concrete. I’ve lost myself in the job, and my headache has disappeared. I light up another Marlboro and survey my work with pleasure. I know I’ve done well.
“Pretty good, huh Louie?” The dog looks over at me from the shade of the truck where he’s drowsing the afternoon away.
I decide to finish up with the boards of the fence in the morning after the concrete is good and hard and the posts will be able to withstand the nailing. I look up into the branches of the tree and hear the breeze start up. But … again … there is no breeze.
So, what is making that sound?
Standing perfectly still, I listen hard. I feel something as I stare up at the moving leaves. A presence. Yeah, I reply in my head, going along with this fascinating dialogue I’m having with myself.
A waiting presence. And there’s a pattern to the sound. It’s coming in waves. With regularity. It’s like … breathing.
“Wonderful,” I say aloud. I know now why Frank has taken to wearing a gun. “Just wonderful. A living breathing fig tree.” I laugh loudly, as if the noise will clear my head and lessen my mindless fear.
With awkward haste, I yank my work gloves off. My hand is sweating as I pull my gun from its holster.
Behind me, I hear a growl. I turn to see Louie get to his feet. The ruff on his neck and back is coming up, much darker than I’ve ever seen it. I feel the hairs on my own neck come to attention.
I whirl back, facing the tree. Waving my weapon in the air, I wonder where my mind has gone. I frown, and my forehead feels like it’s splitting into pieces. Moving closer, I decide to fire a shot up into the branches. Why? What’s that going to accomplish? Louie growls again and thrusts his head and shoulders against my legs.
The Colt seems too heavy. It wavers, and I have trouble keeping it steady.
A stupid move, I know, but I’m going to fire up into the tree anyway. I start to squeeze the trigger, and my left boot catches on an exposed root. I lose my balance and pitch forward. I hit the side of my head on the tree trunk. Hard. There’s flashing pain as I slide down the trunk into the mush of fallen figs. And into a soft, calming darkness.
“Stupid, dumb-ass thing to do,” I mutter. I feel a rough rubbing on my forehead, like someone using wet and warm sandpaper. Louie is patiently licking my face. I’m on my back on a carpet of sweet, rotting figs.
I put a cautious hand to the left side of my throbbing head. Some swelling, I think, but no blood. Gently then, I rotate my aching left ankle. No break, I’m pretty sure, and maybe no sprain.
As if guided by his master’s thoughts, Louie turns his attention to the ankle, and I feel his healing tongue.
“Thanks, boy,” I say to him.
I am blessed with this dog.
I look up into the tree’s branches with my head next to the offending trunk and see a plethora of figs. It’s a glut in every stage of development imaginable—so many sizes, shapes, and colors.
My head gradually clears, and I hear that breathing sound again. I sit up quickly, powered by fear. The motion makes me dizzy, and I clutch at Louie to steady myself. I glance down and see an insect pry its way out of a squishy globular fig. It flies clumsily off on iridescent wings.
I roll over onto my knees. Using my right foot and both hands, I push myself … but then fall over onto my side. I’m so damn weak!
Louie’s warm tongue goes to my face again, and I work myself back up into a crouch. I put a hand on the tree trunk and pull it right off. The bare, greenish wood is warm and moist … almost like … I don’t want to finish that thought.
I hold a hand out to Louie, who graciously allows me to lean up against him until I’m finally able to stand. I take an awkward step away from the tree trunk and make myself take slow deep breaths. My ankle hurts some but not all that bad.
The gun. Where’s my gun? I look around for it and the root that tripped me, but don’t see either one.
Looking back at
“Pretty good, huh Louie?” The dog looks over at me from the shade of the truck where he’s drowsing the afternoon away.
I decide to finish up with the boards of the fence in the morning after the concrete is good and hard and the posts will be able to withstand the nailing. I look up into the branches of the tree and hear the breeze start up. But … again … there is no breeze.
So, what is making that sound?
Standing perfectly still, I listen hard. I feel something as I stare up at the moving leaves. A presence. Yeah, I reply in my head, going along with this fascinating dialogue I’m having with myself.
A waiting presence. And there’s a pattern to the sound. It’s coming in waves. With regularity. It’s like … breathing.
“Wonderful,” I say aloud. I know now why Frank has taken to wearing a gun. “Just wonderful. A living breathing fig tree.” I laugh loudly, as if the noise will clear my head and lessen my mindless fear.
With awkward haste, I yank my work gloves off. My hand is sweating as I pull my gun from its holster.
Behind me, I hear a growl. I turn to see Louie get to his feet. The ruff on his neck and back is coming up, much darker than I’ve ever seen it. I feel the hairs on my own neck come to attention.
I whirl back, facing the tree. Waving my weapon in the air, I wonder where my mind has gone. I frown, and my forehead feels like it’s splitting into pieces. Moving closer, I decide to fire a shot up into the branches. Why? What’s that going to accomplish? Louie growls again and thrusts his head and shoulders against my legs.
The Colt seems too heavy. It wavers, and I have trouble keeping it steady.
A stupid move, I know, but I’m going to fire up into the tree anyway. I start to squeeze the trigger, and my left boot catches on an exposed root. I lose my balance and pitch forward. I hit the side of my head on the tree trunk. Hard. There’s flashing pain as I slide down the trunk into the mush of fallen figs. And into a soft, calming darkness.
“Stupid, dumb-ass thing to do,” I mutter. I feel a rough rubbing on my forehead, like someone using wet and warm sandpaper. Louie is patiently licking my face. I’m on my back on a carpet of sweet, rotting figs.
I put a cautious hand to the left side of my throbbing head. Some swelling, I think, but no blood. Gently then, I rotate my aching left ankle. No break, I’m pretty sure, and maybe no sprain.
As if guided by his master’s thoughts, Louie turns his attention to the ankle, and I feel his healing tongue.
“Thanks, boy,” I say to him.
I am blessed with this dog.
I look up into the tree’s branches with my head next to the offending trunk and see a plethora of figs. It’s a glut in every stage of development imaginable—so many sizes, shapes, and colors.
My head gradually clears, and I hear that breathing sound again. I sit up quickly, powered by fear. The motion makes me dizzy, and I clutch at Louie to steady myself. I glance down and see an insect pry its way out of a squishy globular fig. It flies clumsily off on iridescent wings.
I roll over onto my knees. Using my right foot and both hands, I push myself … but then fall over onto my side. I’m so damn weak!
Louie’s warm tongue goes to my face again, and I work myself back up into a crouch. I put a hand on the tree trunk and pull it right off. The bare, greenish wood is warm and moist … almost like … I don’t want to finish that thought.
I hold a hand out to Louie, who graciously allows me to lean up against him until I’m finally able to stand. I take an awkward step away from the tree trunk and make myself take slow deep breaths. My ankle hurts some but not all that bad.
The gun. Where’s my gun? I look around for it and the root that tripped me, but don’t see either one.
Looking back at
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