The Hollow Tree at Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

me every time I come."

  "I have a son, but he's at college now. I know boys are always ready for food."

  The tomato soup was in a pan, and the sandwiches were made and ready to grill. I had been confident he'd be willing to eat. While I heated the soup, Jimmie pulled another twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and put it on the table.

  "Here's more for you to keep. I've got over $100.00 now," he said.

  "Great! I want to tell you about the lady we are going to see."

  "OK."

  "Her name is Cora Baker, but she will be happy to have you call her Cora. She knew your grandfather very well when she was young."

  "Is she that old lady with all the old stuff in her barn? We were supposed to go there on a field trip from school, but the bus couldn't get down her road, so it was cancelled."

  "Yes, that's the place. Look, Jimmie, Cora dated your grandfather for several years. They broke up before he went to college and met your grandmother, Sandra Sue. She cared for him a whole lot."

  Jimmie thought about that for a minute, but didn't say anything.

  "How does that make you feel?"

  "I dunno. I think maybe I like it. I like to talk to my grandfather Jimmie, just pretend of course. He tells me what to do sometimes, when things don't make sense. She's really talked with him?"

  "Lots and lots. Want to know a secret?"

  "Yes!"

  "They broke up over a stupid practical joke, and she's been sorry ever since. But you can't tell her I told you."

  Jimmie grinned. "It's a deal! How do we get there?"

  I told him where it was, but he was worried about Bert finding his bike anywhere near home. He insisted on riding at least part of the way there. He wouldn't even agree to put the bike in my cellar.

  So, the next morning, I met Jimmie at ten at the corner of Centerline and School Section Road. He pushed his bike into the bushes where it was well-hidden, and rode the rest of the way with me in the Jeep.

  Cora had composed herself overnight, and she and little Jimmie hit it off instantly. He was delighted to see the pictures of his great-great grandparents, but held the book with the photos of his grandfather with care approaching reverence. He asked Cora to tell him the story behind every single picture, but at the same time seemed to have an innate ability to stop just short of asking embarrassing questions. I was mostly a spectator, but I was happy to be there.

  He ate three sloppy joes, much to Cora's delight, and an extra scoop of the ice cream, not to mention potato chips, cookies, and a handful of carrots.

  By mid-afternoon, he was calling Cora "Nana," and was accepting little around-the-shoulder hugs from her. In short, the day was a huge success.

  Before I dropped Jimmie at his bike, however, I had to warn him about a part of my plan that might not make him so happy. Since I'd learned Bert was to be out of town (if I could believe him), I had decided I'd try to talk to Jimmie's mother, Dee. When I told him I was going to visit her the next day, however, he didn't object at all. He did say he would stay out all day, that he didn't want to listen.

  He agreed to help me with one thing, though, because I certainly didn't want to show up before Bert was gone. Jimmie said he'd wait till Bert left, and then ride past my house as a signal. But he insisted he couldn't stop, that I'd have to watch for him through a window.

  After I saw Jimmie pedal by in the morning, I waited another half hour, and then drove over to the truck-house on Alder Road. I carefully pulled into the yard, and climbed the steps to the door. It was actually a standard exterior door, fitted into an opening cut and framed into the semi-trailer body. No use hesitating. I knocked firmly.

  After several minutes the door was opened by a grossly overweight woman in a pink sweat suit. She was breathing heavily.

  "We don't want to buy anything," she began.

  I smiled my best I-care smile. "I'm not selling anything. I'm Anastasia Raven. I bought the old Mosher house. I've met your son, Jimmie."

  "Oh," she said.

  "May I come in? I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

  "Dee, Mrs. Dee Pickard." She seemed uncomfortable, but finally said. "OK. I guess it's all right."

  She stepped in and I entered the made-over trailer, expecting the worst. I was shocked beyond any expectations. Instead of being a mess, the interior was clean, well-lit and tastefully decorated. The only thing to complain about was a lack of windows. The space had been transformed to be very much like the inside of a standard trailer. There were too many knick-knacks for my taste, but it certainly wasn't my house. The primary theme was angels. I wondered which one Jimmie had given her for Christmas.

  "Have a seat." She pointed to the couch and waddled to the easy chair facing the television. I was afraid I was going to have to compete with game shows, but she picked up the remote and clicked the tube off.

  "Mrs. Pickard," I said. I was still so shocked I hardly knew what to say. "I'm concerned about Jimmie."

  "But school's over for the year, isn't it? Did he lie to me and skip the last week of school?"

  "No, nothing like that. Jimmie seems very responsible."

  "What's he done, then?"

  "Nothing bad. Honestly, Mrs. Pickard. Let me explain. Jimmie works very hard to earn enough money for things that are basic needs for a school child."

  The woman didn't answer but she leaned forward, clasped her hands, extended her arms and pushed them between her knees. She began rocking forward and back.

  I had to press my argument. It might be the only chance I'd have. "He has hinted to me that there might be problems with Bert."

  She continued to rock.

  "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Dee. May I call you Dee?"

  She nodded.

  I didn't have high hopes for real information on this visit. I knew abused women often refuse to admit they are in trouble.

  "Is there a reason Jimmie had to buy his own winter coat?"

  "Bert won't give me any money," she whispered.

  "Not at all?" I asked, looking around.

  She saw my eyes roving over the knick-knacks. "These things are mine from before. Bert leaves them alone if I'm good." I wondered what that meant.

  "What about things Jimmie needs?" I insisted.

  "Bert doesn't like Jimmie. He makes him stay out back in a cabin he built for him. Jimmie says it's nice." There was a desperate note in her voice. She wanted to believe it very much.

  I closed my eyes for a minute, then said, "Have you seen his room?"

  "I can't get out, really."

  I thought I saw my opening. I asked gently, "Would you like to see where Jimmie lives?"

  "Can you help me down the steps?"

  "Of course."

  It was not a simple project. The truth was, even though she had to be ten years younger than I am, Dee could hardly walk. But she sent me to a closet where I found a cane, placed on a high shelf, out of her reach. That seemed particularly cruel.

  Getting to Jimmie's room took almost an hour. Dee could only take a few steps before she had to rest. I brought out a kitchen chair and she perched on it for several minutes after walking each five or six feet. She was so large, her behind rolled off the sides of the chair and she seemed to have trouble balancing on the seat. When we finally worked our way around to the back of the trailer, she looked around, confusion showing on her face.

  "Where is his cabin?" she asked.

  "Right here," I said, pointing at the low lean-to made of scraps of wood with the blue tarp battened over the top. I thought for a minute she was going to fall off the chair, but she took a deep breath, and struggled to her feet again. We continued the slow march. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to find the door, the shed was such a patchwork of different surfaces. But when we got close enough, I found one board with hinges on the edge, actually a cupboard door, and an old-fashioned latch obviously salvaged from Jimmie's scavenging. I pressed the thumb button and the bar lifted out of the hook. I pulled the door open an
d bent over to look in. The roof was only four feet high, not tall enough even for Jimmie to stand up.

  "Sit down and wait a minute," I suggested to Dee. I crawled inside the cave-like space.

  An electric drop cord was tacked across the ceiling and hung near the door. I reached out and pushed the button; the small room flooded with harsh light. The walls and ceiling were lined with odds and ends of pink and blue foam insulation board, cut and fitted together like a crazy quilt. The floor consisted of a couple of pieces of plywood laid directly on the dirt. A scrap of torn, stained carpet led from the door to the opposite wall. To my right, under the low end of the shed, I saw a bare mattress with a neatly arranged, but odd set of coverings, including a sleeping bag, a blanket, and a torn canvas tarp. Wooden potato crates were stacked along the walls for shelving.

  I backed out of the doorway, and said, "You need to see this. Let me put the chair by the door."

  Dee stood up and waited till I got the chair placed beside the opening so that she should be able to see in if she leaned forward. She got settled and began to examine Jimmie's "cabin." I couldn't see her face, as it was turned into the small door, and I wondered how she was reacting. However, her body language began to send me signals. I saw her heavy shoulders rise and fall once, then again. Her knuckles tightened on the handle of the cane, which she held with both arms extended as a prop.

  After almost five minutes, she pushed on the cane and sat upright. She still didn't speak, but seemed to be fumbling with her clothes. I wondered if she'd been bitten by a spider or something. But in another few seconds