The Killing Tree

by Rachel Keener

  I could hear Father Heron shifting in his seat.

  “Deacon Heron, I know you can’t force her to do anything. I know she’s powerful headstrong. I know you’ve raised her right too. Always brought her to church yourself, even when her grandma quit. You’ve done good by her, sir. I can’t pretend to know how hard it must be to raise a girl all by yourself. And I know you must be disappointed in her right now. But deep down she knows what’s right. And I was thinking maybe between the two of us, we could steer her that way again. I’d be grateful to you if you’d give me that chance.”

  “I’ll speak to her,” Father Heron said. “Stability. That’s what women like her need. It’s what I’ve always given her. I’ll speak to her, ’cause I trust you to provide a firm stable hand. Women the likes of her need it.”

  “I appreciate that, sir, I really do. I know she puts a lot of stock in what you say. Well, I better be off to help close the diner up. I brought your family some dinner here,” he said, rustling brown paper bags.

  “Much obliged. You tell your folks hello, and I’ll see them at church.”

  “Yes sir, you take care.”

  I slid around to the side of the house as Rusty left. I watched him heave himself into his truck. Laboring to carry his weight and breathe through his smoke-filled lungs.

  I walked quietly into the house, untucking my shirt as I went.

  “Mercy,” he called.

  “Yes, Father Heron?”

  “Come eat dinner.”

  I could smell it everywhere. Smoked pig. The odor of hickory and flesh filling the house. My stomach turned. And turned again. I gagged.

  “Mercy?”

  “I’m coming,” I yelled, feeling hot from the crown of my head to my toes.

  I watched him pull the pork from the bags. Shredded bits of gray flesh, drowning in a red paste. My stomach began to knot. Stop it, I told myself. You cannot throw up in front of him. If you do, he will know. He will know and then he will kill you both.

  “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll pour us some tea,” I said, whirling around so I could gag. I had to get through that dinner without vomiting. I took a sip of tea. Sweet and familiar, nothing harsh or smoky there. I sat down, careful to keep my eyes off of him and off the food. Every muscle in my body was tense, pulled tight to keep it from the release it sought. Even my toes were curling tight in my shoes. I could feel my pulse in my stomach, throbbing out its anger. My skin began to burn. I watched him bow his head and mumble a prayer.

  “Amen,” I said, when he raised his head, unaware that I hadn’t even closed my eyes.

  “Saw your boss today.”

  “Oh, really?” I asked, not bothering to update him that I had been fired.

  “Mhmm. He brought this dinner. Good boy, Mercy. Got his act together, that one.”

  “He’s always been a real nice boss,” I said, my eyes catching a glimpse of gray pork being stuffed in his mouth. I didn’t know how to breathe. If I inhaled through my nose, I could smell it. If I opened my mouth to breath, I was afraid of what I couldn’t hold back. So I did the best I could. I sat there with my jaw locked and teeth gritted, sucking air between the tiny gaps in my crooked bottom row.

  “I think it’d be good for you to spend some time with him.”

  I sat there and counted the flies on the ceiling, to distract myself from the smell, the gagging, and my fear. One, two, three, four . . .

  “Lucky he’s interested in you at all, after whoring yourself out to that mater migrant,” he growled.

  One, two, three . . . the fourth had flown away.

  “So you will spend some time with him,” he said.

  I was unsure of what to say. Was it a trick? To see if I was still hot for men, like he called Della? I stifled a gag.

  “Did you say something?”

  “No sir.”

  He eyed my plate. “Not eating much.”

  “Not too hungry. Once you serve this food all day you get to the point where it’s hard to eat,” I said, picking up my fork and swirling it through my food.

  “Humph,” he muttered. “Ungrateful. Rusty brought this all the way up here for us. Better than that mater migrant of yours ever did. But this Rusty fella, he’s a different sort. Good churchgoing boy. Think it’d do you good to spend time with him instead of that whore Della.”

  I wondered what he was up to. He had never seemed concerned with what was good for me. Just what would make him look good. And after I had sufficiently shamed myself in the eyes of his friends, he had been content to wash his hands of me. But now there was a new interest, a new concern with what was good for me. What was good for Mercy now? Something that could make him look saintly? To manage to marry off his whore granddaughter even after she shamed him?

  “I see him every day,” I said.

  He chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed.

  “That ain’t what I mean. See him outside of work, have him up for dinner sometime. Show people you ain’t just a mater migrant’s whore. He comes from a good family and he’s taking a liking to you. I reckon if outsider trash is good enough for you, then you could manage to make yourself respectable with the best of Crooktop.”

  “Why should I?” I dared to whisper. What did it matter now that he had gotten rid of Trout? Now that I had confessed myself at church? He didn’t answer, and when I stole a glance at him I saw danger in the lock of his jaw. Danger in the way he gripped his fork. Tightly, forcefully, like the fork had a life that he could choke.

  “I’m not questioning you, sir, I didn’t mean to do that,” I retreated. “Guess I’m just surprised he’s taken to liking me.”

  His jaw relaxed and he lowered his fork.

  “Your momma . . .” he began, balancing his fork on the edge of his plate.

  I sucked in my breath. My eyes locking on his, begging him to finish his sentence.

  “Yes?” I whispered.

  “Was about the same age when she did what you’ve done. There was no redeeming her. You made sure of that. But your belly ain’t poisoned like hers. Least not yet. There’s still hope for you.”

  He didn’t want to have to kill me. That’s what he was telling me. He wanted me to be the old Mercy, Deacon Heron’s granddaughter. Killing was hard for him. I was learning that. In the way he sighed on my momma’s birthday. In the way he shook his head over his barbecue. I wondered if the back doorknob scared him the way it scared me. If he dreamed about biting blood-filled apples from our tree, the way I did. If he could ever get her scream out of his ears. He had loved her, and killing her had been hard. He was looking for a reason not to have to kill me too.

  “What was she like?” I whispered, daring to ask the question that had been waiting on my tongue since her birthday.

  He sighed and didn’t look at me. I didn’t think he was going to answer me, so I started stirring my pork again. He took a sip of tea.

  “She was a good enough girl, I reckon. ’Til him, anyways.”

  I waited. Knowing there was more. Not wanting to pass over the things that I had always missed in him.

  “A bright little thing,” he said softly, the tips of his fingers tracing circles on the table. “She could climb a tree better than any wildcat. Once, when it was the first day of school and she didn’t want to go, Rutha and I searched everywhere for that girl. She was just a little thing, barely over my knees.” He was talking to himself now, unaware that I sat stone still across from him. “We found her up in the top of an old hickory. Somehow she had managed to shimmy her way up the trunk. And she would not come down. No matter what we said. I told her I’d wear her out. Rutha promised her cupcakes. But she would not come down out of that tree,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “She always did do what she pleased. The day wore on and soon it was growing cool. Still she wouldn’t come down. So I climbed my way up in that tree and sat there with her. ’Til she agreed to go in and have some dinner. She was a mess. Bark all over her new dress. Knees all skinned up from t
he trunk. She always did do what she pleased.” He looked at me. “I never saw you climb a tree a day in your life.”

  “I have,” I said. “Lots of times.” I am like her, I wanted to tell him. It would be hard on you to kill me too.

  “Tell Rusty to come to dinner soon. I’ll clear your grandma out of the house,” he said, as he left the table and walked outside.

  I sat motionless until I could hear him working in the shed. Then I let go. Spilling hot and sour, over my cold pork. I was trembling and hot. I laid my head on the cool tabletop and thought about what he wanted me to do.

  He was asking me to give him a reason not to kill me. And I would, until I could figure something else out. I would be Rusty’s girl.

  Chapter XXXIII

  Hey there,” Rusty said, grinning, when I stopped by the diner.

  “Hi Russ.”

  “What have you been up to lately?” he asked, still grinning.

  “Not anything. You?”

  “Just working. Come smoke with me.” I followed him out to the back of the diner, where the smokers were boiling over with hickory. That’s what it would mean to be Rusty’s girl. A life of smoke swirling through and over me.

  We talked about the weather and about the diner while I struggled to force myself to do what I knew I had to. He grew restless. He knew why I was there.

  “Well, I got to get back to work,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “Wait,” I called out.

  “Yep?”

  “Come to dinner tonight. At my house.”

  He grinned. “Well, sure thing, Mercy girl.”

  I could feel him watching me walk away, spying the new bounce in my breasts.

  An hour before he arrived, everything was ready. The house was clean, the dumplings simmered, the collards were limp, and I had showered and put my lipstick on. It seemed like I cared. And the truth is, I did. Loose shirts and my puffy coat might be able to hide my belly from Father Heron. But Rusty could hide me from his interest.

  Being his girl wouldn’t be easy, because Trout never left me. I thought of him sitting in a dirty jail while I cleaned for another man. I thought of the way he fed me, as I cooked for another man. Of how he made my body blossom with life, as I got dressed for another man. There was only Trout within me. Everything else, the cooking, the cleaning, the pleasing, it was all a part of Father Heron. It sprang from my black eyes in a desperate attempt to keep Trout’s baby safe.

  Rusty pulled up, and I opened the door.

  “Hey there, pretty girl.” He had readied himself too. Hair freshly gelled and parted. The scent of heavy aftershave mixing with smoke.

  “Good to see you,” I said, trying to smile, trying not to fidget. Father Heron walked in the room.

  “Come in Rusty, welcome.”

  They sat and talked as I set the table. Imagining how different my life would have been if I could have brought Trout home. How different everything would have been if Father Heron would have been willing to sit and talk with him.

  “Y’all ready to eat?” I called from the kitchen.

  I sat between them. My hands beneath the table, secretly rubbing my belly, my hidden connection with Trout. They ate well, taking seconds of everything. I felt no hunger. I rarely did. I lived in a world of grief and danger. There wasn’t room for hunger where I hid.

  There was more chatter around that dinner table than there had been in years. Probably since my momma was alive. They talked about church. About business. About the new threat of another coal strike. I studied them. Searching for what it was that they liked about one another. I looked at Father Heron as everyone else saw him. Neat and well groomed. With cautious table manners and rigid posture. He looked like a patriarch. And that’s why people respected and listened to him. That’s why people felt sorry that my momma had left him with me.

  I looked at Rusty. Constantly grinning and nodding. Saying “yes sir” and “no sir” and “thank you sir.” He was a church-boy, a good son, a business man. He was every patriarch’s dream.

  Father Heron took Rusty out to the shed to show him his new tiller. I was alone in the kitchen washing dishes, until Mamma Rutha walked in.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Washing dishes. There’s some leftovers if you’re hungry.”

  “What are you doing?” she repeated.

  She was close to me, closer than I had realized. Smelling of cedars.

  “Remember how you’d save the blood of Father Heron’s hunting kills? How you’d drain the possum, or squirrel? And then when you knew he was about to go hunting you’d take it out and sprinkle it on a crazy path, round and round, and far away from any creature’s nest. His dogs would lose their minds trying to track that scent. They’d run in circles and backtrack. ’Cause you’d thrown ’em off the real trail.” I looked at her. “That’s all I’m doing.”

  “Your grandpa said you could come for a walk,” Rusty called through the door. I walked to him. He stood there waiting for me, with eager eyes and nervous hands.

  “Where you wanna walk to?” I asked.

  “Anywhere, I guess.” He shrugged shyly.

  We walked up the road. Past the few other houses that dared to defy the mountain. Neither one of us spoke much. Just stray comments about the weather or the diner. I thought back to the first time I walked with Trout. In the rain. Inhaling deeply to smell him. I walked with one hand on my belly.

  “I didn’t want to fire you from the diner,” Rusty said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s just that, well, with your trouble and all . . . and I’ve got customers to think about . . .” he said, stopping in the road.

  “It’s really okay, Russ.”

  “And if it was all my business and not my daddy’s I wouldn’t have . . . I just have to think about things like that . . . I just have think about whether . . .”

  “It’s okay,” I whispered, pressing in closer to him.

  “But I didn’t want you to think that I felt, or that I thought . . . I mean I want you to know that I don’t think . . .”

  “Shhh,” I whispered, softly placing my finger over his mouth.

  “Mercy,” he whispered. “You’re trembling.”

  “I know.”

  “Mercy. Mercy,” he whispered.

  I let him touch me. There on the side of the mountain, I let him run his red knuckles through my hair. I let him press his smoke-filled body closer to mine. I let him taste my mouth. I thought about that day in the diner. How I shuddered when I saw his hand on my knee. I was so far beyond that.

  The baby moved.

  “You’re crying,” he said, stepping back from me and staring at my face.

  “No I’m not,” I said too cheerfully, forcing a stiff smile.

  “You must be cold,” he said. “Standing out here kissing in the middle of winter. Let me get you home.”

  We walked home with his arm around me. It felt strong and supportive, and warm. And that made me want to cry even more. That I would be left alone having to find support and strength in Rusty. My hands didn’t leave my belly for the rest of the night. I laid in bed cradling the part of me that still held Trout. It was my living link to him.

  I began seeing Rusty every Friday night. And the more I saw of Rusty, the less I saw Father Heron. I still hid from him. Rising before dawn and going to Della’s. Or sleeping in until he had left. But he didn’t seek me now that I was making myself a respectable woman. I was sprinkling the blood of my heart in circles around that mountain. And it was throwing Father Heron off track.

  Dating Rusty wasn’t the worst thing. It was better than thinking about Trout in jail. It was better than fearing that Father Heron would want to snoop out what I did with my days. Rusty the man was different than Rusty the boss. He was less assuming and less assured. And I was doing a good job hiding the truth from him. When he pulled me close, so that our bodies pressed against one another, he felt my belly. Round and firm. I even let him put his hand th
ere, covering Trout’s baby.

  “Mercy, have you . . .” he began, his eyes tensing into little slits.

  “Yes.” I laughed. “And it’s not nice of you to bring it up. Yes, I have put on a few pounds this winter. Must be all those dinners I cook for you.”

  His face relaxed and he began to tease me, calling me his little dumpling. It was gross, but it was safe. I wasn’t going to tell him until the moment I had to.

  That moment came when he surprised me with a “special” date. He had cleared the diner out early. There were little pink carnations on the center table. And candles. He pulled a chair out for me, and laid a napkin in my lap. He was treating me like a lady. If he only knew.

  “I cooked this meal myself,” he said, as he walked back to the kitchen. He came and arranged a covered dish in front of me. Then he lifted the lid.

  “I hope you like it,” he said softly.

  Smoked pork ribs. The best part of the pig. Perfectly charred and basted. But as I looked at it, gray flesh in red paste, and smelled it, there was no damming the river. I bolted from the table to the bathroom. I didn’t even have time to shut the door. As I knelt, retching, I felt his hands lift my hair, and a cool washcloth cover my forehead.

  I started crying. Sobbing right into the toilet. I wished he wasn’t so good to me. It only made me ache for Trout even more. It only made me remember when life itself had been good.

  “Mercy,” he said, kneeling down beside me in the bathroom. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  “Don’t you know?” I sobbed. “Can’t you see?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Why are you so good to me? You don’t know me,” I cried. I was shaking all over.

  “What is it? I thought we were having a good time. Me and you, hanging out together. I thought we were having fun.”

  “You thought this was fun?” I cried. I was angry with him for being so nice to me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked again, his hand grabbing mine.

  I sat up and looked at him. How could I tell him that I had used him? How could I tell him that I could never, would never, be his? That all of his efforts were wasted? How could I tell him that I was beyond redeeming?