Tree Line

Tree Line

By

Marco Manfre

I stop rocking and lean forward each time I hear a vehicle rumbling along the pebbly road at the end of my land. When it passes and disappears from sight I sit back again. Then I look behind me; it’s still there, smooth and cold and black, leaning against a wall within an arm’s reach. I resume my vigil: I rock, soothed by the rhythmic screech of the chair runners on the porch, which is actually just a sagging wooden deck hanging on by old habit to the front of my house.

The gut-wrenching thought returns again and again: how words have power, how what we say, what we tell each other, stays with us long after the sounds have drifted off into space. How those words and their meanings can cut through lives. I try to push from my throbbing head what I told Adam that day and how those words led to what happened and how they torment us now.

I can’t blame Wyatt. He was an oversized, puffed-up selfish bastard who thrived on meanness, but he had always been that way, and I should have handled him better. It’s just that, for years, I’d felt cut down by him … even before Rosie left.

I can’t blame her—Rosie. She had been right to leave me. And go to Wyatt’s bed? He was an easy choice: a big, good-looking guy with money, and, more importantly, he was the perfect weapon to use to cut me. That’s all it had been at first: a way to stick it to me, to teach me a harsh lesson. And then, instead of holding my head high and staying in my house and waiting for Rosie to return, which she would have done after a few days, I confronted her and Wyatt and howled and threatened. And then, to my everlasting shame, I cried. And so, she stayed there and I lost her.

All of what happened is on me.

“Clean up the place right up to the tree line,” Wyatt had said, and then he patted a pocket on his jeans. I knew and he knew that I knew that was where he kept his wallet. “I’ll give you four hundred. Clean up the place real good. Do a job right for once.” I came close to giving him the finger and driving home, but I needed the money. Besides, Rosie was there, standing next to him, more his wife than she had ever been mine, so I held my face rigid and said, “Sounds fair.”

Now, the location of a tree line is indefinite, like a horizon or the place where a town ends or the exact second daylight dies.

At seven the next morning I drove my truck the mile to Wyatt’s place and parked on his wide circular driveway. Once I had put on my work gloves, pulled down my wheelbarrow, and thrown a rake, an axe, and loppers into it I headed for the tree line, at the far end of Wyatt’s property, where the land turns up to become Bryant’s Hill. Nobody knows who Bryant was, but that little hill, which reaches down onto three other properties besides Wyatt’s, has had that name for as long as anybody can remember. The growth is thinner and sparser at the foot, just a scattering of pesty thistles, ugly shrubs, and tenacious weeds.

That’s the tree line.

I looked up at Bryant’s Hill for a few seconds and then I turned to survey Wyatt’s property. About a dozen blown-over trees, hundreds of heavy branches, and countless twigs were scattered over his land. A lot to do, but a man’s got to work.

I chopped fallen trees into manageable chunks and placed them, along with branches, large and small, and thousands of twigs, into piles. I loaded my wheelbarrow and trundled it to my truck more than a dozen times. When the bed was piled high I covered the load and drove the ten miles to the town dump. I did that four times, all the while calculating how much gas I was burning.

Since I hadn’t thought to bring anything to eat, at five, just as the light was dying, I drove home and ate tomato soup and half a loaf of bread and downed a pot of coffee. All the time I worked I had hoped Rosie would bring a sandwich or a muffin or an apple or at least a glass of water to me, but she never came out of the house. Of course, maybe she wasn’t home. I knew she was. Her car was there the whole time. So was his.

The next morning, a Saturday, as I got dressed Adam said he wanted to help me. He’s strong and a good worker, but he’s only fourteen. I told him to stay home or ride his bicycle to town or spend the day with friends. “I want to come, dad,” he said, a manly look on his face. “You shouldn’t do this alone. You shouldn’t be doing it at all.”

I wanted to cry. I said, “You don’t have to. I’m okay on my own.”

“I’m coming.”

I hugged him and said, “Thanks.”

We worked until twelve. Then we sat in my truck and ate sandwiches and cookies and drank from a jug of water. “It’s going well,” Adam said, looking me straight in the eye. He talked about school, how he liked Huckleberry Finn and American History and was finally beginning to understand algebra and biology.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“You know … lots of basketball practice.”

“Anything else?” When he shook his head, I leaned close and whispered, “Girls.” He shrugged and then his face broke into a radiant smile. “What’s her name?”

“Victoria … Vickie, but she’s just a friend.”

“Remember, Adam, what you say and what you do and the promises you make—all of it matters. Choose your words wisely and truthfully and always show respect … but never … never just stand there and let somebody make a fool of you.”

“You’ve told me that lots of times.” We were quiet for a minute, and then Adam said, “And, as long as long as we’re talking about words, how come you take it? I mean, after all he’s said and all the shit he’s made you eat, you do let him make a fool of you.”

That was when I should have pondered more and chosen my words more wisely. I should have said, “Sometimes you have to ignore the words” or “His words don’t matter.” Instead, I said, “Sometimes people act unkind. Wyatt, well, he’s mean all the time, but I need the money.”

“So, money’s more important than honor? That’s your wife—my mother—in there.”

“Let’s not go down that road. She’s not my wife anymore. She’ll always be your mother.”

“She’s my mother, but … but sometimes she’s not. She keeps her distance from me when he’s around.”

“You never told me that. Have you spoken to her about it?”

“Yeah, but all she says is, ‘He needs time to get used to you staying here.’”

“Only a weak, selfish man stands between a mother and a son.” And then, because my pride was hurt, I added, “I will take him down … when the time’s right.” I rumpled Adam’s hair and said it was time to get back to work, adding, “I’d like us to finish today, before sundown.”

That did not happen. Even though we chopped and piled and lugged and filled the truck five more times, we were not done, so, on our last trip back from the dump I decided we would go home and finish on Sunday. Adam said he had planned on going to church and then spending the day with friends. When I asked whether one of them was Vickie, he smiled.

The next morning, before I drove Adam to church, I reminded him to take his books and whatever else he would need for the next few days. Looking grim, he said, “I know. I’m all packed.” Then, brightening, he added, “Roger’s mom’s going to pick a few of us up after church and drive us to his house. It’ll be a lot of fun.”

I got to Wyatt’s place at nine-thirty. I reckoned I would need a couple of hours to complete the job. Of course, since the dump is closed on Sundays I planned on dropping off my truckloads at my place and getting rid of it all the next day.

An hour or so later Rosie walked down the high wooden steps of the house and got into her car. She drove off without turning her head in my direction.

By mid-afternoon my truck was filled with the last load, so I walked up the steps to Wyatt’s front door. My phone rang. Adam said, “Dad, can you pick me up from Roger’s house? It’s boring here. Nobody’s doing anything. I called mom. She drove all the way to Aunt Mary’s house. Won’t be back until tonight. I want to go home now.” I told him I would be right there.

When Adam got in the truck, all he said was, “They’re all dicks.”

“Not Vickie.”

“She didn’t come. I saw her at church. We talked, but she said she had to go home because they were having company.”

“Too bad. There will be other days.”

“I know,” Adam replied, and then he fell silent. When I turned into the drive leading to Wyatt’s place Adam said, “I want to go home, not here.”

“You know the arrangement. You stay here Sunday until Wednesday afternoon.”

“I hate it. I hate him. I hate—”

“Don’t say it. You can hate Wyatt. I certainly do, but not mom.”

“I hate it here. I have rights. Besides, mom’s not going to be here for hours. She was supposed to pick me up tonight. He doesn’t talk to me … just gives me dirty looks and mumbles nasty things.”

I should have listened to Adam, driven him straight to my place, but promises are promises and agreements are agreements. Besides, I wanted my four hundred dollars. Wyatt came to the door. Somehow, each time I saw him he looked larger than he had the last time. He filled the doorway and looked down at me. Plastering a smile on my face, I said, “Job’s done.”

“Is it? You do a good job?” He walked out, strode down the stairs, and launched himself into his Jeep. I followed him in, humiliated, knowing that Adam was watching. He started to climb down from my truck. I waved at him to stay put.

Wyatt did what I had not dared to do: he cut from his driveway and onto his expansive property, turning his head this way and that and grunting as he drove. He stopped at the tree line and jumped down from the Jeep. Then he looked up at Bryant’s Hill. After a moment he returned to the Jeep, made a slow, wide turn, and headed back to the house. He got out. I did too. Wyatt, standing a few feet away on the driveway, said, “You can finish tomorrow.”

“It’s finished, Wyatt.”

“It ain’t. You stopped short. Crappy job.”

Fighting mightily to suppress the blaze of anger shooting through me, I said, “I cut up a dozen trees and put them, along with every goddamned branch and twig on your property, into my truck. I raked every square inch of your land clean and put that debris in my truck too. I filled the bed more than a dozen times. It’s clean, Wyatt.”

“You stopped short of the tree line.”

“What? I didn’t. I cleaned up to the tree line, where it all thins out.”

“There’s a couple of trees beyond that point. That’s the tree line.”

Taking a step in Wyatt’s direction but keeping my hands, which I had involuntarily balled into hot, hard fists, at my side, I hissed, “That’s the tree line, where it thins out. There’s a few scraggly shrubs and weeds beyond that. They’re past the tree line.”

Smiling darkly, his hard black eyes drilling into my head—into my brain—Wyatt spat out, “I’m the employer; you’re the worker. I’m not satisfied with the work you did. I’m not paying for a crappy job.” Then, as I struggled to come up with a reply—one that would cut him down and end the argument—Wyatt said, “Story of your life. You come up short. You’re a loser.”

I turned my head and saw Adam next to me. Almost as tall as Wyatt but skinny as a rail, he started to speak. I said, “Back in the truck. Make sure the tarp’s holding everything down.” When he did not move I nudged him toward my truck and repeated what I had said.

“Nobody respects you, not your son, not Rosie.” Wyatt laughed thinly and then headed to the stairs to his house. At the front door he stopped, turned back, and said, “When you finish the work you’ll get the money. Clean it up, all the way to the tree line.”

When I got into my truck Adam, dark and angry, said, “You backed down, dad. He didn’t honor his agreement. He made you look like a punk. You didn’t do anything.”

“I’ll deal with him, but not now.” I turned on the ignition. I should have headed for home.

Adam said, “At least I don’t have to go in there.”

“I forgot. You have to. Take your things and go in.”

“Are you crazy? It’s bad enough I ever have to stay there, but now? He’s a son of a bitch, and he insulted and cheated you.”

“That’s between him and me. I’ll put him down when the time’s right.”

“You won’t. You’re always gonna eat his shit. You’re acting like a pun—”

I raised my hand, and then just as quickly brought it down to my lap. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll hurt him.”

“You won’t.”

“I will. I’ll also talk to your mother.”

“That’s another thing; like I said, mom isn’t there. I don’t want to go in without her. It’s bad enough when she’s there.”

“I can’t let you come home. Not now. I’ll call her tonight and tell her this isn’t working. I’ll talk to my lawyer. Go in. Go to your room. Read a book. Do your homework.”

Adam, his face and neck fiery red, snatched his books and overnight bag from in front of him, jumped down from the truck onto the driveway, and slammed the door. I closed my eyes and gripped the steering wheel, wishing I was in a different place, a different life. I felt the truck dip, and looked at the rearview mirror. Adam, was leaning against the tailgate. Then he was gone. I sat for another minute before I put the truck in gear and headed home.

That was last week. Now I rock and I wait.

Toward dusk Matt’s cruiser slowly turns onto the drive. I stop rocking and glance behind me. Matt parks in front of my house. His deputy stays in the car. Matt gets out, settles his hat on his head, and taps the holster at his side. He steps onto the porch and stares blandly at me. Then, nodding at the wall behind where I am sitting, he says, “Going squirrel hunting?”

“Naw. I just like to air it out once in a while.”

“So, we found Wyatt. Dead. Bits of wood chips and bark stuck to his bashed-in skull. Floatin’ in Cedar Swamp. Trussed up. Not weighted down proper.”

“As I said the other day, last time I saw him was in front of his house.”

“Yeah, you said that. Don’t need to search your truck. That’s ’cause his blood’s all over the back seat of his Jeep. It’s parked in front of his house. Somebody smashed his skull with a hunk of wood and dropped the body off at the swamp and drove his Jeep home. Don’t expect to find fingerprints on it. Sure the perpetrator wore work gloves. Can’t find the murder weapon.”

“Don’t know a thing.”

Matt spits onto the dirt in front of my porch and says, “He was a selfish shit. You had reasons to hate his guts.”

“I’ve moved on.”

“Where’s Adam?”

“Out.”

“Rosie says he worked with you at Wyatt’s place. I’d like to talk to him.”

“He’s fourteen.”

“You or Rosie can be there. Call me.”

Matt touches the brim of his hat and goes down to his cruiser. After he leaves I grab the shotgun and walk into the house. Adam, sitting at the kitchen table, says, “I don’t want you going to jail.”

“Not going to happen.”

“If he comes back, I’ll tell—”

“You’ll do nothing.”

“I shouldn’t have called you.”

“You did right.”

I’ll never forget what I saw when I walked into Wyatt’s house that evening: Adam, his head in his hands, scrunched in a corner; Wyatt, motionless on the floor, in a glistening pool of blood; a splintered, blood-smeared tree branch next to him.

The floor where he lay is clean now.

The branch is gone; it’s just cinders.

My words linger.