The Tree Goddess

by Tom Raimbault

  How could Sara say, “No”?

  It was a week before closing on the duplex condo that Sara had purchased in Circle Point. Sara was working her coffee shop in the early, AM hours when suddenly, eyes were locked with a stranger who had entered the establishment. Immediately, Sara felt the familiar, uncomfortable feeling. It was Kevin, the once boy who was left to drown in the tunnel. She hoped he wouldn't recognize her.

  “Good morning, can I help you?”

  He placed 3 dollars on the counter, an unusual act in comparison to other customers. “Give me your house blend; large, black.”

  “Sure, right away!” Sara grabbed a large, specialty cup with wraparound heat pad and poured the daily blend made just an hour ago. As the coffee filled the cup, the nagging guilt combined with a longing to “clear the air” with the stranger who had haunted Sara for many years was suddenly overpowering.

  The lid was snapped on and brought over to the counter. Then she looked up and stuttered some before speaking. “Are you… did you get trapped in that tunnel over at Hidden Lake when you were a boy?”

  Kevin was surprised; eyes soon revealed his sudden awareness of who Sara was. “Yeah!”

  Heat flushed on Sara's cheeks and ears, obviously blushing. “I'm sorry; I was the girl that you called out to. I was so young.”

  “Oh, so that was you?”

  Sara nodded.

  Kevin didn't seem to care. “Bah, don't worry about it; water under the bridge; no pun intended! If anything, I learned a valuable lesson that day. Don't get myself in places I can't get out of. How much do I owe you?”

  And just like that, the apology was quickly accepted. But Sara continued to feel the guilt. “It's on the house; no charge today.”

  “No, come on! I'm not going to take a free coffee. Here, keep the change!” Kevin slid the 3 dollars across the counter; wedding band was seen on his left, ring finger. And then he walked out, bell chimed as the door opened while holding it for a woman who now entered.

  One week later; the day after closing on her new, duplex condo; Sara had arrived in Circle Point and parked in the street in front of her new home. The rented trailer was soon to arrive with furniture. But Sara stopped dead in her tracks once exiting the car. Directly across the street, Kevin wore a military uniform and was loading luggage in the back of his vehicle.

  The neighborhood was silent, not a bird chirped in the trees much less a gentle breeze. The two had quickly taken notice of each other.

  “Hey, good morning! You're my new neighbor?” Kevin spoke out across the street—handsome in a uniform with shiny boots.

  “Good morning; yes! I closed yesterday and I'm moving in.”

  “Well welcome to the neighborhood; you're going to like it here! Listen, I'd hate to cut you short, but I've got a plane to catch!” And with that statement, Sara's brother and her boyfriend roared down the street in the moving truck. Furniture had arrived.

  She spoke over the approaching noise, “Well, I'll catch you around! Good luck to you.” Suddenly, heat could be felt over her cheeks and ears. Was “Good luck” the right thing to say to soldier who was going away on duty?

  The moving trailer backed into the driveway with high pitched beep. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara observed the activities across the street and noticed that Kevin's wife had sat in the driver's seat of the vehicle, apparently taking her husband to the airport.

  * * *

  Perhaps it was the near three days of moving, placing furniture and becoming situated in the new home that made her oblivious to the activities across the street. In Sara's perception, not more than three days after Kevin's return to duty, his wife had a regular visitor. It was a man who parked his Dodge Charger in the driveway and would spend much time in the house. Initially suspecting that he was a brother, Sara eventually questioned just how close a brother and sister can be. Sara loved her own brother, and she visited him once or twice a week. But the man who visited Kevin's wife did so on a daily basis.

  And they often went out together, sometimes in the evening. The man would drive off with a soldier's wife in his passenger seat with the strong scent of perfume blowing out the window.

  Then came a Friday morning when the two had entered the Mapleview Coffeehouse. Finally seeing the pair up close, Sara quickly surmised that the relationship was strongly taboo.

  “You let us sample coffee, here?” The man spoke as if Sara owed a reason to be a customer. He looked like a typical, lowlife scumbag that would see the opportunity of a soldier away on duty to fool around with a wife.

  “Sure, what would you like? We've got the house blend of the finest South American beans. There's also smooth-vanilla nut, and a fresh brew of mountain berry.”

  “Mountain berry?” The histrionics coming from the scumbag were most unappreciated. “What else do you got?”

  Sara remained patient, “Well, I can brew anything up for you.”

  “To sample?”

  Sara was dumbfounded. Surely the man wasn't that stupid and inconsiderate. She wasn't going to brew an entire chamber of coffee just so he could sample.

  But the scumbag persisted, “Come on! Brew 'em all up! We want to try each one!”

  Kevin's wife added a flavor she was interested in, “I want to try Irish coffee.”

  The scumbag slapped his hand on the counter. “Irish coffee; that one first! The lovely lady wants Irish coffee!”

  It was followed by a giggle from the unfaithful wife as she backed up against the scumbag's chest while his hands caressed her shoulders. Sara could handle Irish coffee as many customers enjoyed that flavor. But she wasn't about to brew every blend in the store. From the looks of it, the sickening love birds had sampled plenty in life.

  Grabbing two cups, the fresh blend was poured and handed to the samplers.

  The scumbag was quite demanding, “Come on; what's this? Fill it up!”

  Apparently a half-filled cup (about 4 ounces worth of Irish coffee) was not enough. Sara entertained his demands and returned with 8 ounces each. They drank and giggled while Sara went about her morning duties.

  “So what are you going to make us next?”

  “I'm sorry?” Sara was very close to losing her patience as she approached the counter from behind.

  “You said you would brew up all your blends for us to try.”

  She paused, “Sir, we don't do that here. I only have so many chambers.”

  But the inconsiderate man continued, “No, I want your minty, chocolate surprise!” Kevin's wife whispered something in the scumbag's ear that was followed by another order. “And another sample of your Irish coffee! He slapped his hand on the counter as if cracking a whip, “Let's go! More samples!”

  Now at the end of her rope, Sara did something she had never done at the Mapleview Coffeehouse. “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Unless you're going to make a purchase, you're going to have to leave.”

  “Are you serious? Can I see your manager?”

  “I'm the owner, and I'm asking you to leave. I will call the police if necessary.”

  Including colorful adjectives, poor Sara was given derogatory names as the scumbag took hold of Kevin's wife and walked towards the door. “My brother's a lawyer, you know. I'll have him take care of you! And you know what else? I'm going to tell everyone in this town about the rotten service I received here.” Another derogatory name was given and the sickening couple left the store.

  Sara wondered if the unfaithful wife knew that she was a neighbor.

  Chapter 23

  Bizarre things happen in the charming town of Mapleview—in case you haven't already noticed. But if you merely visit while traveling on vacation; the sentience that blankets the town is most likely unnoticed. It might require moving in the area; and even then, Mapleview would appear seemingly normal.

  Craig was one such individual who moved in from out of state. He would have done this around the time that the Mapleview C
offeehouse had finally seen success, and the owner had moved in to her duplex condo in Circle Point. And although his first couple years were very eventful, nothing supernatural or incredibly bizarre had taken place.

  But there was one, small event that Craig experienced that served as a precursor to a terrifying discovery, which sent him to the Mapleview Police where he would babble like an incomprehensible fool. The event would have been terrifying for anyone, as equally irrational and impossible.

  Even still, the third disappearance of Mapleview was two years into the future from that terrifying discovery. Pay close attention; one of the characters in the upcoming series of events will contribute to another mysterious disappearance. See if you can determine who it is.

  * * *

  Craig was born to a family of small business entrepreneurs. His father saw an unfortunate layoff from his company as an opportunity to work, full time, in the residential real estate sales business. Of course this is a difficult career for anyone to start. And while Father waited patiently for steady commission checks to roll in, Craig's mother began a short-lived career as an Avon sales representative.

  Craig received his first taste in sales, as a boy, when Mother expected him to assist her as the Avon lady. Walking the neighborhood streets with Mother's car behind, the task of delivering Avon catalogs at various customers' doors was nothing to be proud of. And since this activity was done in the afternoon hours, after school or on weekends, there were often kids outside his age.

  Poor Craig can recall with sharp clarity the Saturday morning that Mother dropped him off in front of a house where some boys were playing basketball. They observed the unfamiliar kid who walked up to the house and left something behind. And of course, the crowd of boys quickly ran to the door, eager to see what was left.

  “Hey! Check out this new shampoo!” One of the boys commented on a shampoo advertised on the front page of the catalog. “Hey kid! Are you the Avon lady? He's the Avon lady!”

  Walking to the next house with Mother's car following behind, Craig did his best to ignore the surroundings and hoped the moment of shame would soon pass. He hated this torture, and often argued that delivering Avon catalogs was a thoroughly, embarrassing afterschool or weekend activity. But Father declared that it was unacceptable not to help the family earn additional money. As Father put it, “You eat here and have a roof over your head! It's not too much to ask that you help your mother!”

  The crowd of kids on that Saturday morning surrounded poor Craig at the next house. One of them asked, “Hey kid! Can I ask you something? Why are you so gay? You're such a gay rod!”

  Craig could only hang his head low while answering, “I don't know.”

  By the time he met Mother at the end of the block and entered her car, she asked, “Were those some friends of yours?”

  If there was one thing Mother had plenty in surplus, it was the paper, Avon, cosmetic bags; the ones that the Avon lady delivers to the door for a customer who purchased makeup or perfume. With hundreds of these bags at home, there was no reason to purchase brown, paper lunch bags at the store. Poor Craig was expected to bring his lunch to school each day in an Avon bag! Kids are so cruel! Although Craig desperately attempted to cover up the bold icon on the paper bag, he was nicknamed “The Avon Lady” during lunch.

  By the time Craig was in high school, Father's career as a residential real estate salesman had flourished which meant that it was no longer necessary for Mother to hustle the streets as the Avon lady. But the family was expected to assist Father in one, small aspect of marketing. Canvassing is an activity that involves hand-delivering advertisements to neighborhood doors. This activity proved successful for Father as an afternoon of canvassing would generate several inquiry calls, which often led to a sale or two.

  In those days, Mother owned a powdered-blue Subaru station wagon. And it was in the winter months when Mother and Craig's two brothers would bundle up in bulky snow suits, moon boots and stocking hats for an afternoon of canvassing. But not Craig! He wouldn't dare dress up in such ridiculous attire! Mother and Father simply declared that Craig was a “big boy”, and if he was “too cool” and stupid to wear his bulky snow suit and moon boots, then he would join the family activity wearing only his jacket and hiking boots. There was no way Craig could get out of assisting in the family business.

  It was very fortunate that Craig did not dress in such heavy clothing. For whatever reason, Mother found it necessary to crank the heat on full blast, which would make anyone want to run out of the car and into the cold before vomiting or passing out from the heat. Perhaps that was her secret means of motivation!

  Mother discovered the 1980s tragic release of “Hooked on Classics” that sped up classical works of Beethoven, Bach and Tchaikovsky while blending a poor attempt of snappy beats. The music would have been more suitable for a 1980s aerobic class for senior citizens.

  Craig would sit in the back seat of the powdered-blue Subaru station wagon with a family of astronaut-looking family members, hoping no one his age would recognize him or hear the corny “Hooked on Classics”, blasting in the car. How thankful Craig was to escape the roasting heat and maddening nursing home music. He secretly referred to this activity as Torture in a Subaru.

  Years later, Craig was turned on to the idea of starting a career in residential real estate sales. Doing research into the various areas throughout America that experienced a market growth; Mapleview, Craig thought, was America's little known secret. It was during a time when the economy for Mapleview had surged with an increase of new businesses. The town seemed attractive to people of surrounding areas, and much new construction was planned for the extending region beyond downtown.

  Ask anyone who has worked a career as a Realtor, he or she will tell you that it's a highly challenging industry to break into. One might think that an agent only sits in the office of Century 21 or Re/Max while waiting for the telephone to ring. After all, many individuals with the intention of purchasing a new home call the local real estate office, right? But the fact is the phone will never ring unless inventory is built up. Because of this, a brand new agent is faced with the challenge of accumulating a personal inventory to advertise. He or she must convince a homeowner to allow the exclusive marketing of a property. And while this is attempted, countless other real estate agents are competing for inventory!

  This is the point when most aspiring, young Realtors give up. After months of prospecting without so much as one sale, the need for food on the table drives what was once a motivated agent to seek a new career. And after months of unsuccessful prospecting at Mapleview Realty, Craig had already decided that a change of career was best.

  Hope suddenly appeared on the day that he went through his office mailbox and discovered a flyer from the competing office of Jack Swieley Realty. The broker/owner was in search of an assistant and promised not only training from one of Mapleview's finest agents, but a weekly salary as well! Desperate for income as Craig's savings were near depletion, and not wanting to go back home to family and friends defeated, he walked into the office of Jack Swieley Realty for an interview. Within 5 minutes, Craig found himself to be hired! Of course the original broker would have to release his license and conduct the daunting exit interview. But those things could wait. Jack Swieley Realty offered fast-paced training that was to start that day!

  Jack Swieley Realty: It wasn't exactly what Craig had expected. For the successful track record and reputation of being one of the top producing offices in Mapleview, the brokerage establishment was nothing more than a small, rundown office with a retired-age secretary up front. The only agent working was the broker/owner, Jack Swieley. He was an old man in his 60's, very large, perhaps 400 pounds and wore the most obnoxious, checkered suit with loose necktie. From the looks of him, Jack Swieley could have passed for a cheesy car salesman.

  Craig sat in the chair before his new broker's desk, hearing the tales of glory and how Jack Swieley defeated all obstacles. Despite the fac
t that Mr. Swieley had been humped by dogs while trying to go over a marketing program with clients; threatened by people with shot guns to get out of their homes; and at times, received the reputation of being the most ill-reputable salesman in town, Jack Swieley managed to turn tragedy into triumph.

  Suddenly an alarm sounded from a digital 1980s watch that Mr. Swieley wore with pride on his left wrist. “It's almost 9:30. You've got your first appointment with a seller, today.”

  Expecting a boring lesson from “Telemarketing 101”, Craig was very surprised that his first day of training would begin with some field work. It was, as Mr. Swieley described, a homeowner wishing to sell. They drove to the residence in an old Cadillac convertible with the roof down while Mr. Swieley puffed away at a fat cigar.

  The broker/owner reaffirmed that Craig was now working at the “country club” of real estate. “Ah, feel that sun? That's what you call the Realtor's tan! It's what you get from driving around in a nice, Cadillac convertible. I bet you didn't get that at Mapleview Realty!”

  It was an average, single-family home on a quiet, residential street. A For-Sale-By-Owner sign announced to the world of its availability. The old Cadillac pulled into the driveway. The transmission was shifted into park and the ignition turned off.

  Mr. Swieley ordered, “Here; take my keys, go in the back trunk and pull out one of my signs. Take out the For-Sale-By-Owner sign in their lawn and replace it with mine. I'll catch up to you in a minute.”

  His first day on the job, Craig quickly went to work and did as the boss asked. And while pulling out the For-Sale-By-Owner sign, he could see the sellers standing up through the living room window. Worried that the sellers noticed someone other than Jack Swieley tampering with their sign, he gave a friendly wave that, he hoped, would indicate an operative from Jack Swieley Realty.