Shake the Trees

by Rod Helmers

  The water six hours out of Papeete, Tahiti that November day was rough - prohibitively so to most sailors. But the slender young woman who stood at the helm was obviously in her element. She held a broad stance with her knees only slightly bent and one hand firmly attached to the stainless steel wheel.

  Then the bow once again dipped below the surface and the waves crashed across the deck. The woman threw her head back and shook the sea spray away. The wind stole her laugh and whipped chestnut brown hair across her reddened cheeks and back again. As the fingers of her free hand combed through the salty strands, the sun found a hole in the clouds. A slanted column of light struck the side of her face, and her impossibly blue eyes sparkled in the light.

  EPILOGUE

  WINTER 2014

  The white Rolls Royce Corniche swept along Bermuda’s coast road to mansion row. The iconic chrome ‘Flying Lady’ hood ornament seemed alive under the intense island sun. In some ways more alive than the haggard looking woman occupying the rear seat of the vehicle.

  The sole passenger sat fully erect, still displaying perfect and proper posture, but her naturally red hair was shot through with ragged shards of silvery grey. She was returning home for the final time. All of the treatments for the pancreatic cancer had failed. She had traveled the world in her privately chartered jet seeking a miracle cure, but her millions had proven useless. No miracle cure was for sale, because one didn’t exist. There were only pretenders.

  The Rolls hesitantly approached the marble steps of what had been her home and refuge for the last six years. The sound of crushed shell under the wheels of the heavy vehicle was both welcoming and melancholic to her ears. It was the sound of a homecoming, as well as a goodbye. A uniformed maid rushed out to the car as the chauffeur opened her door. The woman pulled herself up and out of the plush interior with the aid of a double stitched leather strap and brusquely waved the driver aside.

  “Bring me a sweet tea with mint in the atrium. Then leave me alone. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Are you going to write, ma’am? Are you going to finish your book?” The maid asked with an educated British accent infused with the perpetually happy sounding dialect of her native island.

  The stern stare of the frail woman said that the servant had over-stepped her bounds, and that the invasion of her privacy as well as the solicitous tone was not to be repeated. The young black woman looked at the ground.

  “Right away, ma’am.”

  The fragile woman carefully made her way to the atrium where a heavy crystal glass of iced tea containing fresh mint leaves slightly crushed to release their aromatic oils sat next to a laptop computer. The laptop had already been turned on, and her chair pulled away from the antique walnut writing desk that looked out over the manicured gardens and the magnificent blue Atlantic beyond. The woman carefully lowered herself into the chair and soon the cursor waited. After studying the waves and swells, she began to type.

  E P I L O G U E

  I may not have gotten everything just right, and I may have had to fill in a few blanks, but on the whole I think I hit the mark. And I tried to be honest. Even about myself. That may not have been as painful as the cancer, but still, it wasn’t much fun. But enough about how. Nobody cares about how.

  I am sure that a different question comes to mind. Why? Why I have chosen to use these final months and even moments of treasured life to write these words? The answer is a simple one, and maybe a little vain. You see, I am not stupid. I’ve never been stupid. Maybe you thought so. James certainly did. But I am not. Not by half.

  Did you really think I could live with a man for nearly all of his adult life and not know his secrets? Did you really think I was that stupid? Why? Because I chose not to have a career? Because I belonged to The Junior League and The Garden Club? Because I devoted my energies to charity and to the beauty of the natural world which surrounded me? Well then shame on you. Because I am not stupid. Not by half.

  But now my half is nearly gone. Which is just as well, because so am I. Sixty-six million dollars in six years might seem extravagant, but I enjoyed myself. And I had needs. But before I say goodbye, I’m sure you have other questions. The who, what, when, and where of it, which I will do my best to anticipate, and in some cases answer.

  By now you know that my marriage to James was not a good one. I was young and I was foolish when I accepted his proposal of marriage. I didn’t love him, and he didn’t love me. I married James for prestige and money, although my union brought me neither of those. James married me because I met all of his requirements. Nevertheless, I did eventually find a kind of love. Or rather it found me. At some ridiculous family reunion of some sort.

  Bubba loved me, and maybe I loved him. After a fashion. I’m not sure. He was a crude man. Unrefined in so many ways. I doubt I could have repaired the damage wrought by his upbringing. But he was good in bed.

  Of course, I knew that Bubba thought he was seducing me. All in an attempt to get back at James. The consequence of some insult rooted in childhood. But I enjoyed his virility. And he certainly looked good in uniform. In his younger days.

  The fact of the matter was that I seduced him, and he fell in love. James was quite different from Bubba, you see. James was cerebral. Even in his lovemaking. Bubba was never that. He had an animalistic streak. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I never meant to get pregnant by Bubba. That was a mistake. And I never should have told him. That was a mistake as well. Bubba wanted me to divorce James and marry him. Of course, I refused. But Bubba still loved me, and agreed that no one would ever know that Marc was his. And he kept his word.

  I thought it would all come out when those damn DNA tests became available. The first one had come back as inconclusive. I thought some overzealous technician might provide one answer too many when James sent off a second sample. James and Bubba were first cousins after all. Both claimed the same grandfather. The first James Mason. But the results merely indicated that James wasn’t the father, which by that time in our marriage was just as well.

  I did keep Bubba apprised of Marc’s progress in life. I thought he deserved that much. And it gave me someone to complain to. Marc was such a disappointment. Over the course of the years, however, Bubba became rather tedious. He felt sorry for Marc. He felt that Marc had received the short end of the stick, as he called it. I suspect Bubba felt the same way about himself. I found it self-indulgent and pathetic.

  Nevertheless, I admit I used those feelings to my own benefit when I discovered what James was up to. And I’m referring to The Rebel Life Insurance Company. Not the girl he was bedding. I could have cared less about that. The divorce was a relief.

  Bubba was furious with James. And with the Cuban boy. He thought that Marc was supposed to be the fall guy. I’d never seen him so angry. I should have realized then that I couldn’t control him, or his animalistic streak. I never meant for him to kill anybody, which, of course, he didn’t. He made quite a mess of that.

  After Marc died, Bubba was different. He didn’t care anymore. The fight went out of him. He told me that happiness had always eluded him, and now he knew he would never find it. Like I said, he could be self-indulgent and pathetic.

  So now no one is left to carry on the almost notable Mason name. And I am nearly done as well. But I’m sure that you have a few more questions. And not just little ones. Not the petty ones. But still the usual ones. About life. Love. Marriage. Children. Regret. Death. None of which I’m particularly qualified to answer. Still I’ll tell you what I can. Since you’ve come this far.

  Do I regret my life? No. I’ve lived well, and enjoyed most of it. Do I feel responsible for my son’s death? No. I am not responsible for the choices he made. Do I mourn the death of my husband? No. He thought I was stupid and he tried to steal from me. Did I love Bubba? That again? Okay, yes, I loved Bubba; now look who’s pathetic at the end. Do I fear death?

  Do I fear death?

  Well now, that’s an int
eresting one. Death is nothingness. At least that’s what I’ve always thought. I’ve never feared it before. But recently I’ve been having these dreams, you see. About a woman. Nightmares, really.

  The hollow-cheeked elderly woman comes to me almost every night now. Clear plastic tubes slither around her until they converge and pierce translucent skin. Skin that holds only bone, tendon, and sinew.

  She comes to me with angry eyes. And a smile. Not an evil smile. Well, maybe a little. But mostly a knowing smile. She beckons me with her outstretched bony finger. Her mouth moves, but the silence remains unbroken. I rise and place my ear next to her faded lips and wait. But still the words don’t come. I step away. She beckons again. Smiles that smile.

  And waits.