The Memory Tree

by John R. Little

  The book was heavy with memories, and I knew although many were bad ones, many also were the kinds of things nobody would leave behind. Claire must be dead.

  I closed the book and looked again to the front cover, where I studied the picture of the three generations: Mrs. Williamson, Claire, and Julie.

  In the bright sunshine, I could see the pictures much more clearly than in my apartment. Although it was black and white, I could feel Claire’s strong blue eyes looking at me, almost asking me to take care of her Diary. “I will, Claire,” I said. “Promise.”

  I looked again at Julie, realizing for the first time that something wasn’t quite right. I moved from the shadow of the oak tree and into the direct sunshine. I pulled the photo closer to my face and realized what the problem was.

  Julie’s photo wasn’t really part of the same picture as the two women. Her picture had been carefully cropped and glued alongside the photo of Mrs. Williamson and Claire. It had been done so artfully, it was almost impossible to notice. I could now see there was some kind of shellac or other covering lightly painted over top of the picture, so there wouldn’t be any indication of the cut and paste job. It felt like a single photo, but it wasn’t.

  I didn’t know what to make of this new discovery.

  Chapter 27

  Little Sam was playing baseball. Maybe that’s what I had been hoping for all along when I had gone to The Pond, knowing I had played there lots when I was a kid. The muted sounds of the game winding their ways through the thick grove of maple trees eventually got my curiosity up.

  Yes, he was there. Dressed in the same run-down clothes he wore when I first met him. The baseball diamond was situated near the actual pond, but not close enough that we ever lost any baseballs in the water. I walked over to another large oak tree out in right field and sat at its base, watching the rest of the game. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat and watched kids having fun. It only took a few minutes to realize I had been missing out on a real treat. They all worked hard, but they truly loved what they were doing and it showed.

  Sam played left field, and although he didn’t completely mess up any plays, it was clear that baseball would never be a career path for him. He looked uncertain whenever a grounder came his way, and he almost lost a fly ball before recovering at the last minute. I remembered having the same ambitions every kid did, of making the bigs, being a real ball player. When he messed up in the outfield, though, he was laughing, not taking everything too seriously.

  I watched them play for about two hours, and in that time, Little Sam came to bat twice. The first time, he hit a short pop fly that would have been caught easily by anybody with any skill, but fortunately, all his friends were just as inept as he was, and it dropped in for a single. The boy playing second base scooped up the rolling ball. The next boy struck out, stranding Sam at first.

  His second time at bat, he really got hold of the ball and hit a line drive to right field, over in my direction. By the time the fielder had run out and picked up the ball, Sam was safely at third. I punched the air and mouthed a silent “Yes!”

  I only recognized a few of the guys playing. Mikey, Lance, and Rich. Along with me, we were four members of the Beauty Shop Gang. Mikey and Lance were brothers, and their mom operated a hair salon from their home. Since we often played together in their yard, the name stuck.

  Gang? Not very accurate, really. We hung around together, played sports, board games, same as any other kids. I guess we were a bit cliquish, but we enjoyed each other’s company and were always playing together as a group.

  And playing shortstop was Melanie.

  I stared at her almost as much as at Little Sam. Mel was my best bud, a complete and utter tomboy, just one of the guys. She was tall and skinny, so we always called her a string bean. The only concession she made to being a girl was to wear her brown hair long, tied back into a neat ponytail. Everything else she wore could have been boys’ clothes. Jeans, dirty sneakers, frumpy gray or beige shirts.

  The other members of the Beauty Shop Gang never truly forgot she was a girl, but I did. I’d talk to her about anything. The gang had a lean-to in the forest, stashes of comic books, and a couple of back issues of Playboy magazine Mikey had stolen from his older brother. Mel wouldn’t even bat an eye when we stared all big-eyed at the centerfolds. She just laughed and called us morons.

  I stared at her, watching her expertly field a grounder and easily toss the runner out at first. She jumped up and down and took a bow.

  The next year she would have been fourteen, along with the rest of us.

  In that next summer, 1969, Apollo 11 landed on the moon on July 20. Everybody I knew watched as Neil Armstrong stepped out and mis-spoke, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

  Everybody except Mel.

  She disappeared that day. I was the last person who saw her, about noon, when we were both at the library. She left before me, and she never made it home.

  Her body wasn’t discovered for nine months, until the following spring, when a dog found what was left of her, which was mostly just a skeleton. But, her long ponytail and her red baseball cap gave her identity away long before her dental records did.

  She had been stabbed to death. Her murderer was never found.

  I smiled again, thinking of the fun times we had together -- thinking of Mel being alive again.

  Once upon a time . . .

  . . . there was a haunted house about a half mile away from where we lived. Really, an honest to God haunted house. It had been deserted for about a million years, or so it seemed. One day, Lance just blurted out, “Let’s go inside the Stone Manor.” He must have been really bored.

  For a few seconds, nobody replied. We’d never heard of anybody going inside.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Rich finally. “We can sneak in and have a look around.”

  Even today, I don’t know if he actually meant to encourage the group, or whether he was answering facetiously, but somehow once those words left his mouth, we were committed. Nobody was going to be the one to say what a stupid idea it was. We’d be a chicken to do that. Mel was the first to her feet.

  So, we went. The house was on the southern part of town, and it only took fifteen minutes to walk there. As we got closer, I was getting more and more scared. This was not something I wanted to do, no sirree.

  But I did. We all did. We climbed inside a broken window on the porch. We walked without a peep through every room, opened every cupboard, poked in every closet.

  The floorboards creaked when any of us took a step. It sounded so much louder because none of us said a word for the whole time we were inside.

  Dust covered everything. When the light would shine through a broken window, we could see the motes swirling around in the beam. It was like God was poking his fingers through the house.

  We found nothing. Until the end of our exploration, when we felt safe. We all felt like we had beaten the game, hit a home run in the bottom of the ninth to win the game, beating the haunted house in its own stadium.

  Then we went to the attic, and everything changed.

  My mind spun back to the baseball game. It was breaking up. I had no idea who won and didn’t really care.

  Little Sam was wearing his glove when I caught up with him. He saw me walking in from right field and stayed behind while the others left.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” He looked at me, maybe with a touch of suspicion in his eyes. “I saw you out there,” he said.

  “I’m a baseball nut.”

  “Yeah? Me too.”

  I knew that. “Tigers goin’ all the way this year?” I asked.

  He looked up at me but didn’t reply.

  “Sam . . . ” Now I wished I had a plan. Why did I go to talk to him? I took a deep breath. “We’ve got to get you away from Uncle Bob.” The words just fell out of my mouth and surprised me as much as him.

  At the mention of Bob’s name, Sam’s mouth h
ardened. He squeezed his eyes and squinted at me. He checked over his shoulder to be sure none of his friends were still around. “What do you know about . . . ” His voice trailed off and his baseball glove slipped off his hand. He didn’t notice.

  “I know, Sam. Everything.” I knelt down on one knee. “We’ve got to get you away from him.”

  He backed up. “How could you know?” He took deep breaths. “How could you know anything?” He was almost screaming now. “You can’t know anything. You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s happened.”

  “Sam, it’s okay.”

  “It’s OKAY? Who are you really?”

  I grabbed him by the shoulder, so he wouldn’t bolt. “Sam, I’m you. I was brought here from your future to save you.”

  He stopped struggling for just a moment. “You’re as crazy as my Dad said.”

  “No, listen to me. Look at me. Surely you can see I’m telling you the truth. Look into my eyes. They’re the same as yours. My face! You must be able to see -- ”

  He pulled away from my grip. “Psycho! Get away from me!” He grabbed his glove and ran to his left. “You’re a freak! Leave me alone!” He sprinted away, with only an occasional look back at me.

  I found my memories shifting, growing: the young me running as fast as I could from the stranger who lived next door, fearing him more than I had ever feared Uncle Bob.

  Stunned, I sat down on the infield and cried.

  Chapter 28

  Everything else that day and the next happened in a blur. I was shaken by my failed attempt to help Little Sam. My world seemed to crash down around me. As the afternoon turned into evening, I found my memories shifting once again, the roots of my memory tree reaching out with new branches. Buds bloomed into full-blown leaves, the pages of my life’s history being written.

  The stranger that was me had terrified me when I was young. At first, I had thought he was some kind of monster, but after I ran away from The Pond, I realized that the only way he could have known about Uncle Bob was if they were partners together. I vowed never to have anything to do with him again.

  And as far as my memories showed, I never did. So far, the stranger never showed up in my life again. Those memories had no buds yet.

  That night, everything changed once again. I was outside Mrs. Williamson’s house, just after twilight, a sudden chill reaching out to me, raising goose bumps on my arms. The night was quiet, as they all seemed to be here. If it wasn’t for the afternoon fiasco, I would have enjoyed the relief from the hot weather, but I didn’t actually care about anything except somehow fixing things with Little Sam.

  I watched the house next door, watched my parents leave to go to the Riviera, watched my older brother Marty wander off a bit later, and then watched as Uncle Bob shuffled up the driveway toward the back entrance of my childhood home.

  He hung his head low, stooped, like he was trying to blend into the pavement, but his wheezing didn’t allow him to hide. I could hear him fifty feet away.

  On impulse, I moved into the drive to meet him.

  When I got close to him, he started and looked straight at me. He was surprised, but only for a moment. This was the first time I had seen him close enough for him not to be a shadow.

  His eyes bore into me, deep sharp eyes. Even in the twilight, they glowed an emerald green. Those unforgettable eyes had haunted me for decades. He was fat, grossly fat, close to three hundred pounds, carried by a frame that was about five foot eight. He stretched himself up to try to meet my height, not accomplishing it.

  “You’re the guy next door,” he said. His voice was a tone higher than I remembered and seemed out of place for such a big man.

  He was clenching his fists, and his stance showed he was ready for anything. Fight, flight, anything in between.

  My heart was beating a mile a minute. I felt insane being alone with him out here. Nobody could help me. “Stay away from him,” I finally blurted out. “I know what you’re doing.”

  He took a step closer to me, and I could smell his rancid breath. He had been drinking. No surprise there. Without warning, he grabbed my shirt and pulled me even closer. “You know Jack Shit, pal. You stay the fuck outta my life.”

  Then, he sucker-punched me with a right fist that felt like iron, battering my stomach with every ounce of his three hundred pounds. I fell to the ground and felt the first two kicks to my head and one to my groin. I started to puke. I passed out without remembering anything else.

  I woke up in a fog. It took me several seconds to remember what had happened.

  He’s with me right now, I thought. He’s with Little Sam.

  All I could think about was stopping the monster from doing any more damage. As I stood, jagged pains ripped through my head. I used my hand to wipe my hair back and it came away covered in blood. Monster. Monster. I kept hearing that word over and over in my mind.

  I started to walk and almost fell over with the pain from where he had kicked me in the balls.

  Can’t stop now, I convinced myself.

  I used every bit of concentration I had to overcome the pain. All that mattered was stopping him. Stopping the monster.

  By the time I reached the back steps of my parents’ home, I had my wind back, and I was able to move freely. I’d worry about the injuries later. If there was a later.

  The back door was unlocked as always. Nobody locked their doors in Nelson. There was never a reason to. There was never anything to be afraid of.

  The door opened into the kitchen and I quietly walked in. I checked my watch. It was about fifteen minutes since Bob had walked up the driveway.

  There was no noise coming from upstairs, but that wasn’t unexpected. I had always been a quiet victim. So quiet.

  I walked through the kitchen toward the front of the house. Passing the sink, I grabbed a long carving knife. It was out of instinct, not from having a plan, but it felt good in my hand. It gave me the courage to keep going.

  The living room was covered with yellow and green wallpaper, peeling in many places. It looked as awful as I remembered. There was a thick stench of stale cigarettes, and there were two ashtrays piled high with abandoned butts.

  Even as I was rushing through the room, details jumped out at me. The broken clock, the small black and white television, several empty glasses and beer bottles left lying on the floor.

  I tried to focus my thoughts on Bob. Stopping Bob. I found the stairs and walked up them, staying close to one wall, since I remembered the steps creaked if you walked in the center.

  Finally, as I neared the top of the stairs, I could hear the whimpering. My eyes closed as I heard the ineffectual protests of my younger self. My whole body started to shake, remembering the fear and the pain.

  The monster had to be stopped.

  I gave up on being quiet and rushed the remaining steps, ran down the hall, and threw open my bedroom door.

  Bob was fucking Little Sam. Sam was turned onto his stomach, tears streaming down his face, a pillow under his mouth hiding most of his cries.

  The monster had a smile on his face, which quickly evaporated when he saw me. “You fuck!” he yelled.

  He pulled out of Sam, and I could see his erect penis dripping with Vaseline and blood.

  I lost control and leaped at him. He fell away from Sam. His flabby body bounced off the mattress and pushed back at me. “You goddamn animal! How could you -- ” I stopped yelling at him when I felt the spray of blood from his neck. The knife I was holding was buried in his throat up to the hilt. His emerald eyes bulged out, and he made a coughing noise as he floundered around.

  It didn’t take long. His eyes lost their focus, his body lost its fight, his hands fell to his sides.

  The monster was dead.

  Chapter 29

  Screams filled the bedroom. Little Sam’s screams. I pulled my hands back and saw they were dripping with Bob’s blood.

  He’s dead.

  It was too much to believe. I had killed the monster. Li
ttle Sam was free.

  “Hey, Sam,” I said as I turned to face him. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

  “You killed him!” He ran from the room, and raced down the stairs, yelling again as loud as he could. “Help!”

  “Sam, stop!”

  I was too slow to catch up to him. I didn’t understand why he was running from me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I started to get mad at him for what he was doing. “Jesus Christ, Sam, get back here! Don’t run away!”

  But he did. He forgot he was naked and bleeding, ran right outside and down the street. I could hear his voice trailing off. He was calling me the monster.

  I was too stunned to do anything. It made no sense to me that Sam was afraid of me.

  I looked back in Sam’s bedroom. Bob had four or five gaping wounds other than the fatal cuts to his neck. His chest was X’d out with cuts deep enough to show lung tissue. He was drenched in blood. I didn’t remember stabbing him more than the one time, but the evidence was right there.

  The bed was a seeping red swamp, dripping to the floor on all sides. Two of the walls were splattered and looked like a five-year-old’s feeble attempt at finger painting.

  It was a horrific sight. A slaughterhouse. No wonder Little Sam ran. I sat on the staircase leading down from the bedroom, wondering what in God’s name I had done. Could I really have killed a man? Even a man as evil as Bob?

  Trying in vain to relax, I hunted for the new memories I knew must be worming their way into my mind, into my history. The night Uncle Bob was murdered.

  The memories floated up to the surface, as clear as the spring water in the nearby creek. Crystal, new memories.

  The stranger had killed Uncle Bob. The stranger had been following me and telling me lies. He lied about reading 2001, and he talked funny. I remembered my father yelling at my mother about the asshole next door and how he was asking too many questions. “Some shit’s gonna fall out around here ‘cause of him,” he yelled. “Some shit’s gonna fall real bad.” Dad had made me scared of the stranger.