The Hollow Tree at Dead Mule Swamp

by Joan H. Young

was really dark. As my eyes adjusted I saw the usual line-up of men at the bar, and some couples at the few scattered tables. Loud country music was playing, and I recognized the tune of If I Die Young. I could hear the clacking of pool balls, and a rumble of voices competing with the loud tunes.

  I walked to the bar, and ordered a draft pale ale. I'm not much of a drinker, but I knew I could handle a couple of beers. While the bartender filled a tall glass from the tap I looked down the bar. Sure enough, a few people away to my right, was the man who had to be Bert Fowler, mustache, cowboy hat and all. Most of the men were wearing baseball caps, and no one else had a handlebar mustache. I had to admit, he was handsome enough to be attractive, if I hadn't known his dirty secrets.

  A few heads turned to look at me, but nobody paid too much attention. I didn't recognize anyone. I sipped my beer and started watching a baseball game, which was playing on the TV mounted high in the corner. The sound was turned down. I was struggling to read the tiny ticker at the bottom of the screen, to see if I could tell who was playing, when there was Bert at my right elbow. Maybe this was going to be really easy.

  He leaned sideways into the bar. He had on a denim shirt with the sleeves turned up loosely to reveal hairy forearms. The shirt was tucked neatly into a pair of stone-washed jeans. His belt had a large Mack Truck buckle, and the jeans tapered to where they met tooled cowboy boots. His face was tanned and the mustache was perfectly rolled. "I don't think I've seen you in here before," he began.

  "You haven't," I agreed.

  "What's the occasion?"

  "Oh, nothing special. I've lived here a couple of months, and just haven't had time to get out much yet."

  "Can I buy you a drink?"

  "I have one, thanks."

  "That's pretty tame. How about something stronger?"

  The man's not shy, I thought. I covered my glass and laughed. "Oh no, I'm strictly a beer drinker."

  "What's your name?"

  "Ana Raven. I bought the old Mosher place on South River Road." I wondered if that would get a reaction.

  "Hell, we're neighbors," he joked. "Name's Bert Fowler. I live out that way too." But he didn't flinch at hearing the Mosher name, and he didn't mention the dump on Alder Road.

  "Do you have a family?" I asked.

  "Not me," he boasted. "I'm a free spirit." The man just beyond Bert guffawed, but it might have been at the error the shortstop had just committed. I thought it would be perfect to be hearing the strains of Your Cheatin' Heart, but I didn't recognize the tune that was playing. I sure recognized the music Bert had in mind.

  "How about you?"

  "Divorced," I admitted.

  "A pretty lady like you?"

  I took another sip and tried to look demure. I doubted I knew how, but it was worth a try. "Where do you work, Bert?" I asked.

  "Here and there. Used to drive truck." I couldn't haven't made up a more useless answer. "Do you play pool?"

  "Oh, not very well. But I'd like to watch you play." At least that would give me a chance to observe him, without talking too much more.

  He nudged a man seated a couple of stools away. "C'mon Bud, let's rack 'em up, and show this honey how it's done."

  Bud and Bert made their way to one of the pool tables, and slapped a stack of quarters on the rim to signal the players they wanted the table next.

  I followed along bringing my beer. Soon it was our turn, and Bert pulled the balls from the side slots and arranged them in the rack. Stacking the quarters was only a custom, as the coin slot had been removed. Playing the game was free. Bud chalked the cues. I spent the next hour leaning against a dirty wall watching Bert show off some of his best swagger. It was almost nauseating to keep raising an eyebrow, smiling, winking, chuckling at stupid jokes, and praising the man for good shots, but I did learn that Bert was going out of town on Wednesday on some sort of delivery job.

  He tried to convince me to stay longer, but I said I was tired, which was certainly no lie. I was plenty tired of Bert. It concerned me a little bit that I'd told him where I lived, but it wasn't like my address was any secret around town.

  Now I understood more about why people were reluctant to make any complaints about Bert. He was handsome and personable, even if not my style. If Dee was grossly overweight and ill, people probably felt sorry for Bert. As long as there was no obvious evidence of abuse, no one was going to stick out his or her neck. Couple that with Adele's assertion about his temper, and it all made sense. It wasn't right, but it made sense.

  Jimmie was unlikely to visit on Sunday, since Harold's Scrap Yard wasn't open that day. After church (which seemed cleansing after my evening in the bar with Bert), I called Cora and asked her if she'd like to meet Jimmie on Tuesday. She was emotional with anticipation but tried not to let me know how strongly she felt about Jimmie. To give her something more mundane to discuss, I suggested that we fix a nice lunch. Since Cora likes to cook and bake, this turned out to be a great idea. I tried to get her to let me bring some food, but she wouldn't hear of it. She did agree to let me do the shopping, since she doesn't drive. As a result, I ended up with a list of groceries to buy on Monday.

  There was one thing left to do that day. I sat down with my code key and laboriously printed out a note for Jimmie, telling him I could take him to see some family pictures on Tuesday. I suggested he come in the house tomorrow and talk to me about it.

  Monday was Memorial Day, and the small town of Cherry Hill was preparing to celebrate in a humble way. I didn’t yet feel connected to the community enough to care to watch the small parade that was scheduled to take place in the early afternoon,

  Luckily, Volger’s Grocery was open in the morning, catering to people who had forgotten to buy their picnic supplies. There, I bought the ingredients for sloppy joes, plus potato chips, some vegetables to cut up, dip, and ice cream. It seemed like a simple menu, but a safe one to please a hungry boy.

  "Put that ice cream back in the freezer for a minute," Adele said. "I want to talk to you."

  I didn't mind the order, because I was confident Adele had enough influence with the right groups to actually get Jimmy and Dee some help. "What's up?"

  "You left right after the service yesterday," she accused.

  "I didn't have any reason to stay longer." I didn't understand what the problem was.

  "This is a small town. When you are trying to get things done, you have to spend time talking with the people who can help you."

  "Did I offend someone?" It sounded like I'd offended Adele, for sure.

  "I wanted to introduce you to Glenn Erickson."

  "Who's he?"

  "He's the head of the local Habitat for Humanity group, that's who! He doesn't come to Crossroads all the time." She added as an aside, "His wife is Lutheran."

  "Are you thinking we might get a house for Jimmie and his mom?"

  "Exactly! But we'd have to get Dee to agree to leave that bloodsucker Bert. We're not building any houses for him! I don't know anyone who is friends with Dee, though."

  "I haven't even met her."

  "But you're so good at figuring out how to get things done," she wheedled.

  "I'll think about it," I said.

  "You are thinking about a lot of things, Ana. Better make up your mind."

  I rolled my eyes, retrieved the ice cream and headed for Cora's house on Brown Trout Lane.

  Cora was in a dither. Other times I'd spent with her, she'd always been calm and organized, but she was nervous and flitting from the cupboards to the table and back.

  "Do you think we should use china plates? Maybe paper is better for a little boy?" she worried.

  "Cora, I think you should calm down. If you're like this tomorrow, you'll scare the poor child away. He's very serious."

  "Oh dear, his grandfather was such a clown. Maybe I'll do everything wrong."

  "Jimmie hasn't had many chances to laugh. He acts like a little businessman." I chuckled. "A hungry businessman."

  "Tha
t sounds like my Jimmie. Both parts!"

  "Look, he doesn't know much about his family, but he used to sneak into my house to think about his grandfather. He knows about the accident, and that he was in the car."

  "That poor boy." Cora shook her head.

  "I think you should just do what you do best. Show him the family history and he'll be delighted."

  "Do you really think so?"

  "I do. Just be yourself, and he'll like you."

  She shook her head in wonder. "He could have been my grandson."

  I gave her a little hug, and we worked together to make the sloppy joe filling, so it would only need to be heated tomorrow. When I left, she was mixing sugar cookies, convinced that ice cream was not enough dessert.

  Late that afternoon, Jimmie slipped in from the trees again. I had been watching for him, uncertain whether he would come on a holiday, but hopeful that perhaps he’d earned some money running errands or something. Soon, I heard a gentle knocking on the door at the head of the basement steps. It had taken me a long time to translate the plan into code, but I thought it might appeal to Jimmie's sense of adventure and love of secrecy to come in through the cellar. I'd left the door at the bottom of the hatchway steps open, and suggested he come in that way, and up the inside basement stairs to the kitchen. That way no one would see him coming to see me. I opened the door at the top of the dark stairway.

  Jimmie grinned. "That was fun," he said.

  I smiled back, "I thought you might think so. How about some soup and a grilled cheese sandwich?"

  "Sure!" he said. "But you feed