Pop the Clutch

by Eric J. Guignard

  “Go start your homework,” Gloria says with a sigh of disappointment. “I’ll call if I need your help with anything else.”

  “Okay.” Katie slips out of the kitchen and heads to her room, but she has to stop in the bathroom and throw up.

  And you’ve seen this tree in person?

  No.

  She’s never lied to her mother before.

  ***

  IT’S THREE DAYS BEFORE the prom.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  Frank Morgan looks up from his newspaper and gazes at his daughter. “What do you want?” he asks, but there’s a smile in his brown eyes and his face softens.

  Katie wants to slap herself. He’s right, of course, though he doesn’t have to say it. She never calls him Daddy unless she wants something, not since her early teens when she decided the word was too babyish. She feels an embarrassed blush creep across her cheeks, but she can’t chicken out now, she just can’t. She forces out the words, hoping she sounds normal. “Can I borrow the car after dinner?”

  “May I borrow the car after dinner,” her dad corrects. He’s still holding his paper but his eyes are focused on her.

  “May I borrow the car after dinner?” Katie dutifully repeats.

  “Why?”

  “I need to go to Willcox—”

  “Long way,” he interjects, but Katie keeps going.

  “—and pick up a history book from the library.” Her throat wants to hitch but she won’t let it. “It’s for a paper due Monday. I tried to get it here but they don’t have it. The librarian called over to Willcox and they’re holding it for me.”

  Her dad lowers the newspaper and runs one hand over the fresh, high-and-tight cut he got this morning at the fort’s Post Exchange. “You’re saying they’re going to be open that late.” A statement, not a question.

  “The Willcox Women’s Club has a quilting bee tonight.” The longer this goes on, the stronger Katie’s heart is slamming inside her chest. A delicate line of perspiration breaks out high on her forehead. She hopes her bangs will hide it. “The library’s in the Women’s Club, so one of the quilting ladies has it for me.”

  “Ah.” This seems to satisfy him. “Keys are on the table by the front door and I filled the tank this morning. Tell your mother where you’re going.” Her father picks up his paper again, then adds, “Be careful, Katie.”

  She swallows. “I will.” Katie does what she’s told and her mother echoes her dad’s cautionary words before filling an empty milk bottle with water and handing it to her. In the front hall, her fingers are shaking so much that she almost drops the keys to the old Chevy Fleetline. On those rare occasions when she’s allowed to use the car—unlike the richer kids, the Morgans have only this vehicle—she usually stands in the hot desert air for a moment before she gets in, wishing it would magically change into a rag-top Thunderbird, or maybe a cherry red Buick Roadmaster with a souped-up engine.

  Not this afternoon, though. As she climbs in and starts the engine, all Katie can think about is what her dad said—“Be careful, Katie.” The words flip in her mind, back and forth, because she can’t decide if they mean exactly what they seem, or if they apply to something else, something so much darker.

  Lying, for instance.

  The first lie, the one to her mother, had been hard. Katie had always heard that the next one, and the next one after that, were easier. In her admittedly limited experience this is not true. The lies she’d just told to her father—one layered upon another, and another—had been awful. Something else the kids at school are fond of insisting is that a lie told so as not to hurt someone’s feelings is a “white lie” and thus doesn’t count. Does that include lies told to protect someone? No, Katie thinks. A lie is just a lie, a deception, no matter the reason behind it. If she is caught—if she gets into an accident, the car breaks down or someone sees her and sings to her parents—Katie will have to bear her mom and dad’s disappointment. And that will hurt more than anything else in the world.

  Even so, Katie throws her book bag on the passenger seat, then rolls down the window and pulls out of the driveway. On the road it’s too hot to keep the windows up so she drives slowly, holding back so the tires don’t kick up too much dirt. Once she gets to State Route 90, which is paved, driving will go a lot faster, and the same is true for Benson Highway. That will take her all the way to Willcox, quite a ways up the road.

  But Katie isn’t going to Willcox.

  On the surface, that feels like a good thing. Willcox is nearly two hours away, while she will make her real destination in about an hour and a quarter. The roundtrip could be a problem; it leaves ninety minutes free, but what she has to do won’t take long at all. She can’t very well go back to Sierra Vista and hang out at the new DQ—she might as well put a sign on the car that reads Don’t Tell My Parents I’m Here!

  Well, she’ll figure it out as she goes.

  ***

  KATIE’S TRAVEL TIME ESTIMATE is a little off and by the time she steers to the side of the highway, she’s drenched in sweat, but at least the car is still going strong. She’s drunk half the water and knows she has to ration it to make it all the way back home. She checks for cars behind her, then gets out and closes the door. There’s a sluggish breeze outside, just enough to ruffle her blouse, although her rolled-up dungarees are so damp they feel like they weigh twice as much as she does. She needs to get this done before she can head home, so she sucks in an uncomfortable lungful of hot air, then makes herself look across the highway.

  Texas Canyon.

  Katie has been here twice before, the first time on a road trip with her parents to Lordsburg, New Mexico. She’d been young, probably around eleven, and the only two things she can remember about the trip are how long it took—forever—and Texas Canyon. She doesn’t know what other people think of it, but Katie thinks it’s wonderful, a fantasy land of enormous rocks rounded by the weather until they look like huge pebbles scattered as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road. They look, she thinks, like God decided to make marbles to play with, but got bored before he finished the task. Some are so precariously balanced atop others that she’s sure they’ll topple. But they never do.

  The second time she’d gotten sucked into a Saturday drive with Melissa. She’d thought it would be just the two of them, a nice long trip to get to know one another and maybe come out the other end real friends. When Melissa had stopped to pick up Sally and Belinda, Katie realized that once again she was the token townie. Melissa was going on hallway gossip as she headed out to Texas Canyon, and Katie wasn’t sure they’d find their goal.

  She’d been wrong.

  The Prom Tree had been there in all its junk-laden glory, and the other three girls giggled and made fun of it while Katie had sat in the back of the brand new ragtop and stared at the tree and its ravaged reminders of years previous. When Melissa and Belinda had started throwing condoms at it while Sally laughed until tears ran down her face, Katie had scrunched down as far as she could in the back seat. She’d had the sickening sensation that The Prom Tree could see her, that it would remember and somehow take revenge.

  Now she turns slowly and looks behind her. Her pulse increases and Katie closes her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself. She has heard about it so many times. The kids at school laugh about it; the old folks at the VFW whisper tales of it on the occasional Friday nights she and her parents go to dinner there. Katie doesn’t think she’s smarter than the average Joe, but anyone with half a brain—one side of her mouth lifts as she remembers what her mom said about her cliquish friends—would realize one group was retelling and exaggerating rumors while the other was passing frightening old truths to the next generation . . . truths that should not be ignored. The thought brings Katie back to the present and what she needs to do, so she finally opens her eyes.

  The Prom Tree.

  It stands in front of a trio of alter-like boulders, hundreds of gnarled, dead branches reaching skyward like paralyzed, white
spider legs. Katie stares at it, her impression that it isn’t a tree at all. It’s a bush, withered by drought until it’s nothing but a skeleton of itself. She imagines the biggest branches being hollow, dry wooden veins parched and still somehow searching for life. The idea is terrifying but Katie still takes a step forward, then another. She stops just short of the branches that stab the air, realizing they are actually more black than white. Their ends are agonized kinks that protect the heart of the tree, despite that same essence having abandoned it long ago.

  But there is more to protect here. Much more.

  Under the relentless Arizona sun, the things hanging on the tree glint. The breeze has disappeared and there are no cars as far as she can see in either direction. The silence is heavy, the air suffocating. Katie wants to do what she has to, but she forces herself to stay put, makes her gaze examine each and every offering in front of her. A frayed Christmas rope, threadbare from the elements, twines through the lower limbs, and there are a lot of timeworn holiday ornaments on it: red, green, gold, silver balls, all in varying shades of faded color. Equally prominent are the children’s stuffed animals, weather-beaten and shabby with dirt but still adding flashes of dull color. There’s a Humpty Dumpty with dirty yellow hair wearing a plaid suit; a pink-eared lamb whose formerly white fur is now permanently gray—its stuffing is gone so it hangs like a limp, morbid skin of itself. More things are tangled in The Prom Tree’s grip—baby toys, a red wooden apple, a few bells that might have once hung on someone’s front door. On one of the highest braches is a pair of boy’s shoes tied together by the laces. The scariest of all the sacrifices is a dirty pink pacifier that’s cracked on one side.

  Other tidbits also hang on it, a few small, twinkling pieces that pull the eye away from the pathetic display of old toys and ornaments. As Katie dares to move closer, she sees them for what they truly are: pieces of jewelry, a mixed bag of cheap drugstore finds stuck on the branches like the afterthoughts of an inexpensive party. The condom packs that Melissa and Belinda threw lie at the tree’s base; already covered with Arizona dust, they might’ve been there for months. Shoddy gifts, indeed, to an unnamed entity that might enfold the life or death of someone within the claws of its dead, wooden embrace.

  Katie steps carefully between the outstretched talons, swallowing as she twists and sidesteps until she has come as far as she’s able, nearly touching the bone-white trunk and narrowly avoiding getting stabbed in one eye. Despite the broiling spring sun, in here she feels as though she’s stepped into a gloomy space custom-fit to her body. A chill startles her and the hairs on the back of her neck and arms rise, as though someone is running fingers over her flesh. There are valuables—a chain with a small diamond pendant, a ruby ring, a strand of rose-colored pearls, a pair of gold earrings—hung on the branches that no one dares take for fear The Prom Tree’s spiked limbs will capture them forever. Katie’s hand slides into the side pocket of her pants and she pulls out her mom’s treasured silver bracelet. In her palm it looks like a tiny, shining snake, and when her quaking fingers drape it carefully in the middle of a high, dense patch of branches and hook it securely to a deadly-looking thorn, she exhales the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She backs out without looking but no branch pulls at her and none of the two- and three-inch thorns pierce her skin.

  Then Katie is free of the tree’s insidious power; her reward is the oppressive Arizona heat that suddenly enfolds her. She can breathe again and she welcomes the heated air, the sting of the car’s fabric seat through her clothes as she climbs into the car and starts the engine.

  Safe, she thinks. It’s all good.

  The Prom Tree is satisfied.

  ***

  KATIE GOES TO THE PROM by herself because her mom will not take no for an answer. She surprises Katie with a new dress in a subdued purple floral pattern, and while Katie thinks purple is not her best color, she does appreciate the time her mother put into making it. While Katie is two thumbs and eight more, Gloria takes after her own mother and is an excellent seamstress. She also has a better than average sense of design; thus the dress has a bit of fullness and goes to mid-calf, but none of the ridiculous tulle ruffles or clouds of lace. Best of all, one of those stupid crinoline petticoats can’t fit under it.

  Katie’s mom drops her off at the dance. After Gloria pulls away, Katie walks over and finds a spot to sit on the low concrete wall that fronts the school. It’s crowded, with girls giggling as they huddle together and eyeball the guys who’ve come solo . . . and some who haven’t. There’s enough organza, ruffles, and just plain poofyness to fill the baseball diamond at the back of the school. Most of the young men are dressed in tuxes, others in dinner jackets above smartly creased dress pants. Some of the girls are wearing corsages pinned to their dresses or on their wrists; most of the guys have boutonnieres on their jackets.

  Katie’s gaze is drawn more to the cars, the biggest, the shiniest, the loudest. And, God, how she loves the shine of the chrome—the more, the better. A ragtop Cadillac, cherry red with white seats, cruises past; it’s obviously borrowed from Daddy. In fact, most of the vehicles in the long line in front of the school are Daddy-owned, although there are a few shows of true money like the sleek black Thunderbird that seems to glide more than drive, the crazy-looking Ford Sunliner that’s overfilled with guys and a couple of dollies who’ve already exercised their illegal right to sample liquor. More than a few cars are stuffed with people who yell and hoot from windows as their cars pass. Is it to get attention? Or just a display of thumbing their noses at discipline? As one of the school’s recognized nerds, Katie doesn’t understand. She watches a Crown Victoria ease to a stop on the road and wonders if all four guys in the car will survive the night, or if one—or all—will die in a stack-up because of booze or drag racing or both. The car’s radio is blasting and Katie recognizes the song: “Heartbreak Hotel” by that new singer, Elvis Presley. The two-door car is beautiful, white over turquoise with chrome swooping down its sides; below the Ford’s hood ornament, its grill and bumper blaze with the surrounding reflected lights. What would it be like to ride in a car like that? Or better, drive it? When the guy behind the wheel revs the engine, Katie can’t help smiling.

  The boy in the passenger seat sees her and leans out the window. He grins around a wad of gum. “Hey kitten, wanna take a ride with me and my pals?”

  Katie stares at him in surprise. “W-What?”

  He motions for her to come to the car. “C’mon.”

  She tries to image how the Crown Vic’s interior looks, what it would feel like to cruise down the road in a car that doesn’t bounce and bottom out because the struts have been bad for years. She almost stands up, then it sinks in how the boy is already slurring his words. Instead, Katie shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

  Instantly his face turns mean. “Stuck up bitch,” he snarls. His mouth works and suddenly he spits at her. She jerks back, but his aim is short. A good thing; the mass at her feet is green and slimy with saliva—that nasty chlorophyll stuff. The Ford roars away, the guys inside laughing and jeering.

  “Don’t let those germs get you down,” a deep voice says. Katie looks up and sees a guy wearing a dark gray jacket over black pants. Only his shirt and crisp bowtie are white; to Katie he looks like the one sane guy among all the stiff, white-suited teenagers. There’s a space on the wall next to her and he sits without asking. “My name’s Marty.”

  After a second’s hesitation, she says, “I’m Katie.”

  “Nice name.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

  “It’s really Kay, after my grandmother, but everyone calls me Katie.” She has no idea why she said all that. Marty is tall and good-looking, way out of her league. While he seems completely at ease, she’s suddenly nervous. She fights the urge to twist her fingers. He turns his head to look at her, and butterflies zip around her stomach; beneath light brown hair he has sky blue eyes. He’s crazy handsome and she doesn’t know why he’s t
alking to her.

  “Are you by yourself?”

  Embarrassed, all Katie can do is nod.

  “Me, too.”

  “Why?” Katie blurts. Appalled at herself, she feels her cheeks turn red. “I-I’m sorry—”

  Marty laughs. “Don’t be. I like people who say what they mean.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, then one corner of his mouth lifts. “Honestly? I just can’t stomach all these giddy girls. I’d rather not have a girlfriend at all than settle for someone like that.”

  Katie does her best not to gape at him as her stomach flips. He doesn’t have a girlfriend? “Are you a junior?” she asks. “I am, but I haven’t seen you around.”

  He shakes his head. “Senior. I’ll start college in the fall.” Another little smile tugs at his mouth. “I’ve seen you in the halls now and then, but now I know why we don’t have any classes together. So you graduate next year? What then?”

  Katie looks down at her lap, absently smoothing the fabric. “I don’t know,” she admits. “My parents want me to go to college but I kind of want to get a job and help them out.”

  Marty’s gaze is steady. “You should go to college,” he tells her. “If you want to help them with finances, that’ll be better in the long run. You’ll make a better living. And you can always get a part-time gig somewhere.”

  She’s thought about that, too, but it seems too personal to discuss with a stranger. Behind them, music suddenly spills from the open double doors of the school. When Katie turns to look, Marty touches her lightly on the hand. “I think that means prom night has officially started. Will you be my date?”

  There’s a lump in her throat that’s keeping her from speaking, so she only nods. They stand at the same time, and when he offers her his arm, she feels like Cinderella going to the fantasy ball.

  And for a while, Katie forgets about The Prom Tree.

  ***

  THE NEXT MORNING Gloria surprises Katie and her dad by putting together a breakfast of pork links and pancakes topped with fresh strawberries. After that, they all change into their Sunday best and climb into the car. As her dad heads to the First Baptist Church, Katie sits quietly in the back seat. She’s so deep into her own thoughts that she starts when her dad speaks.