Mr. Henderson was in trouble. BIG trouble. The kind of trouble that couldn't be fixed with flowers, chocolate, or even groveling—though he'd tried groveling for the last hour with disastrous results.
It had started innocently enough that morning. The sun was shining, birds were singing (until they flew too close to Vida's trailer), and the smell of bacon hung in the air. Mrs. Henderson stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her favorite floral sundress—a garment that required at least five yards of fabric—turning this way and that. She was examining herself with the critical, dangerous eye that every partner recognizes as a warning sign.
"Honey?" She called out to her husband, who was reading the morning newspaper at their oversized kitchen table, which groaned under the weight of his elbows. She stepped out in the hall where he could see her. "Do you think I'm getting chunky?"
It was a trap. A classic, flashing-neon-lights, siren-blaring trap. Any married person in the universe, human or cryptid, would recognize it as the tactical nuclear weapon of relationship questions.
Mr. Henderson, bless his enormous Bigfoot heart, did not. He was reading the sports section and his brain was currently occupied with baseball stats.
He looked up, glanced at his wife of twenty years, and said with complete, unbridled honesty.
"Honey, you've always been chunky."
The silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of silence the precedes natural disasters, like tsunamis, earthquakes, or meteor strikes. The birds stopped singing. The wind stopped blowing. Even the dust motes seemed to freeze in terror.
Mrs. Henderson's face crumpled. Her lower lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears.
And before Mr. Henderson could backtrack, explain, or clarify that he meant it in a loving way—that "chunky" meant "strong" and "durable" and "capable of surviving a harsh winter in the Pacific Northwest without a coat"---she was gone.
She moved with surprising speed for a chunky woman, storming out the door, across the park, and straight to Vida's trailer. There, she proceeded to sob into the vampire's silk robe while Vida patted her back awkwardly and wondered why she was the emotional support vampire for the neighborhood.
Henderson's youngest son stepped out of his room, holding a bowl of cereal. "Uh, dad, why did mom go to Vida's crying like that?"
"Because your father is an idiot!" came the shout from their daughter's room down the hall.
Mr. Henderson sat there in the silence, staring at his coffee. He had to agree with his daughter. Their father was indeed and idiot.
A little later, the men of Dead End Row had gathered in what could only be described as an Emergency Council of War. Mr. Henderson sat at his kitchen table, his massive head in his massive hands, looking absolutely miserable.
Ricky perched on the counter, swinging his legs. Chen stood in the corner, successfully inhabiting his body and looking sympathetic in that detached way only the dead could manage. Marcus leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.
And Dale stood by the window with his eternal white BEER can, watching the proceedings with the mild interest of a man watching a car crash in slow motion.
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," Mr. Henderson moaned, his voice vibrating the floorboards. "I love my wife. She's beautiful. I just meant….she's always been…substantial. Solid. Strong. Like an oak tree."
"But you said chunky," Ricky pointed out helpfully.
"I KNOW I SAID CHUNKY!" Mr. Henderson's bellow rattled the windows and knocked a spice jar off the shelf. He took a breath, lowering his volume to a dull roar. "It came out wrong. I panicked. The word was just there."
"At least you were honest," Marcus offered, trying to be the optimist. "That counts for something, right? Honesty is the foundation of a relationship?"
"Does it?" Mr. Henderson looked up hopefully, his eyes wet.
"Probably not," Chen droned. "In my experience, honesty is usually what gets you killed. Or divorced. But mostly killed."
"Being honest doesn't make you love her any less, "Ricky added, nodding sagely like he had any experience with romantic relationships that didn't involve sniffing tails. "Paco's ex-girlfriend was a Golden Retriever. She was a little chunky too, but he never told her. He just had me buy her bigger collars."
Dale took a long drink from his can and spoke up from the window.
"We could kill her."
The room went silent. Every head turned to look at Dale, who stood there completely serious, the can raised halfway to his lips.
"DALE!" Mr. Henderson stood up so fast his chair fell over backward with a crash that shook the trailer. "WE ARE NOT KILLING ANYONE!"
"Just offering solutions," DAle said with a shrug, taking another drink.
"Your solution is to KILL my wife???"
"Seemed cheaper than couples therapy. Cleaner, too."
"GET OUT!" Mr. Henderson pointed to the door, his massive arm trembling with rage and distress. "Get out of my house, Dale!"
Dale shrugged again, unperturbed, and shuffled out the door, BEER in hand.
As he walked across the park toward his shed, he could hear voices coming from Mira's place–the ladies had congregated there, probably because Mira's wheelchair made her a captive audience. Dale paused by a tree, pretending to examine a patch of moss while he listened in.
"---and then he said I"VE ALWAYS BEEN CHUNKY!" Mrs. Henderson's voice was thick with tears and rage. "Twenty years of marriage! Three children! I groom his back hair! And that's what he thinks of me!"
"Men are idiots," Vida said bluntly. "I've been alive three centuries. They haven't evolved. Not one bit."
"He didn't mean it the way it sounded," Mrs. Lawson said gently, ever the peacemaker. "You know how Homer is. He's not good with words. He communicates in grunts and heavy lifting."
"He was good enough at communicating those words." Mrs. Henderson sniffled.
"I once got mad at Luther for telling me I sounded like a screaming banshee," Mrs. Lawson continued, "until I realized I am a banshee and I was screaming. He didn't mean it to sound mean, he just said it like it was. Men don't think. Their brains are mostly just static and sports scores."
Dale lifted his beer can to his lips, considering the situation. Then, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, he announced to no one in particular:
"We could kill him."
Through Mira's window, Vida's head snapped toward the sound. "DALE! NO!"
"What?" he called back innocently. "Just trying to help balance the scales."
He shuffled off toward his shed, leaving chaos in his wake.
Later that evening, the situation had not improved. Mrs. Henderson had made it clear through Vida—who was acting as a reluctant messenger and enjoying the drama a little to much—that Mr. Henderson was not welcome in his own home until, and she quoted, "he learned some sensitivity, grew a brain, and thought about what he had done."
"Wait, what? I'm not leaving my home," Mr. Henderson said, crossing his massive arms. "I paid the mortgage."
Vida sighed, rubbing her temples. "She said you would say that. And she said, sure, you could stay in the home. With the kids. And you have to get them off to school, cook them dinners, pack the lunches, keep the wash up, braid hair, and do everything that she does for them while she stays somewhere else."
Mr. Henderson paled beneath his fur. The color drained right out of his face. "No. Tell her I'll be gone in twenty minutes."
Vida walked away, her robe flowing behind her with flair. "Coward!" she called over her shoulder.
Twenty minutes later, Mr Henderson was standing on his own porch, suitcase in hand, looking like a kicked puppy. A very large, eight-foot-tall, furry kicked puppy holding a tiny samsonite.
"Hey, you can stay at my place," Ricky offered, appearing at Mr. Henderson's side. "I've got a couch. It's not big enough for you, but you could probably sleep diagonally across the floor if we move the coffee table and the TV stand."
"Really?" Mr. Henderson looked pathetically grateful. "You'd let me stay with you?"
"Of course, man. That's what neighbors are for," Ricky patted Mr. Henderson's massive arm, which was like patting a tree trunk.
"Thank you, Ricky, I really appreciate it."
They started walking toward Ricky's trailer, Mr. Henderson's footsteps making the ground shake slightly with each step.
Dale and Marcus watched from Dale's lawn chair area, observing the proceedings like two elderly men watching construction work.
"You think that's going to work?" Dale asked, taking a sip.
Marcus considered Ricky's tiny aluminum-can trailer and Mr. Henderson's massive frame. "Probably not. Physics is against them."
Dale was quiet for a moment, then said thoughtfully, "We could always kill one of them."
Marcus turned to look at Dale slowly. "What?"
Dale shrugged, completely unbothered. "What? It would give them more room."
"Dale, we're not—" Marcus stopped himself, realizing the futility. "You know what? Never mind."
"I'm just saying, logistically speaking—"
"Goodnight, Dale," Marcus stood up and headed toward his trailer, shaking his head.
Dale raised his beer can in farewell. "Your loss. I know a guy who does discreet work. Uses woodchippers."
After three days of staying with Ricky, Mr. Henderson had had enough. It was a nightmare of ergonomics. Ricky's trailer was designed for a man who was five feet tall. Mr. Henderson was nearly eight.
When he sat on the toilet, his knees hit the opposite wall. When he tried to shower, the water hit him in the navel. Sleeping was the worst part. He lay diagonally across the living room floor, his head in the kitchen and his feet in the hallway. Ricky had tripped over him three times in the night, once stepping directly on his ear.
He went to Ricky and asked him if he would be hurt if he found somewhere else to stay.
"Oh, thank god," Ricky sighed, slumping in relief. "I was trying to figure out how to tell you delicately. Homer, you're too big. I keep finding a foot here or an arm there. And shedding…my vacuum cleaner is crying."
They parted on good terms. Ricky waved from his doorway as Mr. Henderson shuffled off with his suitcase, still walking bent at an unnatural angle from three days of crouching.
Mr. Henderson stood in the center of the park, looking around at his options. His eyes landed on Dale's shed at the back of the property. It wasn't much, but it was something.
He walked over to where Dale sat in his eternal lawn chair, the mountain of BEER cans beside him glinting in the afternoon sun.
Dale looked up at Mr. Henderson before he could even open his mouth.
"Nope," Dale said flatly.
Mr. Henderson blinked. "I didn't even ask anything yet."
"Don't matter. The answer is still nope."
"But—"
"Nope."
"Dale. I just need–"
"Still no." Dale took a long drink, not breaking eye contact.
Mr. Henderson's shoulders slumped. "I can't stay with my Wife. I can't stay with Ricky. Where am I supposed to go? The Woods?"
"Not my shed," Dale said. "That's where. My shed is a temple."
"I wouldn't take up much space—"
"You'd take up all my space. My shed's only eight by ten.
You're bigger than my shed. You'd wear it like a hat."
"I'm not bigger than—"Mr. Henderson stopped, considering the actual dimensions. "Okay, I might be bigger than your
Shed."
"Yep."
"So that's a no."
"Yep, that's a no."
Mr. Henderson stood there for another moment, hoping
Dale would take pity on him. Dale raised his BEER.
"We could kill your wife."
"DALE!!"
"Just trying to help get you back into your own home.
Remove the obstacle."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Mr. Henderson
muttered, turning away with his suitcase.
Dale shrugged. "Everybody does."
Mr. Henderson stood there for a minute and then got an
Idea. He turned back.
"Dale…do you still have that old army tent?"
Dale's eye twitched a little. He knew where this was going.
"Yep."
"Could I borrow it? Just for a few days until things blow
over? I'm begging you."
Dale stared at his can for a long moment, as if it held the
answer to life's greatest questions. Finally, he sighed.
"Sure. Fine. It's in the shed."
"Thank you, Dale! You're a lifesaver!"
"Yeah, yeah," Dale waved him off. "You can set it up beside
the shed. NOT IN the shed. BESIDE the shed. And don't touch
my mower."
"Absolutely! Thank You!"
An hour later, the tent was up—a massive, olive-green army
tent that had probably seen action in at least two wars. It smelled
of mildew and history. It was barely big enough for Mr.
Henderson, but it was better than sleeping in Ricky's living room
floor. As evening fell, Dale settled into his lawnchair beside the
mountain of cans, ready to enjoy the peace and quiet of his domain. He raised his eternal BEER can to his lips and took a long, satisfying drink.
That's when it happened.
SSSSSSSNNNNNNNOOOOORRRREEEEE.
A sound like a chainsaw. No, like multiple chainsaws fighting a woodchopper inside a jet engine.
SSSSSSSNNNNNNNOOOOORRRREEEEE.
Dale's eye twitched. Mr. Henderson was sewing some very big logs. VERY BIG LOGS. The tent actually moved with each thunderous snore, the fabric puffing in and out like the tent was alive and breathing.
SSSSSSSNNNNNNNOOOOORRRREEEEE.
Dale tried to ignore it. He took another drink.
SSSSSSSNNNNNNNOOOOORRRRREEEE.
He could feel it in his bones. In his teeth. The lawn chair was vibrating. The mountain of empty cans started to rattle, a chorus of aluminum agony.
SSSSSSSNNNNNNNOOOOORRRRREEEE.
Dale stood up, his jaw clenched, and took a long, long drink from his can. He started walking toward his shed door, then stopped. He turned and looked at the tent, which was now actively shaking with the force of Mr Henderson's sleep apnea.
"You know," Dale said to himself, his voice barely audible over the snoring. "We could just kill him, put him through the wood chipper and use him as fertilizer."
He stood there for another moment, seriously considering his own suggestion. He looked at the shovel leaning against the wall. He looked back at the tent.
Finally, he shook his head, took another drink, and went inside his shed, closing the door firmly behind him.
The snoring continued, echoing across Dead End Row, rattling windows and setting off one car alarm somewhere in town.
By day five, Mr Henderson was getting desperate. And desperate men take desperate advice. He called the men together to get ideas on how to get his wife back.
Chen suggested a nice, lovely picnic. "Somewhere meaningful," he said, his dead eyes staring thoughtfully off into the distance. "Somewhere peaceful and quiet. Where the earth is soft."
"This could work," Mr Henderson said, grabbing a notepad. "Where is a good place to go?"
"Oh, I know this lovely little spot off of Route 80. It's very relaxing. Lots of lovely trees. The lawn is really well maintained, and if you're lucky, you will get to see a live funeral."
Mr Henderson stared at him, "Funeral?"
"Yeah. Toller's Cemetery off Route 80. It's a beautiful place. The soil quality is top notch. Very loamy."
Mr. Henderson crossed that off the list. "Next."
Ricky suggested taking her on a long walk in the park. "I know this awesome dog park in the next town over," Ricky said excitedly. "Lots of fire hydrants. Good smells."
Mr Lawson suggested flowers and candy. "Keep it classic/ Don't reinvent the wheel."
So, Mr Henderson's brain running on awful tent-sleep, he decided to take some of the advice.
He packed the picnic basket, laid out the quilt, opened the wine, and waited for his wife in the cemetery off Route 80. Mrs Henderson arrived, saw where they were, and her eyes went wide with horror.
"A GRAVEYARD? YOU BROUGHT ME TO A GRAVEYARD?"
"Chen said it was a beautiful , peaceful place that he liked to go too."
"CHEN IS DEAD! OF COURSE HE LIKES GRAVEYARDS! HE'S SHOPPING FOR REAL ESTATE!"
She stormed off. When she got back to the park, she slammed the trailer door so hard the entire park shook.
Dishes rattled in Vida's cupboards. DAle had an empty can roll by his chair. He was going to seriously kill that Bigfoot if something didn't happen soon.
Next, Mr. Henderson tried the flowers and chocolates.
He went to the biggest florist in town, a place called "Petals and Stems" that always smelled like a garden exploded. He walked through the door, looking at the overwhelming array of roses, lilies, and daisies.
"Can I help you, dude?"
Mr Henderson froze. That voice. That slow, lazy drawl. He turned to see Brandon standing behind the counter, wearing a green florist apron over his usual tie-dye shirt. A name tag that read "BRENDON" was crossed out with Sharpie and corrected underneath with "BRANDON"
"You work here?" Mr Henderson asked, bewildered.
"Part-time, man. Gotta pay the bills, dude. Plus, flowers are cool. They're just like…plants, but fancy. Earth's confetti, you know?" Brandon stared at a rose like he'd never seen one before, gently poking a thorn. "Ow. Sharp."
"What can I get you man?"
"I need something for my wife. I messed up. Big time."
"Say no more, bro. I got you." Brandon shuffled over to a display of bright yellow flowers with feathery petals that were dropping pollen like snow. "These are perfect. Super pretty, smell amazing. Very yellow."
Mr Henderson sniffed them. "Are you sure?"
"Trust me, dude. Yellow means friendship. Or apology. Or maybe caution? I don't know, but they look expensive."
Mr Henderson bought three dozen.
The candy store was easier. Mr Henderson knew exactly what he was looking for—those little chocolates with caramel in the middle. He knew she loved those. He bought her a whole box.
He presented both gifts to his wife that evening, standing on their porch with hope in his massive eyes.
Mrs. Henderson took one look aat the flowers and her eyes went wide.
"Are those ragweed?"
"They're yellow?"
"I'M ALLERGIC TO RAGWEED!" She sneezed three times in rapid succession, her eyes already starting to water. "And those chocolates—those are your favorites, Homer! Not mine! I like the ones with raspberry filling! You bought yourself chocolates!"
The door slammed. Again. The park shook. Again.
Dale stood up from his lawn chair, BEER can in hand, and stared at Mr Henderson with an expression that clearly said he was about to commit a felony involving a shovel.
That night, after Mr Henderson had trudged back to his tent in defeat. Marcus appeared at his side. "You're going about this all wrong," Marcus sid, sitting down on a log near the tent.
"You think???" Mr Henderson answered miserably, holding his head in his hands. "I'm living in a tent, next to a serial killer, and bathing in the pond. My wife totally hates me. And I'm covered in ragweed pollen."
"You're trying too hard to be a romantic gesture guy. You're a straightforward, honest guy. You're a Bigfoot. You don't do nuance."
Marcus leaned forward. "Stop taking everyone else's advice. Be yourself. Go to her. Beg her for forgiveness. Tell her you're an idiot and you can't live without her. Honestly, it is the best policy."
Marcus paused, then added, "And if that doesn't work, tell her you'll do the dishes. That usually helps."
"That's it? Just…tell her the truth?"
"Just tell her the truth."
Ten minutes later, Mr Henderson stood at his own front door and knocked.
Mrs Henderson opened it, her arms crossed, her eyes red and puffy, her expression guarded.
"I'm an idiot," Mr Henderson said immediately, the words rushing out. "I'm a complete and total idiot. I miss you. I hate the tent. I hate Ricky's couch. I hate Dale—he threatened to kill me four times just today. I just want to come home. You are beautiful and I am stupid."
Mrs Henderson looked at him. Her expression softened just a fraction.
"And," Mr Henderson added, playing his ace card, "I'll do the dishes. For a month. And the laundry."
Mrs. Henderson sighed, stepping back to let him in. "Make it two months."
"Deal."
From his lawn chair at the back of the property, Dale watched the door close. He took a long drink from his can. "Should have killed'em both," he muttered. "Save me a lot of noise."
He settled back into his chair, finally enjoying the silence.
Just another night at Dead End Row