The Tree Beyond the House

There is a tree that grows not far from the house where I grew up. It is old, older even than my mother. I could see it from my upstairs window, across acres and acres of tall, green corn. In sultry summer, those stalks wore yellow tasseled headdresses, that waved when our home was blessed with breeze and bent with the wind of sudden storms. Just beyond them, the crown of that tree rose up, a lush green mushroom of amazing proportion.In the fall when the stalks had gone dry and colorless, the tree blazed orange and red, a burst of brilliance between the pallid field and the pale blue sky.

The Fire Dreams

When I was a child, I had a recurring dream that the tree was a torch. It began around the time Daddy went away to war. I still remember the awe I felt as my dream body stood rooted and helpless at the window, while I watched the tree-torch light the corn. In my nightmare, hungry flames spread toward me, devouring the field. My mouth opened in alarm but no sound came. The crackling of brittle husks filled my ears like a scream. My nose and eyes burned as rancid smoke assaulted me through the open window. Sweat and tears clouded my vision but my body stood paralyzed, unable to wipe it from eyes that were glued to fiery tongues licking at my sill. Just before they bit through the window screen to burn me alive, I always jerked awake.

Finding myself in bed and not at that window; finding night breeze instead of flames coming through the open window, I would slide from my sweaty covers and on wobbly legs, and crawl in bed with my older sister. I would snuggle against her and listen to the sighs and creaks of the house and pray for winter.

Daddy never came home. That winter the tree looked like a skeleton’s hand reaching from the grave.

First Love and Loss

As I grew older, the fire dreams dwindled, and a new heat took over my thoughts, a boy! He and I were in school together until he dropped out. Never one for books or equations, soon as he was able, he ditched school and went to work at the quarry. I didn’t mind that his brain power was limited, so long as I could gaze upon his beauty; dark curls and even white teeth and those bulging muscles!

On summer nights, we would meet under the mushroom tree. We would spread an old blanket in the back of his brother’s pickup and kiss until my lips were bruised. The moon would peek between the lush green branches as we wrapped around each other. When his hands snuck beneath my dress, they lit a fire hotter than those dream flames. My body opened for his heat and I thought I would combust and leave nothing but ash on that blanket. I forgot about Daddy’s death, about Mother crying at night when she thought we were asleep. I stopped worrying about being poor and making do, about my prissy older sister and my spoiled younger one. My desire wiped it all from my mind and I lived to see him, touch him, have him inside of me.

Then he wrapped his stupid self around a tree, driving drunk down on Blue Mount Road. Killed the girl with him, too. I wished it had been me.

I stopped looking out my window altogether.

The Descent

My heart grew cold; a hard impenetrable chunk of ice. But my body craved heat. Every chance I got, I’d take Momma’s car and drive. Usually, I would end up at some bar. I did not crave alcohol; I craved a strong man to wrap my limbs around. That got me some trouble—lots of rotten apples out there—but I didn’t care.

My sisters both married and had children while I self-destructed. I didn’t care.

My mother tsked and ranted. I didn’t listen.

I was on the road to hell and hoped its fire could devour me.

The Night at the Pub

Until…

I sat at the bar nursing a whiskey sour when four men came into the Pioneer House Pub. Judging by their collared shirts and clean-cut hair, they were golfers. That wasn’t unusual. Preppie types often stopped in on the way back to Civility. They passed by and waved Burt the bartender over, a few barstools away. Three of them were boisterous, smacking each other on the back and slamming back shots. The fourth sat quietly, sipping a beer while his buddies yucked it up. He was not much to look at, pale round face with glasses perched over sun-reddened cheeks. His shoulders sloped and a slight paunch hung over his woven belt. Knobby knees stuck out from the stool at odd angles.

I could hear snippets of banter—red-neck this and hillbilly that. They could make fun all they wanted, far as I was concerned. With their ivy league hair and loafered feet, they were not my type and I was glad I wasn’t theirs. I turned away and scanned the far side of the bar, hoping to find a suitable conquest.

A hand landed on my shoulder.

“Hey there, honey, how bout you come drink with us?”

“No thanks,” I said, “I ain’t the golfing type.”

“Bet you’d like the way I drive it to the hole!”

A burst of laughter sounded from the two other loud ones.

“With that little putter?” I asked, looking at the man’s crotch.

Another burst of laughter and the man’s face turned red. He glanced over his shoulder at his friends and I could see the wheels turning, searching for a snappy retort. Unable to retrieve anything verbal, the big oaf grabbed his crotch and stuck out his tongue at me.

The other two roared approval.

One said, “Jerry’s got a helluva nine iron!”

Jerry waggled his hips.

The sitting man raised his spectacled eyes to the ceiling and shook his head.

Jerry reached his hand around my waist and planted it firmly on my breast.

I slapped it as I stood.

“You, sir, are a P-I-G!”

My eyes scanned the place for Burt. No luck. He was heading toward the bathrooms.

“You can handle these lugs,” I thought to myself and dug my shiny red fingernails into Jerry’s wrist. The hand clamped tighter to my breast.

With my left hand, I deftly lifted my glass and sent its contents into Jerry’s face. His eyes widened, then squeezed shut as the acidic drink found its way in.

“Argh!”

He released me and wiped at his eyes, “You little bitch!”

“That’s enough Jerry.” The quiet man stood, “Leave the young lady alone.”

Jerry gave me a menacing sneer, “Why I oughta. . .”

But he backed away.

One said to the quiet man, “Come on Marty. He’s just having fun.”

“Fun at another’s expense?” Marty shook his head again. “That sort of fun doesn’t sit well with me.” He placed some bills on the bar, smoothed them with the tips of his fingers, and sat an empty shot glass on top.

“Bus is leaving,” he said as he removed keys from his khaki pocket and jangled them.

The bigger men grumbled but he shooed them toward the door.

Marty stopped beside me as he passed. He pulled more bills from his wallet and neatly laid them on the bar.

“To replace your drink. I apologize for these drunken fools.”

I heard him tsking like my mother as he followed them out.

The Dinner Date

An hour later, I was still there nursing my drink and feeling sorry for myself when he returned.

“The way you handled that. . .” His eyes shifted down to his shaking hands that clenched his glasses. Then the eyes raised to my face, “You have Moxie! I’d like to take you to dinner sometime if you’d let me.”

“Like a date?”

“Yes, a date. Saturday night? I can pick you up at seven.”

He smiled and a chunk of ice fell from my hardened heart.

I’d never had a real dinner date before! What to wear? What to tell my mother? Oh, how should I do my hair? My mind whirred at the possibilities, but I played it cool. Used my moxie.

“I guess seven thirty would be okay.”

My mother was thrilled when I told her a man was taking me to dinner, and at the ritzy Milton Inn, no less! My younger sister helped do my hair and nails. My older sister lent me her best dress; baby blue to match my eyes.

At last, seven o’clock came and he was right on time.

He opened the car door for me and then the restaurant door. It was the most marvelous meal of my life.

During dinner, I couldn’t help but ask, “I’ve been wondering. How come those guys just do what you say?”

“Sometimes moxie wins over brawn and sometimes you just need to be the smarter one.” He chuckled; a sweet soft sound.

“I sign their paychecks.”

Redemption and the Tree

Some people think my husband is an odd duck. They wonder at our peculiar pairing. I don’t care.

They don’t know he pulled me from the fire.

I still dream of that tree. But now Marty, wearing a shining-armor sport coat on his pudgy body, is chopping it down. Then we take the wood home and burn it in our fireplace.