The Killing Tree

by Rachel Keener

  “Not yet. But you gotta be prepared. It’s a dangerous job.”

  Della pretended to shiver. “The way you said that just gave me goose bumps all over. You must be real brave. Bet your parents are proud of you.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He smiled.

  “I wish I could be that brave. I bet you ain’t scared of nobody, are you? I mean, you’re young and strong. You obviously work out a lot. I bet nothing scares you, huh?”

  “Nope. I reckon I can handle myself against anybody.”

  “Wow.” She giggled. “That’s really cool. I bet you ain’t even scared of the sheriff, huh? I mean he’s just an old man, and you, you’re where the real power is. I can see that. Anybody could see that in you. Why just looking at you I can tell you ain’t just strong and brave, you’re smart too.”

  He smiled.

  “You’ve got a nice smile too.”

  “Thanks, you uh, you do too.”

  “Really? You think so? Wow. It means a lot to me that you think my smile is pretty. Nobody ever said that to me before. It means a whole lot coming from somebody like you,” she said, leaning over the desk, pressing her full breasts against the counter.

  His eyes slid down and enjoyed the show she offered him.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered in her sexiest voice.

  “Sure,” he said, excitedly.

  “Just being this close to you has got me all hot and bothered. Imagine what would happen if I came behind the counter.”

  “Oh, uh, wow,” he said, his eyes starting to bulge.

  “Would you like that? Would you like for me to bring all of my excitement to you behind the counter. Nobody’s gonna be coming down to the jail at this hour,” she whispered.

  “Oh, uh, oh Lord.” He giggled nervously. “Your friend is still back there.”

  “Hell, let her go see the mater migrant so you and I can be alone. The sheriff won’t ever know, and we’ll get to make each other’s dreams come true.”

  “I don’t know, the sheriff, he wouldn’t like it,” he began.

  “Oh, I see. You’re scared of the sheriff after all,” she said poutily. “I guess me and my friend will just go away now, and leave you all alone with your TV.”

  “Well wait a minute now. I didn’t say no. I just said the sheriff might not like it. I guess your friend can go back. But just for a couple minutes. That’s all. Okay?” he said, starting to giggle again.

  “I’ll make every second count, I promise,” she whispered.

  “Hey you,” he called. I looked up. “You got a few minutes, just until I holler for you. Go down the hall and turn left, it’s the last cell on the right. You can’t miss it, there’s just four cells in the whole building and he’s the only prisoner here. No funny business, though, or I’ll lock you up too!”

  I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting on the ground with his head down on his knees. Gently rocking back and forth. He was dirty. His cell was dirty. And there was no window. No place for him to look out at the mountains he loved. It was a hell worse than fire and brimstone. Trout loved his freedom. I had never even thought about whether I was free or trapped until I met him. “These red hands are freed,” he had said. “But not by broke mirrors.” And now he wasn’t free. He wasn’t spinning. Or standing. He wasn’t even lost in the rows. He was just rocking back and forth in a dirty jail cell. My captured Fire Trout.

  “Hey,” I whispered through the bars. He looked up slowly.

  “Mercy?”

  “Yes. It’s me. Just got a few minutes,” I sobbed.

  He ran to the bars and grabbed my hands.

  “I’m so sorry, Trout. It was me that stole them dogs. It was me and Mamma Rutha. I told ’em too, but they don’t care, ’cause Father Heron wants you here. Maybe if you take it back too. If you’ll tell them it wasn’t you.”

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t you be sorry for nothin’. I ain’t.”

  “I can’t make it without you.”

  “You can. All you need is your glory. That’s somethin’ that old man won’t ever be able to stamp out. Remember how I said you was your worst mirror? Well go on and break your old one, and use mine. And when you look in it, you’ll see the glory.”

  He was crying now too. Sunflowers drowning in big tears. Deep green river pools overflowing.

  I nodded my head. “Someday it’ll all be okay, won’t it?”

  “It already is. We’re okay already.”

  “Time’s up!” the cop called from the hall.

  I sobbed, my hands gripping the bars of his cell.

  “Go on home, Mercy. Walk outta here, head held high.”

  “I said time’s up,” the man called out again.

  “Use that new mirror of yours.” He pulled his hands from mine and turned and walked away.

  “Wait,” I begged. I would have stayed right there forever if I could have. I would have rather stayed there with him, amidst the stench of urine, than to walk out alone.

  “Please,” he said, his voice breaking.

  “Find me,” I sobbed before walking away. “I’ll go where you go, remember? Find me.”

  My head was held high and my hands were full and heavy. I was carrying his mirror. The heart of the Fire Trout. And it was heavy with love.

  Chapter XXVI

  Della’s young cop told her the details of Trout’s case. How he had been arrested and taken before a judge. Because he was a “drifter” and a flight risk, a hefty bail was set. But I would have done anything to make that bail. I would have robbed the Miners’ Credit Union if I had to. But I hadn’t known. I was locked in plastic, dying over his disappearance, as he lay locked in prison. If I had met that bail, we would have stood on sandy shores, letting salty waves hide us from the eyes of the law.

  But despite his guilty plea, Della’s cop told her that Trout would still face a judge for his sentencing. Finally there was someone else. Someone that wasn’t Father Heron or Sheriff Barnes. Trout would face that man and await his sentence. And I would meet him there and announce my guilt. So would my Mamma Rutha.

  It would be four days until I freed him. It never stopped playing in my mind. How I would see him as he stood before the judge. The sound of the gavel as the judge declared Trout’s innocence. The look, the fear, that would shadow across Father Heron’s eyes. He would know then that some things wouldn’t die when he told them to. My momma may have. But not me. And not my love.

  I would rise from my seat, and I would speak the new wedding vow that hid in my heart. Not the one that I had whispered on Thorny Ridge. That was a safe vow, born of a love that ran. Everything was different now. And so the love in my heart would vow itself to him in the only way that remained. I, Mercy Heron, am guilty.

  Imagine the feel of cold steel circling your wrists, I would tell myself as I checked the days off until his sentencing. Imagine the feel of cold steel caging your body, I would whisper as I lay in bed mouthing my vow. I, Mercy Heron, am guilty. I tied my hands together with rope just to feel the pinch against my skin. I sank low within my jelly jar closet, just to breathe the scent of caged air. I wanted the steel, the cage, the misery. Because none of it held loss for me. All of it was my vow of love.

  And all of it depended on Mamma Rutha. Without her, I was just a mater migrant’s whore, desperate to free her lover. Without her to confirm my confession, to admit that she helped, the judge might not believe me. For the first time in my life, Mamma Rutha was everything that I needed.

  And for a moment, I worried over her. I could accept prison if it meant freeing Trout. But Mamma Rutha? Without her creatures, without her green, she would become the withered fig. And I would be the one that withered her. I decided to tell them that I took advantage of her feeble mind. I would look at the judge and I would tell him, She is crazy.

  Della knew what I planned, and she begged me not to.

  “Please don’t do this,” she cried. “They’ll lock you away, and then I’ll have no one. What if I tell th
em I saw someone else do it? I could tell them I saw Randy take the ropes from Ben Franklin, and then heard him bragging about stealing them dogs.”

  For a moment, I thought it might work. It could be proven that the ropes came from Ben Franklin. And Randy worked there, with easy access to them. But it wasn’t certain. Randy was respectable. It would be hard for a judge to believe that Randy, young married manager, soon-to-be father, committed the crime instead of a drifting mater migrant.

  I was the only thing certain. And I really was guilty.

  “Couldn’t you at least talk to Father Heron?” Della asked. “Tell him that you will confess. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  “He won’t have pity on Trout.”

  “But he loves the Heron name. Maybe he’ll change his mind so that you and Mamma Rutha won’t shame it. Give him one last chance to save you.”

  Chapter XXVII

  It was her birthday, and all of the Heron house knew it. Thirty-five years ago that day, she was new. Before anything bad or sinful. And I imagine Mamma Rutha loved her. Loved the way she curled her little toes. Or how greedily she sucked the breast. And I imagine Father Heron was proud that day. Of being a family man. Of having his seed established. Maybe he was disappointed she wasn’t a boy. But she was still his.

  Mamma Rutha was gone. I had never seen her there on that day. I’m sure she disappeared to honor her in her own wild way. The bone blessing was good enough for most dead things. But not her.

  I was never sure what I was supposed to do. I didn’t know how to honor the stranger that gave me life. And yet, I couldn’t seem to convince myself that it was just a day like all others. So I walked a little more quietly. I stared at Mamma Rutha’s picture of her. I pretended that I knew the smell of her skin. The feel of her hair. Pretended I had heard the sound of her voice. My pretty baby girl, she might have said.

  It was late. Closer to noon than morning. I laid in bed and thought about her. Imagined saying, Momma, save me. I listened for Father Heron, and tried to think of a way to convince him to free Trout.

  He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. I rounded the corner and found myself staring at his back.

  “Always tried,” he mumbled to himself. I stopped still. “Always tried. Mary.”

  It was the name that was never spoken. Mary. He called the birthday girl by name. I grew cold inside. Thinking about him as more than my Father Heron. Thinking about him as a daddy that spoke her name. A daddy that tried?

  He sighed. Deep and heavy. Like he carried a weight that no one had ever seen. Was it the weight of killing his daughter?

  A car pulled up and honked its horn. He jumped. I ducked around the corner and back into my bedroom. I watched him walk to the car. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same ol’ levelheaded Deacon Heron. Solid as a rock.

  I went back to the kitchen and that’s when I saw it. Laying there on his open Bible. It was her, about twelve years old. And him. Arms around each other. Standing on the back porch, just in front of the back door. Arms around each other! And she was smiling as though she liked him. As though she loved him. And he was looking at her. As she gazed straight ahead grinning at the camera. He was liking how she giggled. How she called him Daddy. He liked everything that was Mary.

  It was the second picture I had ever seen of her. And I studied it, memorizing the way she stood. An arm around him. A hand on her hip. Memorizing her bare feet. The part in her hair. The boldness of her smile. It was like I was meeting her for the first time. And yet she was younger than me, but already dead.

  I wanted other pictures. More of her to meet. I began flipping through his Bible, carefully marking the page he had left it at. Listening for the sound of his return. There was a folded-up piece of construction paper stuck in the middle of Psalms. I opened it and stared at the crayoned scribble.

  DEAR DADDY,

  Happy FatHer’s Day! THank You for being my DaDDy. I Like it wHen we fisH.

  Love,

  MARY

  She had drawn a picture on the front. Three stick people. Her and him and Mamma Rutha. She was in the middle, and all the stick people held hands. I looked at the words. She called him Daddy. Something much more than Father Heron.

  I kept flipping. Through the Old Testament, into the New. Until I found another sheet. This time not construction paper.

  Dear Dad,

  I never meant to hurt you. But I love him. I really love him. Like Momma loves you. Maybe more. I know he isn’t like the boys at church. And I know you think I’m too young. But Momma was married younger. Just stop being so angry about it. Just because I love him don’t mean I quit loving you. I love you both. I wish you’d talk to me. Ever since you found out about us, you haven’t spoken to me. And Momma’s acting real nervous around you lately. I miss you. Won’t you please let me love him?

  Mary

  There was another. Tucked in Hebrews.

  Dad,

  He told me what you did. How you threatened him to make him leave me alone. It won’t work. I love him and he loves me. And I’m gonna marry him. Even if we have to run away. You haven’t spoken to me for weeks now. So I guess I have to write you to get you to listen. I love you, Daddy. But if you want me, then you’re just gonna have to learn to live with the fact that I love him too.

  Mary

  There were no more letters. But I knew how her story ended. I had always thought he killed her out of his shame and anger. But maybe it was jealousy too. Because she loved another. He heard her come crawling back. Daddy, please open the door! Please, Daddy! But would not move as everything that was Mary lay dying on the other side of his door. Now all that remained was his shame, her letters, and me.

  It wasn’t easy to learn that the man I hated, once loved. That someone once pleased him. I had missed something. After eighteen years of watching and waiting, his silence still managed to hide things from me.

  He had never looked at me the way he looked at her. He had never taken me fishing. I had never told him that I loved him. I had never thanked him, except out of fear. I lacked something that she had had. Her sparkle, standing there grinning with her hand on her hip. Her affection, standing there touching him so easy and natural. Her fearlessness, telling him I’m gonna marry him, even if we have to run away. I had everything of her death, and nothing of her life.

  The car started again and I stashed the letters back in their places and ducked around the corner. I heard him come back in and sit down. There were so many things I wanted to ask him about her. Mamma Rutha couldn’t answer me plainly. She sang to me about my momma. But she couldn’t talk about her.

  I walked into the kitchen and sat across from him. I was brave, believing that as he stared at her picture he might remember some of the old love. That he might remember it, even as he stared at me, Mary’s child.

  “Is that a picture of Momma?”

  He nodded.

  “Gosh. She was pretty, huh?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you mind if I look?”

  He placed the picture down on the table and slid it over to me. Our eyes met. One pair black and seeking. The other black and sad.

  “She looks like you,” I said.

  He sighed again. “I . . . always.” He stopped.

  A dog barked and he stood up and ran outside. I smiled and laughed softly at my luck. It was her birthday, but she’s the one that gave me a gift. My new weapon against him. She showed me that he was more than my Father Heron. He was her daddy too.

  Chapter XXVIII

  You killed her.”

  I had planned my words carefully. Father Heron, will you change your mind? That would never work. I had to make him want to. I had to call upon more than his fear of shaming the Heron name. I had to call upon his love for Mary.

  When I was a little girl, I used to play Mary. I would take my Sally doll to hide in the woods and I would imagine that I lived there, with Momma. She was more beautiful than the faded picture that Mamma Rutha kept by her bed. With honey-colo
red hair that tickled her shoulders and dark eyes that flashed happiness. She would set wild daisies before me. And throw clusters of ripe blackberries all around me. The daisies would change into a feast of fried eggs. The berries would smear into jam. Together we would dine, and laugh over how good it was. She would hold my Sally doll and I would wish that I was still small enough to be held. Mary is the mother of Jesus, my Sunday school teacher told me. But the one I craved was the Mary that would feed me. The one that would rock my Sally doll. Mary, mother of Mercy.

  “I know you killed Mary,” I told him.

  He didn’t move, but I sensed the internal jolt of his body. I sensed the way his breath hung still within his lungs. The way his back felt every inch of his spine straighten and stiffen.

  “I know you killed my momma. Your own daughter, and you killed her.”

  He looked up at me, as I stood, shaking but powerful, looking down upon him. His eyes held murder in them. They were cold and unrelenting, like a metal knob that won’t budge when you try to turn it.

  “Get out,” he said lowly.

  I shook my head no, and backed up a step to place the kitchen table between us.

  “You killed her. She loved you. You made her smile, and you killed her.”

  He stood up, and I saw how his hands trembled. I backed up another step and showed him the picture from his Bible.

  “Look at Mary, Father Heron. See how she smiles standing next to you. See how her eyes loved you,” I whispered.

  His eyes fell to the picture, and they grew weary. With her silly grin and mocking eyes, she spoke to him. I was her baby girl. And she was his. He reached for the picture and cradled it in his palm.

  “You don’t know anything,” he whispered. “You don’t know anything about that day.”

  “I know you can still make it right,” I said, beginning to sob. “She will forgive you if you make it right.”

  He knew what I was asking for. Not his approval. Not his love. Just his help. My body felt too weak to pull in air to breathe. But the prayers still came. I was speaking without breath. I was speaking without ribs, or lungs. Without a mouth, a tongue, or lips. The words called from me.