by Drew Banton
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Barry jammed his hands deep in his pockets and began walking across the familiar field. The evening was cool and his breath could be seen in the moonlight as a ghostly mist, flowing away from him before it disappeared quickly into the night. He had walked the incline of this field so many times in his life that he paid no more attention to his footfalls than he would have done climbing the stairs to his bedroom. He was headed towards the crest of the hill.
To his right, a single light shone above the front door of the house where he'd grown up and where his older brother, Arthur and his mother still lived. When his father had died, he’d left high school to run the farm with Arthur. School had taught him enough. He was quick with numbers and could work his way through the journals. If he needed help, he had Sheila. Had he turned to look, he could have seen another single light below illuminating the more modern structure he had built for his bride and himself some years before. The two halos of light calmly held back the darkness as they silently communed over the quarter mile between them. A looming shape obscured the stars ahead of him, indicating the stand of tall pine that was his destination.
He had a particular tree in mind. When he and Denny were boys they had chosen a pair of the proud evergreens and had claimed them as their own. By means of ropes and nailed-on steps they could quickly scramble aloft and imagine themselves in the rigging of ships traveling oceans that children of the northern hills would never see. But they had seen other wonders from their perches when they had become bold enough to climb after dark; more stars than a city dweller would believe possible, streaking meteorites in wild, random disarray, and at special times, as if in recital just for them, the dancing spirits of the Aurora.
In later years they would bring their friends, particularly the female ones, to the foot of the trees for more earthbound pleasures. But even then, they would occasionally startle and frighten their companions by vaulting into the darkness and following their well-known pathways above. They would laugh and hoot from one branch to another until the girls begged them to come down.
Why hadn’t he changed the seal in the jack? Or at least not let Denny use it until it was fixed? He knew there was no answer. He had not been doing anything unusual by postponing a repair nor was Denny in using a tool that was in less than prime condition. This time they had bad luck, that was all. It was bad luck that Denny had died, not bad intentions, and fixing blame would help no one. Barry was among the trees now and he shook his head to clear away the bad thoughts. In truth, he did not feel much guilt or remorse. He had known too many men who had died in accidents, his father among them, to blame himself for the death of another. He simply missed his friend greatly. He feared that time would not heal this wound, but would make it more painful to be reopened each time something he wanted to share had to pass unshared. It was this thought that would not let him rest.
That thought and one other. He had been a half-hour towards Burlington one day when he’d turned around and come back because he’d forgotten his wallet. Denny’s truck was in his driveway, not an unusual sight, but some instinct had told him to stay away from the house. Denny had known he would be away that day. Barry borrowed money from a friend in town and went to Burlington without his wallet. Sheila’s every word and gesture told him his suspicions were correct though he never would have guessed from them alone. He was hurt but not puzzled. That Sheila and Denny should be attracted to each other was only natural. That they should act on it saddened him. He had expected better from the world though there had never been any reason why he should. He didn’t question Sheila’s movements and made sure she knew in advance of his. Denny’s frequent excuses went unchallenged. An unreasoned wisdom told him that the more he served as an obstacle, the stronger the couple would be drawn to each other. So he made it easy, at the same time taking care to drop no hints of his knowledge. Even in retrospect he could not pinpoint an exact moment that he knew it had ended. An awareness grew and was confirmed over the course of weeks. Sheila was his wife again and Denny his friend. If relations were not exactly as before, they were close enough, and Barry questioned no further.
His one lingering fear had been that something would slip, some outside force would intervene, a local gossip most likely, and that he would have had to face Denny with the truth. And what if Denny had lied and refused to admit that anything had happened? Barry would not have been able to accept a lie even if it had been spoken to protect Sheila. They would have fought and the bitterness would have endured. So he felt a measure of relief that Denny had died now, still his friend. But it was small consolation. What an act of bad faith had not been able to do a simple accident had.
He stood before a tree now, his tree, he was certain, and over there was Denny’s. Though he passed these trees every day, it had been years since he had stood in this spot and so he could scarcely believe that a length of rope hung within reach and slats ascended the trunk until they disappeared into the darkness above. It couldn’t be the same rope. He had told his son about the special trees but he was sure he wasn’t old enough yet to make the climb. His daughter? Yes, just maybe. She was a quiet one and might have restored the climbing tree without telling him. He would ask her soon. He tested the rope and found it would support his weight. He was too old to climb trees but there was no resisting. A swing to the first foothold, a hand and foot scramble to the first limb, another rope dangling exactly where his hand sought it, his feet moving to the patterns of a deeper memory than his conscious mind could conjure, until he was astride the highest branch that could securely support him. He was stouter now than he had been but so was the branch and though the tree swayed, he felt safe. He leaned his back against his tree and gazed out at the night sky.
This was the place to say goodbye to Denny. There was no melodrama in Barry so he didn’t cry out to his absent friend or to an unfeeling Universe or to the brilliant starry night. He was content to nod as the tree swayed and remember. No Northern Lights tonight. He would come up here again, maybe with his daughter, and they might see them together. In a few hours, when the sun rose, he would go to work and put in a full day of haying. He would sleep well tonight. He wondered if his feet would remember how to get down.
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A note to the reader:
Independent authors depend to a large extent on their readers to spread the word about their work. If you enjoyed this story please take a few minutes to write a review to share with your fellow readers (or if you have some constructive criticism, that's fine, too. I can take it. I think.) Thanks. Drew
About the Author:
Drew Banton has written several novels and a handful of stories, all of which he intends on self-publishing. He has worked as a printer, welder, auto mechanic, bicycle frame builder, industrial mechanic and manufacturing engineer. The world of work plays a prominent role in his fiction.
He lives in Newton, Massachusetts with his wife and dog. When not writing he can usually be found walking the dog or working in his garage on one of his motorcycles.
e-mail: [email protected]
Web: https://dbanton77.wix.com/industrialstrengthpr#
Blog: https://theindustrialstrengthpress.wordpress.com/
