You're Fired!

Mary Kaye was a tall, willowy graduate of a Christian College that, while not the Harvard of Christian Evangelicalism, does have an excellent business school. She seemed so earnest and, because of what we had in common, I thought I knew her. I made that mistake one other time and it altered the course of my life. Mary Kay was so very nice, and that would have made it extra hard to fire her, except that I could no longer stand her. (I can only hope that my tolerance for the unabled has grown over the years.) She could not do the work which, honestly, was of the most entry level variety. I believe she went on to struggle through the consequences of some poor life choices, but we all quickly lost touch with her. That experience taught me a couple of valuable lessons: I became much better at hiring the kind of people who can do the work and I discovered that I had some skill at humanely terminating the employment of others. Both talents have served me well.

My personal life felt like a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I had rented a room in a house owned by three women, and we quickly fell into a routine of platonic domestic bliss. One of them (a fellow WC alum) could really cook and I was pretty good at cleaning up. One of them was good company and the other had many suggestions for my improvement. My new, well-meaning friends were setting me up on blind dates. My office colleagues were setting me up on blind dates. My students were setting me up on blind dates. One student even asked me out “to discuss whether she should apply to law school” (a patent metaphor for “I need a decent meal”). Juxtaposed with all this social nonsense were the times with my dear children, Hansel and Gretel (not their real names). These times were bittersweet. I felt the irrational guilt that only divorced dads feel. Inevitably, I had to return them to that candy-covered cottage in the deep dark woods. Although I told anyone who asked that my wife had been a victim of spontaneous human combustion, she was very much alive and there was a great deal of tension between us. Like I said, a carnival ride.

Joyce was looking at me.

I said into the phone, “What body?”

The voice at the other end said, “Adelle Henton.”

“Why are you calling me?” I asked.

“She left instructions,” he said, “to call you if anything happened to her.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“For that,” he said, “you gotta call the Sheriff’s office.”