H.R.
by Chris Brower
She says, “It’s time. You need to do it today.”
I consider my Outlook calendar and debate where to put it, at what time we should fire Bernard Vandeman. Bernard, an “elder” at the company, a “forefather.” But with how poorly the company’s been doing, it’s been decided that even elders and forefathers have to go sometime too. Not by me—by committees, by people who give the orders, by people who look at the numbers and guess how to salvage things.
“Be gentle,” Tammy, my boss, says. She’s staring at her cell phone and holding an apple. “He can be pretty sensitive.”
The company’s in bad shape, which Bernard had little to do with. Nor almost anyone who’s been let go. Not that that matters. The demand for aluminum siding, what Hoelscher & Sons manufactures, has gone out of favor, and the millions the company spent on advertising didn’t change that. But there have been other setbacks. A huge investment that fell apart in a subsidiary that made insulation. A sexual harassment lawsuit against our CFO that cost the company millions and generated a lot of bad press. A fire at one of our plants.
“And, oh boy, Stephanie is not happy about it,” Tammy says, raising her eyebrows.
Stephanie’s Bernard’s boss. Just a couple years older than me, this still makes her at most half Bernard’s age. Per company policy, she’ll be handling the firing, with me there as the H.R. representative. The folder with “what now” information for terminated employees will come from my hands, slid across the table as if a peace offering.
As usual my calendar is packed. Meetings without agendas. Lunch with my sister, Debbie. And by 4:00 I need to finish revising the new mission statement and corporate objectives for next week’s all-staff forum aimed at quelling the nerves of concerned employees, even though the words “all-staff” always cause alarm.
“How has he worked here forty-nine years? That’s since day one,” Tammy says. She tosses the barely eaten apple into the trash. “That’s just—wow.”
I have only worked here two, my fifth job since graduating a decade ago. Few people my age stay in the same job longer than a few years. Doing so is a sign of weakness, a lack of ambition. No one in my generation aspires to work for the same company their whole career. And in a lot of ways, companies don’t want us to either.
“No clue why he hasn’t retired by now. Or been let go already,” Tammy says. “A lot of people are gonna be upset.”
From what I’ve heard, Bernard has been the Santa Claus at our company holiday party every year since its founding 49 years ago. When Suellen Reed got sick last year, he arranged a fundraiser to help with medical expenses. (Suellen was laid off a month ago.) And on my first day, he gave me a framed four-leaf clover he had apparently found nearby at Potter Park. He said it would bring me luck here. At the time I thought it was kind of corny, but I see now it was a sweet gesture from a man who always wants everyone to feel welcome.
I don’t like participating in firings, period, and I’ve been the one to do it lately, because the woman who did that was herself fired, but firing Bernard feels different, worse, like pulling the plug on a kindly, elderly relative who has only ever been nice to you.
1:00 p.m., after I get back from lunch with Debbie: That seems as good a time as any to fire Bernard Vandeman. I send an email to Stephanie to make sure that works with her schedule. Hopefully she’ll do most of the talking.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling, doing my best not to glance at the framed four-leaf clover on the wall. I’m not sure it’s worked.
*
I got into human resources because I like helping people. I like smoothing the edges of my co-workers’ day-to-day lives, making things a little better. But the reality is, for each person I call to offer a job, there are dozens more to whom I have to say, “Sorry.” For each “Yes, unused vacation time can be rolled over into next year—enjoy!,” there are several more, “Sorry, that privilege doesn’t extend to hourly employees.”
Employees see a lot of me when they start. And almost as much when they leave.
When I got hired, Hoelscher & Sons was a pay cut (that pay has since been lowered even more, as part of a company-wide effort to reduce expenses), but they lured me in with talk of endless opportunity at a fast-paced, rapidly growing company, of me being on a path to be head of H.R. in just two or three years. I guess that may still be true, but less so because of my own advancement and more that almost everyone in the H.R. department has been laid off these last few months. Soon I may be the only one left, if that.
*
After my third cup of tea and my third meeting of the day (why I was asked to attend a marketing meeting, I don’t know, but I don’t want to make a fuss, I don’t want to come off as negative), I step into the bathroom at the end of the floor. The company spent considerable money a year ago—money they probably wish they could get back—updating the bathrooms, installing dimmer, almost mood, lighting, automatic soap dispensers, and toilets that are more eco-friendly.
I pause when I notice Bernard Vandeman hunched over one of the sinks.
“Oh hello, Peter! Morning,” he says. He’s running a comb through his thin, white hair. He has to be at least seventy-five.
“Oh. Hey, Bernard. Good morning.”
I start to wash my hands too, despite the fact I haven’t used the urinal yet.
Bernard checks his hair in the mirror. He seems like a man of a different era, a man who carries a small comb in his pocket and makes sure to tidy up a couple times a day. His hairstyle isn’t demanding either. Just combed straight across. I’ve seen him use a handkerchief before. I’ve seen him hold driving gloves on the way to his car.
“Very appreciative of what you all did,” Bernard says. He grabs a paper towel and wipes his hands.
“Oh?”
“The birthday card last week.”
“Oh yeah, happy to.” As I dry my hands too, I try to remember if I signed anything. So many birthday cards come through H.R. that it’s hard to remember. I usually just scribble my name and some generic message (“Great to have you at the company!” “Keep it up!”) and then pass it to the next person.
(The company is considering phasing out birthday cards. We’d save a few hundred dollars a year.)
“Can you believe I’m 76?” Bernard says and whistles as his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, yes—I mean, no.”
Bernard laughs.
I step to the urinal, unzip my pants, and begin trying to release the copious amounts of tea I’ve had so far today. I’m hoping this signals to Bernard that our small talk is over, since everything he says is only making me sadder for what I have to do to him later. But Bernard is from the generation that sees little problem in carrying on long conversations while one or both parties are peeing.
“My own daddy didn’t even make it to sixty!” Bernard says. “He was born in 1915, can you believe it?”
“Oh?” I say from the urinal, trying to will my bladder to begin doing its duty.
Bernard blows his nose, a loud honk that makes me jump, and then continues his musing. “He also never got to celebrate fifty years in a job, but that’s coming for me in three months—87 days specifically! Can’t wait to celebrate. I hope you’ll be there? I’m gonna get an enormous cake. Hope you like lemon . . .”
I remain silent at the urinal, my shyness making it hard to pee or talk.
“Peter?”
I close my eyes, clenching.
“Oh, yes, um, I’d love to be there. That sounds, that sounds really great.”
“Good! You’ve been one of my many wonderful friends here. It’s true.” He sniffs. “Well, back to the grind.”
Bernard steps over and pats me on the shoulder, his hand still wet, and then shuffles out of the bathroom.
*
I order a salad with dressing on the side, feeling instantly disappointed at my choice.
“Is that cause I’ve gained weight?” my sister says after the waiter leaves.
“What?”
“I ordered penne pasta and a Coke, and you got a salad and water.”
“Oh. No, I’m just trying to eat a little healthier. I gave up caffeine too. I’m just trying things.”
Debbie sits back. Shakes her head.
I look her over, trying to be covert. She doesn’t look like she’s gained weight. Well, maybe a little. She’s still pretty thin. She’s been divorced only a month now. Divorces seem to require some noticeable shift in weight, whether gained or lost.
She speaks up, “Stuart always made comments. ‘Storing up for winter?’ ‘Maybe ease up a little on the carbs, babe.’ ”
“Oh.” I heard him say such things. I told him to cool it, but he just shrugged me off. “That’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that. You didn’t deserve it.”
“You’re right. I didn’t.” Debbie glares at me.
I shrink, worrying my response was too soft, too lame, that I should’ve called Stuart a “fucking asshole” or something else more forceful. I can be passive, I can be soft, I know. I think working in human resources has made me robotic at times. Doing things by the book. Aiming for calmness and mediation rather than outrage, even when outrage is justified.
I pick up my napkin and then put it down. “Have you spoken to Mom?”
I haven’t talked to Mom in a couple weeks. I need to call her soon. After Dad died, she became a bit of a recluse, spending all her time at home, toiling over jigsaw puzzles and crocheting blankets she donates to the church, even though she doesn’t attend services anymore. She says these days she prefers to be alone.
“She’s not doing any better,” Debbie says. “We’re really bonding lately with our depression. We’re comparing meds.”
I lean forward, almost touch her hand. “Debbie, don’t give up. You know things are gonna get better. They always do.”
Debbie rolls her eyes. “You know that’s not true.”
I lean back.
The waiter returns and refills my water.
“Another Coke, ma’am?”
Debbie stares at me. I turn away.
“Okay,” she says.
*
I return to work a little before 1:00. Stephanie is expecting me in a few minutes. In her email to me earlier she said, “I am REALLY upset about this. I cannot lie.”
Tammy is in her cube, nibbling at a salad of her own. An uneaten apple waits nearby.
“Oh good,” she says, chewing quickly. “How’d he take it?”
“Not yet. Gonna head over there now.”
“Okay.” She stares at me. Squints her eyes. “. . . You okay?”
*
I step slowly toward the Sales department on the second floor. The company owns two floors but is considering selling one. They’ve already removed the fish tanks, the water coolers and vending machines, and the Rothko painting that our (former) CEO would always show visitors and prospective hires (“Imagine working alongside such majesty . . .”). By my hip I’m carrying a nondescript black notebook, which hides the folder of termination documents: COBRA and last paycheck information, resources for newly unemployed workers, and a form letter with thanks and motivational words from the interim CEO.
Things are quiet in Sales. The few employees still around are younger, more prone to wearing headphones all day, less likely to use the phone as a way to talk. Or to talk to each other, really. One employee, Yvonne Hendricks, eyes me with a look of fear before turning back to her computer, her body appearing tense. I’m used to looks these days. I rarely walk around other departments unless I have bad news to share.
I arrive at Stephanie’s cubicle. She’s sitting in her chair, gripping the armrests with both hands, her eyes large, staring into space, like a nervous flier during takeoff.
Her expression doesn’t change when she turns to face me.
“Hi, Stephanie,” I say.
She shakes her head. She rises from her chair, as if hoisted, and I follow her to an abandoned room nearby, formerly the marketing manager’s office. I have no idea what’s going on.
She closes the door, appearing scared.
“I’m just sick about this,” she finally blurts out in an exasperated whisper.
“Me too. I wish we didn’t—”
“I don’t think this is right. There are limits.”
I nod. “I know it’s tough. I’m upset about it too, and—”
“It’s ageist. Have you thought about the potential lawsuit? Have you even thought about that?”
“Of course. We—”
“I will not participate in this,” she says. “I can’t stop you, but I simply will not.”
She opens the door and hurries out of the room, leaving me there, confused. She’s supposed to handle the termination, not me. I’m supposed to be in a supportive role, as well as making sure employment laws are followed.
As much as it hurts to fire Bernard Vandeman, I thought at least I wouldn’t be doing it alone, that it wouldn’t feel like solely “my” doing. But I need to do what I’ve been told.
*
Peaking my head in Bernard’s cubicle, I see him working away, bent over his computer. He’s from the era of employees who still type with one finger at a time. His computer looks to be from the ’90s, with a boxy off-white monitor and keyboard. He still uses a mouse pad.
I knock on the cubicle wall.
Bernard peers up. “Oh, Peter! Hi there.”
He swivels in his chair to face me. His right shoe is untied.
“Hi, Bernard. How are you?”
“Well, I’m doing just fine—say, got some leads I’m excited about. Gonna stay late and see what I can make happen.”
“Ah, that’s great.” I tap my hand on the top of the cubicle wall. “Say, how about you and I go over to the conference room by the window. Got a minute?” This is what Stephanie’s supposed to be doing, while I wait in the room with the termination folder and a box of tissues if Bernard should need them.
“Oh?” His smile fades. “Sure. Uh, gimme a second.”
I don’t know if I should wait for him or not. He appears to be straightening a few papers. Getting things neat and tidy. He’s probably a man who needs time before moving anywhere.
I walk over to the conference room and take a seat, making sure not to have my hands clasped and positioned on the table. That looks too disciplinarian. My high school principal did that, and you always felt like you were in trouble, and you always were.
I place the black notebook on the table, leaving the termination folder inside. Tissues—where are they? I should’ve put a box in here before I came.
Bernard hobbles in straight-faced and then slowly lowers himself into a chair, his arms shaking as they grip the armrests for support.
He looks at me and exhales. “Always feels better to get off my feet,” he says, laughing.
“Yeah. Me too.”
I get up to close the door and then return to my seat.
“Bernard, you’ve been a valued employee since the beginning of Hoelscher & Sons—”
“Oh yes, an absolute honor to work here.”
I nod. “And it goes without saying that everyone here is forever grateful that—”
“I remember that first day like it was last week. It was a June 13th, I believe.”
I blink. “You know the exact date?”
“Of course.” He gazes wistfully over my shoulder. “I guess that was before you were even born. Long before.”
I chuckle to seem laidback and relaxed, as if I’m not about to fire him.
“Been a long time,” I say.
“Indeed it has. Hard to believe. Though, I guess when you get to my age that’s a lot of what you do: marvel that so much time has passed. And boy, does it.”
I clear my throat. “So—”
“And soon after I started I got married. High school sweetheart. Martha Fairchild. Prettiest girl in the class. That was an exciting time, indeed. I was married forty-five years, can you believe it?”
I pause at his use of past tense. Was.
“Oh, I’m—”
“My wife left this world some years ago,” Bernard continues. “November 15th, 2014, mm-hmm. And my son still lives at home. He’s retarded, unfortunately, so he requires a lot of care and will for the rest of his life.”
I want to urge Bernard not to say the word “retarded,” but it’s his own son he’s talking about. I don’t know the protocol for that.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, but then feel bad implying that having a special needs son is something co-workers should say they’re “sorry to hear.”
“He’s a fun little fellow, indeed,” Bernard says. “His spirit is enviable, but quite a lot of work. We’ve had to have help his entire life, and now that Martha’s gone, I’ve had to get more.” Bernard purses his lips. Shakes his head. “And maybe I should’ve done a better job saving and investing when I was younger. That’s why an old man like me is still working—in addition to that I love it, of course.” He laughs, then grows serious again. “There was just always something. My wife was disabled too. Wheelchair-bound.”
I suck on my lip. I scratch at something on the table.
“Do you have a wife and kids?” Bernard asks, suddenly looking sad.
“No—I mean, I’d like to.” I’ve dated some but not much. Maybe I need to get out there more, try to meet people, try to make things happen. But much of the time I think I’m just too scared by the whole thing, by the rejection, by how hard it all is. I guess I had always assumed that by 32 I would’ve found someone. “I hope one day.”
“You seem like a fine man. I’m sure you’ll find a special lady for yourself.” He winks.
“Oh. Thanks.”
My guilt is only growing. Bernard seems like a great guy, a great father, a great husband. Enthusiastic but humble. Always kind. I can see why Stephanie feels so morally opposed to firing him. I do.
For a moment, I wonder what if I didn’t go through with it? What if I didn’t fire Bernard Vandeman? Just refused. Stephanie did. I’ll probably myself be getting let go soon anyway. Though, of course, someone else would eventually fire him. But at least it wouldn’t be me.
“And say,” Bernard says, “maybe you’d, well, please don’t feel like you have to say yes, but, but, maybe you’d like to come over for dinner sometime? We haven’t had anyone over in years. You might like my son. He can be a real hoot.”
“Ah.” I stare down at the table. It’s scuffed and dusty.
“He’s very nice and friendly. I know people get nervous around retarded people. But they shouldn’t.”
“Oh, of course. Of course.” I pick at my ear. I inhale and exhale. “Bernard, we, well, I hate to say this. But we have to let you go.”
His genial smile drops.
“What with the economic forces at play, the challenges the company has faced, we’ve had to make some tough decisions,” I say, my heartbeat picking up. I notice my hands are clasped on the table. I drop them to my lap. “I’m happy to go into more details, but before I go into further explanation and next steps, I’d like to give you a chance to speak, if you’d like.”
Bernard’s lips start moving like he’s chewing something. His cheeks sink in. Then puff out. His jaw moves side-to-side.
“Is it because my numbers were poor last quarter?” he says. “I can assure you I’ve been working to fix things. I can get better. I always have. I have some leads I’m confident about. I will stay late until I get some solid numbers again.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s already been decided. I’m sorry.”
His eyes fall to the table.
“But we’re here to help,” I say. “We want to make this, um, y’know, this transition as smooth as possible. I have a packet of information that can, I think, help you in this.” I touch the black notebook, and then open it up to reveal a sky-blue folder with a stock photo of two hands joined together in a handshake. “It has lots of valuable tips and resources.” I slide it his way.
He glances at it but doesn’t pick it up.
“It has insurance information,” I say. “You’re entitled to—”
He struggles to scoot his chair away from the table. Starts rising to his feet, shaky and slow.
“There’s no hurry,” I say. “You don’t need to leave just—”
He takes a couple steps and then collapses to the ground.
*
“Why were you so quiet at lunch?” Debbie says over the phone. I called her after leaving work, needing to speak to someone. “You always act nervous and awkward around me. Are you embarrassed of me?”
“Not at all. Not at all. I was just upset about work things. I had to—”
“You’re in your head too much.”
“What? No, I’m not—”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Me?” I say.
“You just seem so glum lately. I mean, I have a good reason to be down. So does Mom. But what’s yours?”
“Does someone have to have a reason?” I say, adding some edge to my voice, hoping she’ll quit harping me.
“You have one. So what is it?”
I pause.
“Well . . . I quit my job a few minutes ago. There was a thing that happened today that—”
“You quit your job?” She sounds intrigued, almost excited.
“I, I can’t stand only giving people bad news anymore. I don’t like it feeling like my fault.”
“Okay. Okay. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
*
At the hospital I’m told Bernard Vandeman is in room 2562. I feel compelled to visit him, not only because I feel somewhat responsible, but also because he doesn’t seem to have much family anymore. Will his special needs son be there? Will the son understand what’s going on? (And is that bad to assume he might not be able to comprehend medical emergencies?)
The hall on the second floor is quiet, sterile, except for the shuffling of feet of nurses and visitors. It smells like disinfectant. There are hand sanitizer dispensers everywhere. And almost everything is a shade of white, except for the pieces of “art” hanging on the walls, bland as if made not to be noticed.
Outside room 2562 the door is slightly open. I don’t know the etiquette for this.
I knock hesitantly, not expecting an answer.
“Come in,” says a man, surprising me, a man not Bernard Vandeman.
I push open the door and walk inside, where a middle-aged man is standing near the bed that holds Bernard, Bernard asleep with wires and tubes hooked up to him and an oxygen mask over his face.
I back up. “Oh, I’m sorry. I can—”
“No, please,” the man says. He’s wearing a pinstriped suit, his hair is slicked back, and his face is flawless, as if it’s never had a blemish of any kind. He looks like he just came from work, a politician, a lawyer, a D.A., someone who stands in front of people and commands respect. “You’re welcome to come in. You are?”
“I’m Peter from Hoelscher & Sons.” I leave out that I am no longer an employee there.
“Oh, great,” the man says. He comes around the bed and grasps my hand. “Thanks for coming for my father. No one else from the company has come so far. Real nice that you came—he won’t forget it, I guarantee.”
“You’re—you’re his son?”
“Yes, Kevin Vandeman.”
The man doesn’t seem special needs—or maybe I’m drawing on offensive ideas of what a special needs person looks and acts like.
I glance at Bernard who’s propped up in bed, a hospital gown on, his eyes closed, and his heavy, thick eyebrows bunched as if in intense concentration. His breathing is labored and loud.
I hear Kevin say something.
“Sorry, what was that?” I’m suddenly having trouble paying attention.
“I was just asking what you do at the company.”
“Oh. H.R. department.”
“Mm,” Kevin says. “My dad loves it there. Can’t picture him ever retiring. I’m sure he’d even try to go back to work tomorrow if the doctors would let him.”
“Ah,” I say, lowering my eyes, embarrassed that he clearly doesn’t know his dad has been let go. “Is he gonna be okay?”
“We’ll see. There are still plenty of tests to be run, but he’s at least stable now.”
“Oh okay. Good.”
“He’s a strong man,” Kevin says. “He’s always—”
“Do you have a brother?” I blurt out.
“A brother?”
“Or, does your dad have another son—if that’s okay to ask.” Maybe I misheard Bernard earlier today. Maybe he has two sons, and the other is special needs. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”
Kevin turns his head, puzzled. “If he has another son, I don’t know about it.”
I’m confused. I suddenly want to leave.
Footsteps come from behind me, and twisting to look, I see a woman, senior-aged, misty-eyed.
“The nurse will be in again in a minute,” she says to Kevin, who walks up to her and places his hands on her arms, consoling her. “They need to take some more blood.”
Kevin pulls her close and kisses the top of her head. He’s significantly taller than her. He’s as tall as his father.
“Oh, this is Peter from Dad’s work,” Kevin says, gesturing to me.
“Oh, pleasure. I’m Martha Vandeman.” She reaches for my hand and shakes it, my hand no doubt clammy from my growing bewilderment. “That is so sweet of you to come.”
“You . . .”—my posture dips, my eyes squint—“you’re Mr. Vandeman’s wife?”
“Mm-hmm. Forty-nine years. Fifty next August.”
“Fifty,” Kevin marvels. He purses his lips as if to whistle, but no sound comes out.
“Bernard Vandeman,” I say.
“Mm-hmm.”
I nod slowly, my head resembling that of a confused bobblehead doll. I don’t know whether to laugh or be angry. But I can’t believe my lack of perception, how I believed everything Bernard told me—though why wouldn’t I have?
I look at Bernard whose hands are by his side, outstretched, his hands red and large. He looks uncomfortable. I still don’t exactly understand what happened to him at the office. I just remember yelling for help, dialing 911 on my cell phone, the paramedics rushing in a few minutes later with a stretcher, one of them ripping open Bernard’s white dress shirt, exposing his fleshy stomach with patches of white hair and numerous moles, the other paramedic pressing on his chest for a minute before they hurried Bernard out.
“Peter?”
“Huh?”
Martha is facing me, speaking. “Would you like to join us in a prayer?”
“Oh.” I desperately want to leave. I want to get out of here as quickly as possible. “Okay.”
Kevin and Martha move closer to the bed, and I join them, and then they start holding hands, and Martha reaches out for mine, and I wait a moment before finally grasping hers.
Kevin and Martha bow their heads, and I do too, closing my eyes like them. I haven’t prayed in a long time.
“Dear Lord,” Kevin says, his voice weak like he might start crying. “Our father is a good, good man. Please watch over him as he recovers, if it’s in your plan, and help him to . . .”
After a moment I can’t keep my eyes closed any longer, and I peer down at Bernard a few feet from me, and a resentment blooms in my body at this man, this liar, this co-worker I feel both sorry for and angry at. Is anything I know about him true?
“ . . . and help our family to count our blessings and . . . ”
My body tenses and I can’t help but squeeze Martha’s hand a little tighter, a pulse of frustration escaping my body, and my face changes into a glare, a scowl, and part of me wants to lunge at Bernard Vandeman, shake him awake, to see if he’s faking this too, to see just who he really is.
“Peter? Peter?”
I look up, and Kevin and Martha are staring at me with concern. We’re no longer holding hands.
“Are you, are you okay?”
BIO
Chris Brower is a writer from Chicago. He is the author of two novels, How to Keep Everyone Happy and I Look Like You. His essays and short fiction have appeared in The Hollywood Reporter, Write Room, Concho River Review, and 2am Muse.
