The Killing Tree (24 page)

“But Trout’s not his nickname. It’s his real name.”

“Well I don’t know what to tell you. Sounds like a nickname to me, and unless you know his real name I can’t help you.”

“The mater migrant. He has red hands. Wavy hair,” I said, my voice beginning to break.

“Oh, him. He won’t tell us his real name and the sheriff’s awfully particular about using only legal names, so he’s just been
assigned a number. Let me look, oh here it is, the mater migrant is Prisoner 3902 Price.”

“His real name is Trout. It ain’t a nickname. His name isn’t 3902, or whatever you said. It’s Trout Price.” I choked, my voice
betraying my emotion.

“Well if it sounds like a nickname, and you don’t have ID, then the sheriff assigns a number. They’ll probably do the same
over at the pen too ’cause who ever heard of the name Trout? His momma must have been crazy or something.” He laughed.

“Can I see him?”

“Can’t see him,” he said, turning his attention back to the TV.

“There’s an hour left in visiting time.”

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why?” I asked.

He ignored me.

“Why can’t I see him?” I asked again, my voice growing louder.

He still ignored me.

I reached over the desk and yanked the TV cord out of the wall.

“What the hell . . .” he began, rising to his feet.

“I just want you to give me some answers!” I yelled. “Tell me why I can’t see him when visiting hours aren’t over!”

“The mater migrant ain’t allowed visitors,” he said.

“I ain’t just a visitor. I’m his family. We got married.”

“Sheriff Barnes said a young girl your age might come and say anything to try and get back there. Sorry,” he said, sitting
back down.

I sat down on a chair across from the counter. I was numb.

“You been a cop long?” I heard Della ask.

“A year.”

“Wow. A whole year? Bet you seen a lot of action.” She smiled.

“I’ve seen my share,” he said, switching his TV back on.

“Ever had to shoot anybody?”

“Not yet. But you gotta be prepared. It’s a dangerous job.”

Della pretended to shiver. “The way you said that just gave me goose bumps all over. You must be real brave. Bet your parents
are proud of you.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He smiled.

“I wish I could be that brave. I bet you ain’t scared of nobody, are you? I mean, you’re young and strong. You obviously work
out a lot. I bet nothing scares you, huh?”

“Nope. I reckon I can handle myself against anybody.”

“Wow.” She giggled. “That’s really cool. I bet you ain’t even scared of the sheriff, huh? I mean he’s just an old man, and
you, you’re where the real power is. I can see that. Anybody could see that in you. Why just looking at you I can tell you
ain’t just strong and brave, you’re smart too.”

He smiled.

“You’ve got a nice smile too.”

“Thanks, you uh, you do too.”

“Really? You think so? Wow. It means a lot to me that you think my smile is pretty. Nobody ever said that to me before. It
means a whole lot coming from somebody like you,” she said, leaning over the desk, pressing her full breasts against the counter.

His eyes slid down and enjoyed the show she offered him.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered in her sexiest voice.

“Sure,” he said, excitedly.

“Just being this close to you has got me all hot and bothered. Imagine what would happen if I came behind the counter.”

“Oh, uh, wow,” he said, his eyes starting to bulge.

“Would you like that? Would you like for me to bring all of my excitement to you behind the counter. Nobody’s gonna be coming
down to the jail at this hour,” she whispered.

“Oh, uh, oh Lord.” He giggled nervously. “Your friend is still back there.”

“Hell, let her go see the mater migrant so you and I can be alone. The sheriff won’t ever know, and we’ll get to make each
other’s dreams come true.”

“I don’t know, the sheriff, he wouldn’t like it,” he began.

“Oh, I see. You’re scared of the sheriff after all,” she said poutily. “I guess me and my friend will just go away now, and
leave you all alone with your TV.”

“Well wait a minute now. I didn’t say no. I just said the sheriff might not like it. I guess your friend can go back. But
just for a couple minutes. That’s all. Okay?” he said, starting to giggle again.

“I’ll make every second count, I promise,” she whispered.

“Hey you,” he called. I looked up. “You got a few minutes, just until I holler for you. Go down the hall and turn left, it’s
the last cell on the right. You can’t miss it, there’s just four cells in the whole building and he’s the only prisoner here.
No funny business, though, or I’ll lock you up too!”

I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting on the ground with his head down on his knees. Gently rocking back and forth. He
was dirty. His cell was dirty. And there was no window. No place for him to look out at the mountains he loved. It was a hell
worse than fire and brimstone. Trout loved his freedom. I had never even thought about whether I was free or trapped until
I met him. “These red hands are freed,” he had said. “But not by broke mirrors.” And now he wasn’t free. He wasn’t spinning.
Or standing. He wasn’t even lost in the rows. He was just rocking back and forth in a dirty jail cell. My captured Fire Trout.

“Hey,” I whispered through the bars. He looked up slowly.

“Mercy?”

“Yes. It’s me. Just got a few minutes,” I sobbed.

He ran to the bars and grabbed my hands.

“I’m so sorry, Trout. It was me that stole them dogs. It was me and Mamma Rutha. I told ’em too, but they don’t care, ’cause
Father Heron wants you here. Maybe if you take it back too. If you’ll tell them it wasn’t you.”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t you be sorry for nothin’. I ain’t.”

“I can’t make it without you.”

“You can. All you need is your glory. That’s somethin’ that old man won’t ever be able to stamp out. Remember how I said you
was your worst mirror? Well go on and break your old one, and use mine. And when you look in it, you’ll see the glory.”

He was crying now too. Sunflowers drowning in big tears. Deep green river pools overflowing.

I nodded my head. “Someday it’ll all be okay, won’t it?”

“It already is. We’re okay already.”

“Time’s up!” the cop called from the hall.

I sobbed, my hands gripping the bars of his cell.

“Go on home, Mercy. Walk outta here, head held high.”

“I said time’s up,” the man called out again.

“Use that new mirror of yours.” He pulled his hands from mine and turned and walked away.

“Wait,” I begged. I would have stayed right there forever if I could have. I would have rather stayed there with him, amidst
the stench of urine, than to walk out alone.

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Find me,” I sobbed before walking away. “I’ll go where you go, remember? Find me.”

My head was held high and my hands were full and heavy. I was carrying his mirror. The heart of the Fire Trout. And it was
heavy with love.

D
ella’s young cop told her the details of Trout’s case. How he had been arrested and taken before a judge. Because he was a
“drifter” and a flight risk, a hefty bail was set. But I would have done anything to make that bail. I would have robbed the
Miners’ Credit Union if I had to. But I hadn’t known. I was locked in plastic, dying over his disappearance, as he lay locked
in prison. If I had met that bail, we would have stood on sandy shores, letting salty waves hide us from the eyes of the law.

But despite his guilty plea, Della’s cop told her that Trout would still face a judge for his sentencing. Finally there was
someone else. Someone that wasn’t Father Heron or Sheriff Barnes. Trout would face that man and await his sentence. And I
would meet him there and announce my guilt. So would my Mamma Rutha.

It would be four days until I freed him. It never stopped playing in my mind. How I would see him as he stood before the judge.
The sound of the gavel as the judge declared Trout’s innocence. The look, the fear, that would shadow across Father Heron’s
eyes. He would know then that some things wouldn’t die when he told them to. My momma may have. But not me. And not my love.

I would rise from my seat, and I would speak the new wedding vow that hid in my heart. Not the one that I had whispered on
Thorny Ridge. That was a safe vow, born of a love that ran. Everything was different now. And so the love in my heart would
vow itself to him in the only way that remained.
I, Mercy Heron, am guilty.

Imagine the feel of cold steel circling your wrists
, I would tell myself as I checked the days off until his sentencing.
Imagine the feel of cold steel caging your body
, I would whisper as I lay in bed mouthing my vow.
I, Mercy Heron, am guilty.
I tied my hands together with rope just to feel the pinch against my skin. I sank low within my jelly jar closet, just to
breathe the scent of caged air. I wanted the steel, the cage, the misery. Because none of it held loss for me. All of it was
my vow of love.

And all of it depended on Mamma Rutha. Without her, I was just a mater migrant’s whore, desperate to free her lover. Without
her to confirm my confession, to admit that she helped, the judge might not believe me. For the first time in my life, Mamma
Rutha was everything that I needed.

And for a moment, I worried over her. I could accept prison if it meant freeing Trout. But Mamma Rutha? Without her creatures,
without her green, she would become the withered fig. And I would be the one that withered her. I decided to tell them that
I took advantage of her feeble mind. I would look at the judge and I would tell him,
She is crazy.

Della knew what I planned, and she begged me not to.

“Please don’t do this,” she cried. “They’ll lock you away, and then I’ll have no one. What if I tell them I saw someone else
do it? I could tell them I saw Randy take the ropes from Ben Franklin, and then heard him bragging about stealing them dogs.”

For a moment, I thought it might work. It could be proven that the ropes came from Ben Franklin. And Randy worked there, with
easy access to them. But it wasn’t certain. Randy was respectable. It would be hard for a judge to believe that Randy, young
married manager, soon-to-be father, committed the crime instead of a drifting mater migrant.

I was the only thing certain.
And I really was guilty
.

“Couldn’t you at least talk to Father Heron?” Della asked. “Tell him that you will confess. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

“He won’t have pity on Trout.”

“But he loves the Heron name. Maybe he’ll change his mind so that you and Mamma Rutha won’t shame it. Give him one last chance
to save you.”

I
t was her birthday, and all of the Heron house knew it. Thirty-five years ago that day, she was new. Before anything bad or
sinful. And I imagine Mamma Rutha loved her. Loved the way she curled her little toes. Or how greedily she sucked the breast.
And I imagine Father Heron was proud that day. Of being a family man. Of having his seed established. Maybe he was disappointed
she wasn’t a boy. But she was still his.

Mamma Rutha was gone. I had never seen her there on
that
day. I’m sure she disappeared to honor her in her own wild way. The bone blessing was good enough for most dead things. But
not her.

I was never sure what I was supposed to do. I didn’t know how to honor the stranger that gave me life. And yet, I couldn’t
seem to convince myself that it was just a day like all others. So I walked a little more quietly. I stared at Mamma Rutha’s
picture of her. I pretended that I knew the smell of her skin. The feel of her hair. Pretended I had heard the sound of her
voice.
My pretty baby girl
, she might have said.

It was late. Closer to noon than morning. I laid in bed and thought about her. Imagined saying,
Momma, save me.
I listened for Father Heron, and tried to think of a way to convince him to free Trout.

He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. I rounded the corner and found myself staring at his back.

“Always tried,” he mumbled to himself. I stopped still. “Always tried. Mary.”

It was the name that was never spoken.
Mary.
He called the birthday girl by name. I grew cold inside. Thinking about him as more than my Father Heron. Thinking about
him as a daddy that spoke her name. A daddy that
tried
?

He sighed. Deep and heavy. Like he carried a weight that no one had ever seen. Was it the weight of killing his daughter?

A car pulled up and honked its horn. He jumped. I ducked around the corner and back into my bedroom. I watched him walk to
the car. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same ol’ levelheaded Deacon Heron. Solid as a rock.

I went back to the kitchen and that’s when I saw it. Laying there on his open Bible. It was her, about twelve years old. And
him. Arms around each other. Standing on the back porch, just in front of the back door.
Arms around each other!
And she was smiling as though she liked him. As though she
loved
him. And he was looking at her. As she gazed straight ahead grinning at the camera. He was liking how she giggled. How she
called him Daddy. He liked everything that was Mary.

It was the second picture I had ever seen of her. And I studied it, memorizing the way she stood. An arm around him. A hand
on her hip. Memorizing her bare feet. The part in her hair. The boldness of her smile. It was like I was meeting her for the
first time. And yet she was younger than me, but already dead.

I wanted other pictures. More of her to meet. I began flipping through his Bible, carefully marking the page he had left it
at. Listening for the sound of his return. There was a folded-up piece of construction paper stuck in the middle of Psalms.
I opened it and stared at the crayoned scribble.