going to do shit to you. I’ll knock him out if he does. But you’re his favorite anyway. He won’t.”
“I just ruined my life.”
“Naw. Least it’s Piper. Worst thing that happens is you’re stuck with her—that doesn’t count as ruined.”
I didn’t say anything back, and kind of awkwardly he put his arm over my shoulders. He never hugged anybody, so that was a stretch for him. He didn’t have any real answers for me. There wasn’t anything he could do but sit there and assure me Mom and Dad weren’t going to kill me and bury me in the backyard. But he did that. And for a really, really long time I felt like shit about all that, because I knew—I always knew—that he loved her.
* * *
When I was home for Christmas, almost right away I noticed the hacked-up tree in the backyard. It was over by the barn. What had still been a giant oak when I’d last come home was now a four-foot-high pile of splintered wood, with these long raw shards sharp enough to kill a man sticking out in all directions like some kind of lethal haystack. I asked my mom, “What happened—that tree get hit by lightning?”
She shook her head. She was standing at the stove with the teapot, raising and lowering a couple of tea bags into it to steep them. “That’s Eli’s.”
“That’s Eli’s what ?”
“His tree for when he’s mad.” She closed the lid, letting the tags and strings dangle down the side of the teapot. She nodded toward the back-porch windows and said, “Your father and Dodge cut off most of the limbs a few years back anyway, you know, because it had a disease. When Elias needs to blow off some steam he goes out there and he chops at it. Doesn’t bother me any. I wanted that tree gone years ago.”
I looked out the back window again and saw the ax wedged in a hunk that used to be a branch, off to the side, almost buried beneath the snow. We’d tried to build a tree house in that oak years ago when we were kids. “That’s a lot of steam to blow off,” I said.
She shrugged. “Olmstead men,” she said. Then she poured a cup and drank it black, without any sugar.
A little while later Elias came downstairs. He’d been locked up in his room all day, sleeping off a migraine. When he saw me he said, “I need your help with something.”
I glanced up at a motion behind him. My mother was pushing a big cellophane-wrapped plate piled high with Christmas cookies across the kitchen island. It had an oversize red bow on top.
“Need to run over to the Larsens’ real quick,” he said. “Be good if you could ride with me.”
The Larsens were Piper’s family. “Sure,” I said, and he shrugged on his coat and picked up the plate of cookies. The cellophane was bunched up so high it got in the way of his face.
“Take your car,” he said. “I don’t like driving anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Too many distractions.”
That seemed like a weird reason. In Frasier, New Hampshire, there’s really nothing but woods and fields and the occasional rotting house here and there. But whatever, I didn’t mind driving. It was only a couple of miles to Piper’s. When the house rose up along the road, a boxy white Victorian at the end of a long drive that curved uphill, Elias said, “Pull up on the shoulder a sec, all right?”
I parked on the gravel, right behind the family’s old fruit stand. The wood was gray, like driftwood, with a darker slush slopped up against the decaying boards on the bottom. You could still see the shadows of the painted watermelons, and the yellow letters, faded almost invisible but not quite, that read Fine Fresh Lemonade.
“How come you didn’t bring Jill up here for Christmas?” he asked.
“Dodge.”
He nodded. Looked out at Piper’s house, squinting. “You’re still engaged and all that?”
“Yeah. What, did you think I was going to try to move in on Piper?” He made a face but didn’t answer. “That one’s dead, junked and sold for parts, man. She’s all
“I just ruined my life.”
“Naw. Least it’s Piper. Worst thing that happens is you’re stuck with her—that doesn’t count as ruined.”
I didn’t say anything back, and kind of awkwardly he put his arm over my shoulders. He never hugged anybody, so that was a stretch for him. He didn’t have any real answers for me. There wasn’t anything he could do but sit there and assure me Mom and Dad weren’t going to kill me and bury me in the backyard. But he did that. And for a really, really long time I felt like shit about all that, because I knew—I always knew—that he loved her.
* * *
When I was home for Christmas, almost right away I noticed the hacked-up tree in the backyard. It was over by the barn. What had still been a giant oak when I’d last come home was now a four-foot-high pile of splintered wood, with these long raw shards sharp enough to kill a man sticking out in all directions like some kind of lethal haystack. I asked my mom, “What happened—that tree get hit by lightning?”
She shook her head. She was standing at the stove with the teapot, raising and lowering a couple of tea bags into it to steep them. “That’s Eli’s.”
“That’s Eli’s what ?”
“His tree for when he’s mad.” She closed the lid, letting the tags and strings dangle down the side of the teapot. She nodded toward the back-porch windows and said, “Your father and Dodge cut off most of the limbs a few years back anyway, you know, because it had a disease. When Elias needs to blow off some steam he goes out there and he chops at it. Doesn’t bother me any. I wanted that tree gone years ago.”
I looked out the back window again and saw the ax wedged in a hunk that used to be a branch, off to the side, almost buried beneath the snow. We’d tried to build a tree house in that oak years ago when we were kids. “That’s a lot of steam to blow off,” I said.
She shrugged. “Olmstead men,” she said. Then she poured a cup and drank it black, without any sugar.
A little while later Elias came downstairs. He’d been locked up in his room all day, sleeping off a migraine. When he saw me he said, “I need your help with something.”
I glanced up at a motion behind him. My mother was pushing a big cellophane-wrapped plate piled high with Christmas cookies across the kitchen island. It had an oversize red bow on top.
“Need to run over to the Larsens’ real quick,” he said. “Be good if you could ride with me.”
The Larsens were Piper’s family. “Sure,” I said, and he shrugged on his coat and picked up the plate of cookies. The cellophane was bunched up so high it got in the way of his face.
“Take your car,” he said. “I don’t like driving anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Too many distractions.”
That seemed like a weird reason. In Frasier, New Hampshire, there’s really nothing but woods and fields and the occasional rotting house here and there. But whatever, I didn’t mind driving. It was only a couple of miles to Piper’s. When the house rose up along the road, a boxy white Victorian at the end of a long drive that curved uphill, Elias said, “Pull up on the shoulder a sec, all right?”
I parked on the gravel, right behind the family’s old fruit stand. The wood was gray, like driftwood, with a darker slush slopped up against the decaying boards on the bottom. You could still see the shadows of the painted watermelons, and the yellow letters, faded almost invisible but not quite, that read Fine Fresh Lemonade.
“How come you didn’t bring Jill up here for Christmas?” he asked.
“Dodge.”
He nodded. Looked out at Piper’s house, squinting. “You’re still engaged and all that?”
“Yeah. What, did you think I was going to try to move in on Piper?” He made a face but didn’t answer. “That one’s dead, junked and sold for parts, man. She’s all
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