Broken Branch

by John Mantooth

  He smiled at her, but did not look away.

  This might have gone on forever if another voice hadn’t called out.

  “I confess it. I have thought of leaving. I’ve even packed my things and planned the night. I’m sorry.”

  All eyes turned to Simpson Ward, a teenager whom Otto had found on one of his trips into town. The boy was an orphan and Otto had brought him back to raise as his own son. He was also mentoring him for the ministry and Simpson had already begun speaking to the children on Sunday mornings and by all indications was ill suited to the vocation, though Trudy found his disposition sweet and did not mind when he watched her children.

  Trudy turned back to Otto. He seemed perplexed. Simpson had obviously not been one of the people Otto expected to confess. He was only thrown off for a moment, though, before shifting back smoothly to his normal unflappable demeanor.

  “Child, we will discuss this later. You are likely confused.” He turned back to the others. “He’s young in the faith, this one. A babe.”

  “He’s unclean!” someone shouted.

  “Who said that?” Otto said. His reaction was swift, uncalculated, and Trudy believed she saw real anger flashing in his eyes.

  No one took credit for saying it, though Trudy would have bet almost any amount that it was Franklin Meyers or Earl Talbot.

  “I’ll speak to Simpson,” Otto said. “The rest of you take heed of the message I gave to you today. Go and do the work of the Lord.”

  It was their traditional dismissal, but in his flustered state, Otto had neglected the closing prayer. People stayed put, unsure of whether to leave or not without the prayer. Otto had preached many times about the importance of opening and closing everything with prayer.

  “Go on,” he said. “There’s work to be done on the church. Don’t delay or your slothfulness will be a blight unto the Lord.”

  This got them moving, and Trudy followed the other women to the shed for the cart. It was their day to gather firewood.

  9

  Trudy brought Rodney and let him help. Usually Simpson pushed the cart for the women as he’d been deemed unfit to help the men with building the church because of his youth. Simpson was late, so Rachel and Eugenia, Ben Turner’s wife, took turns pushing the cart from deadfall to deadfall.

  They’d worked a few hours before anyone said anything about the meeting. It was Rachel—not surprisingly, Trudy thought—who brought it up. “It seems like the boy should be punished,” she said.

  “Simpson?” Eugenia said.

  “Who else? Wanting to leave is like admitting your sin.”

  Trudy bit her lip. She knew it would be foolish to get involved.

  “What sin do you think it is?” Eugenia asked.

  “He’s queer.”

  “No,” Eugenia said. “Not that one.”

  Rachel shook her head knowingly. “I’ve seen him. I know.”

  “You’re a liar,” Trudy said. Her hand flew to her mouth, as she tried to block the words from coming out, but it was too late.

  Rachel turned to her casually. “You think you know so much, Trudy Sykes. You think you have everything figured out, but the only thing you’ve truly figured out is how to be displeasing to God.”

  Trudy was about to reply when Simpson showed up. He looked embarrassed, his face red with shame.

  “Afternoon,” he said. “I’m sorry for my lateness, and I’m sorry for the foolishness this morning.” He spoke as if reciting lines he’d rehearsed, and Trudy was sure that he had rehearsed them, probably just minutes before with Otto.

  Rachel shook her head dismissively. “It’s about time. This cart is heavy.”

  10

  The day was perfect, the kind of day that made it hard to believe the weather could ever turn bad. The tops of the trees swayed in a high breeze, and between their leaves Trudy could see the sky as blue as a bird’s egg. She tried to imagine the dust bowl that Otto told them about, the people who starved looking for work, for food, and found that it was difficult. All she could think about was that sky, and how she wanted to see all of it.

  She glanced at Rodney. He was working hard, picking up small sticks and taking them over to the cart where Simpson stood offering encouragement. She watched her son, feeling her heart swell with love for the boy. No one knew his sweetness like she did. He clung to her like a lifeline, afraid sometimes to leave her side, and while this could be frustrating at times, he often surprised her with a kiss or hug or a flower picked from the woods, some little gesture that always seemed to lift her when she needed lifting the most.

  They were wrapping up the morning’s work, getting ready to head back to the clearing to prepare lunch for their husbands, when the man stumbled out of the trees. He almost ran over Rodney, who dropped the wood he was carrying and quickly moved out of the man’s way.

  It was always a shock when an outsider discovered their little community. Sometimes they went so long without seeing another person that Trudy felt like the outside world ceased to exist, and seeing someone new was a jolt of lightning, a wake-up call that reminded her there was more to her life, a whole possible world with a sky that didn’t just reveal itself as piecemeal but rather as a vast canvas stretching from one horizon to the next.

  Yet this particular man wasn’t an ordinary visitor. Usually families came or hunters or occasionally that sheriff from town, the one who leered at the women and talked tough with the men. This man was old. Older, Trudy believed, than any other person she’d ever known. He was thin and wore a pair of loose overalls whose straps he’d cinched up tight in an apparent effort to keep them from falling off his almost nonexistent frame. His face was wrinkled leather, but in several places, the leather seemed to have cracked and great sores oozed blood down the sides of his cheeks and into the thick white mat of his long beard. All of this, and still none of these things were the most striking aspect of the man. What struck Trudy the most were the old scars on his chest. He wore no undershirt under the loose overalls, and the marks were visible from far away. Trudy couldn’t imagine what had done such a thing to him, except that whatever it was must have been seeking to tear out his very heart.

  “Howdy,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “I come a long way.”

  That was clearly an understatement. Here was a man that looked like he’d been walking his entire life.

  Eugenia, Ben’s wife, spoke first. “You don’t look well. Come with us for some lunch and we’ll take care of your wounds.”

  He grinned the most ghastly grin Trudy had ever seen. All of his teeth were gone except for two on the top. One of those had turned a deep shade of purple and the other seemed covered in a film of translucent yellow grime. But the smile was a happy one, full of genuine pleasure and delight. Trudy found herself smiling back.

  “That’s kind of you, ma’am, but I’ve got to get to the swamp directly.”

  “The swamp?” Trudy said.

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s a gator there that I owe a good licking to.” He grinned and pulled back a gnarled thumb into his scarred chest.

  “An alligator did that to you?” Trudy said.

  “I reckon I wasn’t born this ugly,” he said. “It got at me when I was just a boy, right here in this swamp. I fought for everything I was worth, but a boy ain’t no match for an alligator.” He pointed up to a patch of blue sky. “I reckon the Lord pulled me out of there before it took my heart. A gator, you know, will go for the heart. They like to eat them while they’re still beating. Once a man or boy is dead, the gator don’t like to eat them half as much. That’s what I’ve heard anyway.”

  “Excuse me,” Rachel said. “Did you say the alligator attacked you here?” Rachel belonged to Otto—and normally Trudy didn’t like such phrases, saying that women “belonged” to their men—but in Rachel’s case, she thought it was the truth. He owned her like an object, and for Rachel’s
part, that seemed to be exactly what she wanted.

  “Sure did. I wasn’t more than a boy, though. This was way back.” He grinned. “I’m older than I look. Born in 1833, the night the stars fell.”

  Trudy had heard her mother speak of this night as a child. It was just a story, Trudy knew, but it had held a powerful fascination for her. In many ways, Trudy had spent her whole life hoping to experience something like that, something that went beyond the ordinary, something that proved there was more to this world than flesh and bone, rock and wood.

  It was a great story, but Trudy couldn’t help but think he was lying about his birthday. Either that or he was just too far gone to know better. He was clearly very old, but being born in 1833 would make him one hundred. As much as she might want to, she couldn’t believe that.

  “But there are no gators here,” Rachel said. “There’s no swamp here either. You’ve come to the wrong place.”

  The man looked hurt. “Well, I don’t reckon I have. I’d remember this place in my sleep.” He leaned forward, as if telling them a secret. “You folks don’t know about the change?”

  “What change?” Trudy said.

  The man grinned. “Oh, this place has got two personalities. One of them is just the normal world, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that, at least for most people. But there’s some who need more. Some who need to touch a piece of God. That’s what the swamp’s for.”

  Rachel looked worried. “Maybe you should come with us. Meet my husband. He’s our minister. He’d love to speak of God with you, Mr. . . .”

  “I don’t hold with no misters. Call me G.L.”

  “G.L.?”

  “That’s my name,” he shot back, grinning.

  “You look tired. Come with us.”

  G.L. nodded. “I don’t mind a little rest, but I don’t put much stock in ministers.”

  This stopped Rachel. “I think you’ll find my husband well versed in the Word. I’m sure he will be unlike the shysters and charlatans you may have encountered.”

  “I ain’t never met none of those,” G.L. said. “But if they’re anything like ministers, I’ll pass.” He grinned. “No offense intended.”

  Trudy laughed. She couldn’t help it. She knew it would anger Rachel, but it was too funny.

  Rachel’s mouth pinched shut. “Simpson? Oh, where did he run off to? The dumb child. Trudy, would you find him and get him to bring the cart? And find your son. They both seem to have wandered off.”

  Trudy turned around in a circle, looking for Rodney. He did appear to be gone, which was completely unlike him. Trudy felt a surge of panic grip her.

  “Rodney?”

  “He was over there, last I saw,” Eugenia said, pointing toward a slight opening in a large mass of kudzu and underbrush.

  “Thank you,” Trudy said.

  “He might have slipped off to the swamp,” G.L. said, but Trudy hardly heard him. She was moving fast, almost running, the panic so real it made her heart jump in her chest. She had just gathered her skirts to run when she saw his arm. It was poking out of the thick kudzu and shaking violently, like a tree limb being pulverized by the wind. Except there was no wind. Whatever made Rodney different seemed to emanate from inside him.

  Trudy nearly ran into Simpson, who was standing over her son. His face was tight with anguish. She ignored him and knelt beside Rodney, who had stopped convulsing and was now lying motionless and unresponsive.

  “I didn’t do nothing, Ms. Trudy. I promise.”

  Trudy turned and saw that the boy was crying. “I promise,” he said again.

  “No, of course not, Simpson.” She stood and held him for a moment, such a fragile boy, maybe not physically but in spirit. “This has to be our secret, but this happens to him often. He’s going to be okay. I know it’s scary at first, but it’ll pass.”

  He nodded. “That’s what Otto tells me. He says that right now it’s tough, but I’ll be glad I stayed when the hard times end.”

  “I’ve been thinking about leaving too,” Trudy said. She knew it wasn’t wise to talk about it, but she couldn’t help herself. Simpson didn’t seem like the other men. He seemed like he would understand.

  “I’m afraid,” he said. At first she thought he was talking about Rodney, but when she looked down, she saw that he’d stopped shaking. He was asleep now and would stay that way for several hours unless Trudy woke him up.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Leaving. Otto says that God will be angry.”

  Trudy shook her head. “God isn’t so angry, Simpson. All the talk about him punishing people is just to keep us in line. That’s what I think.”

  “Otto said you weren’t a believer.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You seem like a nice lady to me, but . . . I don’t know, sometimes Otto talks about folks. He says God told him you weren’t a real believer. He says God still has work to do with you.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t take it personal. Otto says the same thing about me. I try to pray, I really do. I try to keep my thoughts pure.” He looked away, suddenly embarrassed, and Trudy knew that he had thought of her before. Surprisingly, she found this pleasing.

  She took his hand in hers. He flushed red.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “I think you need to go. You’re strong and able-bodied. You have your whole life ahead of you. You can find work. I know it’s hard out there, but this place isn’t good for a boy. Otto isn’t good for you.” She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him that she and the kids would join him, that they’d go together, help each other out, but she wasn’t ready yet. She had to think, she had to plan more. Rodney and Mary would have to be prepared, and there was still James to think about too. She wasn’t sure if what she felt for him could still be called love, but it was something like it. A loyalty, a commitment. She wanted a little more time to figure all of that out.

  “I don’t know . . .” he said. “Otto says I’d be a fool to leave. He says it’s like poking my finger in God’s eye after all he’s done for me, but . . . can I tell you a secret? Just between the two of us?”

  She nodded, resisting the urge she felt suddenly to kiss his mouth. How old was the boy? No more than twenty, surely. And here was Trudy nearly thirty and married. It was wrong, the kinds of thoughts she would be punished for.

  “Otto scares me. He . . .”

  “Go on.”

  Just then Rodney woke up. “Momma?”

  She turned and gathered him in her arms. When she turned back to face Simpson again, he’d already started back to the clearing.

  “Leave,” she said, but she wasn’t sure if he heard her.

  11

  “Who was that old man?” Rodney said as they walked hand in hand back toward the clearing.

  “His name was G.L.,” she whispered. “He was very old.”

  Rodney nodded. “I want to see the swamp.”

  There was something about the way he said it—the matter-of-fact tone, the way his small, soft voice brooked no argument about the place’s existence—that frightened Trudy a little. Frightened and also thrilled her.

  “Me too,” she said and kissed his forehead.

  12

  By the time she returned to the clearing with Rodney, the crowd had already gathered behind the oak tree. For as long as she could remember, the area just behind the tree had been a massive tangle of underbrush and layered kudzu. It was so thick and dark that the task of removing it had always seemed too daunting, and the community had settled for just cutting it back when it seemed to encroach upon the clearing.

  Now a crowd of people watched as G.L. tore the vines away by hand, ignoring the sharp briars that made his hands bleed. He was sweating heavily and swaying from side to side, clearly about to pass out. Yet no one moved to help him.

  Trudy stood beside James.
“What’s happening?”

  James shrugged. “Old coot says there’s a swamp under that mess.”

  “And we’re going to stand by while he kills himself trying to get to it?”

  “I’ve tried to speak reason to him, Trudy.” She craned her neck to see Otto standing on the other side of James. “He’s clearly not well.”

  “Clearly,” Trudy said. She stepped forward and put a hand on his back. “Mr. G.L.?”

  He stopped and turned around. His mouth opened into a slack grin.

  “Why don’t you take a break?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t have long. I want to see the swamp again before I go.”

  Trudy couldn’t say why—maybe it was because of the conversation she’d just had with Rodney, or maybe it was because the old man, in an odd way, reminded her of her son—but she felt the urge to help him.

  So she did. She dug into the vines and pulled an armful away.

  “Trudy,” Otto warned, “this is not the work of the Lord.”

  Trudy ignored him and kept pulling vines. In fact, she increased her speed, working steadily until she too was sweating.

  There were murmurs from the crowd, and Trudy knew her husband would be shaking his head. She thought again about leaving. What was she waiting on? Another storm? For them to see one of Rodney’s attacks and claim that Satan was in him? She kept digging through the mess, promising that tonight, she’d sit down and figure it all out.

  Eventually, they uncovered enough to see something under all the darkness. And what they saw surprised everyone. Later, folks would whisper about it, saying that it might have meant something. But no one ever dared speak it out loud.

  Underneath all the brambles and vines lay a round door set in concrete.

  13

  The door turned out to be the hatch to a storm shelter. It was an ancient thing, though someone had spent great effort to reinforce it with concrete and steel, and a short iron ladder led into the belly of the shelter, which was much larger than Trudy would have guessed. Though she remembered thinking that it would need to be even larger to get the whole community inside. Half maybe. More than that would be tight. All twenty-five, counting the children, would be impossible.