The Killing Tree (10 page)

“Almost there, just a little further,” she called back to me after hours of following.

The dogs were worn out and thoroughly confused by the time she suddenly stopped and announced that we had walked far enough.
The six of us sat down. Not caring whether we sat on unseen anthills. The dogs stretched their tired limbs and began breathing
deeply. I wanted to stay like that forever. The six of us, in a half circle, in the heart of the mountain. The hunger, the
fatigue, my aching muscles and rope-burned hands all held me to the ground.

I dozed in and out, until I became aware of Mamma Rutha gently pulling the blindfolds and red rope from the dogs. She stroked
the tops of their heads and told them to live a good, peaceful life. She told them that she could not bless them after what
they had done to the baby squirrel, but that she wished good things for them. She took my hands and pulled me from the ground.
I followed her back toward home, dragging my two loose red ropes, feeling much lighter walking downhill without Fox and Coon
to pull along.

As we neared home there was no yellow or orange light in the sky yet, but night was beginning to fade from black, to navy,
then to a purplish blue. I was beyond tired. I was floating toward home and my bed. The woods began to thin and suddenly stopped.
I was standing at the edge of Mamma Rutha’s garden.

“Mercy baby.”

I turned and looked at her. Her eyes shining victorious, no sign of exhaustion.

“You are happy,” she said.

“What do you mean?” my sleepy voice asked.

“I can feel it. It’s new.”

“I’m just really tired. That’s what you see,” I murmured, not daring to meet her eyes.

I was too tired to think anymore. Too tired to ask myself what Mamma Rutha saw. I fell asleep fully clothed on top of my bed,
curled around my pillow, hands clenched to pull and tug my two blind red dogs.

M
y hunger woke me. It was a painful gnawing in my stomach. My body had soaked up a few hours of rest and then demanded something
more. It needed food. I climbed out of bed, looking nearly the same as I did when I left the night before, only dirtier and
more wrinkled. Mamma Rutha and Father Heron were nowhere in sight. I rummaged through the cabinets, searching for something
quick to eat. But all I found was flour, cornmeal, some canned beans, and molasses.

I walked outside, to Father Heron’s garden. I grabbed a handful of beans and popped them in my mouth. Sweet and crisp, they
only made me more hungry. I needed something to bite and chew. A raw potato wouldn’t do. I inspected his tomato plants, and
found them lacking too. Green, and orangey red at best, they were mere shadows of the ruby gems that hung in Mamma Rutha’s
garden. I glanced at them, but I didn’t dare taste one.

I had done that once. At age twelve, after Mamma Rutha had forgotten to pack my lunch for school, my stomach had growled with
the thought of them. How their sweet and tangy flesh would make my cheeks pucker and my mouth sing.
I am a creature too
, I told myself.
I am from this mountain too
, I said to her garden. I stood there in the middle of it and checked to see if I was being watched. I inhaled the fermented
smell of an overly ripe, unharvested garden. My fingers burned with lust while my eyes searched for the perfect fruit. At
the bottom, low to the ground, there it was. About the size of an apple, shaped to fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. I
touched it. Timidly at first. Then my hand closed around it and I pulled. My teeth pierced its skin and its juice trickled
down my chin.

But without ever asking me she knew. And for weeks she didn’t bless me. Finally, I broke down, confessed and repented.
Why
won’t you bless me anymore?
I cried.
What must I do?
And that’s when she told me that I must hunger. I had stolen the mountain’s blessing, and so I had to give it mine. For two
days I laid all of my food, my biscuits, my peanut butter sandwiches, my fried chicken beneath the June apple tree.

It was bad. Even though it was for just two days. I was so tempted to take a bite. Just one bite, one chew, one swallow of
my food. But somehow, she would have known. So I hungered. Hungered so bad I crept out at night and ate dirt. Filled my mouth
with the soft brown earth that smelled so good in her garden.
It’s not food
, I told myself.
It doesn’t count
, I whispered through my dirt-filled mouth.

The strangest thing is that the taste of dirt never left me. There were times when I still craved it. Working in the garden
on a Sunday night. When there was no food in the house. When I wanted to feel low and hidden from the world. I would crawl
into the wild closet of Mamma Rutha’s garden, and fill my mouth with dirt. I stood there, the morning after leading the dogs
away, and eyed that rich brown dirt. Thinking about its musky taste and crunchy grit. I wanted to eat it.
But eighteen-year-olds don’t eat dirt.
So I hungered instead. Wishing I was still twelve.

“Coon! Here Coon! Hey Fox! Here Fox!” Father Heron’s voice pierced the woods. I walked to the back porch, listening to him
call those dogs. Secretly laughing at him. He walked out of the woods after about an hour and noticed me there.

“Mercy, you seen my dogs?” he asked.

“Last night when I came home from work I saw ’em running around out here, after you set ’em loose.”

“No, after that, today, you seen ’em today?” he asked anxiously.

“No sir, I haven’t seen ’em today. They run off some-place?”

“March out into them woods and call them dogs, while I head down the mountain to see if they’ve wandered down thataways,”
he said.

“Yes sir,” I replied as I walked to the edge of the woods, choked back my laughter, and called “Coon! Wolf! Bear!” until Father
Heron left.

Suddenly I shivered with fear. The red ropes, still attached to the dog collars. Where were they? Mamma Rutha had wisely left
hers with the dogs. But I brought mine back home, and I couldn’t remember hiding them or throwing them away. I ran through
the woods, circling the trees. Looking by rocks and in briars.

It was almost time to leave for work. I gave up, hoping Mamma Rutha had gotten rid of them. I showered and walked into my
bedroom, where on the floor, curled like scarlet snakes, lay two lengths of thick red rope. I stuffed them in my closet, next
to the jelly jar, to wait for a safe time to get rid of them.

It was Tuesday, and Tuesdays were always slow at work. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday guaranteed a crowd. Monday was spent recovering
and cleaning up from the weekend. Wednesday and Thursday were spent getting ready for it by finding the right pigs, having
them killed, and getting them ready to smoke. But Tuesday was the lull. We served only a smoked pork shoulder. Never a whole
pig.

Rusty had tried to pep business up on Tuesdays with his Terrific Tuesday Specials.
Buy
one pork sandwich, get barbecue beans for free!
But that didn’t work. So he tried music. He paid for some of Crooktop’s best “pickers” to come and play. They picked the banjo
and the guitar. Outsiders called it bluegrass or country, but up on Crooktop there were only two types of live music—gospel
and picking. At first it had worked. People left their Tuesday casseroles at home for the music. But Rusty eventually realized
that they weren’t eating enough to cover the cost, so Picking Tuesday became ordinary Tuesday again. I never made any money
on Tuesdays. I never really had to work on Tuesday, though I was scheduled to. I would spend my time cleaning, reorganizing
the silverware, or taking smoke breaks with Rusty. But on that Tuesday, I spent my time thinking about Trout. Wondering how
much more time was left in the growing season. Whether I would see him again.

“Let’s smoke,” Rusty called from the kitchen.

I nodded, even though I dreaded spending time with him. It was strange that I was so drawn to a man that Crooktop despised,
while Rusty, one of its most respected young men, made my stomach turn. Rusty made a decent living, came from a good family,
and he went to church. Check, check, check—it was almost a complete list.

“How’s your family?” he asked as he lit his cigarette.

“Pretty good. Yours?”

“Same as always, I reckon. Listen, I’ve been thinking about making a little visit to your place. Maybe taking your grandparents
some pig. I know what a time your grandpa must have outta your grandma.”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s awfully nice of you, but Father Heron’s awfully busy, and he just lost his dogs, so
now is probably not the best time.”

“But I worry about y’all. I worry that your grandpa needs a helping hand,” he said, with smoke pouring out of his nostrils.
“You couldn’t even come into work the other day ’cause of something going on with your crazy grandma. I’d like to ask your
grandpa if I could, well, if I could help take care of you a little. So that he won’t have to worry about you too.”

“I take care of myself. Always have,” I replied, wondering if Della could get me hired at the Ben Franklin.

“Just the same, you reflect a spell on it. I’ve got a lot to offer,” he said as he walked back inside.

I needed that diner job. There were so few jobs available for girls in the valley. I was too young to be hired by the bank,
I refused to be a cafeteria lady at the school. But how could I refuse a man, without making him feel rejected? Only Della
could answer. At the end of my shift I started walking toward the Ben Franklin.

I felt him coming even before I heard his truck round the top of the hill. That clanky roar and sputter. I knew that he was
coming for me.

“Hey,” he said smiling. “Where you headed?”

“Ben Franklin. How about you?”

“I was hopin’ you could give me a bite of some of that pig you serve up,” he said. “But now I’m thinkin’ Mexican sounds better.”

“Like tacos?” I asked.

“Somethin’ like that. Hop in,” he said, never asking me if I wanted to, just knowing that I did. He leaned over and opened
the door. His arm stretched out long, and my eyes met the curve of his shoulder and the smooth tan skin that was covered with
bristly hairs. I sat inside his truck. There in the middle of town, knowing that I was making May Flours’ day.

The windows were rolled down and the wind whipped my ponytail around and pulled loose hairs across my face. The air smelled
fresh and pulled away the smoke that clung to me. I breathed deeply and felt happy. In that moment, I was exactly where I
wanted to be.

“You doin’ all right?” he asked.

“Fine. You?”

“Worn out,” he said. “Boss raised the quota to thirty crates of maters today. Got stung by a hornet, and now the sting’s dried
up I can’t quit scratchin’ it. I’m thankful too. Had a good lunch of stewed maters with cornbread. My truck’s still kickin’
along, and then I found you walkin’ down the same road that I was comin’ up. That’s a lot of things, but it sure ain’t fine.
How ’bout you?”

How about me?
He was right. I was more than fine. “Fine” was the answer that I had always given. It was the answer I expected back. Hiding
what made my feet ache or my heart sing, was all I’d ever known.

“I was up real late last night,” I said. “With my Mamma Rutha. So I’m sleepy. And I didn’t have supper last night, or breakfast
today except for some raw beans, so I’m hungry. My boss makes me nervous. My job is dull on Tuesdays. But right now, I feel
really good.”

He drove down the mountain, toward the low river-bottom land. It was a place where most white people would go only to buy
fresh vegetables or to hire people for odd jobs. White women certainly never went down there, where
Lord knows what might be done to them
. The land was a deeper, richer green than on the mountain. Filled with trees and grasses that were never thirsty. The air
was thicker too, and moister. It smelled like unearthed potatoes. Or a mud puddle after a heavy rain.

There were more clouds and blue in the sky than up on Crooktop. It still looked like a puzzle, but down there the blue and
white pieces were almost equal with the green and brown. And there were vegetables. Not like a garden. Or even like a crop.
We were in a sea of green and red, with rows of tomatoes stretching far and wide. And mixed in between the rows were little
clusters of gray tents. He had brought me home.

“So this is where you work?” I asked, wanting him to tell me about his life.

“See those rows over there?” he asked. “Those were mine today.” I nodded and tried to imagine him there, his day filled with
the fruits of my temptation. I thought it was a wonderful job, to lose yourself amidst rows of fuzzy plants.

There were small campfires built in the middle of the tent clusters, with huddles of brown men and women standing around them.
They were laughing and smiling. And though they spoke Spanish, it was easy to tell when they spoke of happy things and funny
things. They were beautiful. With caramel skin and black shiny eyes, not dull as coal dust like mine and Father Heron’s. I
surprised them. A white woman down in mater migrant land. And for the first time in my life, I felt white.

Crooktop was a mountain made of many colors, settled only by one. In school I was surrounded only by white children. At church,
only whites. In the diner, only whites. And though most of us had distant Cherokee relatives, we were still “white.” I had
occasionally seen the Mexicans, when they dared make a trip to town. And once an old black man, a biologist, moved to Crooktop
to study its wildlife. But he didn’t stay long, and most of Crooktop was glad. My world was filled with people that looked
just like me, and only occasionally was I aware of anything else.

As I followed Trout through them, they looked at me and I felt what lay between us. And it was new to me. Not that they were
brown, I knew that. But I hadn’t known how much my whiteness meant to them. It had never been anything more to me than a paleness
that stared back in the mirror. But it meant something to them. It separated me from their happy laughter. From their warm
caramel skin. It lay between us. Wider than the river.