A Tree Born Crooked

by Steph Post

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A Tree Born Crooked

  By Steph Post

  © 2014 by Steph Post

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com

  Jacket design and illustrations by Marc Sokolay and Zara Kramer © Pandamoon Publishing.

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN-10: 0990338967

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9903389-6-3

  For Ryan and Janet,

  and for Hoss

  ONE

  Welcome to Sunny Florida! A sunburnt man in a Crocodile Dundee hat poses in front of the Citrus Travel Shop. With one hand on his waist, the other raised and dangling a shellacked baby gator, the man in the postcard grins unnaturally and beckons the hapless tourist to come and visit beautiful Crystal Springs.

  James turned the postcard over.

  Your daddy’s dead.

  You might want to

  Come on home now.

  There was a red smear on the bottom corner of the card that could either have been tomato sauce or blood. James figured it was most likely the sauce. There was no signature, but from the slanting and rounded letters, James knew who had sent it. Birdie Mae loved her Chef Boyardee.

  The sun was low in the hazy sky and struck James directly in the eyes as it skimmed over the top of the bank of mailboxes. He squinted, then folded the postcard before shoving it into his pants pocket and reaching back into the narrow box to drag out the rest of his mail. He pulled out a flyer from the local Baptist church advertising their annual Presidents’ Day cookout, another overdue-bill notice addressed to the previous tenant, and a glossy circular with a buy-one-get-one-free hot dog coupon for 7-Eleven. James threw the flyer into the trashcan next to the mailboxes, where it joined a pile of identical pale green sheets of paper, and stuck the coupon onto the cork notice board next to ads for lawnmower repair and massage services. Someone would use it. He swung the little door to his mailbox shut and turned the key, pulling twice to yank it out. Taking the bill notice with him, he headed across the White Oleander trailer park to his singlewide.

  James had only been living in the park for six months, but already he’d seen so many tenants come and go, he didn’t bother to learn their names or make acquaintances. He just waved back if they did first. A heavy man in tight jogging shorts and nothing else nodded to James from the plastic lawn chair he had set up in front of his trailer door. The man raised his beer can as he passed by, but James shook his head and kept walking. He could see the outline of a woman standing at the ripped screen door, and he had been assaulted by her ear piercing condemnations before. He did not want to be part of it this time.

  Outside of James’ trailer, two boys were fighting over a yellow plastic tricycle. The younger one looked as if he had been socked in the face by the older one. James raised an eyebrow at the children and they quickly took off, dragging the tricycle between them. When James got to the steps, his neighbor’s Pomeranian rushed out from underneath the trailer and jumped between him and the door, yipping furiously. The dog’s fur was darkly matted all along one side of its tiny body. James knew better than to just step over it. He already had a rip in one pair of pants from trying that approach. Instead, James kicked one of the many nearby beer cans and the dog leapt off the steps to chase after it. He could hear the little dog’s teeth trying to puncture the aluminum as he closed the front door behind him.

  James tossed the bill on the orange Formica counter next to the microwave and pulled the postcard out of his pocket. He bent it backwards to straighten it out and set it up against the coffee pot. He stared at it and then turned around and pulled a Budweiser out of the fridge. He twisted the cap off, flipped it into the brown plastic ashtray, sat down on the couch, and drank. Nothing in the trailer really belonged to James. The coffee table, the appliances in the coffin-sized kitchen, the sagging bed with the mattress still wrapped in plastic; all of it had been here when he moved in and would stay when he moved out. There was a television, but no cable, and over the stove hung framed prints of mushrooms, onions, and peppers all painted in browns and oranges and labeled in curling script, as if the viewer might forget what he was seeing if not reminded. The only real rooms in the trailer were the bedroom in the back and the bathroom with a stand-up shower stall: a place to eat, a place to sleep, a place to sit, and a place to piss. James didn’t need much more.

  He finished the beer and went back into the kitchen. The postcard was still sitting there. James poked at the base of it and it fell over. He set it back up and straightened the angle it was leaning at before dumping his empty bottle into the sink and getting another. He walked the short length of the singlewide and sat down on the edge of the bed. He leaned over to pull off his boots, then stopped and took a swig of beer. James went back into the kitchen and looked at the postcard. It hadn’t moved. He tapped the bottom of the brown glass bottle against the edge of the countertop and took another drink. The postcard was still there. He turned around and rubbed his forehead back and forth with the palm of his callused hand. The last glimmer of evening sun was coming in through the smeared window over the sink, and in the fading light James could see the Pomeranian’s owner out in the street. She was talking to the guy with the motorcycle who had just moved in across the lane. She kept pulling at the hem of her red vinyl miniskirt as if trying to pull it down, but really just inching it up. The dog circled around her scuffed high heels and yapped. James pulled the blinds down on the window. He dropped the second bottle into the sink and turned around. Welcome to Sunny Florida! James opened the refrigerator again and then shut it. He glared at the card one last time before snatching it up and slipping it back in his pocket.

  “Goddammit.”

  The screen door slammed behind him.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Well, I know. And you ain’t gonna believe what she called me after that. Uh, huh. She did, I swear it. I know, right there in front of everybody.”

  James crossed his arms and leaned against the warped doorframe. Shireen kept holding up her finger, motioning for him to hang on a second, but whatever lie she was telling must have been pretty good. Twice James had tried to walk out and twice she had pursed her lips together in a pout and then told whoever was on the other end of the line that she had to go. But she kept talking.

  “Alright, but I really gotta go. No, somebody from the park. No, not like that. Are you seriously gonna ask me that again? Seriously? Well, if you don’t believe me, why don’t you just ride on over here and ask him? Oh really?”

  James pushed himself away from the door and tossed the bill on the desk amidst a stack of Star magazines, two open containers of hot-pink nail polish, and a scattering of mini candy bar wrappers. He smiled and turned to go. Shireen reached out and grabbed his wrist.

  “Whatever.
You do what you want. I’m hanging up. Yeah, if I feel like answering. Alright. Bye.”

  She let go of James.

  “Whew, honey. I am so sorry ‘bout that. I swear, sometimes I think God made men only for one thing. And half the time, that ain’t even good.”

  “Well, God probably did his best with what he had to work with.”

  Shireen leaned back in her rolling desk chair and lit a Capri cigarette. Only half of the nails on her left hand were painted. The others were an uneven, sickly yellow. She pulled a piece of dead skin from her bottom lip and studied it for a moment. Suddenly, she lifted her eyes up at James and grinned.

  “Say, speaking of. Rent’s not due for another two weeks. There something else I can maybe help you with?”

  “No thanks, Shireen. I’m not really in the mood.”

  Shireen uncrossed, and then slowly re-crossed, her legs. James caught a flash of purple zebra print.

  “I’ll give you a discount. Come on, first timers always get a discount. Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable and we can have a little fun?”

  James smiled, but did not sit down. Shireen sighed.

  “Oh alright, fine.”

  She sat up straight and began pushing around the mess on her desk. She screwed the cap back on one of the containers of nail polish and tapped it against the palm of her hand.

  “That it? You come in here and got me all the way off the phone just to give me another piece of mail? Do you really think I forward these things on?”

  James shrugged.

  “I don’t know. And no, I didn’t get you off the phone just for that. I came to tell you I’m leaving.”

  Shireen had been about to open the nail polish again, but stopped. She set it down and cocked her head at him.

  “You serious?”

  “I am. Got some place I gotta go to for a little while.”

  “Want me to hold the place for you? I don’t mind, if you pay in advance.”

  James poked at a run in the thin, industrial carpet with the toe of his boot.

  “No. I don’t know when exactly I’ll be back.”

  “You quitting over at Roy’s?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell ‘em tomorrow. They’ll be fine. Mechanics are a dime a dozen ‘round here. I plan on taking off Saturday.”

  Shireen frowned.

  “You sure you ain’t want me to hold your place? If you just give me the money, I don’t mind.”

  “I know. But think, this way you can keep my security deposit and get someone in there before the first of the month.”

  Shireen considered this for a moment. She ran an unpainted fingernail through her brittle, bleached hair and pulled out a snag.

  “Alright. This is mighty inconvenient, but if you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  “Yep.”

  Shireen gave him one last sly look.

  “Sure you don’t want to hang out a little while? I think I got some beer in the mini fridge. We could party a little.”

  James raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m good, Shireen. You take care of yourself.”

  “You too. And honey, can you pull the chain on your way out? I got someone coming over in a little while and I don’t need no more good Samaritans dropping by with mail.”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  He snapped the chain as he left and the pink neon glow disappeared from the window. James walked slowly back to his trailer, intending to sleep. Instead, he spent the whole night staring up at the water stains on the ceiling and wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.

  ~ ~ ~

  James used his knee to steer the wheel of his pickup truck while he crumpled up a greasy A&W hamburger wrapper and tossed it to the passenger-side floorboard. He corrected the wheel and then reached up onto the cracked vinyl dash for a soft pack of Marlboros and a lighter. He lit the cigarette, only halfway watching the road, and inhaled. He rested his hand lightly on the wheel and set his elbow out the open window. Sliding down into the seat, he relaxed and got comfortable. He only had ninety more miles to go and he wanted to enjoy them.

  The battered 1975 Ford F-250 raced along the subtle curves of Highway 301. Even though James was not in a hurry, he always drove at least ten over the limit. If the sign read 50, his foot automatically pushed the gas to 60. His truck was more beat-up than it should have been for its years. The original color had been baby blue, but by now it was so faded and scratched that it was more of a pale gray. The entire driver’s side panel had been replaced with a rust chewed piece that bordered on having no paint at all. Jealous boyfriends had keyed it down the side more than once, and the tailgate was tenuously held on by bungee cords. Empty tall boys rolled and clattered along the bed whenever it came to a stop, and the inside was no cleaner: slimy beef jerky wrappers, scratched off lottery tickets, and wax paper fast-food cups littered the floorboard. A piece of hard, yellow foam stuck out from a tear in the seam of the maroon bench seat. The whole interior smelled like cigarette butts and dried sweat. It was his baby.

  James twisted the radio dial as far as it would go in either direction and found only one station that wasn’t mostly static. After an advertisement for “no down payments” at Vick’s Used Cars, a man’s voice came on and told listeners to repent now or forever burn in the sewers of hell. James clicked the radio off. He would wait until he got closer to Starke and try again.

  James was a man who looked both older and younger than his thirty-six years. His hands, with scarred knuckles and smashed nails from years of working on cars for a living, added a good ten years onto his age. His smile was that of a flustered teenager. It was his eyes that were confusing to most, though. They were gray, sometimes green, sometimes darker, and could go from gentle to malicious in the span of a breath. The crow’s feet, stubble on his cheeks, and unkempt, short brown hair led many to believe that he was worn out, done in, and just didn’t care anymore. It was true; he didn’t care most of the time, but worn out he was certainly not. With a few shots of Beam, and an insult from three stools down, James could have his fists out before the other man even set his glass down. He was a good listener, but a better fighter, and many an unfortunate drunk had mistaken his disheveled appearance for weakness.

  The early afternoon sun flashed off the green highway sign for Starke and James let off the gas. He had already received more than his fair share of speeding tickets in the innocent little town. If the traffic was slow, a local cop had no problem getting on a car’s tail and waiting for it to drift one mile over the speed limit. Aside from the occasional pot-smoking teenager, there wasn’t much action in Starke and tagging speeders kept the police awake and paid. With one eye always on the rearview mirror, James kept his speed steady and tried the radio again. The evangelical was still preaching about money and brimstone, but after running through the stations again, James found some Willie Nelson and left it alone. He was trying to keep his mind on something other than where he was going, and as soon as his truck cleared the city line he floored it, hoping that it would help. It didn’t.

  James hadn’t been back to Crystal Springs in a little over three years. He called home every Christmas and April 22nd, his mama’s birthday, but that was about it. The last time he’d been home it was for his cousin Janie’s wedding and he had only stayed the night. Birdie Mae had given him grief for the first few years after he had left home at nineteen, but she had gradually gotten used to it. It just became the way things were; James had left town and everybody else stayed on. Whenever he spoke to her, though, Birdie Mae never missed a chance to get in a dig about how it had done him no good to leave Crystal Springs. According to her, all the folks back home were just having a party all the time and he was missing out on the fun. Everyone was having babies, getting married, getting married to better wives or husbands than the first ones, starting their own businesses, making lots of cash, and being down right successful for Alachua County. And what was James doing? Oh, that’s right. Nothing. Thi
s was generally about the time James said that he had to go do something important and hung up the phone.

  His father had been different, though. Orville never spoke to James when he called. They never had more than a thirty-minute conversation in the front yard when he visited, leaning against the tailgates and kicking the tires of each other’s trucks as they discussed transmissions, exhaust pipes, and spark plugs. When he was a year out of high school, and James told his family that he was packing his bags and driving out to Phoenix East Aviation in Daytona Beach to learn to be a pilot, his daddy had been the only one who told him to go for it. Everyone else was disgusted with him, but the night before James left, Orville took him out to the citrus grove behind their trailer. James was expecting a sermon. He had already gotten an earful from Birdie Mae: he was selfish, shady, and unreliable. He was forsaking the family business and leaving his kinfolk without extra help. He was gallivanting off on the heels of the devil, and could he really be so stupid? Orville didn’t say much, though. He commented on the clear night, on the stars, on the rose beetles eating into the tangerine and grapefruit leaves. He carried a shovel, and when they got to the edge of the property, he pointed to a spot on the moonlit ground and told James to start digging. About two feet down, the metal struck glass and James lifted out a dirty mason jar with a rusted lid. Orville told James to fill the hole in and put the jar in his truck before he went back into the trailer. When James got to Daytona, he hauled the jar out from under the driver’s seat and pried off the lid with a screwdriver. James counted it out to be just shy of a thousand dollars, all in wadded up fives and twenties. That was Orville.

  The last time James had seen him they had talked about football. Crystal Springs High versus Newberry. The rivalry between the Tigers and Panthers went back to Orville’s time when he had rushed eighty-seven yards to win the last game of the 1951 season. A framed newspaper clipping of a ring of teenage boys holding Orville up on their shoulders occupied a special place behind the cash register on the back wall of the Citrus Shop. The yearly high school contention was one of the few things to celebrate in Crystal Springs and, especially around November, it became a topic of serious discussion and fuel for numerous parking lot fights. Crystal Springs High had come out on top James’ senior year, but not because of him. He had spent the last half of the season on the bench with a torn hamstring. It had been a disappointment for Orville, but he had tried hard not to show it.