Memory Tree

by Pittman, Joseph

  “We never turn the tree on in the morning, unless of course it’s Christmas morning.”

  “I want to show you something, and what better way than with the lights on,” he said.

  They had decorated the tree Saturday night, Brian and his father setting it in its stand and the four of them stringing it with many lights and hanging on its branches a wide assortment of ornaments found inside the boxes stored in the attic, finishing it off with a string of garland and two boxes of silver tinsel that caused the tree to glisten with reflective light. The final touch had come when each of them, in turn, hung their name ornaments on the best branches. Janey’s was a shiny red, and it settled on a branch halfway up the tree, and not far from it hung gold and green ornaments, each with the name of one of her parents written across its front. They had been gifts from Brian for last year’s Christmas, and so this was the first opportunity Janey had to hang them for the entire duration of the holiday. He remembered the wide-eyed joy on her face as she welcomed Dan and Annie to a tradition that Brian had introduced her to. His own ornament was on a higher branch, not far from Didi’s, and on the branch closest to the angel atop the tree was Kevin’s, but that’s because, as Janey said, “he’s the tallest.”

  “Have a seat, sweetie,” Brian said.

  Janey sat upon the sofa, legs dangling, her gaze still locked on the shimmering glints of the tree. Her unnamed frog that just might get one for Christmas remained in her tight embrace. “What do you want to show me?”

  “You asked about how your parents met, and I told you I didn’t know.”

  “Right. What does that have to do with our Christmas tree?”

  “Because, Janey, sometimes life’s mysteries remain that way, and we never know how or why certain events occurred, just that they did. While we can’t know the past, the present shows us unequivocal proof of it having happened, and you are that proof.”

  “Unequivocal? Even that word is beyond me.”

  “Meaning there’s no denying that you exist,” he said.

  “Well, I am right here.”

  He smiled at her genial innocence, her quiet understanding of complex issues. “What I’m trying to say is that even though you can’t know what drew your parents to each other, the fact is something pulled at them and they created you. While they may be gone, they live on through you, and there is no better example of that than the ornaments that hang on those tree branches. They are part of you, which makes them part of us and part of our Christmas.”

  “And not just this Christmas, but every future one we celebrate.”

  “Right. And what other ornaments do you see on the tree?”

  “Mine, and yours!”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Um . . . your parents’.”

  “Right, so we have a tree that is equally divided—three Sullivans, three Duncans. Two different families, and now we’re one, sharing the holiday together.”

  “Wow, I never thought about that, Brian . . . Dad. Why do I keep doing that?”

  “I think you’re having trouble with a lot of names these days,” he said.

  “You mean the frog?”

  He paused, wondering if he should go where his mind already was. It was early and the start of the week and she had a full day of school ahead of her, but in the end he couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by. “No, Janey, I mean my parents.”

  She grew silent, looking around the room as though it could offer her someplace to hide. But not with the bright lights of the tree illuminating even the darkest corners of the farmhouse, and so she finally gazed back at Brian. “They’re very nice, Brian, and they’ve been good to me, and even your mom decided to join in the Secret Santa game at the gazebo, which surprised me and I think her too. But . . . I just don’t know what to call them.”

  “What do you want to call them?”

  “I call Gerta by her name and Thomas too, and they’re even older than your parents.”

  “So you want to call them Didi and Kevin?”

  “That doesn’t seem right, though, especially since I call you Dad . . . when I remember to,” she said, with a slight giggle to excuse her slipups this morning.

  “You don’t have to decide right now, Janey. But I want you to know you can talk to me about this anytime. For now, why don’t you go on upstairs and get ready for school, and maybe I’ll make you a special breakfast . . . French toast this morning?”

  “That sounds good,” she said, and as she got up from the sofa, she stopped and embraced Brian until he felt his heart might swell so big it could force tears from him. “I love you, Brian Duncan.”

  “I love you too, Janey Sullivan.”

  She ran to the stairs while Brian started toward the kitchen, but when he looked back he found her still standing there. She wasn’t done talking. He knew her so well sometimes, but he could only guess at what her mind was churning over now.

  “You know something?”

  “I know many somethings,” he said with a smile.

  “Brian, I’m being serious.”

  “Sorry, Janey, go ahead. What something would you like me to know?”

  “I’m ten years old, but I’ve never ever in my whole life called anyone Grandmother or Grandfather,” she said, and then before Brian had a chance to respond, she went dashing up the stairs, closing the door behind her with a sound as loud as the one that had awakened him. He had a feeling that sound would finally stir his parents from their slumber. It was time to begin the day, and if Janey’s thoughts were any indication, it would be a day that continued to reveal, and revel in, its holiday surprises.

  Brian realized she’d left behind her purple frog. He picked it up.

  “What name would you like to be called?”

  Of course it remained silent, just as it had since being given to Janey all those years ago.

  Several hours later, Brian found himself settled in the backseat of his parents’ gleaming black Mercedes, his father in the unlikely role as passenger while his mother concentrated on the road ahead of them. Not that there was much traffic as they headed into downtown Linden Corners on this early Monday afternoon, but his mother took all of her roles seriously—wife, mother, driver, protector of the family.

  “Kevin, I thought you were going to remain back at the farmhouse,” she said.

  “Brian has to set up his bar, and I want to see him in action,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  “Another time,” she said, her tone indicating that Brian’s job was the least interesting part of his life here. “If we’re going to participate in the village Secret Santa event, I may as well get some shopping done while the weather remains decent. And before you suggest going with me, I’ll take care of your gift too. Brian, you said the best places are up in Albany?”

  “They have actual malls up there,” he said.

  “Fine. I’ll use the GPS.”

  “Make sure you’re beyond our borders before you use that; the one thing Linden Corners fails to embrace is technology.”

  Didi pursed her lips, Brian able to see them in the rearview mirror. She stated that her jaunt would take only a couple of hours, so why didn’t she pick up “Jane” at school and the two of them could go over to Cynthia’s and discuss Christmas plans, especially as Kevin insisted he remain with Brian down at the tavern. They would rendezvous later for dinner, and so, plans set in motion, Brian and Kevin were dropped off in the parking lot of George’s Tavern, Didi pulling out moments later and disappearing down Route 23. Brian imagined his mother’s desire for a shopping excursion had more to do with her needing a break from small-town life, which he was fine with; it gave him some one-on-one time with his father.

  Maybe he’d just get to the bottom of why they’d chosen to spend their holiday here.

  “Dad, let me show you George’s Tavern, formerly Connors’ Corner, where I spend most of my time when I’m not with Janey,” he said, stepping up on the porch and taking out his keys. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”


  He noticed his father checking out the structure’s durability, remarking that the outside needed a fresh coat of paint, with Brian assuring him it was in the plans for whenever spring decided to rear its bounty in this neck of the woods, as was replacing the floorboards, “so before you say anything about how loudly they squeak, I’m well aware of it. George’s here has a rustic charm, and that’s partly what keeps the regulars coming. That, and the fact it’s the only drinking establishment in town.”

  “Still, it can’t be that profitable,” Kevin said. “I don’t know how you make ends meet.”

  “Dad, don’t start. I’m content,” Brian said.

  “Content is just a fancy substitute for happy, and not as convincing,” he said. “How you left a high-profile job in Manhattan to sling drinks for the local folks, I’ll never know, and before you start to judge my capitalist ways, Brian, let me state that I’m very proud of the strength of your convictions. Many men would have run from the tremendous responsibility you’ve been thrown, but the way you are with Janey . . . so natural, and with all of the folks in this town. The life you’ve created here is quite remarkable. And truth be told—and don’t let your mother know I said this—I’m envious.”

  “You, Kevin Duncan, envious of another person?”

  “People change, Brian; they evolve,” he said. “You, my son, best illustrate that.”

  Brian liked the way this discussion was going; he just might uncover what his parents were hiding. With that in mind, he opened the door to the tavern and was affronted by the faint odor of stale beer and sawdust, and before he took off his coat he moved to the windows and thrust them open, letting in the cool winter air to swirl around and clear it out for a fresh week. He flicked on the overhead lights, went over to the cash register, and depressed the lever to open the drawer. He made a quick perusal of last night’s receipts, deciding it wasn’t so bad. The bar did well on nights that Mark bartended, usually drawing a younger crowd that seemed to drink a bit more. Funny to think that at thirty-six Brian was the elder statesman of the bar.

  “What do you think?”

  Kevin sidled up to the bar, grabbing a seat on one of the stools, and gazed around.

  “I like it, rustic indeed. But I see the appeal. I can’t imagine there’s much stress.”

  “Only on nights when I can’t get Chet Hardesty to leave,” Brian said, stepping behind the bar and grabbing a handy glass. “So, stranger, what’ll it be?”

  “Your mother would tell me coffee.”

  “You want coffee, the Five-O Diner is across the street.”

  “What are you having?”

  “My usual, seltzer with lime.”

  “Still not drinking?”

  “I stopped for health reasons. Don’t see why I should start up again.”

  “I’ll join you in that seltzer.”

  Kevin Duncan, businessman, entrepreneur, was known as much for enjoying a glass of whiskey as he was for his portfolio, and often meetings that affected the latter were done over healthy shots of the former. Before him was a different Kevin Duncan. Shorn of his pin-striped suits and rep ties, he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, like an older, taller version of his son. For the moment Brian let the anomaly pass, pouring two glasses of the harmless bubbly, dropping wedges of lime into both. He slid one glass toward his father, who picked it up and took a quick sip.

  “You charge for this swill?” Kevin asked with a laugh.

  “Don’t try the wine,” Brian replied.

  Kevin told him to go about his business, he was just going to hang out and watch, and so Brian set about his daily routine, mopping the floor and washing down the tables and chairs, the soft yellow lights above the bar coming on. Sometimes he forgot to turn them on as night fell, so it was part of his routine. Brian felt self-conscious as he worked, the manual labor so far from anything his father had done, and in point of fact so far from the world he’d come from in New York. He’d once worked in an office where faceless cleaners came in during the night to make pristine his workspace by the next morning. Now that world was gone—Maddie Chasen, his coworker and fiancée; Justin Warfield, the boss who had screwed everything, Maddie included.

  Despite it all, Brian had never been happier in his work environment.

  “You really do like this,” Kevin remarked. “It’s not just face-saving when you call.”

  “Dad, nothing about Linden Corners is false.”

  “So it seems,” he said. “Tell me again, about George. How you came to meet him.”

  Brian smiled at the memory, finally putting down his dishcloth to face his father. “From the moment I walked in, I had this sense that I would be spending a lot of time here, an ironic thought considering at the time my doctor had advised me not to drink. But here I was, my first night in Linden Corners and staying at the Solemn Nights Motel down the road, when I realized I was bored. Imagine a restless New Yorker so accustomed to bright lights and a city that never sleeps, suddenly in this town where even the owls turn in early. So I came to the only place that was open, Connors’ Corner.”

  “So you strolled into a bar and asked for a seltzer?”

  “Actually, it’s what put George’s trust in me,” Brian said, “the fact I didn’t drink.”

  “And then he passed away?”

  “Only months after I’d arrived. He was a good man, one of the best I’ve known.”

  “Of a heart attack?”

  “Right here at the bar. He poured a beer—the last he ever would—and then he was gone.”

  Silence fell between them, Brian searching for words that would keep the conversation moving forward. He felt that this was the moment of truth and that there was a reason that their talk had gone down the path it had.

  “Dad, are you all right?”

  Kevin paused, stared at his drink before speaking. “I had a heart attack, three months ago.”

  Brian felt his own heart leap, irrational fear striking him. He thought of George, gone in the blink of an eye, and here was his father, alive, present, but having suffered the same problem. He wasn’t even sure he’d heard right, and his father’s continued, eerie silence only served to confuse him further. As though, like his bloodstream refused to absorb the bad stuff he served here at the bar, his mind refused to acknowledge this danger to his father.

  “Dad . . .”

  “I’m fine. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “No wonder . . .”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on this before, the way your mother hovers.”

  “I suspected something was up,” Brian said, “the way she called and announced you were coming here for Christmas. I asked to speak with you but she said you were resting.”

  “Your mother would be happy if I were always taking it easy.”

  “Dad, she doesn’t want to lose you. Heck, I don’t want to lose you.”

  “The fool doctor in Philly says that I’m fine; the attack was mild. But he’s advised me to . . . what was his phrase? Oh yes, I should slow down, take better care of myself, to avoid any further complications. So here we are in Linden Corners, relaxing.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Yes. Don’t tell you mother what we discussed,” he said.

  Brian crossed his arms. “Besides that?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, the front door opened and in stepped the first customer of the day, and of course it was his new regular, Chet Hardesty. What was odd today was the package in his arms; usually the only thing Chet carried with him were some bills, and of course the baggage of unemployment. A cardboard box led him to the bar, where he set it down.

  “This was on the front porch, nearly stumbled right over it.”

  “Not another one,” Brian said.

  “What’s that, son?”

  He gazed at the package, at his father, then back.

  “Well, before I say, let me be sure,” he said, and went about removing the duct tape from the flaps. They popped open and
Brian withdrew another package, this one wrapped in shiny green paper and the same style silver ribbon. Once again the message was all too clear, written in a bright red marker:

  DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS

  Brian stood staring at the fourth mystery gift for so long he didn’t hear Chet clearing his throat until the third time.

  “Uh, Brian, how about you look at your pretty gift later. A man’s thirst comes first.”

  It was what happened next that truly surprised Brian, because he saw his father spring into action by going around the back of the bar, dropping an apron around his neck. He sidled up to the taps and pulled out a glass, then said to Chet, “What’ll it be?”

  CHAPTER 15

  CYNTHIA

  The week before Christmas had finally arrived, and it was shaping up to be a busy one. Nothing like the complications of uprooting your lives during the busiest time of year, and, as Bradley had said, “tacking on the additional duties of the annual Christmas pageant.” On this Monday afternoon Cynthia Knight had the last of many errands to run before she was scheduled to return to her disheveled home, where large moving boxes were beginning to resemble makeshift furniture. Not that those were her concern today; only thirty minutes remained before company in the diametric forms of Didi Duncan and Janey Sullivan was expected at her home. While it would be rude to allow them to arrive first, especially since Bradley was still at work—his final week—she had to figure time was still on her side. She was only two miles from home. So she pulled into the parking lot at Nora’s store, A Doll’s Attic, and after gathering a sleepy Jake in her arms, she made her way up the stairs and into the musty consignment shop.

  “Hang in there, slugger. Mommy’s almost done.”

  He didn’t stir, good toddler that he was, on his best behavior. It was warmer today, so she hadn’t bundled him up in his snowsuit.

  As she walked through the front door, her cough provided much more of an entrance than the ringing of the bells. No matter how much Nora opened the windows to air out the contents of the store, its inherent, musty link to the past was far stronger.