The Hollow Tree at Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

to mention the sisters, because I wasn't yet ready to betray Jimmie's secret list.

  "We have to do something to help him! Can we go over there now?"

  This was a remarkable request, because I knew Cora only went out when she felt there was an event she couldn't avoid. "Not so fast," I insisted. "I just learned all this yesterday. The boy doesn't trust anyone, but I think I might win him over. Give me some time, OK?"

  Cora agreed, but she was clearly agitated. We spent the rest of the afternoon puttering around the museum. I really liked Cora and admired her local history projects. The upshot was, I volunteered to come out once a week to help her sort boxed items and enter them in the database in her very new computer.

  I told her I planned to see the boy the next day, and she sent the rest of the brownies home with me.

  Jimmie, the grandson, pedaled into my yard just before nine Saturday morning. I could not believe how thin the boy was, but now that I'd seen his house, I suspected his girth was not only genetic, but perhaps because the only meal he ate each day was the school lunch. But now school was out for the summer.

  I brought out gloves for the both of us, which he complained about, but finally put on his small hands. I knew he picked up old metal all the time, but I decided I didn't want him getting tetanus at my house, or his house, whichever it was.

  The rusting manure spreader I'd been trying to get rid of was going to require a tractor to pull it out from where it had taken root in the yard, but behind that was a brown pile of broken iron wheels, buckets, gears, and many unidentifiable objects. Jimmie hadn't lied. Anything small enough to fit in his milk crates had been removed. I backed the Jeep across the lawn so we didn't have to carry things very far, and folded down the back seat. Some of the items required us to work together to pull them free of the mess. By eleven, we had filled the back of the Jeep.

  "You're all right, Ana," Jimmie finally said. He'd hardly spoken all morning.

  "Thank you," I replied, gratified that I'd measured up to his exacting standards. "How much money do you think you'll get from this?"

  "Steel is $75.00 a ton." The boy certainly spoke like a midget businessman.

  I strained to do some math in my head. "But that's less than half a cent per pound!"

  "Yeah, but it all adds up. Aluminum is worth a lot more. And people throw out a lot of cans. Copper's even better, but if you take in very much they think you stole it."

  "How much money can you make?"

  "Most days I manage a couple of dollars. I'll have more time to hunt for stuff now that school is out. Let's get going. The scrap yard closes at noon on Saturdays."

  We climbed in the Jeep and traveled mostly in silence. Jimmie directed me with minimal words to Harold's Scrap Yard, about four miles away, on the north edge of Cherry Hill. When we arrived, a woman in a booth waved us onto a scale, and I drove cautiously over the platform. In a minute she waved us on and we continued to the back of a large metal building. Mountains of metal scrap, more kinds than I'd ever thought about, were scattered around, with narrow driveways between the piles. Jimmie pointed to one of the mounds. We drove there, where a friendly man with no teeth helped us unload. "This is Gus," Jimmie said. "He's my friend."

  "Hello, Gus," I said.

  The man wiped a rusty palm on his greasy pants and extended it. I shook hands, trying to remember that dirt wasn't necessarily the same thing as germs. "Hi, Missy," he said, nodding and bowing.

  "OK, bye, Gus. See you next week," Jimmie said to the man. "Now we go weigh the Jeep empty," I turned the vehicle around, and on the way back to the scale he added, "Gus isn't very bright, but he likes me."

  "Don't you have friends?" I asked.

  "Wait. We have to get paid," a deft avoidance of answering me. The woman recorded our weight without the metal and Jimmie said, "I have to go in the office and get the money."

  He came back in a few minutes, grinning from ear to ear. "We got sixteen dollars and thirty-two cents. I don't have to put the change in the envelope," he added.

  "Who says?"

  "It's my rule. The bag would get too heavy if I put coins in it."

  "Jimmie, would you come and eat lunch with me?" I asked. "I have a tub of brownies, and I can't eat them all by myself."

  "Really?"

  "Really." I nodded at him seriously; another business decision.

  After two peanut butter sandwiches, milk and a brownie, I tried to pry more information out of Jimmie.

  "Tell me about your mom," I asked.

  "She's nice," Jimmie answered. That wasn't much help.

  "Is your family just your mom and you?"

  "Nope."

  "Who else lives with you?"

  "Bert. He's my mom's boyfriend." Jimmie licked chocolate from his fingers, and looked longingly at the tub.

  "Go ahead," I offered. "Eat all you want. What is Bert like?

  "He's not very nice. I try to stay away from him."

  "What does he do that's not nice?" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  "He drinks too much, and then he likes to hit people. I just run away, but my mom puts up with it. I don't understand why."

  I wondered if any answer I gave would make sense to a serious boy. "Sometimes women feel as if it's better to stay with someone and be abused than to be all alone."

  "But she would have me!" Jimmie said. He sort of choked on a piece of brownie. "I don't want to talk about it any more."

  "Fair enough," I said. "But, will you trust me a little bit?"

  "Maybe. For what?"

  "Why don't you let me keep the money at my house? I'm really afraid someone might steal it from your tree. There are a lot of bad people in the world."

  "That's the truth," Jimmie agreed quietly. But he didn't say anything about me keeping the money.

  I tried something else. "Why did you draw three branches on the envelope? I have to tell you they look just like something described in a book."

  "I know. I read the book."

  "You read a Nancy Drew book?"

  "Why not? Are you going to tease me because they're for girls?" his eyes roved around the room as if he were looking for a place to hide.

  "No, not at all! People should read whatever books they like."

  "I finished all the Hardy Boys the library had. Nancy Drew is smart, and she fixes things for people without a lot of help."

  "She does indeed! So you just liked the crossed twig design, or is there more? In the book it stood for something."

  "Two things. First the bad guys called it Three Branch Ranch, and that was a phony investment scheme. But then they changed it to Three Branch Home, to get people to give money to help kids. But it was a scam."

  "Why do you use it?" I had a guess as to part of the answer.

  "Because I want to help some kids," Jimmie answered evasively.

  "Your sisters?"

  "How do you know about my sisters?"

  "I don't really, but it was one of the words on your list."

  "I'm going now." Jimmie said. His eyes were hard. He grabbed another brownie and ran out the kitchen door before I could stop him. I hadn't paid him yet for his time. I stood at the window over the sink and watched him pedal away. Everything about his body language said "furious."

  I did go to the Crossroads Fellowship church on Sunday morning. I figured a few prayers for Jimmie couldn't hurt. Adele introduced me to the pastor, Theo Dornbaugh. I knew almost none of the music, but I liked how upbeat it sounded, and the sermon included the Scripture that it would be better for someone to have a millstone put around his neck and be thrown in the sea than to hurt a child. I certainly agreed with the message in that verse. We didn't have a sea nearby, but there were a lot of rivers in the county.

  After the service I had another question for Adele. I caught her during the coffee hour. It wasn't hard to find her; she was in charge of the kitchen.

  I grabbed a cup of coffee and called through the pass-through, "Adele!"

  "Ana! Come around
here and talk to me." The kitchen door was closed, but I pushed it open and entered. No one seemed to object. Adele had covered her ample frame with a flowered sandwich board apron and was rinsing spoons at the sink. "I'm so glad you came! Do you like our little group?"

  "I hardly think I can answer that yet. But I would like to ask you something."

  "Shoot." She shook off the spoons and placed them on a clean towel.

  "Look, I'm really new here, but is there any fund, or some way, or…"

  "Are you in trouble? I thought that man gave you plenty of money."

  "It's not for me! Let me explain. I've met a little boy, and he has almost nothing. Even worse, I think his father beats him."

  "That's pretty serious. Who is it?"

  "He'd be really angry if he knew I was talking with anyone about him. He's very proud. I don't think I should say who it is just yet."

  "Then we can't help much, can we?" Adele was put out. She wanted to know all the juicy details.

  "Come on, Adele, be patient." I was put out too. "Give me a few days to win his trust. I just want to know if there is something that could be done."

  "There's the Family Friends Committee."

  "What do they do?"

  "We try to find ways to help families in need. Sometimes we take them food or clothes, or we help them find jobs. Once in a while we can afford to provide a larger item or help with a utility bill. Things like that."

  "That would really help this family, I think." I knew it wouldn't scratch the surface of what Jimmie really needed, but anything would be a start. "Do families have to apply?"

  "Not formally, but they have to be willing to accept the help, and the committee has to agree." Adele accepted the empty serving plates