The Killing Tree

by Rachel Keener

  “Wanna watch some TV, then? Weather’s clear so your reception should be pretty good.”

  “No. I don’t really wanna watch TV. You can if you want, though.”

  I sat down on the couch next to her. “I just wanna be here with you,” I said. “That’s all.”

  She nodded.

  “I saw you had some new nail polish. Spicy Peach. Real pretty. Want me to paint your nails?”

  I went and got the nail polish. More for me than her. I needed the distraction. I picked up her hand and began to polish her nails. She had such pretty hands.

  “Be careful with that hand now. It ain’t dry yet,” I told her as I picked up her other hand.

  “Mercy?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “My momma. She ain’t coming back tonight, is she? She ain’t been around for a while now.”

  “I don’t know, she may be coming back tonight,” I said, trying to sound hopeful.

  “It’s okay. You can tell me. I ain’t gonna do nothing crazy if you say the truth. I already know it anyway. She ran away from me, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah. I guess she did. I found you here alone. The man at the market said your momma took off a few days ago. Said she’s staying with a boyfriend. But I left a message for her that you’re okay. I’m sorry she ain’t here with you now.”

  “Oh it’s all right. I’d probably scare anybody half to death. Except you. Don’t reckon nothing scares you much. You’re so strong.”

  “Nah, I ain’t stronger than you or anybody else.”

  “You are, Mercy. I wish I was you sometimes. I don’t want to make you mad or nothing. I don’t want you to think I’m jealous green, but sometimes, I just wish I was you.”

  “You don’t. I mean maybe now, while you’re hurting so bad, maybe now you think it’d be better to be somebody else. But not really. Not deep down.”

  “You just don’t see it, do you?” she asked dryly.

  “Why you would want to be me? No, I guess I don’t. You’re more than pretty. You’re beautiful. When we walk into a room together, I’m invisible next to you. And that’s okay with me, I’m used to that. But I can’t understand why you would ever want to trade places with me. You’d never be comfortable being invisible.”

  “I may get the first looks when we walk in a room. I may turn heads. Hell, I may even get the second looks too. But you, Mercy. You didn’t just get a look or a turned head. You got eyes that love you. And I ain’t ever had that. And that’s worse than invisible. Thought I had it. But I didn’t. I just had another turned head. Nothing like what you got with Trout.”

  “But just because things didn’t work out with Randy, that don’t mean that you won’t ever find real love. It just means you ain’t found it yet,” I said.

  “No. It means a lot more than that. It means I don’t even know real love from the fake. I couldn’t see. I just couldn’t see,” she sobbed.

  “Shhh. You don’t wanna be me. I had to hide my love for a mater migrant.”

  “I’d hide forever. I’d never leave this trailer if Randy would have just loved me,” she cried.

  “You just keep on waiting. Soon you’ll turn a head that’ll stay turned. It’s impossible not to love you.”

  “But it’s easy for you to love me. I guess because we found each other when we were scared and lonely. But that’s just you. Nobody else is like that with me. I mean, even you, with your momma dead and your daddy runned off, got more love than me. You got your Mamma Rutha and Trout and me. We all love you. I ain’t got nobody but you,” she cried.

  “Your momma loves you. You got me and your momma and one of these days you’ll have your own Trout too.”

  “My momma, huh? Well if love runs, then my momma loves me. I ain’t never run, Mercy. That time her boyfriend Al stole all our food money, Momma just sat down in that corner and didn’t move. Just sat there and cried. And I never told her I was hungry. When I got so hungry I ate all the dog food I never told her. I didn’t want her to know I was hurting. I loved her. And I didn’t run. And then that time when she got so stoned she slept for three days straight. Remember that? What did I say to her when she woke up? I said, ‘Good morning, Momma, what do you want for breakfast?’ I never yelled at her. I never told her what it was like to look at her and think she was dead. Or to lay my head on her chest to see if she was breathing. I never even told her she had been asleep for three days. I just went on like nothing ever happened. Because I loved her. And love don’t run.”

  “But there’s all different kinds of love. Mamma Rutha’s taught me that love is like this mountain. Outsiders say it just looks the same ol’ green all over. But we live here, and we know it’s not. We know that the oak is a different green than the pine. Love’s the same way. It’s got differences too. Like your momma and my Mamma Rutha. They don’t love us the way we think they should. Their love ain’t the oak. But it just may be the pine.”

  “But what do you do when you need it to be something it’s not?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you look in other places, but stay thankful for what you do have. It’s better than nothing.”

  I went to the kitchen and poured a couple glasses of milk.

  “Here’s an oatmeal pie. I know they’re your favorite, so no sense in acting like you don’t want one,” I teased.

  She took the pie and the milk and laid them on the couch.

  “Mercy?” she asked. “That song that you sung to me. Back in my bedroom. What was that song?”

  “It’s from the Bible somewhere. It’s one that Mamma Rutha used to sing to me when I was scared of the dark.”

  “I like it,” she said.

  “I do too,” I said. “Used to make me fall right to sleep. I’d dream of a big bird, and the next morning I’d go looking for God in the oaks.”

  “You know I still remember living in that church,” she whispered. “Being the little church mouse and sleeping on that pew. How I stacked two hymn books together for a pillow. Everybody told me I was staying in God’s house, and I was so curious as to why he hadn’t said hello. So I went looking for him. I peered under the pews and peeked into the choir loft. Then I saw this picture of a man with brown hair down to his shoulders and a beard. And he was wearing a fancy red robe. My brother, Ben, found me and asked me what I was doing. I found God, I told him. But he told me the picture was just God’s son. Well, what’s God look like? I asked him. Ben shrugged his shoulders and said, Like the man in the picture, I guess, just older. I looked at the picture and imagined that man a little older, with his fancy red robe, a white beard, and long white hair. And I knew then, that God was really Santa! I started to pray. I told him what I wanted for Christmas and asked him to bring my daddy back because Momma said God had taken him away. But that Christmas, our first Christmas in the garage, Santa didn’t come at all. No daddy. No tree. No presents. Nothing. Momma said it was because he forgot about me. And I decided then and there that I didn’t like my Santa-God anymore. But you know, Mercy, I still get the weirdest feeling every time I see Santa in the miners’ parade at Christmas. He’s back there in the bed of that pickup truck, and I always feel like it’s God marching right toward me, staring at my heart to see if I’ve been naughty or nice.”

  Della laughed a moment, but then she grew quiet and stared at the empty walls. “It’s not him I’m really scared of, though,” she said lowly. “What scares me is that if he’s real, then dying’s just a doorway to someplace else for me to hurt.”

  “But if you go to heaven, the preacher says there’s no sorrow there.”

  “That may be true for other people, but you and me? It’s like when the McDonald’s came in over the mountain when we were just little kids. And it had that playground. One day when my momma took off and hollered, I ain’t no momma no more! to us crying kids, a neighbor came by and took us there. And I knew that at that playground there could be no sorrow. But when I got there and I slid down that purple slide, I could still hear the echo o
f my momma’s words. I ain’t no momma no more. I ain’t no momma no more. And that’s how I’m afraid heaven would be for me. It’d be a beautiful place, but all the bad stuff I’ve done and all the bad stuff that’s been done to me would stick to me.”

  She picked up the nail polish and began to polish my nails. The night had grown a deep black and the room was lit up by a lamp without a shade. I watched her paint my nails and marveled at how pretty she still was. Even without her hair, her skull was so well shaped in rounded curves and perfect circles. The naked skin of her head so silky and glistening. And without her hair to hide behind, the features of her face were enjoying the center of attention. Look at us, the golden spokes of her eyes seemed to say. See how perfect we are, her lips called. There was no red-brown cover to shield or distract. And her face was loving it.

  But the shadows would still cross. Dimming her golden spokes. Pursing her lips. Trembling her fingers. Smearing the polish.

  “Della,” I said softly, “you’re gonna be okay.”

  A tear washed its way down her face and clung to her chin.

  “I still love him. Not Randy, I hate him. But I love the man I thought he was, I love the shadow. What I crave was never even flesh and blood. And I can’t shut it off! I keep reaching for him when I sleep. I keep whispering his name. I’ve tried to get rid of him. Hell, I even shaved my head. But my shadow love won’t leave me. It still comes to me at night and asks me to talk my pretty talk, about the stars and the clouds. It wakes me in the morning to ask me what I dreamed about. Wherever I hide it finds me. How can I ever be okay again?” she cried.

  “You will be. I’ve got a plan for us. I’ll tell you when you’re stronger,” I said.

  “Everything is so scary now. Loving the shadow is all I am, and I can’t shut it off. I’m so scared,” she said as she began to curl into a little ball on the couch. Her face was down, against my knee.

  “Shhh Della. I know you’re scared. We’ll find a way. We’ll shut it off.”

  Chapter XVIII

  The next morning, Della’s momma woke us.

  “Well Lord help! Did you girls party so hard you couldn’t even make it to bed? You know you need your beauty rest, Della! Can’t lure in the men if you got puffy eyes, my little kitten!”

  “I don’t want a man, Momma,” Della said lowly.

  “What? Now Mercy Heron, what kind of holy ideas you gone and pumped into my Della’s head? Course you want a man, sugar! Hell you don’t just want one, you want a bunch! And we’re gonna get you one too, precious. Why, you know Bill? My man? He’s gotta brother that’d suit you just perfect, love! I mean he may be a little older, he’s around my age, but that’s what you need, baby, a real man. Not a little pantywaist from the Ben Franklin!”

  “I don’t want a man, Momma,” Della said through gritted teeth.

  “Well I wish you’d just hush up all this whining and moping. You and I both know you want a man. We DeMar women, we need our men. It’s just that simple.”

  “Wanting a man is how I got into this mess! A man ain’t gonna fix nothing for me! A man ain’t gonna do nothing but make it all worse! I just want to be me, by myself, Della DeMar without a man!”

  “You’re in this mess because you didn’t listen to your momma. I warned you. Over and over, when you were little, what did I tell you, Della? I told you to never, ever hand over your heart. Give ’em your body, your mind, your sense of humor, your Friday night. But don’t you ever give ’em something you can’t walk away with when they turn their backs on you. Or when they die. And you went out and did exactly what I told you not to! Damn it, Della! If you’d just have the sense to listen! I don’t tell you these things because I feel better by saying them. I tell you because I want to protect you. Because I’ve handed out my heart. And when the man turns his back on me, I’ve had to walk away and leave my heart right there with him. And I didn’t want that for you!”

  “But I wanted to, Momma. I wanted to give my heart away. To somebody I thought would never turn his back on me,” Della sobbed.

  “But you gotta listen to your momma. Watch how I treat men. I don’t ever give ’em my heart no more. It makes the hurting they try and put on me so much easier, because they can hurt my body, or steal my money, but they ain’t ever even seen my heart. So it don’t matter so much when they walk away. Just watch your momma. I’ll show you how to protect yourself. And listen to me, the best thing to cure your ache is to remind yourself that that one pantywaist at the Ben Franklin wasn’t the only man that you could have a good time with!”

  “But I don’t wanna be like you. You run around with younger guys and older guys and married guys and single guys. And you don’t ever really know them. And they don’t ever really know you. They use you, Momma. They use you. And I’m not saying I didn’t ever have a good time doing things the way you taught me. But don’t you ever just want something more? More than to use and be used? Even before Randy, I knew I did. I’d look at that picture, the one you threw away when I was little and I dug out of the trash. The one of you and Daddy. His arms around your waist. And you’re leaning on him. Your head resting over his heart. And the look in your eyes. And his eyes. I’ve never seen that look on you, except in that picture. And I wanted that look in my eyes. I wanted that look in Randy’s. I didn’t wanna be like you are now. I wanted to be like you were then.”

  “You know nothing, Della DeMar. You think you know everything just because you dug some picture out of the trash? Well, who would you rather be now, missy? Look at us! You say you don’t want to be like me, huh? Well, I’m fine. I just had a great time with my man. And you have nobody but poor old Mercy Heron. I feel great. And you’re curled up like a dead weed on the couch. I just had my roots done. And you look like a circus freak. Eighteen years old and as bald as a baby. So who would you rather be now, if being like me is such a bad thing?”

  “Still, Momma, I’d still rather be like you in that picture.”

  “That’s because you’re just crazy. Waving around scissors. Ranting about some shadow that’s chasing you through the house,” she said with a cruel laugh.

  Della curled back up on the couch with her back to her momma. Her hands covered her head, like she was hiding.

  Her momma stared at her back, and her ears listened to the silence. She listened to the sound of Della leaving her. Keys dropped from her fingers as her mouth parted into an unheard gasp.

  “Oh. Baby Della. I’m sorry. Momma’s sorry,” she whispered. She dropped to her knees by Della and laid her chest and arms over her.

  “Momma’s here. And it’s gonna be okay. Stay here, Della. Don’t you go away from Momma. Don’t you leave me too, Della.”

  As they laid together like that I got up to go make some toast.

  “See that?” her momma said when I handed her a piece of toast. “Mercy’s done made breakfast. You’ll feel better when you eat. Come on, just a few bites for Momma.”

  Della sat up and ate the toast.

  “Momma?” Della said weakly.

  “Yes baby?”

  “All my pretty hair.”

  “Now don’t you worry about that. Momma’s gonna fix you right up. I’ve got some new lipstick—Secret Crimson Crush, and some new eyeshadow—Mountain Moss Green. By the time I get you fixed up, your eyes and mouth will be so gorgeous nobody will notice your hair. Besides, I had been thinking you needed to try something new and short. All the magazines say short is what’s sexy now. And all the movie stars got their heads nearly shaved. So you just give it a couple weeks, and I swear, Della, you’ll be in style with the hottest, sexiest little hairdo.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” her momma called out.

  “Uh, ma’am? My name is Randy.”

  Della’s hands started to shake.

  “Who the hell is Randy?” Della’s momma whispered.

  “C’mon, Della, let’s go back to your bedroom,” I said. “Don’t open the door.”

  �
�You mean it’s that jerk from the Franklin?” her momma asked. I nodded my head as I grabbed Della’s hands and tried to pull her up from the couch.

  “I’ve got a thing or two to say to him,” her momma said, springing for the door.

  “No!” I called out. But it was too late. The door was open and Della’s momma was a screaming, cursing, spitting woman. Randy just stood there looking past her.

  “Della,” he called. He hadn’t seen her yet.

  “It’s okay, Momma,” Della said. “Why don’t you go out for a while.”

  Her momma grabbed her keys and fled. Thankful for the chance to escape.

  “Come in,” Della said. He stepped in, and stopped. He saw her, the gleam of her head. She took his breath.

  “Della, what in the hell have you . . .” he began, but stopped. He stood there with a mouthful of words that wouldn’t be spoken. Not to the bald woman that sat on the couch.

  “Why are you here?” Della asked him.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I am.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Why did you come here? ’Cause you were afraid you’d killed me?”

  “What? Of course not. Don’t talk like that, Della.”

  “Then why are you here?” she said, her voice raising.

  “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to apologize for ever . . . if I ever . . . led you to think that you and I . . . or that me and my wife was . . .”

  “That’s not why you came,” Della said, folding her hands to keep them from trembling.

  “Soon as you’re feeling stronger I’d like to talk this out. Right now I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for ever making you think—” he began.

  “No,” she said, her voice angry. “You’re only sorry I wanted more than sex. And now you came here to make yourself seem right. To make me understand why you did what you did. You came here to justify.”

  “You think you’re blameless?” he said lowly. “I’m not saying I am. I know I’m not. But I’m just a man, and you know what you are. You with your low-cut blouses and tight jeans. You come into my store and you prance around and offer it to me. And you expect me to say no? ’Cause I got a wife at home? ’Cause I got a baby on the way? Truth is, you didn’t care whether I had a wife or not. You gave it up without ever asking. You know what you do to men. And you like it. You do it on purpose, Della. So don’t you sit there and act like it was all me. ’Cause we both know it wasn’t. We both know you wanted it and wouldn’t stop ’til you got it, wife or not.”