The Hanging Tree

by Michael Phillip Cash

  “Really, Margaret.” His stepfather took out an elegant pocket watch. “The histrionics are the height of selfishness. I have had enough of this drama. First Eugenie—”

  “Why does he have to bring me up?” the eighteen-year-old debutante cried out, tears gathering in her silver eyes.

  “A chauffeur, Eugenie?” His bulldog face turned to her, his protuberant eyes filled with disgust.

  “Why don’t you take an advertisement in the newspaper and announce it to the world?” the young girl asked dramatically. “You’re despicable!” she hissed. Bending over, she picked up a black cat that was purring under the table.

  “I hate that cat. Eugenie, I asked you to get rid of it,” her stepfather complained. “It’s a wicked animal.”

  “Wicked?” Eugenie screeched. “What are you implying?”

  “Take what you want from that,” her stepfather replied, his bulging eyes boring into her. “You live in my home, you eat my food…”

  “My cat belongs to me, and you have nothing to say in the matter!” Eugenie took her pet and left the dining room.

  “You will go to school, Martin; you will like it, and you will finish it. You have no choice, as did your father before you.” Mrs. Harmond turned to her son as if nothing had interrupted the conversation. She could be quite oblivious when it suited her.

  “Oh, he had a choice, Mother,” Martin answered her. “He made his choices.”

  “We will not discuss your father’s death,” his mother’s full lips trembled.

  “The subject is closed. Martin, step into the study with me?” His stepfather threw his napkin down with disgust and retreated to his private dominion.

  Margaret moved her chair back as the footman deftly pulled it away. “I will have coffee in the salon. You will join me?” she asked her husband sweetly.

  “As soon as I finish my cigar, my dear. Martin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The library was in the older part of the house and once belonged to an illustrious ancestor of his stepfather. He was a preacher that came over soon after the Mayflower, and his stepfather took every opportunity to remind everybody and anybody of his impressive pedigree. Martin had read about him in the local library. The reverend had made a name for himself in these parts as a ‘witchfinder’. He sounded like a pompous bully, his sermons were weak, and, Martin thought smugly, were he his ancestor, he wouldn’t be so eager to share it with anyone. Well, to each his own. He had his own problems. After his father’s suicide, his mother had languished just on the outside of fashionable society. He had left them near penniless, and if not for her remarriage, Martin knew he’d be out on the streets looking for work or, at the very least, in the army. There was a war in Europe. It was a matter of time before the United States joined in. He wanted to be there front and center, not playing at boys’ games in a fancy school with other children of the rich. He longed to go out there and make a difference. Aside from that, as long as he was far from home, his secret was safe.

  “What is all this nonsense?” His stepfather lit a fat cigar. He played with the match, drawing in great gulps until the end caught, glowing nicely. The room filled with a pleasant aroma. He offered one to Martin, who declined. “They’re good. Better get used to them, my boy. Don’t want anyone to think you’re a nancy boy.”

  Martin turned around and looked straight at his stepfather’s heavy face. “Just what do you mean by that, sir?” he demanded icily.

  The older man laughed. “Nothing. It’s all about image. When you work at the firm, you have to do what everybody else is doing: play golf, smoke cigars… Why, my boy?”

  Martin didn’t answer. There was the rattle and clink of ice, and Martin poured his stepfather a whiskey. The lambent light from the golden glow of a Tiffany shade bathed the room with serenity. Only Martin didn’t feel serene. He was agitated as well as angry. He did not want his life mapped out for him. He wanted to draw the map of his life freehand. He wanted to make it up as he went along. “I am not your boy, sir.”

  The older man shrugged. “I know you’re angry, but Margaret doesn’t want you to go. Look,” he held his gaze with arctic blue eyes, “I personally don’t care one way or the other. You can go be cannon fodder for all it’s worth. I won’t have your mother worried. She’s delicate.” He paused, taking a long pull on the cigar. “And in a delicate state of health.”

  There was the crux of the matter. Margaret had conceived with his stepfather, very late in life. Childless, he was thrilled at the prospect of an heir. No one was allowed to disturb his wife’s peace of mind. “You’ll do whatever she wants, whenever she wants,” he held up his hands as if to stop him, “until the baby is born. We can revisit this in six months, and if you are still fired up to go slog in the mud, fighting the Huns, I will do whatever I can to get you there.”

  The door opened, and his butler entered. “Mrs. Harmond is getting tired. She asks for you to join her in the drawing room for coffee, sir.”

  “And so we shall. Martin?”

  “So how did you end up here?” Gibson girl broke the silence from her branch. The two men were huddled close, the past a painful subject for both of them.

  “Instead of cannon fodder, he became fertilizer,” Arthur joked, to the merriment of the spirits in the tree.

  “Oh, LMAO,” Martin responded dryly.

  “What?” Goody Bennett croaked from her spot.

  “Very funny. It’s what they all write on their phones. Watch, she’s doing it now.” He pointed an elegant hand at Arielle.

  “Gimme that.” Chad tried to grab her phone. “What are you writing? LMAO? Why? Who are you texting?”

  “Nobody.” Arielle let him have the phone. “I was responding to my sister. If you have to know, it’s because she was writing about something my father’s girlfriend did.”

  “She’s hot.” Chad threw the phone back into her lap. He edged closer, pulling her into his arms, making another attempt to finish what they had started.

  “What do you mean? Her ass is soooo big.”

  Chad pulled her down so she rested on his shoulder, their faces gazing at the stars peeking through the leafy canopy. “The bigger the tush, the better the push,” he replied.

  This caused Goody Bennett to laugh so hard she almost spilled out of her perch. When Gibson girl innocently asked where they would be pushing, she fell forward, startling the cat and causing the branch to sway as if in a storm.

  “Oh, my God.” Arielle’s eyes opened wide. “Did you see that?”

  Since Chad was busily unbuttoning her shirt, he had missed their close encounter with the old witch. “See what?” he asked lazily, his lips tracing the delicate skin at the base of her neck.

  “Really, Chad, the branch almost bent in half.”

  “Wind,” he murmured as he covered her mouth for a searing kiss.

  Arielle loved the smell of him. She rubbed her face against his sweatshirt. Maybe she should just get the whole thing over with.

  “Are you going to let this happen?” Gibson girl demanded, her eyes glued to the seduction. She felt agitated. Wringing her hands, she shifted in her perch and watched the groping couple.

  “Bain’t none o’ my business,” Goody huffed. “If she keeps going on, in another hour or two, won’t matter much a’tall.”

  “Why? What do you know?” the younger girl demanded. A faint curtain of grey mist surrounded her, and her view became obstructed. Though she craned her skeletal neck, she could see nothing.

  “I know what I know, and what I want to know is what made young Martin here an extension of yonder branch.” Goody changed the subject. If she couldn’t move the girl, she would do her best to preserve her innocence, or what was left of it. She puffed away on her pipe and let the smoke curl around the branches of the tree.

  “Oh, you know already, Goody Bennett. It’s all your fault.” Martin called back.

  “Here we go again, always blaming the fat girl,” Goody teased back as she sucked on her pipe,
her eyes black pits.

  “Goody Bennett,” Arthur offered, “I see you more pleasantly plump rather than fat, my dear.”

  “You charmer, Artie! Such a waste.” Goody levitated near him. “If you had a cheek, I would pinch it.”

  Martin

  Harvard University, 1916

  “I hate it here.” Martin worked the ring of the blinds that dangled from his dorm window. He had lost the gangly teen look and had filled out more like a man. His wide shoulders filled the small dorm room. Impatiently, he brushed his dark, tangled hair from his high forehead. He wasn’t handsome, but his face had an angular grace, his long nose gave him a regal air.

  “It could be worse,” Arthur replied from his bed. “We could actually have to work for a living.” Arthur’s whipcord frame was stretched across the bed. He had long legs that had earned him the nickname “stork”. He thought himself rather dapper. Everything about him was neat, from the perfect crease in his pants, to the straight part in his short hair. He sported a thin mustache these days, to the amusement of all his fellow classmates. A year older than Martin, he felt immeasurably wiser than most anybody in his circle.

  “You just have to graduate and then go work for your grandfather.” Martin replied without looking at his friend.

  “You think I am looking forward to that?” Arthur sat up. “You think that’ll be easy? M’older brother is a boy wonder. As if I can compete with that. If you didn’t take my test for me, I never would have passed.”

  Martin waved his hand, dismissing what he did. “Nobody knows.”

  “I know.” Arthur sat up on the edge of the bed, his head hanging. He combed a hand though his perfect hair leaving it disordered. A comma of it hung seductively over his green eyes. He looked up at Martin. “You can’t go out and do my work for me when we graduate. I don’t know what I am going to do.” He stood and paced the small room. “I wish I’d never have to leave here.”

  “I can’t wait to leave here. I want to go there.” Martin pointed east.

  “Where?” Arthur came to the window.

  “Oh, Europe?” He placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder, caressing him. “I don’t know what I will do if I can’t see you everyday. Martin…” he stood behind him, “ You can’t go to Europe, I would die if something happened to you.”

  Martin turned toward his roommate, their arms around each other. “We won’t be able to be like this when we get out of here,” he whispered fiercely.

  Arthur simply pulled the shade and closed out the world.

  Peter

  The television bathed the room in blues and greens. “Pete,” Belinda warned, “if you press the clock button one more time, I am out of here.” Belinda held out her hand for the remote.

  “It’s after ten.”

  “She’s seventeen. Relax. She’s a good kid.”

  “She was,” Peter replied despondently.

  Belinda sat up. “Listen, she’s annoyed about me.”

  “What are you talking about? She told me she likes you.”

  Belinda smiled at him. “Yeah, sure. I’d feel the same way. She’s feeling displaced. You were all hers, and now she has to share. It’s normal.”

  “How do you know?” Peter stood, pacing the room. “It’s like I don’t know her anymore. She’s so secretive.”

  “And what were you doing when you were seventeen? Did you share everything with your parents?” Belinda sat forward, her eyes dancing. She reached out for him. She was just on the edge of chubby. He didn’t mind, it was more to hug and made him feel safe and comfortable. He thought her pretty, though he knew his friends did snicker a bit about her size. Amy, his ex, was a perfect size two, and where did that get him. He teased the brown hair from her face and kissed her softly on her lips. She smiled invitingly, but he wasn’t finished talking.

  Peter sat back down and pulled her into his arms. She cuddled close. “It was different. My parents were old. They didn’t understand me.”

  Raising a delicate brow, she looked at his handsome face. She brushed back his chestnut hair and kissed him full on the lips.

  “They weren’t cool,” he told her.

  “And you are? Listen, kiddo, you’re forty-four, close to retirement, divorced.” She patted the slight paunch he’d recently developed. “How do you think they see you?”

  “I was in a band!”

  “Yeah, twenty-six years ago. Face it. You’re over the hill. You have to reinvent your relationship with her. Maybe she wants a dad and not a friend.”

  Peter reached behind them for his telephone and said grimly, “I’m just going to check up on her. Again.”

  Martin

  Oyster Bay, 1916

  “Dinner is at eight,” Margaret told her son.

  “Arthur and I have plans.”

  “Plans?” His stepfather looked up from his newspaper.

  “Yes. We’re meeting a group of guys from the school,” Martin told them absently.

  “Who?”

  “Senator Raynor’s son, Bill Wolfson, and—”

  “Larry Merstine,” Arthur added.

  “The Jew?” His mother looked up from her knitting.

  “Are you sure you want to go with him? I mean he can’t join our club.” A frown appeared on her smooth brow. “His people are not asking you to vouch for them?” she asked with alarm. She had gained weight with this pregnancy and her double chin wobbled.

  Martin didn’t answer her but made a dismissive sound. He hated it when she was like this. If she didn’t tolerate other religions, just imagine her reaction if she found out about his preferences. Holy hell would break loose. He smirked as he stared out the window. “What’s so funny, darling?” she asked him.

  His stepfather’s booming voice interrupted before he could think of an appropriate answer. “His father is important,” Mr. Harmond added. “He owns Merstine Mercantile. They’ve expanded into twelve states. Giving the five and dime a run for the money.”

  “Parvenus.” Arthur added as he smirked to Mrs. Harmond, who responded with a smile. She liked this young man her son brought home. She was hoping he’d notice Eugenie but no such luck. He was charming and an absolutely clever dancer.

  “Such grace,” she’d told her husband. Yes, he was a good influence on her wayward son. “Upstarts,” she agreed with a nod.

  Eugenie burst into the room. “What have you done with her?” she demanded from her stepfather. “What have you done to my cat?”

  “Eugenie, apologize this instant!” Margaret yelled hotly.

  “I don’t know where that flea-bitten beast is.” He looked at Martin and winked conspiratorially. “The creature’s got more lives than any cat I know.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “What are you talking about?” Martin asked.

  “He took my cat and drove her out east and left her to die!” Eugenie circled the room, her voice filled with venom. “She will find her way home. She always finds her way home. Oh, I hate you!” She fled the room, slamming the door in a fury of lace and flowered chiffon.

  Later that night, Martin and Arthur sat by the tennis courts drinking gin and tonics. “I don’t know why you drink this swill.” Arthur took out a small flask from his suit pocket.

  Martin declined the offer of whiskey. “Rotgut. I like the more civilized drinks.”

  Arthur admired the lean lines of Martin’s silhouette as he leaned on the fence post. He was so incredibly good looking it caused a flutter deep in his chest every time he gazed at his lover’s face.

  Arthur laughed. “What happened to the cat?”

  “Oh, my stepfather abhors the animal. Tried to get rid of it, but the thing keeps returning here.”

  Arthur looked back at the elegant mansion behind them. “Can’t say I blame her. He can’t stand you either.”

  “Hates my guts,” Martin said grimly.

  Arthur leaned closer to hear Martin’s muted whisper. “I think he knows,” he confided.

  Arthur’s stomach clenched. He might have
looked devil-may-care, but all hell would break loose if his father found out. Disinheriting was a real threat, and he knew it. “I’d have to kill him if he knew.” Arthur stood nervously and laughed. He stomped his long legs, as if they had fallen asleep. His white teeth gleamed in the darkness, but Martin knew his friend was not smiling.

  “You are kidding?” Martin leaned so close their breaths touched. They laced their fingers together.

  “Do you think he’ll say anything?”

  Martin shrugged. “It gives him leverage. Look, all I want is a ticket out of here. I am afraid.”

  “Of what?” Arthur gripped Martin’s hand tighter.

  “I am afraid the fighting will stop and I would have missed it,” he whispered urgently.

  “Are you so eager to get yourself killed?” Arthur released their hands and grabbed him by the lapels of his tux, his face white in the moonlight. “I love you. I can’t live without you. You can’t go!”

  “This thing is bigger than us.” Martin turned away, his eyes distant.

  Arthur was going to lose him. He knew it, deep in his heart; he knew their time was running short. “What are you talking about? Nothing is bigger than us.” Arthur started walking back to the house. “I thought this year meant something to you.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “All you ever cared about was the war. I’m sick of hearing about the stupid war. I mean it. I’m sick of it, Marty.”

  “Don’t call me Marty!”

  Arthur walked away. Martin never turned to see him leave. He watched the night sky, wondering if it looked the same on the battlefields of France.

  “You never got to go, did you?” Gibson girl asked quietly.

  “I never left Long Island again.” Martin looked up at the unchanging heavens.

  Peter

  “Where do you think they are?” They drove past the movie theater.

  “Let’s go to Friendly’s. Maybe they went for ice cream. We could drive past the diner again. Gimme your phone. I’ll see if she answers.” Belinda took his cell and punched in Arielle’s number. Peter could hear her voicemail answer and his neck turned red with anger.