The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  But why think about the ifs of life? The world was as it was, so she might as well face it square.

  Inside, the praying stopped. Charlotte laid her hand on the door handle.

  “I need to buy a rain slicker from your store, Mr. Bridges,” she said. “But I’m caught out with no cash. I hope you can carry me till the next time we meet.”

  “You’re pushing on? In this weather?”

  “I have a broken community to tend to. And so do you. We’d best get to it.” “This isn’t a community,” said Bridges, and Charlotte could hear sadness in his voice as well as disgust. “It’s just a town.”

  “It’s yours, regardless.”

  She walked into the store, took a folded raincoat off the shelf, and tucked it under her arm. The men had arranged Hump Corum’s limbs into funereal repose and were debating whether to leave him there until the doctor arrived or take him to a quieter spot.

  “Might as well relocate him,” Charlotte said to Corum’s fellow parishioners. “The doctor won’t need to see him here, and you’ll need to wash the floorboards.” She paused. “Mr. Bridges is heading out to tell the family, and he may want you to go with him.”

  The older man looked away, but the younger one pushed toward her, his face contorted. “Bridges can go drown himself for all I care. I’ll not stand beside him while he peddles some sham about the company’s blamelessness.”

  “Easy, son,” the older man began, but Charlotte pressed her hand against the younger one’s tear-stained cheek.

  “It was just a thought,” she said. “I have no place to tell you what you should or should not do.”

  She stepped outside and unfolded the raincoat. Bridges sat on the whittler’s bench beside the door, his head in his hands, oblivious. To her surprise, a dagger of sympathy struck her for the young man. He was ruined, too, although he probably hadn’t realized it yet. No trust from the men, no trust from the owners. First would come the trip to the home of the unsuspecting new widow, and then the return here, where a hundred logs or more sat stacked beside the mill, worthless. No man would be so foolish or covetous as to feed those logs into a circular saw after what happened.

  Charlotte slipped the raincoat over her shoulders and headed for the stable. The storm had lightened a bit, so she decided to make some distance while the darker bank of clouds lingered on the western horizon. That was their shared fate these days, it seemed, to muddle through the present disaster while hoping to dodge the next.

  Chapter 37

  When the lawyer from Fredericktown tied up his horse to Newton’s porch, appearing on a day when they had no appointment, Newton knew the news was bad. The lawyer’s sour expression confirmed it. Once inside Newton’s house, he didn’t bother to take off his coat before he started to talk.

  “Judge denied our request for an injunction, which means you’ll have to pay taxes at the new rate while the case is being heard,” he said. “If we win, they’ll appeal, so you’re looking at a lot of months, maybe more than a year.”

  “We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Maybe you could take out a loan? Your property would make excellent collateral.”

  “And if we lose the case, we lose both the money and the land. Not much of a bargain in that.” Newton could see from the lawyer’s expression that he had already considered this possibility. “All right,” Newton said. “Thanks for coming out. We have a community meeting coming up. I’ll let you know.”

  He waited until the man had left, then donned his coat to walk the village, knocking on each door. “Don’t forget the meeting tonight after supper,” he said at each one, not pausing to elaborate. Everyone knew the topic already.

  The last house to visit was Braswell’s, and though Newton knew he was unwelcome, he had no choice. Fortunately, Masterson answered the door. “Don’t forget the meeting tonight after supper,” Newton repeated. “Pass the word.”

  Before the meeting, Newton ate in silence, out of the mood for talking, although every other group in the Temple was murmuring. He knew all eyes were on him, and inwardly he felt the weight of their expectations. The Daybreak community had existed in its present form for thirty years, and now he saw nothing to do as its leader but preside over its dissolution. His father and mother had fought rebels, bushwhackers, vigilantes, and their own prejudiced neighbors. What they had never had to overcome was the simple, sheer power of money.

  After the meal had been cleared and the dishes washed, Newton stepped to the front of the room to speak. He outlined the situation as their lawyer had explained it, the crushing amount of taxes they would owe, the uncertainty of the future, the paucity of their treasury. He took a deep breath.

  “So all I can recommend to you is that we revoke our charter and dissolve the community,” he said. “Each family would keep its own house. We could divide up the tillable land, family by family, into equal portions and let each family choose its parcel based on who’s been here the longest. And then to be fair, we could divide up the timberland and let families choose in reverse order.”

  A collective groan came up from the group after he finished, but it was not a groan of disagreement, but rather the sound of people who knew the dismal truth of what he was saying. He waited as discussion made the rounds, everyone repeating the basic facts as if saying them aloud was necessary to make them real. Finally the talk died down.

  “Before we decide on this idea,” Newton said. “There is the question of membership. As you know, we have applications for membership from Barton Braswell and his wife Mattie, and from Rose Rain and Lily Breeze Jessup, and from John Masterson. Their membership status needs to be settled before we proceed.” Necks craned to see the Braswell group, seated in the back row of chairs.

  “And I need to disclose my interest in the matter,” he continued. He saw the hum of curiosity go around the room.

  “A few months ago, I became involved with Lily Breeze,” he said, “and by ‘involved’ I mean that we began a relationship that by any standard would be called improper. I don’t know whether I seduced her or she seduced me, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” He paused to let the loud murmuring subside. “I might have kept that to myself, not wanting to expose myself—and her—to public humiliation. But a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Braswell took me aside to tell me that he would expose me if I didn’t use my influence to get them admitted to full membership. Turns out he knew of our affair all along, and perhaps even was directing it.”

  The citizens had all grown silent as Newton told his story. He looked out over the group but could not meet anyone’s eyes until his glance reached his mother, who was sitting upright with her hands folded in her lap. He met her gaze. Her calm, alert, infinitely deep expression reassured him somehow, and he gathered himself to continue.

  “So. I have let you down, and I apologize for that. I let my personal entanglements get in the way of my judgment. I’m afraid I have harmed our beloved community by this, and I know I’ve ruined my own reputation. I’m sorry. I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart. I think someone else should conduct this meeting now.”

  Newton stumbled from the platform, looking for a place to sit down. He felt short of breath but at the same time unburdened and ready for whatever came next. He guessed he would have to leave the community. Surely his presence would be intolerable, the man who let his gap-stopper rule his brain and brought down himself and the whole enterprise in the process. Where would he go? He had no idea. He had no desire to go anywhere.

  Heads turned and voices murmured as he plopped into a chair. For a long minute no one stood up to take over the meeting. Finally Josephine Mercadier, seated beside her mother as always, walked to the front of the room.

  “In the interest of fairness, we should give Reverend Braswell, or Lily Breeze, a chance to respond,” she said. “What do you say, Mr. Braswell? Would you like to speak?”

  Everyone swiveled in their seats to see if Braswell would take up the invitation. But the row of chairs in
the back of the Temple was empty.

  Chapter 38

  Hump Corum had lived on Turkey Creek, and as Bridges had guessed, his place was a scratchy little cabin, with chickens and children in the yard in about equal number. But his wife was far from being uncivilized, polite even to excess, offering him coffee as he told her of her husband’s death. The two workmen who accompanied him waited outside, distracting the children while he delivered the news. Bridges didn’t go into details about the accident, and she didn’t ask, saying only “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing” when he told her the company would forward her his final wages and a death benefit.

  The workers stayed behind. Bridges rode back alone, sodden and miserable in the cold rain, guiding his horse carefully through mudholes that only seemed to deepen the farther they went. In the gathering darkness he found his way more by feel than by sight. By the time he reached the mill and got his horse dried off and stabled properly, he was exhausted. He trudged up the hill to his house, took off his boots and wet clothes, and fell into bed.

  An insistent knock woke him far earlier than he would have chosen. Bridges staggered from his rooms through the office to find Mason on the porch, crisply dressed as always, his tie knotted and his coat brushed. “Crecelius is stopping here on the way back from his honeymoon. He hadn’t planned to, but I wired to let him know about yesterday, so now he is.”

  “When?”

  “He’s on today’s Number Four.”

  Bridges calculated. Mr. Crecelius would arrive at two-thirty. That gave him—how many hours? From the dim light of morning, it had to be seven or later.

  “Did the whistle blow? I must have slept through it.”

  Mason shook his head. “No boiler, no whistle. Nobody around to fire it. Almost nobody around at all, in fact.”

  Bridges threw on some clothes and stepped outside. In the valley below, a few men scurried from building to building, but the streets were mostly empty and the mill quiet.

  “The sons of bitches have all flown the coop,” Mason said. “Or are flying.”

  Of course they have, Bridges thought. Why wouldn’t they? That pile of logs beside the railroad track was a lit bomb, each log capable of wreaking as much destruction on a saw crew as yesterday’s. Who would want to risk that harm, whatever the pay? No matter how carefully they examined the logs, the chance would always remain that one spike would escape them.

  Mason’s face worked as they stood overlooking the town. “It’s going to be loss-cutting time, lad. Are you going to be an asset or a liability?”

  “Who are you to decide?”

  “I’m the man who counts the money. And in the end, the man who counts the money is the man who counts.”

  “Count away, then.” Bridges turned toward the door, unwilling to attend to the man’s superior attitude. But before he stepped inside, he asked, “Where were you yesterday when all that mess was happening?”

  “Up here. Same as always.”

  “So it wasn’t worth your while to come down and be with the men after the accident?”

  “Ha! The men hate me. You know that. My being there would only irritate them.”

  Bridges had to acknowledge the truth of that, having seen the men’s faces whenever Mason went around with their pay envelopes, with meticulous notations recording every penny subtracted for lateness, sloppy work, or store purchases. He would have liked to leave Mason standing on the porch, but supposed he couldn’t, since the front of the house was the company office and only his rooms in the back were private. “I’ll be out after a while,” he said over his shoulder as Mason followed him in. “Got in late last night.”

  Inside his room, he shut the door and sat on the bed. So this was it, his day of sacking. He had never been sacked before, but supposed it happened to everyone eventually. There was a hollow sense of failure about it, slightly nauseating, even as his mind raced to find a way to avoid it.

  At least he would preserve some dignity about it. He pulled his valise from under his bed and began to pack.

  His bloody clothes from the day before, piled in the corner where he had dropped them when he changed for the trip to Corum’s, could stay here. Let them serve as a reminder, however momentary, of what had happened. A life lost, a family bereaved. The man sent to clean out his quarters would probably burn them, or maybe take them home to be laundered and reused. Bridges didn’t care. He wouldn’t wear them again, that was sure.

  Emptying his bureau, he came across his old book. Scenes and Adventures. He could certainly add a few of those nowadays. Too bad he’d never finished it. He flipped through the remaining pages. Here were beautiful views for the landscape painter, rocks for the geologist, minerals and fossils for the mineralogist, trees and plants for the botanist, soil for the agriculturalist, an advantageous situation for the man of business, and a gratifying view for the patriot, who contemplates with pleasure the increasing settlement and prospective improvements of our country. Bridges tossed the book into his suitcase. True words all, he supposed. Views and rocks and trees and dirt. And greed and stupidity and disaster.

  And now to face the consequence he dreaded most of all.

  He sat at his writing desk and took out a sheet of paper.

  My dearest Josephine,

  I write those words not because I am entitled to, but because I have longed to say them, so now I take my opportunity. “My dearest Josephine,” there, I’ve said it again.

  And I write them because I fear I may never have the opportunity to speak them aloud. You have heard about the accident at the mill by now, I imagine. It was an accident in that it was unforeseen, but not truly an accident, because I should have foreseen it. I will take the blame for it, and I deserve it. So later today I will be fired.

  I bear the blame as well for the machinations that led to the breakup of Daybreak, for I believe the company was behind them, and although I did not know of them, I should have known. I have been smug and complacent in claiming the privileges of a leader, but thoughtless about exercising the vigilance required in such a position. To lead one must take responsibility, and I have not done that.

  Every moment that we have been together, I have learned something. About life in these parts, about the ways of man, about myself. You have always been honest with me, even when that honesty was unpleasant. And from that honesty I have learned to be honest with myself, a legacy that I shall try to preserve all my life.

  I am sorry to be fired, but sorrier still to leave these hills and valleys. I have come to love you beyond all I thought I was capable of.

  I am cleaning out my things at the mill, and tomorrow or the next day will do the same at the mine. After that, I suppose I shall return north to St. Louis, and from there to my parents’ home in Delaware to think about what to do next with my life. And from there I do not know. But I will always think of you, and love you, and I will write.

  Yours,

  John M. Bridges

  He folded the letter into an envelope, sealed it, and walked out past Mason, laboring over his books. Roaming the mostly deserted streets, he found a boy loafing in the stable.

  “Want to earn a dollar, son?” he said.

  “Sure!” The boy jumped to his feet.

  “Take this letter to Daybreak and deliver it to the hand of Miss Josephine Mercadier. Just ask for Miss Josephine. Everybody there knows her. Tell her Mr. Bridges sends his regards.” He took a coin out of his pocket and gave it to the boy.

  “This is only fifty cents.”

  “I’ll leave the other fifty cents at the store. When you’ve delivered the letter, come back and tell the clerk to give it to you.”

  The boy looked at him suspiciously but took the letter.

  On his way back to the headquarters, Bridges peered through the door of the company store. Ackhurst, the clerk, was on his hands and knees scrubbing the blood off the floor. “Well done,” Bridges said. “Mr. Crecelius is stopping by this afternoon, and he may take a tour around.”

 
; Ackhurst did not look up. “The smell was getting to me,” he said.

  Bridges didn’t reprove the man’s rudeness. Who bothered to be polite to a man on the way out? He wrote a note, wrapped it around the fifty-cent piece, and left it on the counter. Then he walked across the street to the empty mill, where fragments of the saw blade still lay scattered on the plank floor, then through the log yard to the railroad tracks, where he stood and looked out over the creek bottom. The swollen creek filled half the bottom, and it dawned on Bridges that if he left on the northbound train, he’d likely not be able to cross the river at the upstream ford on his way to the mine. He’d have to go overland, the same way he sent the boy. That could be awkward, passing through Daybreak and possibly seeing Josephine. Oh well, not the worst moment of his week.

  He returned to headquarters, passing the big white “Lucinda” signpost he’d had erected at the whistle stop. Mason was gone. In the quiet of the house, Bridges climbed back into bed and pulled up the covers.

  When he awoke, the broad daylight confused him for a moment until he remembered how he got there and where he had been. He looked out the window. Almost time for the Number Four to pass through.

  Mason waited on the platform. Bridges stood beside him in silence. Finally Mason cleared his throat.

  “I’ve been through things like this with him before,” he said. “You’ll be wise to let me do the talking.” Bridges didn’t answer.

  The train swung into view from the south, already slowing, and came to a gentle stop with a huff and a hiss. Not a jostle to the passengers, the sign of a good engineer. Mr. Crecelius’ private car was hitched to the rear. They stood at the door.

  Mr. Crecelius came to the first step, his mustache twitching. “How did it happen?” he said in Mason’s direction.

  Mason stepped forward. “Spikes in the logs, sir.”