The Shade of My Own Tree

by Sheila Williams

  Of course! I thought. Why not? Great light, plenty of room, lots of storage space in the pantry. I made up my mind right then.

  That evening, Jack came over to pick me up for our Italian cooking class and ended up helping me take my painting supplies downstairs.

  “What kind of nut uses a kitchen as an art studio?” Jack exclaimed, shaking his head. I handed him a box of pastels and pointed to their destination. He groaned. “Opal, this is strange.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with it. The room is empty eighty percent of the time. I’ve set up my stuff in one area, away from the cooking, cutting, cleaning, and eating. The light is perfect. You know what’s the matter with you? You don’t have any imagination.”

  Jack gave me a baleful look. “You’re getting to be a little peculiar, you know that?”

  I smiled at him and started unpacking my pads and reference books. “You’re the one who said it: ‘River people are different.’ ”

  Dana floated through looking for duct tape. Since we all knew what she was doing (except for Troy, who still believed that she was a vampire), she had decided to dispense with some of the more flamboyant trappings of Maisie Beatme unless she was out in public. Without the Morticia Adams wig and thigh-high boots, she looked like any other suburban mom wearing a latex minidress and Tweety Bird house slippers. She approved of my new studio location and promised to buy me another roll of duct tape.

  “I keep using it up,” she said. I didn’t even ask. “Say, Opal,” Dana added as she floated back through the dining room. “You really ought to let me show you how to rag roll this wall. I think that would be a great decorative touch. Plus, you could add a paisley border at the top.”

  “Get out of here, Martha Stewart,” I growled. Dana will not be happy until I let her redo the dining room, mural and all, in a neo-modern Early American design.

  “Just trying to help!” she yelled back.

  Gloria called down the stairs.

  “Opal? Is Troy down there?”

  “Nope!” I yelled back. “Haven’t seen him!”

  “Where did that boy get to?” I heard Gloria mutter as she moved back down the hall.

  Jack helped himself to a soda.

  “His bike is around back, so he’s got to be here somewhere.”

  “Gloria!” I yelled upstairs. “He’s probably outside somewhere; do you want me to send him in?”

  “Yeah. I need some help with the packing!”

  “OK!” I yelled back. Imani was right about needing walkie-talkies.

  I stepped back from the easel that Jack had set up. My newest piece (I was calling it Enchanted Indigo) was in progress. It was a rich mélange of navy, deep purples, and merlots. I was having a blast experimenting. So far, it was my favorite painting. But no one else shared my good opinion.

  Imani made a face and then giggled.

  “Mom, it’s really awful.”

  Becca shook her head and refused to comment.

  Gloria laughed until her eyes watered.

  Fortunately, Jack and I had reached the point in our soon-to-be-more-than friendship where he felt that he could be completely honest and open in voicing his opinions of my artistic endeavors.

  “Opal,” he said, shaking his head. His expression was stern. “It looks like shit.”

  So what? I’m only painting for fun. I can take the honesty.

  “I still like it,” I said primly.

  Jack shook his head.

  “River people …,” he mumbled.

  Then I remembered something.

  “Oh, hold this,” I pushed a box of painting supplies into Jack’s arms and grabbed a towel. “Speaking of rivers, the washer has been acting up lately. Getting stuck on the rinse cycle.” I sped to the basement door and opened it. “I’ll be back. I think I still hear it running. I don’t want a river in the basement.”

  Jack headed out the back door.

  “Go ahead; I’ll see if I can track down Troy.”

  This time I was lucky. The rinse cycle had finished up properly. I was setting the dryer when I heard a rustling behind the washer. My hand froze on the dial. The rustling started again. The wall behind the washer was boarded up, but that was definitely where the sound was coming from. And it wasn’t the rustling of a little field mouse or a squirrel. It was big rustling. I was so scared my jaw froze. All I could think about was those furry five-legged things that I’d seen down here when Bette first showed me the house. I leaned over the top of the washer and looked down.

  “Boo!” Troy jumped out at me. If I hadn’t been so glad to see him, I would have wrung his neck.

  “What the …” I glared at the little monster and caught him by the ear. “Don’t you ever do that to me again! What were you doing back there?” I did give him a good shake.

  It was lost on Troy, though. He grinned like Howdy Doody and wouldn’t stop talking.

  “Playing in the tunnel with Wells. I play in there all the time. But Wells ran off. I was just about to look for him when you came down.” Troy was breathing hard with the excitement of his fright tactic. “You were scared, weren’t you?” he asked, thrilled to death.

  “Your mom is looking for you—what tunnel?” It just dawned on me what Troy had said.

  “The tunnel, back there.” He slipped behind the washer and pulled open the wooden panel that I had thought was nailed and secure. It wasn’t. It had hinges and swung open like a door, but only far enough to let Troy in.

  Together we scooted the washing machine over, and I peeked inside. Troy accommodated me by switching on his flashlight.

  “It gets kinda dark sometimes,” he said. “So I need a flashlight when I dig for the treasure.”

  It was a tunnel.

  I couldn’t believe it. It was about five feet wide and nearly that tall, so I had to scrunch down and practically walk on my knees. The floor was earthen, but the sides were stone. It was damp and dank but empty, no debris, no litter or evidence that anyone had used it recently. It was also quiet, although at one point I thought I could hear street noises.

  Troy had found the tunnel that was used on the Underground Railroad. The yellow house really was a station. Amazing. Now I not only had a historic mural; I had a historic landmark. And I thought I was only buying a fixer-upper. It just goes to show you how wrong you can be.

  We reached a dead end and there was still no evidence of Wells. No barking, no dog poop, nothing. Where could he have gone? Just as we decided to go back I heard some noise, rustling, scratching, and then the sound of rusty hinges. We looked up. A trapdoor that neither Troy nor I had seen creaked open above our heads.

  Looking down on us was Wells, who was barking and jumping around. Standing next to him was the Confederate, gray cap and all.

  “Howdy do! I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to find my little secret. I guess this little piece of dog is yours then? Hold on a minute; I’ll get the ladder.”

  The Confederate settled both me and Troy in lawn chairs that had seen better days and offered us orange sodas. He apologized to me. Said his great-grandnephew hadn’t gotten back from the carryout with the beer yet.

  “Yessiree, that tunnel there starts in Caroline’s basement and runs all the way t’here!” He pointed to the ramshackle shed that covered the trapdoor that we had climbed through.

  “Back before the war, the Xavier brothers brought colored slaves up from Tennessee and from around these parts, in the false bottom of a wagon. Let ’em off after dark at the house and they hid in the tunnel. When the coast was clear, my granddaddy fetched ’em up and hauled ’em over to Swanson’s Landing. A colored minister that he knew carried them across the river.” The Confederate spit out a plug of tobacco the size of Troy’s head. “Me and Caroline used to play hide-’n’-seek in that tunnel when we were kids. She’d visit me; I’d visit her.” He took off his hat at the mention of her name.

 
“We grew up together,” he continued, his voice somber. “I woulda courted her, but her daddy didn’t like me. But she never married, and neither did I. So when her daddy died, we just kept on being friends.” He looked down for a moment. “Till she moved on.”

  I glanced up at the Stars and Bars flapping in the breeze. The old man caught my look and gave me a wily grin.

  “Fooled ya, didn’t I? My grandpappy did the same thing. Flew that flag and hauled as many colored folks as he could down to the landing to send them to Ohio. Didn’t believe in slavery. He grew up poor as a skunk in Wales, didn’t have nothing. Said if he could work his own land and make do by hiring help and letting another man’s family eat, why couldn’t them slave owners? His folks back in Wales weren’t more’n slaves themselves.”

  Troy couldn’t sit still. I could tell that he would like nothing better than to get back into the tunnel.

  “Is there any buried pirate’s treasure in there?” he asked hopefully.

  “ ’Fraid not, son,” the old relic replied with a shake of his head. “Might be some down by the landing, though. That’s where the bootleggers loaded up.”

  Bootleggers?

  I stood up quickly. It was time to go.

  Troy was enthralled.

  “What’s a bootlegger?”

  “Troy, let’s go,” I reached for his hand. “Thank you for helping us, Mr.—”

  “Jones,” the Confederate volunteered. He tipped his gray cap. “My pleasure, ma’am.” He tapped Troy on his head. “Come back sometime, boy. And I’ll tell you about them bootleggers and the revenuers and—”

  “Thanks so much, Mr. Jones. Troy, come on. Your mother is looking for you. She’s probably wondering what happened to us.”

  Troy’s face scrunched into a frown as he grabbed Wells’s leash.

  “I want to hear about the bootleggers. What’s a revenuer, Opal?”

  Gloria and Jack were standing in the front yard when Troy and I returned. Gloria could not believe our story.

  “I didn’t know what to think! First Troy disappears; then you disappear. And now you tell me there’s a tunnel in the basement and buried treasure—”

  “No, Mom,” Troy interrupted. “Bootleggers,” he said, pronouncing the word carefully. “And revenuers.” This was added with solemn authority.

  Gloria coughed and took Troy by the shoulders.

  “Enough of this. Your grandma is picking us up in ten minutes and you haven’t packed up the rest of your stuff. Get going.”

  “Mom, what’s a bootlegger?”

  Gloria gave Jack and me a look that said, Help me! as she escorted her son to the house.

  Jack and I shook our heads and made our escape.

  “Uh-uh, I’m not in this, Gloria,” I said, retreating quickly. “You’re on your own.”

  There are just some things that parents have to do for themselves.

  Gloria and Troy were moving at the end of August and I would miss them. Gloria had not only helped my garden grow, but she had given me the inspiration to follow my passion, too. Even if everybody said my paintings looked like digestive upsets. And despite my allergic reactions to children, Troy had helped distract me from my problems. It was hard to worry about Ted when you were yelling at Troy or wiping off his fingerprints from freshly painted woodwork or picking up the trail of towels that he had left in the hall. Not to mention his many capers, adventures, and discoveries. I had to set my fear aside while I climbed a tree. Even Ted’s threats faded in importance for a moment in the light of one of Troy’s bizarre vampire-hunting treks. Troy reminded me that you need a little nonsense in your life to keep from going completely crazy.

  Beni’s dramas took me out of myself in a different way. She pushed me to open my mouth and give advice, forced me to face the worst of these kinds of situations from the outside looking in. It is hard enough to live this nightmare. Watching it visited on someone else, especially someone as young as Beni, is like having ice water thrown on your head. Beni’s run-ins with P-Bo opened a window on my own circumstances—and made me realize how critical it was to live my own advice. You have to end it. You have to leave. You can’t go back. And it won’t be easy.

  But there aren’t any tidy endings.

  Wal-Mart has a huge parking lot. It was a hot day and I was in a hurry. I was planning something selfish, decadent, and sinful. The house would be empty tonight. Gloria was working late and Troy was at a sleepover. Becca was in Michigan for a long weekend, it wasn’t one of Dana’s regular days, and Imani was visiting high school buddies in our old hometown. Bette had a new “beau.” Jack was out of town on business. I was planning a “spa” night for myself: a self-inflicted manicure and pedicure, shampoo and air dry, shave whatever needed shaving, and soak in the tub night. And there was a book I had been dying to read. Add to that hot buttered popcorn, sweetened iced tea, and I was going to be in heaven.

  I was distracted with my evening’s plans and just plain not paying attention when I pulled into what I thought was a lucky parking space. I didn’t do my usual drive-around that night. I was only running in to pick up a few things, right? It would take only ten minutes.

  Ten minutes is long enough for a lot of things: to listen to a couple of songs on a CD, brush your teeth, or tap out a telephone number and have a brief conversation. It was more than long enough for Ted, who had followed me from work, to park his car in the space in front of mine.

  I came out of the store with my arms full of bags and my head full of how much I was going to relax when I got home. I wasn’t paying attention. I barely noticed what should have been the familiar charcoal-colored sedan parked in front of my Ford. I popped my trunk and unloaded my packages.

  “Your lover boy’s not around to help with those?”

  I slammed the trunk closed and saw him standing alongside my car. His body was tensed and, even though he was smiling, his eyes held the malevolent glint that usually meant that I was about to be assaulted. I pulled my keys from my purse and headed toward my door.

  In the old days, the glint in Ted’s eye was enough to freeze me in my tracks. It turned my blood cold and left me shaking. But not today.

  Today, I was angry with myself for not being watchful. I was aggravated that I hadn’t recognized his car and walked away. I scolded myself for letting my guard down. But not once was I afraid. He moved quickly around the car and I opened the door.

  “I bet you’re going to call the police, aren’t you? Tell them I’ve violated that goddamn restraining order. Well, I’ll tell you something, bitch: It’s not worth the paper it’s printed on. I can get to you whenever I want and however I want. I don’t care how far you move away. I’ll kick your ass.” He leaned closer, but I pushed the car door between us. He glared at me. I just looked at him.

  “I don’t care about your lover boy, either. I’ll kick his ass, too—”

  “Ted, you know what? I just don’t give a shit,” I yelled back at him. “About you. About your threats. None of it.”

  “I’m tired of this,” he shot back. “Don’t you know I can kill you?”

  “Then just do it, Ted!” I heard myself say. “Just make sure that you don’t miss.”

  He grabbed me by the arm and twisted it hard. Just like the old days. But he had grabbed the wrong arm. I had my purse in my other hand and took a swing. It caught him clean on the side of his face.

  The blow surprised him and he let me go and fell against the car next to mine, grimacing with pain. I took the opportunity to get into my car, lock the door, and start the engine.

  He was still leaning against the car when I pulled out of the parking space.

  “Don’t you know I can kill you?” he had said.

  Yes, I know it. But as bad as it sounds, as scary as it is, I can’t let the reality of his hatred be the centerpiece of my life. I cannot live every day thinking about the fact that Ted can kill me today. Because the truth is,
he can kill me today, tomorrow, next week, or next year. But he didn’t kill me that day at the Wal-Mart. And he hasn’t killed me so far.

  He sent me roses on my birthday. And cut off all the blooms. He caught Ice Tray unawares and nipped off the tip of her tail, but she got away before he did any more damage and she’s fine, thank God. I’ve had my tires slit at work, and every once in a while he’ll get drunk and call at three in the morning. I have my restraining order renewed every three months. Judge Perry has been very accommodating. Ted even sent out Animal Control on me because Bear ran him off.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the officer had said politely. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we’ve had a report of a vicious and uncontrolled dog on your property.”

  I was sitting on the porch, as usual. I gestured toward the two canines snoozing at the other end of the porch. “I don’t know what to tell you. Those are my two dogs. And, as you can see, they are anything but vicious.”

  The man walked over to the furry doormats. Bear, who was lying in his usual spot, directly in front of the door, looked like a shag rug. Oblivious to the officer’s presence, he snored loudly. Wells had taken over the welcome mat. He opened his eyes, gave an imperious sniff, and went back to his nap.

  The Animal Control officer went away. Said he must have been given the wrong address.

  And on what would have been our twenty-third wedding anniversary, Ted sent me a card and drove by the house. “Just to let you know I’m not going away,” the card read.