whither Willow?

by Peter Ponzo

  The following year he was appointed Chief Inspector and, soon after, Betsy Sue Ann gave birth to a healthy baby boy, George Alan Jaffre: 6 pounds, 3 ounces. That made up for the days of boredom at the office. He held his son in his arms each evening, knowing that when he was old enough to understand, Kenneth Jaffre would tell him stories of mystery and intrigue, figures that walked stealthily in the night, of evil men and unsolved crimes and frantic races with high powered cars.

  Then, in November of 1937, only months after assuming the position of Chief Inspector, a gory death, right in New Bamberg: Mrs. Sandra Bourden-Brown. Nothing like it had happened in his limited experience on the force - and he felt helpless. After her body was found in the bath tub, every neighbour was interrogated, but no one had seen anything unusual or noticed any person or persons near the house. Jaffre had instructed members of the force to check on the house periodically. They reported the comings and goings of her husband, but no other person came near the old house. He began to suspect foul play by the only person who had the opportunity: her husband. Then, in less than a week, Harold Bourden was found dead beneath the giant willow tree.

  Yet, there was something strange about both deaths. The bodies were crushed and covered in welts, bruises and small hairs. It made no sense. Who would do that, and with what instrument?

  He received a rash of criticism from the press when, after two months, he still hadn't uncovered a single clue. But people forget, and over the year the deaths wandered from the front page of the Gazette to some inner page, then vanished altogether.

  In 1947, when the great war had vanished from the pages of the Gazette, the old Bourden house was again front page news. It would be torn down and a modern apartment building erected by a local boy, Michael Colby. People from all over town came to watch the destruction of the Bourden house and were enthralled with the willow battles. The newspaper carried the progress each day: the stubborn old willow had become entangled in the walls and plumbing and had refused to stand by and watch the old house demolished, its roots filling the drains, clinging frantically to the walls of the house.

  Then, during construction and ten years after the death of the Bourdens, another violent death, at the same place, beneath the same old willow tree. Butch Camden was found dead. He had apparently attacked the tree - and his crushed body was covered in welts and vines and hairs. Jaffre was stunned. The hairs had come from the tree! The explanation, incredible as it seemed, came almost too suddenly. It was unreal, impossible ... and yet, there could be no other explanation: the tree had killed Butch Camden and Jaffre was convinced that it had also killed the Bourdens.

  When the Gazette reporter interviewed him, he was reluctant to even mention this conjecture. Could anyone accept such a theory? Clearly not.

  ***

  "Inspector Jaffre," the reporter had begun, "could you describe the body of Mr. Camden, as he was found, beneath that old willow tree?"

  "Yes, well, it was crushed ... and covered in small black hairs and -"

  The reporter wouldn't let him finish. "Isn't that unusual?" he asked.

  "Yes, certainly, I would say that -"

  "But hasn't it happened before?"

  "Once before, about ten years ago, when -"

  "Don't you mean twice before?"

  "Well, I guess you could say -"

  "And what would do that - to a body - the body of Butch Camden?"

  "We're still investigating, of course, but there doesn't seem to be any -"

  "What weapon, what instrument of death, would inflict such havoc on a human body?"

  "It isn't clear exactly what -"

  "Do you have anybody on the force who has even a single idea?"

  The reporter was sitting across the table, tilting back his chair, his notebook lying closed on his lap, puffing diligently on a cigarette and blowing smoke over the table. He pointed directly at Inspector Jaffre.

  "Inspector, I feel that the public should not be told that the police are tracking down clues, and all that crap." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "I feel they need to know that not a single idea has come out of this department and you haven't even a single clue - and it isn't even the first time something like this has happened." He waved his hand about the room. "I feel -"

  Jaffre rose to his feet, blood rising to his cheek, hands planted firmly on his desk. The reporter stopped talking, his chair fell forward and he quickly pulled the cigarette from his mouth.

  "It was the bloody willow!" Jaffre yelled. "The bloody willow killed Butch Camden! The bloody willow killed Harold Bourden! The bloody willow killed ... killed -"

  Inspector Jaffre fell back into his chair, breathing heavily. The other officers in the station had stopped to watch. The reporter left, quickly, pausing only once at the door to look back and shake his head.

  When the Gazette hit the newstand, the headlines read:

  JAFFRE TAKES WILLOW TREE INTO CUSTODY

  Kenneth Leland Jaffre became the laughing stock of New Bamberg. Papers all across the county followed up on the story. His phone rang constantly, his wife tried in vain to console him, he couldn't sleep, and he took his 1948 vacation in late 1947, to avoid the reporters.

  But perhaps the most devastating attack was from his ten year old son, George Alan. The boy had been hounded at school, laughed at, ridiculed and beaten up by schoolyard bullies - and he avoided his father. When Jaffre returned from a week in hiding, he went to his boy's room and spoke to him.

  It was evening and George Alan had eaten, listened to the radio, then gone to bed at seven. Kenneth Jaffre came home shortly after 7:30 and, although his wife objected, he immediately went to the boy's room.

  "George Alan?" he whispered, and the boy closed his eyes, hard. "I've been thinking a lot and I'd like to explain what I've been thinking." George Alan buried his head in his pillow, and Kenneth Jaffre continued, standing by the bed.

  "I often told you stories, of police work and evil men and their crimes, but they were just stories, they never really happened. I never wanted to tell you about real crimes, about real deaths. I never wanted to tell you about ... about the awful deaths, right here in New Bamberg."

  Jaffre ran his hand gently over the blond curls. Betsy stood at the door, her hand held nervously to her cheek.

  "But I will. Now, I will tell you. You're old enough and you'll understand." Jaffre waited for a reaction, but George Alan lay still. "There have been three real deaths, the first two when you were just born. Then, just a few months ago, a third death. These were real, not just stories."

  Jaffre looked about, saw his wife standing nervously at the door, then he sat softly on his boy's bed.

  "Let me tell you about these real cases. All three bodies were crushed ..." Betsy sucked in her breath and Jaffre stopped, waited for only a moment, closed his eyes then continued without looking up. "All three bodies were bruised and all three bodies were covered in small hairs. I've never seen anything like it, never. But do you know what else has small hairs, just like the ones found on those three bodies?" He waited. "Guess."

  Jaffre waited. George Alan would spin about in bed, eyes beaming, pumping his arms up and down, struggling for an answer. It was always like this. But this time the boy lay still, his head buried deep in the pillow. Jaffre continued.

  "The tree, the giant willow tree that stands by the house, the same house where all three bodies were found, the same tree that ... that ..."

  Kenneth Jaffre felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he ignored his wife. His son must understand. It was important. "George Alan, don't you see? There can be no other explanation, no other way those hairs got there. It's the only thing that makes sense, don't you see?"

  Betsy kissed Kenneth softly on the head, holding him tightly to her breast.

  "Ken, please," she whispered. "George Alan should sleep now. Please."

  Kenneth Jaffre let himself be lead to the door. He looked back at the boy hidden beneath the covers,
then closed the door behind him and stood for a moment in the hall, his wife clinging to his side.

  "A tree can't kill people!"

  The boy began to shout.

  "A tree can't kill people!"

  Jaffre cried, softly, silently and Betsy held him closely.

  That day, in 1947, Kenneth Leland Jaffre lost his boy forever. No longer the warm walks along Moss Hill, the nights staring at starry skies, the marshmallows over a flickering fire. Yet, as his son became more distant, his wife became closer and more dear to him.

  ***

  Then, in 1948, on New year's Eve, the holocaust - the bodies of Fran Moller and John and Barbara Mullin and the other tenants of Willow Towers - all were crushed, all were covered in slimy welts and small black hairs - and he knew he had been right. Yet he would say nothing of his hunch, of his theory, of the wicker chairs made from the old willow tree, the tree that had killed Harold and Sandra Bourden and Butch Camden. He would say nothing.

  He did all the necessary things, interviewed every previous tenant, every neighbour, old Saul Shulom, the only surviving tenant, and sent bulletins to every police force on the continent. Mr. Shulom had apparently known the people who built the house that previously stood on that site, and in spite of his conviction that the devil lived there, the old man had taken an apartment in Willow Towers.

  Then, in the Spring of 1952, when memory of the horror had faded from the minds of the people and the Gazette was filled with local gossip and the maple syrup festival, he closed the book on the case: unsolved.

  Yet, he knew the truth - and told no one - except his wife.

  ***

  "Ken, you cannot really believe that a willow tree, or any kind of tree, can really attack and kill someone. It might fall on someone, perhaps a weak branch -"

  "Betsy, I've thought about this and little else for years and now I'm convinced that it was the willow. Dont' you see? The roots and hairs and slime ... it all came from the tree and -"

  "But that doesn't prove it, does it? Suppose somebody wanted you to believe it was the tree. Then they'd sprinkle hairs and such over the bodies."

  "It's not just that," Jaffre said. "The bodies were crushed. It would take some massive machine to do that, then the person who wielded the machine would have to do this sprinkling, as you say, and why? To make everyone believe it was a tree? That's ridiculous. Nobody in their right mind would ever believe it was a tree. A killer wouldn't waste his time with this sprinkling, to cast suspicion on a tree."

  Betsy and her husband were sitting side by side on the sofa. She leaned to him and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  "But you believe it was the tree. Are you in your right mind?"

  She laughed softly and poked him in the side, then picked the bottle from the small table and filled their glasses.

  "Nevertheless, it was the tree, and I am in my right mind and ... well, nobody else is in their right mind."

  He drank his wine and grinned at Betsy.

  "You see," he continued, "it is the very fact that no killer would try to implicate a tree ... it's that very fact that identifies the tree as the killer." He sipped his wine. "Can you see that?"

  Betsy frowned. "There is one thing that bothers me," she said. "You seem to be avoiding an extensive hunt for a person, as though ... as though -"

  "As though I go through the motions, not really trying, because I know it's the tree and not a person. Is that what you think?"

  "I'll tell you what I think," Betsy snarled in mock anger. "I think we should go to bed!"

  And they did. But it was not the last time they would speak of the willow ... or the babies.

  ***

  It was in 1954, after a long illness, that Betsy Sue Ann Jaffre died. She had become his constant companion, his only supporter, his strength and his reason for living. He wept for days. The entire town had come out to the funeral, and they shook his hand and patted him on the back and wept on his shoulder. These same citizens who had laughed at him, ridiculed him, now tried to comfort him. They brought pies and cakes, meat loaf and apple butter, until his fridge was filled with gifts of food. When he tried to resign as Chief Inspector, the mayor refused his resignation.

  Then his son left him. At age seventeen, his son just packed up and left.

  And he was alone.

  ***

  "Will I ever hold him?"

  Inspector Jaffre pushed himself out of the red leather chair, recovering from his reverie, wandered again to the window, then stooped to retrieve the newspaper. It was open at the births and obituaries, except that the Gazette headed this page: "comings and goings".

  Mr. and Mrs. George Alan Jaffre are pleased to announce the birth of their son, Samuel Leland Jaffre.

  He had known for some time that his son had married, but he hadn't been invited to the wedding nor had he been invited to meet his new daughter-in-law. Now they had a son ... and he might never see the boy.

  Inspector Jaffre gazed out the window. He was a giant of a man, tall and gaunt with exaggerated features: massive chin, large nose, high forehead. He looked again at the newspaper, reading the name once more: Samuel Leland Jaffre. It was his middle name. Was that a sign, some indication that his son, George Alan, had forgiven him?

  Forgiven him for what? For confiding in him? For telling him the truth about the willow tree?

  Jaffre threw the paper to the floor.

  If a first move was to be made, it must be made by George Alan Jaffre.

  Then the phone rang and the Inspector jumped.

  "Dad?"

  Jaffre found it difficult to speak. It was his son.

  "George Alan? Is … is that you?"

  "Dad, Heather and I ... Heather is my wife, we've been married for six months ... Heather and I would like you to come over, for dinner, to see our new son. His name is -"

  "Samuel Leland Jaffre, yes, I know," said the Inspector, the words sticking in his throat. "I would be pleased ... honored."

  ***

  When he arrived at the apartment, Heather was waiting at the top of the stairs in a bright yellow skirt, her blond hair pushed high on her head, her son in her arms. Kenneth Jaffre smiled and she beamed, and George Alan appeared at her shoulder, his hand outstretched.

  "Welcome, Dad," he said. "I guess you don't know my wife. But ... well, I guess it's time we all got to know each other."

  Inspector Jaffre took his son’s hand, holding it tightly, and they stared for only a moment, then he embraced his son and they both cried and Heather held them close - and she cried - and the baby cried, and they all laughed and cried and went into the small apartment and had a modest dinner of salmon and noodles and Kenneth Leland Jaffre spent the evening with his grandson, Samuel Leland Jaffre, holding him close ... and Heather and George watched with quiet joy.

  When his grandson was old enough, the Inspector would tell his grandson stories of mystery and intrigue, figures that walked stealthily in the night, of evil men and unsolved crimes and frantic races with high powered cars ... and death at the hands of a willow tree.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jack Laker: October, 1965

  Each Fall, Jack Laker would spend at least three successive weekends, maybe four, working on his History of New Bamberg. He took his two teenage sons and they would tramp about Waterloo county talking to people, reading papers and making little notes in a large three-ring binder.

  His wife didn't mind one bit. For Rosemarie, it was heaven. The two boys were always arguing and she looked forward to the peace and quiet. That was when she put up her pickles, made the strawberry jam and baked a months supply of bread for the freezer.

  She didn't have to do this. It wasn't that Jack didn't have a good-paying job. He went to the carpentry shop each morning and returned each evening and brought home his salary each week and gave it to his wife, then collapsed on the sofa to watch TV. She couldn't get him to do anything around the house. When the plumbing leaked onto the base
ment floor, he inspected it carefully, saw that the water just trickled to the floor drain, then said, "It isn't worth the effort" and returned to his sofa. It was only in the Fall that he spent every evening and many weekends writing his History. It was as though he intended to leave some evidence that he had actually lived on this planet. They argued about this constantly, Jack and Rosemarie. For her, the History was an excuse, a rationalization for his doing nothing else with his spare time. For him, it was a burden he must carry in order to advance the sum total of knowledge.

  Today was Saturday, October 16, and Jack had taken the two boys to Dundee. It was a short drive, but it seemed like hours; Bryan and Chuck argued constantly. He had stopped off at the cheese factory and bought some sharp old cheddar, then continued on to the lumber mill where, he was told, some old fellow had a story to tell. He had already called ahead and Mr. Baker had agreed to be waiting in the cafeteria - and that's exactly where he was, alone, sipping black coffee. Jack bought his two boys a chocolate milkshake and sent them outside.

  "Mr. Baker?" Jack slipped into the chair opposite the old man who seemed to be talking to himself. "Name's Jack Laker, over New Bamberg way."

  The old man seemed pleased to have the company and started right in talking again, even before Jack had a chance to ask a single question.

  "Yup, seed 'em all, I has," the old man croaked, a single yellow tooth slipping over his lower lip. His sideburns were thick and pale gray and turned into a massive beard which stopped just short of his chin, leaving a curious bare gap. "Old Grubby seed 'em all, comin' and goin'."

  A mill hand walked by and grinned. Old Grubby Baker told a good story and occasionally somebody would sit at his table and listen, but mostly it was the same old stories and it didn't take much telling to know what was coming. The old man spent most of the day there, in the cafeteria, then he'd just fall asleep at the table and somebody would eventually take him home.

  Jack took out his three-ring binder.

  "Then Barney wuz gone, and we knew Josh done him good, jest like his Pa was done good. Worked at the mill, they did. Same mill, haulin' logs and splittin' and spittin'." The old man laughed, cackled. "Yup, spittin' too, they did." He chomped down hard on his tobacco and a trickle of dark liquid ran to his beard, already heavily stained.