The Memory Tree

by John R. Little

  Another hour and the first dozen beers were history. He was starting to look very grumpy, and whenever he said anything to me, it was a snap. “Why the hell are you here?” “Can’t you keep your fuckin’ line away from mine?” “How much fuckin’ money you make?” And on and on.

  He had had a couple of nibbles on his line but had pulled the rod back too early, letting the fish get away. “You too good to drink with me? Is that it?”

  I finally conceded and opened a beer for myself. It actually tasted pretty good after being outside for the past while.

  After another few moments of silence, I started on my mission. “Jimmy?”

  “What now?”

  “I need your help.”

  He looked over at me and laughed. “Like I could help you with a damned thing, Mr. Bigtime Stockbroker. The only fuckin’ thing I can help you with is to mix you a block of fuckin’ concrete.”

  “That’s not the kind of help I’m looking for.”

  “Well, for crissakes, spill it.”

  I paused to be sure I had his attention. “I’m not really a stock broker. And I’m not really from Seattle.”

  He snorted and swallowed another gulp of beer. I pretended to do the same. “You’re a fuckin’ phony? That’s a riot. So, what’s the real scoop?”

  I had prepared my story the night before, when I was sitting out in the yard in my wonderful nighttime. I knew the only way I was going to get what I wanted was to change my whole history for him and invent lies he’d rather believe.

  “I’ve been involved in a lot of,” I paused for effect, “shall we just say, ventures, over the years. Some of them are not the kind of thing you see listed proudly on a corporate resume.”

  “Corporate resume! Christ, can’t you speak normal? What are you doin’?”

  “Mostly small time.” He was staring at me, listening to every word now. “I started pulling convenience stores and gas stations. A couple small bank branches.” I shook my head. “That’s when I was a lot younger and stupider.”

  “You think you’re any smarter now?”

  I tugged on my line a bit. “Now, I run drugs across the Mexican border. Lots. I make a real good commission off it.”

  The Mexican border was more than 1,000 miles from Nelson, but that fact didn’t sink in to Dad. He was too drunk to let inconvenient details stick in his mind.

  “Yeah, well, good for you. Doesn’t tell me what the fuck you think you need from me.”

  I pretended to stare off into space. “I have certain desires.”

  In the distance, a fish jumped and made a small splash. Don’t bite now, I silently asked.

  I took another drink of beer, a real one this time, and said, “So the thing is, I like boys.”

  He slowly reeled in part of his line and didn’t say anything for a moment. I let the silence grow until he finally broke it. “Yeah, you look like a fuckin’ queer. Shoulda guessed that.”

  “I need one. A young one.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You know.” I looked over to him. “I want Sam.”

  He immediately said, “I can’t do that.” Just for a moment, I was convinced I was wrong, that my father wasn’t involved in my summer of hell after all. A few seconds of relief washed over me. Then he added, “He’s already taken.”

  The sentence hung in the air. My fingers hurt from grasping my fishing pole so tightly. It was true. He was in it up to his ass.

  “I’ll pay more.”

  He laughed. “More? I don’t think you know what kind of deal you’re looking at. I got all my bar bills paid off promptly for me. You think you got that much money?”

  I didn’t know where to go now. I thought he’d hand over Sam and double his take.

  “Okay, tell me what my other options are. You’re supplying to this other guy, right? What else have you given him in the past? I might be interested.”

  “Sloppy seconds?” He roared with laughter and started to choke. He took another drink, finished the bottle and then immediately opened the next one and took a drink from it. I felt his greed getting control of him.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “There were only a few others,” he finally said. “Few boys from the neighborhood. A couple girls.”

  “You can get girls, too?”

  “I don’t really do much. I just -- just help get them into the house and then me and the family get out.”

  Claire.

  “You ever do the girl that lived where I do now?” I smiled to show him I thought that would be funny.

  “You bet. She was the first. A long time ago.” He looked up and seemed to be lost in thought. “She was worth a hundred bucks. Lot of money back then. Bob really liked her.” He realized he had used Bob’s name. “Don’t you be telling nobody about that.”

  “God, no.” I felt sick when I added, “Maybe me and Bob could share Sam.”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. I ain’t gonna fuck up my bar bill for you.”

  “How many times did he rape Claire?”

  “Rape?” He pulled in some more line. “We don’t call it that. She was his guest. Three times. Then, that crazy old loon next door seemed to get suspicious, and we had to cut her loose.”

  “The girl never told?”

  “Hell, no. Told her we’d kill the old woman if she did. Bob’s a fucker. He woulda done that old crone, too. He’s very convincing.”

  I nodded. All I could think about was poor Claire, being brutally raped by that animal just like I had been. And both of us had had our horrible times facilitated by the other animal that was right beside me. And he just couldn’t help snickering over it.

  The fishing trip was over. I had heard everything I had come to hear. I was about to pull in my line, when one last question came to mind.

  “What about Marie? What’s she know about all this?”

  “Marie? Shit, she can’t figure out what two plus two is. ‘Specially not with a split head. She knows enough not to ask.”

  I remembered my mother’s screams as she fell down a flight of stairs, and now all the violence in my household made a lot more sense.

  Suddenly, I totally lost my temper. I tossed the rod into the river and jumped at my father. “You are such a goddamned pig,” I shouted.

  “Hey, hold on,” he said as he stumbled back and slipped. The beer he was holding smashed on the rocks.

  I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to face me. “You fucking scum! Do you have any idea how many lives you’ve ruined!”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about?” he yelled. “You want them, too.”

  Scared, he tried to get away from me. He swung his fist and grazed my ear, and that only got me more violent. I hit him, then again, and again.

  I found a large piece of broken, brown glass in my hand. I moved it to his neck. “You don’t deserve to live.”

  “Please,” he whispered. Spittle fell from his mouth and he coughed. “Don’t.” His eyes were as big as silver dollars, begging me.

  A sudden urge came over me, and I could feel my arm moving forward, the glass grinding through his skin and bursting through his jugular. Slashing. Ripping.

  But at the last second, I held back. I don’t know how I resisted killing him, and I could feel my own blood trickling down my hand as I crunched the broken glass.

  In disgust, I threw him to the ground. “You let Bob near Sam or anyone else ever again, and I will fucking well kill you.” I took the glass and lightly scored his left cheek, a four-inch long scar he’d wear for the rest of his days. It would be a warning every time he looked into a mirror. He screamed at the pain or maybe at the fear of what I might do next.

  I shoved him to the ground and walked away.

  I stormed off back toward town, anger still flooding through me. Fucking animal.

  Chapter 43

  It took me most of the afternoon to calm down. All I could think of was wanting to kill my father. And how close I had come to doin
g exactly that.

  One thing had been clarified on the fishing trip: I was absolutely nothing like him. I may have some superficial habits that were similar, but his very soul was rotten to the core. I didn’t believe I was following in those particular footsteps.

  May 21, 1965.

  The date Claire left. The date on the last portion of her Remembrance Diary.

  I held the thin, yellowed paper in my hand that I had found in the Stone Manor. I could feel the power of Claire’s last words even before I read them. The paper held sadness and hope. Sadness for one ending, hope for a new beginning.

  I read.

  My Julie.

  This is the day I lost you. I’ve tried to write this last entry so many times, and I always give up, my words lost in a sea of tears. I can’t place these words in my diary, because this one entry would weigh the diary down, crush it under the terrible weight of our separation. The diary needs to stay full of hope, full of my love for you.

  Yes, today is the day we part forever.

  He came back today. That monster who hurt me so badly all those years ago. I saw him slowly walking up the lane beside my mother’s house. He saw me, too, and he grinned and chuckled.

  My heart jumped as the memory came back of the day he took me. Held me down, forced himself inside me.

  I ran into my room and locked the door. I curled myself up into a small ball in a corner, hiding behind my blue easy chair. All I wanted was for him to not find me. To not hurt me again.

  But I couldn’t banish his grin or his chuckle. He may not find me today, but I wasn’t safe. He’d come for me whenever he wanted.

  And if I wasn’t safe, neither were you.

  I couldn’t bring you with me, as much as I wanted to. You needed to stay. I needed to leave you.

  That Bob person won’t hurt you. You’re not what he wants.

  Julie, my hand is shaking so hard, I wonder if you can even make out what I’m writing. I know you’ll never read these words, but I’m keeping them safe. Just in case.

  Don’t ever forget me. I won’t ever forget you. I promise.

  I carefully folded the note and slipped it into the Remembrance Diary, between May 20 and May 22. I skimmed both those entries. The first was talking about a picnic where Julie and Claire had gone out by the sunflower fields to the south. The latter was them sitting on the porch during a crashing thunderstorm, lightning ripping through the skies like a knife. They felt safe, awed by the light show before them.

  And now the diary was complete.

  Now I knew why Claire left. She was afraid of Bob, when he had returned. She knew he would demand another pound of her flesh.

  For some reason, she obviously felt she couldn’t take Julie with her, even if she didn’t exist. For some reason, Julie belonged in Nelson.

  I popped the cap off a Schlitz and drank, the cold beer burning as I gulped it down. I held the bottle up in front of me. “Claire, here’s to you. I hope everything worked out for you, wherever you went.”

  Chapter 44

  Another week passed. A knock on my door turned out to be Marie. I was surprised to see her. Or anyone. Nobody had knocked on the door since I moved in.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Marie, what a nice surprise.”

  “I need to come in.”

  I moved aside and she slid by me. She swirled around and pushed the door shut. “Nobody knows I’m here.”

  She was wearing a yellow sundress with a white fringe on the collar. She looked at me expectantly, holding her arms together tightly. Her eyes darted around the room.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Can I get you something?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes found me, bridging the awkward silence growing around us. I waved my hand to the chair. “Please.”

  “This isn’t easy for me.”

  “What is it?”

  She smiled, one of her broad smiles that caught me off guard and made me realize just how beautiful she must have been when she was young. Even now, I felt a pit in my stomach. I turned away from her, guilt cascading through me. She’s my mother, for God’s sake.

  “Marty went to Canada,” she announced. “I don’t know how you did it, but he’s gone. He’s going to be safe now.”

  I was momentarily surprised to hear this. “That’s great news,” I said, meaning it completely. “How did that happen?”

  “The border’s only a couple hours north of here. He went with my brother, said they were going to pick up a shipment of lumber. Timothy is in the business.”

  I nodded, remembering.

  “He just came back alone.”

  I smiled, relieved Marty was now safe. I began to explore the memories being formed in my mind. I now knew he wasn’t killed in Vietnam after all; he ended up living in Canada until the amnesty.

  “Marie, I’m so glad it worked out.”

  Just then, she rushed to me and hugged me tightly. “It was you,” she whispered in my ear. She put her hands on the back of my head. “Marty told me you convinced him to go. I’m here to re-pay my debt to you.”

  She looked at me and leaned up to kiss me.

  I pushed her back. “Marie, no, you don’t owe me that.”

  She looked puzzled. “But -- ”

  “You can repay your debt by just telling me the truth.”

  Marie looked embarrassed, and I knew she had never been rejected before. A part of me wondered how many times she had used her fading beauty for paying back favors. That was a thought best relegated to another time, but right then I concentrated on what I needed to know.

  “What are you talking about?” Her voice was sterner, and she finally sat in the easy chair, opening her purse and searching frantically for a cigarette.

  “You’ve lived here a long time,” I said.

  She lit her cigarette, an unfiltered Camel, and let out a long swoosh of smoke. “A very long time,” she said finally. “A lifetime and then some.” The earlier harshness in her voice was replaced by sadness.

  I sat in the other chair and waited until she looked back up at me.

  “I want the truth, Marie. I’m leaving soon, and you’ll never see me again.”

  I didn’t know if she would be happy or sad to see the end of me, and she wasn’t giving anything away. She would have been a good poker player.

  “What?”

  “Let’s start with Bob. Why do you allow him to do the things he does?”

  She pushed herself back into the chair and pursed her lips, then took another drag. “Sometimes I think I never had a choice. I’ve been a prisoner in my own life. In my own home.”

  “You could leave.”

  She laughed. “You are so damned naïve. You’ve never had someone like Bob after you.” She stared at me. “You want the truth? Well, the truth is that I was his first victim. He took me over and over again, until he got sick of me. And for each time, Jimmy could have a few more drinks paid for.”

  Silence hung in the room. He raped my mother too?

  “Then, somehow it was just -- I don’t know -- easy, I guess is the word, to look the other way.”

  “You let others be hurt like you?”

  “I told you. I didn’t have any choice.”

  Anger rushed through me. I wanted to tell her she always had a fucking choice. That Claire was brutally raped because of her and then her own son. Me. People make their own choices and she made hers.

  But I didn’t say any of that. I took a deep breath. “You knew about Claire?”

  She nodded. “She was next after me. That was a long time ago.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I need a drink. You got anything?”

  “Beer.” I went and opened her one and gave her a glass to go with it. She poured it and took a long gulp.

  “Must have been -- ” I imagined her calculating in her mind “ -- about fourteen years ago.

  “She was so young, so pretty. Outgoing and fun. Afterwards, she was never the same. She walked tall, proud, but with
a lost innocence that robbed her of the joy she always had before.

  “Jimmy got her into the house. Some pretext or other. I don’t know what. Got her to go upstairs. Bob was there. I heard her scream, just once.”

  Marie’s eyes glazed over and I imagined her reliving the scene. “Just the once. And then, she went home. She never told Mrs. Williamson. She couldn’t have. I knew Bob had threatened to kill them both. He always used that threat. And he meant it. Still does.”

  “How do you know Claire didn’t tell?”

  She took another long drink and waved to indicate she wanted another beer. I asked her a second question before she could answer the first. “Why do you drink so much? You’re an attractive woman, bright, you could have anything, anybody, why destroy yourself like this?”

  In a way, it was the same question I had asked earlier but I wanted to find some reason my mother ended up like this, some magic formulation that would make me snap my fingers and say, “Of course. That explains everything.”

  “It’s easier to hide in a bottle than anywhere else,” she said.

  She stared into nothing for a while before adding, “Once, I had a dream. I was young, full of energy. I was like Claire. I remember wanting to open a little shop, design dresses. Not a huge dream, really, but mine nonetheless.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jimmy happened. When we got married, he wanted me at home. Dinner on the table at five o’clock. Or else. He took my dreams and destroyed them.”

  I kept quiet as she searched for words.

  “The only part of me he left alone was church. I get comfort from my religion. I’m not proud of some things I’ve done in my life. I have nothing to offer anybody but -- ”

  She lit another cigarette and chuckled. “Sometimes I wish I was Catholic, so I could go to confession. Just to have a friendly voice to talk to. And then I feel guilty about even wishing I were Catholic. Can’t win.”

  I got another beer and gave it to her, then asked my other question again. “How do you know Claire never told Mrs. Williamson?”

  “Claire got pregnant. From Bob, of course.”