the tree, I notice again the creamy-looking green wood where the bark has peeled off. It doesn’t look like wood though. It shines with a healthy inner moisture.
“I have to say it, Louie my boy, that tree trunk looks and feels like living skin.”
I’m way too close to that disgusting trunk, and I step back, almost tripping again. At a safer distance, I light a cigarette and stare up at the tree.
I know then, a terrible truth.
The tree is staring back at me. It’s waiting … for what?
I want to run to the truck. I want to grab Louie, get in that truck, and throw it in gear … but where’s the fucking gun?
I have to find it. The alternatives are unacceptable. “Sorry, Uncle Frank, I lost the thing … okay?” Or “Your tree ate it, Frank … what can I say?” Okay, okay. I have to think. Where exactly was I when I lost it? That’s easy. I shudder as I force myself to move back near that God-damned trunk. Rotting figs suck at my boots while I examine the mush at my feet. I bend down and plunge my bare hands into the moldering decay. It’s warm. I move my shaking hands back and forth through the mess. My fingers find a cool hardness, and I push the rot away from it.
The Colt lies caught in a nest of small, white, vein-like roots. I pull at the weapon, thinking one easy tug will free it. The pale veins quiver though and tighten their hold on the gun.
Fuck! The thing is hanging onto the gun!
I hear an eerie sound then; it’s coming from Louie. He’s howling. It’s a high, unnerving sound that I’ve never heard from my puppy before.
In blind panic, I yank the gun free, holler for Louie, and run to the truck—hurt ankle be damned. I throw the Ranger into gear and race back to the ranch house.
In the driveway, I hose off my disgusting boots and throw my socks away. I pour Louie a measure of kibble in the kitchen, find some aspirin for my aching head and ankle, and get a cold beer from the fridge. Sitting on the glider swing on the porch, I drink half the beer down and light a cigarette. Louie pushes the screen door open and pads out onto the porch. He lies down, his head resting on my foot.
“So … Louie. Did that shit really happen?”
MONDAY EVENING
A plate appears in front of Al. Soupy brown stuff is all over some meat, potatoes, and a few very tired carrots. One corner of a slice of white bread is busy soaking up the brown stuff. The silly woman has opened a can of stew and tossed it and a piece of bread onto his plate.
Times like this, Al always thinks of Kelly before the child—when they had been so happy. He can’t imagine her serving up a mess like this. His time with Kelly is a dream, a fantasy glimpsed out of the corner of his eye that vanishes when he reaches for it.
So, why Gin? Why this nervous nothing who stands off to his left now, anxiously watching him? He must have been out of his fucking mind. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and sits back down at the table.
“What a treat, Gin.” He grins at her. “Is this your famous beef stew?”
“There was no time, Al. I can’t have a home cooked meal on the table just like that. You didn’t say when you’d be home—”
“Yeah, I know. You’ve only had … let’s see what time did I leave this morning? About ten hours ago I make it. That’s ten hours you’ve had to get this stew ready, Gin. To get the can all opened up and everything.” He picks up the beer can and throws it at her. It hits the refrigerator behind her, fizzes up, and falls to the floor.
Gin gives a little cry and puts her hands out to him. “Please Al …”
A familiar, delicious feeling blooms in his belly. Gin always enrages him with her careless and fearful ways, but she also excites him. His belly contracts now with that sweet visceral pleasure, and his hand goes to his swelling cock as it pushes against his pants. He knows he can take her anytime he feels like it, with or without her consent. And that knowledge always makes him hot.
But not
“I have to say it, Louie my boy, that tree trunk looks and feels like living skin.”
I’m way too close to that disgusting trunk, and I step back, almost tripping again. At a safer distance, I light a cigarette and stare up at the tree.
I know then, a terrible truth.
The tree is staring back at me. It’s waiting … for what?
I want to run to the truck. I want to grab Louie, get in that truck, and throw it in gear … but where’s the fucking gun?
I have to find it. The alternatives are unacceptable. “Sorry, Uncle Frank, I lost the thing … okay?” Or “Your tree ate it, Frank … what can I say?” Okay, okay. I have to think. Where exactly was I when I lost it? That’s easy. I shudder as I force myself to move back near that God-damned trunk. Rotting figs suck at my boots while I examine the mush at my feet. I bend down and plunge my bare hands into the moldering decay. It’s warm. I move my shaking hands back and forth through the mess. My fingers find a cool hardness, and I push the rot away from it.
The Colt lies caught in a nest of small, white, vein-like roots. I pull at the weapon, thinking one easy tug will free it. The pale veins quiver though and tighten their hold on the gun.
Fuck! The thing is hanging onto the gun!
I hear an eerie sound then; it’s coming from Louie. He’s howling. It’s a high, unnerving sound that I’ve never heard from my puppy before.
In blind panic, I yank the gun free, holler for Louie, and run to the truck—hurt ankle be damned. I throw the Ranger into gear and race back to the ranch house.
In the driveway, I hose off my disgusting boots and throw my socks away. I pour Louie a measure of kibble in the kitchen, find some aspirin for my aching head and ankle, and get a cold beer from the fridge. Sitting on the glider swing on the porch, I drink half the beer down and light a cigarette. Louie pushes the screen door open and pads out onto the porch. He lies down, his head resting on my foot.
“So … Louie. Did that shit really happen?”
MONDAY EVENING
A plate appears in front of Al. Soupy brown stuff is all over some meat, potatoes, and a few very tired carrots. One corner of a slice of white bread is busy soaking up the brown stuff. The silly woman has opened a can of stew and tossed it and a piece of bread onto his plate.
Times like this, Al always thinks of Kelly before the child—when they had been so happy. He can’t imagine her serving up a mess like this. His time with Kelly is a dream, a fantasy glimpsed out of the corner of his eye that vanishes when he reaches for it.
So, why Gin? Why this nervous nothing who stands off to his left now, anxiously watching him? He must have been out of his fucking mind. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and sits back down at the table.
“What a treat, Gin.” He grins at her. “Is this your famous beef stew?”
“There was no time, Al. I can’t have a home cooked meal on the table just like that. You didn’t say when you’d be home—”
“Yeah, I know. You’ve only had … let’s see what time did I leave this morning? About ten hours ago I make it. That’s ten hours you’ve had to get this stew ready, Gin. To get the can all opened up and everything.” He picks up the beer can and throws it at her. It hits the refrigerator behind her, fizzes up, and falls to the floor.
Gin gives a little cry and puts her hands out to him. “Please Al …”
A familiar, delicious feeling blooms in his belly. Gin always enrages him with her careless and fearful ways, but she also excites him. His belly contracts now with that sweet visceral pleasure, and his hand goes to his swelling cock as it pushes against his pants. He knows he can take her anytime he feels like it, with or without her consent. And that knowledge always makes him hot.
But not
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