The Shade of My Own Tree

by Sheila Williams

  “Opal! Are these yours?”

  Her gloved hands held a stack of wooden stakes. They were roughly cut and made out of small odd-sized pieces of wood that the carpenter left behind after he worked on the north porch. Gloria just stared at them, baffled.

  “No. What are they?” I asked, taking one from her and studying it.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I just found them stacked in the corner of the shed. I went out to get powder for those stupid beetles that have attacked the Japanese holly. And I found these.”

  “Mom! Leave those alone!”

  The voice came from behind us, and in a flash Troy flew across the porch and landed next to his mother, a missile of red hair and huge feet in gray sneakers.

  “Those are mine!”

  Gloria handed them to her son. We both looked at each other.

  “They’re yours?” Gloria asked. “OK. But what are they?”

  Troy gathered as many of them as he could into his small hands.

  “They’re stakes,” he said proudly as he organized them by length.

  His mother and I were still confused.

  “Stakes,” I said. “Stakes … for what? For the tomato plants?”

  Troy looked at me as if I had two heads, four arms, and six legs.

  “For the vampire o’ course,” he whispered loudly.

  “What vamp—”

  He pointed in the direction of the coach house.

  “Oh, Lordy,” I moaned.

  Gloria couldn’t help herself. She broke out into laughter. Soon I was laughing, too.

  Troy did not see the humor at all.

  “That’s how you kill them,” he told us as if we had been born yesterday. “You drive a stake through their hearts when they’re sleeping in their caskets.” He paused and looked over his shoulder at the coach house again. Dana’s shades were drawn. But then, they were always drawn. The huge Mercedes wasn’t parked in the turnaround space, but I had found, to my chagrin, that didn’t mean anything, either. Sometimes I saw Dana and didn’t see the car. Eerie.

  “They sleep during the day, you know,” Troy informed us.

  Gloria nodded.

  “Yes, I know,” she said.

  “Troy, what were you going to do?” I asked. “Sneak into her apartment and stab her through the heart?”

  Troy’s eyes widened.

  “Well … yeah,” he said simply.

  Gloria began to take the stakes away from her son.

  “Well, no,” she countered.

  “Mom!”

  “Troy, you are not going to bother that woman. Now, she ain’t … She isn’t a vampire; there’s no such thing. She’s just a woman minding her own business, and you …” She leaned over and looked him directly in the eye. “You are going to leave her alone.”

  Troy looked away and frowned.

  “Do you understand?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he mumbled. “But—”

  “No buts,” Gloria said.

  “Mom—”

  “Excuse me.” The voice that came from behind us was deep, husky, and had an exotic accent. We nearly jumped out of our skins.

  Dana Drew stood on the cobblestone walk dressed in her usual black-on-black with a leather collar encircling her neck that was studded in what looked like diamonds. Interesting. Her eyes were covered, as they always were, in sunglasses. She was wearing high heels.

  We had not heard one sound coming across those cobblestones. Not one tap. I walk across those things in sneakers and make noise.

  Where the devil had she come from? Let me rephrase that question.

  “Excuse me,” she repeated. I tried to get a fix on that accent. At first, I’d thought Greta Garbo. Swedish. Then I thought, no, Marlene Dietrich. German. But the way Dana said “excuse me” reminded me of something else. When I remembered what it was, I almost laughed. It reminded me of Bela Lugosi in the old Dracula movies when he said, “Good evening.” Is there such a place as Transylvania?

  “How are you?” she asked graciously. Her accent had thickened.

  We all stared at her.

  Troy’s eyes were as big as saucers. Vampires aren’t supposed to be out before the sun sets.

  “Ah, fine, thanks, Dana. I … uh … had no idea you were here,” I stammered. “C-can I do something for you?”

  Gloria and Troy were completely silent. For a moment I thought Gloria was trembling.

  “I was wondering …” (This came out as “I vas vondering”) “if you haf any WD-40. I need to oil some hinges.”

  “Oh. Oh, sure,” I replied. “It’s … it’s in the toolshed; let me get it for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She did not smile.

  She followed me to the shed, took the oil, promised to return it tomorrow, and disappeared. I didn’t hear her footsteps go back across the cobblestones, either. When I came back around the house, Gloria and Troy were still standing on the sidewalk. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “She, uh, needed oil,” I said, repeating what they already knew.

  “Yeah,” Gloria said, picking up one of Troy’s stakes and turning it over in her hand. “To oil the hinges on her coffin, I’ll bet.”

  Troy was thrilled. “See, I told you. She’s a vampire.”

  His words hung in the thick August air like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

  “Troy, vampires aren’t real,” I told him in a tone that was completely unconvincing.

  We looked up at the black-shaded windows in the coach house apartment.

  “Aren’t they?” Gloria asked.

  It took me four hours to get ready for my dinner with Jack Neal. Yes, four hours.

  You have to remember I’m an old broad. The last real date I went on was in 1974. That was a lifetime ago. My hair was all over my head in a straw-colored Afro and I wore flared jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of platform shoes. It was the seventies. I didn’t even carry a purse.

  I didn’t wear a bra with the T-shirt; we all went braless then. If I tried to do that now, I’d probably hurt myself or someone else. Flared jeans are “back”, but I read somewhere that if you have already worn an item that is back you are not allowed to wear it again. Probably be arrested by the fashion police.

  As far as the platform shoes are concerned, that mandate won’t be a problem. I fell off a pair of white platform shoes in 1973. Yes, fell off, stepping off of a curb to cross the street. I ended up spending that morning in the doctor’s office having my leg bandaged up and getting a tetanus shot. I threw the shoes in the trash.

  So thirty years later, here I am standing in front of my closet (bra on, thank you) trying to decide what to wear.

  I had put Jack off for weeks because I just wasn’t ready. He had become a friend; he was funny. He came with references (Bette had checked everything except his colon) and he was a nice guy. But I still made up lots of excuses for postponing our first real “date.” I didn’t want a rebound situation. I wasn’t divorced yet. I was too old. My hips were too wide. But it all came back to Ted. Why does it always come back to Ted?

  He’d never leave me alone. Never. For the rest of my life (or his) I will look over my shoulder, pause before I answer a telephone, circle parking lots to make sure that his car isn’t there, check and double-check my locks, doors, windows, and sleep with one eye open.

  And any man that I married, dated, or was just friends with would be subjected to the same thing. How could I ask someone else to put up with this? What man would? Life is way too short to volunteer for drama, heartache, and danger. You’ll get it anyway, but why stack the deck against yourself?

  So what was I going to do about Jack?

  I felt like a sixteen-year-old. Just that statement shows how behind the times I am. Girls today start dating at thirteen.

  LaDonna laughed at me.

&n
bsp; “Opal, it’s like falling off a horse. You have to get back up in the saddle and ride again. If I hadn’t done that, I never would have met my husband.”

  LaDonna’s first marriage had left her battered, bruised, and alone caring for four children. Now she had been married for almost ten years to a teddy bear of a man who thought she square-danced on water.

  Bette’s approach was more mercenary.

  “If it doesn’t work out, go to the next name on your list.” Bette shrugged her padded shoulders. “You do have a list, don’t you?”

  A list? Me?

  “Bette, I’m forty-eight years old,” I said. “The men my age want to date toddlers.”

  “That’s your first mistake,” she said sharply. “Assuming that you have nothing to offer. You have confidence, experience, knowledge. In the right situation and wearing the right lingerie, you can overcome any obstacles, whether you’re dating a man forty-eight or twenty-eight.”

  Twenty-eight?

  Jack was fifty. I guess he’d obviously decided that he didn’t mind being seen out with an OBBWA (old black broad with an attitude).

  After three and a half hours had passed and I still hadn’t decided what to wear, I just grabbed something. It was a colorful sundress, not too casual, not too dressy. I slid into a pair of low-heeled mules and found a straw purse in the bottom of a box at the back of my closet. With a sense of resignation, I looked into the mirror.

  I’ll have to admit that I was surprised at what I saw there.

  I had pretty much given up mirror-looking months ago when I saw the beaten-up, worn-down crack head–looking creature with the cigarette burns on her shoulders and the sunken-in eye sockets. Even after I moved out on Ted and set up the yellow house, I continued my habit of doing what I had to do to get ready for work and moving on. Mirror-looking was a luxury that I could not afford. Plus, it was depressing.

  But for this dinner date, I had to make an exception. I wanted to look nice and pulled together. That meant a trip to the full-length mirror.

  The woman standing there was a familiar stranger.

  She was still tall and caramel-colored, but she didn’t look like the scary creature I’d seen four months ago.

  Her hair was curled into long corkscrews that were light brown, caramel, and auburn colored with highlights of silver. Her dark eyes were shining and bright and the mascara on the eyelashes had, miraculously, not made its way to other areas of her face. Her skin was clear and smooth and healthy and her lips were parted into a smile. I looked her straight in the eye. And she looked back.

  She looked like an older version of the twenty-two-year-old who’d worn the flared jeans and fallen off the platform shoes. She looked a lot like that girl who used to take art lessons and thought she was Mary Cassatt.

  She looked a lot like me.

  And when Jack arrived on my front porch and I opened the door, he smiled and said, “You look really nice.”

  And I felt good.

  We had a reservation at Napa, a trendy bistro on the main drag of downtown Prestonn. It featured a “fusion” of Mediterranean/California cuisine and you had to make reservations weeks in advance. But Jack had done the owner a favor and we got a prime seating at seven o’clock. It was a beautiful August evening, so we walked.

  We passed the Colonel, one of my neighbors who patrols the neighborhood as if it is his own private reserve. He was an older man and wore a ten-gallon hat rain or shine. Bette tells me that in the summer he wears the white hat and once Labor Day passes he wears the black one. He smiled and tipped the hat as we passed.

  Another man approached on the sidewalk and extended his hand to Jack. He was a little man, about sixty years old, and he wore black-framed glasses with thick lenses. He was effusive and chatty. But he was a little strange.

  “Hi, Cousin!” he said to Jack. “How you doin’?”

  Jack smiled and shook his hand. “Fine, fine.”

  The man nodded at me and tipped his baseball cap. “How do.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  The little man turned his attention back to Jack. “You know, Susie ain’t doin’ too good, I was up there yesterday.”

  Jack’s brow furrowed with concern. “No? I’m sorry to hear about that.”

  The man shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, it’s sad, ain’t it? But I’m satisfied that Aunt Florence and Bud and them will take care o’ her.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  “You going up there anytime?”

  Jack paused. “Not real soon. I have a few projects going on right now.”

  “Yes, well, I understand,” the man responded. He shook his head. “Kinda sad.”

  “Yes, it is,” Jack agreed. “Sad.”

  “Well, gotta go,” the man said brightly. “Bye, Cousin!”

  Jack waved. “Bye!”

  The man walked briskly on.

  I stared after him.

  “Cousin? That white man was your cousin?”

  Jack laughed.

  “No, he’s not my cousin!”

  “He seemed to think that you’re his cousin. And you didn’t tell him any different.”

  Jack shrugged his shoulders. “He’s a little confused. Been around here for years. Every time he sees me, he says, ‘Hi, Cousin,’ and talks as if he’s known me forever. He’s harmless. Just a good old boy with a few screws loose.”

  “It’s strange, Jack,” I commented.

  Jack was not concerned. “What can I tell you? River people are different.”

  The owner of Napa gave us the best table, next to the window overlooking the river. He personally selected a wine for us and then sent it to the table with his compliments. I felt like Queen Elizabeth, only I was better dressed.

  As usual, I alternated river watching with eating. The river was crowded with motor yachts, little fishing boats, and the occasional paddle wheeler. I was like a kid at the circus; I always am when it comes to rivers. And when the barge came through, filled with coal and sunk low in the water, it blew its horn in warning to the yachts that it dwarfed in comparison. The flotillas of dinner cruise boats parted and let the huge monolith float by, which it did in majestic style.

  Jack thought I was ridiculous and teased me: “I don’t get it. It’s just a river.”

  I took a sip of my wine and grinned at him. “And you grew up here,” I told him. “So, you’re used to all this,” I waved my hand at the window where a beautiful white paddle wheeler, the Belle of Louisville, made its way across our view.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. My brother, sister, and I used to fish in the river, right off the banks near the River Road Bridge. We’d throw our lines out, catch catfish that wide around and that long,” He showed me with his hands, and I couldn’t imagine a catfish six inches around and over a foot long.

  “Did you take ’em home and eat ’em?”

  Jack made a face. “Oh, hell, no! I don’t eat catfish. They’re bottom dwellers; you don’t know what they’ve been eating. Uh-uh,” He shook his head vehemently and I couldn’t help but giggle.

  Yes, forty-eight-year-old women do giggle when the situation warrants it.

  “What did you do with all the fish you caught, then?” I asked, completely clueless when it comes to a Tom Sawyer childhood.

  “Threw ’em back,” Jack said as if I should have known. “We were just fishing for fun anyway. We wrestled with them. It was something to do.”

  I smiled and looked out at the river again. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll still be fascinated. I grew up in a flat, landlocked place, and the two creeks we called rivers don’t hold a candle to this wide expanse of water that’s seen it all. I am not a river person yet, but I’m working on it. But Jack disagrees.

  “Nope. You may be a foreigner,” he commented, referring to the fact that I was not born in the state, “but I�
��d say that you’re well on your way to being a bona fide river person, peculiarities and all.”

  I grinned at him. “I beg your pardon. I am not peculiar.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really.”

  “Really. Oh! Look at that!” I was distracted by another barge slipping quickly through the water, scattering the pleasure craft in its path.

  Jack shook his head. “Let me see. You’re living in a huge yellow house. You paint pictures that look like—”

  I held up my hand. “If you say ‘elephant puke’ we’re gonna fight.”

  Jack cleared his throat. He tried to look innocent. “You can’t keep holding that against me. I was trying to be more creative with my language.”

  I started laughing.

  “Then, there’s this movable-studio kick you’re on.”

  I tried to look clueless. “I am trying to get the right light.”

  OK, so I’ve moved my painting studio from the third floor to the rear sleeping porch to the back parlor to the dining room. So what?

  “Exactly. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” he continued, “you paint; you have a parade of unusual and, yes, somewhat fragile women coming and going. A noble enterprise, by the way. You have a huge bear of a dog, named Bear, that’s afraid of his own shadow. And you have a piece of dog named Wellington who’ll bite your ass off if you even look at him wrong. Two ghetto cats named Ice Tray and Calico With an Attitude who sweep the place like AWACS planes. The house ain’t haunted, but it’s definitely on the waiting list, and, the whipped cream on top of this sundae is that you have a vampire living in the coach house.”