfortable way he moved—that made it easy for people to trust him. After he helped a woman scrape ice off her windshield in midwinter, she asked him if he had read that study about how unselfish goodness released endorphins and extended a person’s life.

      No, he said. When someone needs help, it’s like one person is a dusty rug and the other one is a vacuum sweeper.

      One day the helper saw a toddler weeping pathetically in a crowded aisle of a grocery store. He swept up the toddler and put her on his shoulders.

      Don’t cry, little one, he said, I’ll help you find your mother.

      He held her feet in his hands and turned in circles so that her eyes could be a periscope checking out the sea of heads around them. Look for your mother, he said. Just look around and she’ll see you way up there.

      The toddler was afraid of heights and screamed loudly and beat the top of the helper’s head with her small tear-drenched fists.

      The helper felt someone from behind scoop the child from his shoulders. He assumed someone was there to help him in his helping. One officer was taking the child from his shoulders and, just as quickly, another put handcuffs on his wrists.

      The strange thing about this story is that you’d think the helper would have learned a lesson. He didn’t. He was careful around little children after that, but his need to help was an addiction that no one and nothing could remedy.

      They’re my little darlings, she said. People can defend themselves; animals can’t.

      Tell that to a mountain lion, said a friend.

      How many mountain lions have you met lately? she asked. I rest my case.

      She didn’t let her case rest very long. The farther an animal lived from people, the more she protected it. Wild horses ranked high. Polar bears ranked even higher. Narwhals were practically sacred.

      Closer to home, she set out bird feeders that squirrels couldn’t reach, squirrel feeders that cats couldn’t reach, and raccoon feeders that horses couldn’t reach. She defended all animals, but she didn’t like what she called the “devolution” of some. Like domestic cats.

      Cats are an extension of the human psyche, she said. We made them middle class. So now they get cancer and arthritis. They get kidney stones.

      Her voice rose as she went on: They’re procreating like mosquitoes! Over a hundred million in America! A hundred million! A bored middle-class cat kills a thousand wild little darlings in its lifetime. Cats are the most species-destructive animals on the planet, and yet we supplement their diet with what they don’t kill! You could feed five third-world nations with the money Americans spend on cat food! Not to mention the annual veterinary expenses! More billions!

      Her friends waited until she finished. When she got her teeth into a topic she shook it until it lay limp and silent. They didn’t tell her how bewildered they were by her diatribe. She had three cats herself, ones she picked up from the pound. Her cats were like feral critters in captivity. She kept them indoors to protect the wild creatures outside, but her cats lurked menacingly around the couch and skulked off like guilty bullies when humans got close. Nobody would say her cats were middle class, but they’d kill if given half a chance.

      Her friends still sought her company. In many ways, she was kind and generous. She left big tips for artists and actors posing as waiters and waitresses. She was a devout conservationist. On Thanksgiving, she served soup to the homeless. But whose side would she take if a pit bull attacked them on the street? There was something dangerous about her that her friends couldn’t resist. It was as if she were their wild little darling and they her protectors.

      He had owned his small hardware store for thirty-three years and lived for the day when someone came in who didn’t know the name of the item he needed. Would-be fix-it men gave him his greatest pleasure, after

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