by Jon Cohen
For a moment, drenched in sweat, Stu was unable to speak. He closed his eyes and immediately thought of the fallout that would result from this little visit to the ER. “Um,” he murmured.
“Yes?”
He opened his eyes again but couldn’t look at her. “You won’t tell...anybody?”
Amanda grinned. “You mean, like Dean, who’d tell Ronnie, who’d tell Tom so that by the time you hit Green Gables tonight, every man at the bar would—”
“Right, right,” Stu whispered. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Amanda placed a hand on Stu’s shoulder. Her eyes were jewels and her breath was spearminty from the gum she slowly chewed as she smiled at him. He remembered her in high school, chewing gum in that way of hers that somehow was not trailer-trashy but a sign of her vigor, the need to keep even the tiniest muscles of her fine powerful body in motion. Dean was like that, too, shifting his weight from leg to leg, rubbing his arms the entire time he talked to you. Both of them too physical to keep still. Stu could only imagine the monumental sex between them.
“Listen to me, Stu. Dean and Cliff and those fools wouldn’t even have come in. But you knew to come in—for your tetanus shot. The cows and chickens, the farm dust in the air—around here’s a petri dish for tetanus. You get an A for thinking.”
Stu blushed and stared in wonder. Mrs. Kruckewszki never gave him an A for thinking. Amanda was kind-hearted and beautiful and she made love like a lioness. Backlit by the powerful glare of the exam light, she appeared heaven-sent. That day, Stu was the happiest man on earth. He would sacrifice a finger a week just to be ministered to by Amanda Jeffers. When she gave him his tetanus shot, he took it like a man.
Now, in his office, he swiveled around to his computer screen and pulled up a file:
Amanda P. Jeffers.
RR 4 Box 4152 Maple Road.
New Milford, PA 18414
Stu felt real bad about what he was going to do to her. What he was hoping to do. What he prayed he’d be able to do. And then he felt real good.
He frowned and squinted his eyes. Because you know what? Screw her for giving him the finger this afternoon. Because that’s what she had done. Gone out of her way to reject him. He never stood a chance with her. None, zero, zip.
He scrolled down, his frown lifting into a smirk of conquest. He had a little set of eyes and ears at Susquehanna Mortgage & Loan by the name of Steve Jones. Steve kept him apprised of who was in arrears on their mortgages and home equity loans. And look who made the list last month:
Dean L. Jeffers and Amanda P. Jeffers: Acct. #382W904
10 YEAR HOME EQUITY LOAN, INCEPTION JUNE 15, 2008.
Repayment Summary
$265.09
Monthly Payment
$53,000
Total of 120 Payments
$19,592.27
Total Interest
June, 2018
Completion Date
**LOAN IN ARREARS**
DECEMBER 15, 2016 $265.09
JANUARY 15, 2017 $265.09
FEBRUARY 15, 2017 $265.09
Stu grinned. The Widow Jeffers had missed three payments. He couldn’t have her, but he would get her house. Her lovely six-figure house.
Stu leaned back in his chair and placed his arms behind his bald head. Those arms like flexing wings, that bald head—he looked just like a vulture circling the treetops of the Endless Mountains for easy prey.
Six figures, baby. Off her back, he was going to become a six-figures man. Then we’ll see who gives the finger to who. To whom. Whom or who? He blushed, because he could almost hear Mrs. Kruckewszki in her grave, chuckling at his stupidity.
11
After supper and homework Oriana searched the tree house.
There was The Grum’s Ledger, hidden in the pillowcase. She had left a tiny bit of pileated woodpecker feather fluff in the crease at the binding on page four. If it had been puffed loose, that meant Harry Crane read the book. It was still in place.
How could he leave? She was dizzy with anger. And fear. Harry had to come back. He had to. What if something happened to him? What if—she stopped herself. Took a shivery breath and gulped back tears.
She went to the bookcase and pulled out the tree guide. She turned to “North American Hardwood Trees.” Found the maples. Red maple, silver maple...sugar maple. She nodded and studied the botanical name. Then she spoke, loud and determined, and cast her spell. The incantation that would bring Harry Crane home to his tree house.
“Acer saccharum,” she said. “Saccharum, saccharum, Acer saccharum.”
She looked out into the woods. Like a curl of invisible smoke, the spell would wend its way sinuously between the tree trunks, find him and compel him back.
* * *
It did not compel him back at 8:00 p.m. or 9:00 p.m., when she looked out her bedroom window for his light. Or at 9:01 p.m. or 9:02 p.m. All was dark.
“To bed, Oriana, come on. It is what it is.”
You don’t know what it is, Mom, she thought. You just don’t.
Amanda did not glance out Oriana’s window as she passed by. She was not feeling charitably toward men in general, not after today’s episode with Cliff. The men who die too young in the snow, or cheat on you with stupid little cameras, or drop into the forest and get your daughter’s hopes up.
Back in her own bedroom, though, just before she turned her light out at ten, she looked. The forest, the big fat government wilderness tract, was as dark as her mood. Good night, she said, to the empty tree house, to the empty forest, to the empty side of her bed.
* * *
But at 10:10 p.m., when Oriana tiptoed over to her window and looked out, she saw the flare of a match in the distant trees and the brighter flare of a kerosene lamp coming to life.
Oriana, queen of secrets and stealth, knew all the squeaky floorboards and just how to go down the stairs quiet as a ghost. She was fully clothed and ready for action. She found the flashlight hanging on the peg in the mudroom, eased open the back door and slid into the night. She advanced through the trees toward the flickering lamplight.
She didn’t need a light. All she had to do was follow the sound of Harry cursing.
“Shit. Goddamn it.”
He was somewhere close to the base of the beech tree.
“Harry Crane. Where were you?”
She flicked on the flashlight and shined it on him. He flung his hands in front of his face. “Hey! You’re blinding me.” Then, “Your mom know you’re out here?”
“Are you kidding?” Quietly, she added, “I thought you ran away.”
“I would’ve, if I had any sense.”
Oriana nodded approvingly. “But you don’t, do you?”
“No. I lack common sense. Increasingly.”
He looked up into the giant beech tree. Lit up by the kerosene lamp, the colored glass in the windows turned the tree house into a floating jewelry box. The tree house seemed a manifestation of his own psyche. His life had changed alarmingly in the last twelve hours—he wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly began to emit the same sort of dizzy, multicolored glow.
“You weren’t just doing forest work,” said Oriana. She trained her light on a duffel bag and a cooler leaning against the base of the beech.
He pointed up at the tree house. “That’s the shelter. This is the food and the clothing. The three always go together.”
“Where did you go?”
* * *
Where? To the place all escaped forestry bureaucrats who have attempted suicide and then been rescued by a candy bar and a red-tailed hawk go—Scranton.
When he awoke at dawn this morning in the tree house, Harry had thought to himself: here. He had not been present anywhere in a year. Sitting on the cot, taking it all in, he heard Beth’s words. Sweetheart, just quit the Fo
rest Service.
He looked through the dream-strange windows into the forest. I am living in a tree house, he thought, in the middle of a forest. In no version of Harry’s Trees had he and Beth ever contemplated running away to a forest and setting up home in a tree house. They were a sensible pair. He’d have quit the Forest Service and worked at Baylor Arboretum. Or become a landscaper or an arborist. And the place he’d come home to—not in a tree, but firmly grounded—Beth would’ve been there.
Now he was ungrounded, floating almost, in the treetops. He looked out at the tips of the sugar maples and pin oaks. The terminal buds were swollen with the possibility of spring. Much more than a possibility—spring was inevitable. It was about to cascade through this forest, the energy building in the trees like the crest of a wave. To be here in the treetops when that wave of green hit—it was going to be stunning.
Oh Beth, he thought, I wish you were here to see this. He listened for her reply, but heard now, not her voice, but the wind in the trees, her communication with him not fading exactly, but changing into something else. She was everywhere present, but no longer here.
Harry gripped the windowsill to steady himself. Harry’s Trees without Beth. On his own.
A distant flash, from the direction of Amanda’s house, the dawn sun glinting. Harry shrank back from the window. No doubt, Oriana flashing a mirror at him. Urgent for contact. The fact was, he was not at all on his own. Because there seemed to be a little girl in his life. A very overwhelming sort of little girl. And he had to get her under control so he could remain here, so that he could become whatever kind of tree man he was to become.
He needed to clear his mind, get organized, have a plan. He would commit to the unknown, yes, but he’d do it in a very practical and measured Harry sort of way. After all, he had a job, a house—and millions of dollars to deal with. It was critical he proceed with scrupulous care. If he vanished unaccountably they’d search for him.
Thus, Scranton. He drove twenty miles south to downtown Scranton, because:
(a) the cell phone reception in the forest was spotty and he had a lot of texting and emailing to do,
(b) he needed supplies, and,
(c) Scranton was, well, anonymous.
Scranton was a tired old town. Running north to south, the Lackawanna River bisected the city, filling the air with its sluggish perfume. Coal dust blackened the once-glorious brick municipal buildings. Scrantonians seemed unable to look up from the broken pavement. Really, not one person lifted his or her eyes to look into Harry’s face. It was absolutely perfect.
He spent the morning at Home Depot and Hagley’s Camping Supply. He paid cash for everything. He bought a cooler and ice and went to the Giant supermarket on Dullun Avenue. Then he went back downtown for lunch—but mostly for a beer.
He sat in a booth in a place off Gunster Avenue called McWhistle’s Pub & Eatery and ate a large salad and a hamburger. He ordered a Guinness Extra Stout because he needed extra stouting. He was about to do something he had never done before—cross Wolf.
Harry scrolled through his text messages. There were fifteen from Wolf, from yesterday and this morning, and all of them said, in typically escalating language, essentially the same thing: Where the fuck are you, little brother? Wolf, in his Wolfian way, knew that McWilliams, Torrey & Conwell had settled with the construction company, that Harry, as Wolf would perceive it, had struck it rich. Harry smiled in wonder. Here he was, about to hide in the magic forest from a devouring Wolf. And, oh yeah, the girl in this fairy tale—was wearing red.
Harry chugged his stout, wiped a rising line of sweat from his brow and began to type away on his phone. Wolf replied instantaneously.
Harry: Hi Wolf.
Wolf: where are you?
Harry: In a good place.
Wolf: you don’t sound right
Harry’s phone rang. Harry didn’t answer. He texted again.
Harry: I’m not picking up.
Wolf: pick up the phone harry
Harry: No.
Wolf: harry.
Harry: No.
Wolf: where are you?
Harry: In a good place. Safe.
Wolf: safe? what the hell? safe???
Harry: Just a good place, Wolf.
Wolf: come home
Harry: What are you? Dad?
Wolf: dad never came home. cut the shit, harry. this is big.
Harry: Can’t. Know you’re there. Sitting on my front step. Smoking.
There was an audible pause in the ether. Wolf probably flicking a butt and lighting another cigarette. Harry could almost hear the angry inhale.
Wolf: I’m here. because you need me
Harry: Listen, I’m not coming home.
Wolf: for fuck’s sake, you’re going to get scammed, screw up your money. I know investing. this is HUGE, harry. this is the biggest moment in your life.
Wow, thought Harry. Wow, wow, wow.
Harry: Beth’s death...pretty big moment, Wolf.
Wolf: don’t screw with me. you’re not in a good place head-wise. the money freeking you out
Harry: Freaking has an “a.” Sounds like it’s you who’s freaked.
Wolf: you come home now
Harry took a deep breath and signaled the waitress for another Guinness.
Wolf: you there? it’s seven million dollars, little bro.
Wolf: you there? 7,000,000. look at all those zeroes.
Harry: The thing about zeroes? They equal nothing. Bro.
Wolf: quit fucking with me
Harry: Not to put too fine a point on it, but Toland gets his lawyer third. So, closer to four million.
Wolf: harry
Harry: 4,000,000.
Wolf: harry. jesus. you have to invest it properly. build up your nest egg.
Harry: Smashing all the eggs, Wolf. Getting rid of it as fast as I can.
Harry could just about hear Wolf’s head exploding. As for Harry—his heart was imploding. Just seeing the sentence he had just written. All that money, and how it had come to him. Maybe he’d get it in cash and light a bonfire in the forest. He had no idea what he was going to do. But he would do it fast and Wolflessly.
Wolf: please.
Harry: I’m not coming home, Wolf. And I am in a safe place. You got all that?
Wolf: please.
Please. The word had never before come out of Wolf’s mouth. Harry felt a little sick.
Harry: Okay. Signing off.
Wolf: wait. you have a house and a job.
Harry: All handled, Wolf.
This was a lie. Harry had some scrambling to do.
Wolf: please. my dad deserting me. now my brother.
Harry thought, And your too many wives, you forgot to throw that into the emotional pot.
Wolf: and my wife, harry. leaving me. that makes three.
Harry: But all are ALIVE, Wolf. As soon as the check clears, the money is gone.
Wolf: harry!!!
Harry: Will keep you posted. See you.
Wolf: please!!!
Harry: Over and out.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck me!” Wolf stood on Harry’s front porch steps, glaring at his cell phone.
A man walking his dog crossed to the other side of the street.
The front yard was littered with Wolf’s cigarette butts. He reared back to toss his phone against a tree. Stopped himself. Fuck.
I worked for this money, Wolf thought. Coaxing and coddling Harry, guiding him. I deserve a share. My share. More than my share, because what does he know about money? And now the little shrimp was doing what, exactly? Having a breakdown that was going to screw up everything.
Where was he?
How much time before the check cleared?
Could he have Harry committed? Did they commit people anymore?
<
br /> Could he hire a PI? Do they have private eyes anymore?
“Fuck.” Wolf lit a cigarette, spun around and faced Harry’s house. The muscles in his big jaw flexed. He was practically snorting like a bull. I deserve my cut. I watched out for him. I was like a father to the little prick.
His phone rang. Harry? No. Shit. The almost ex-wife down in Virginia. From the moment he’d said “I do” it was over. It was over before he’d even met her. Ashley.
Now she was texting him. Wait, not Ashley. It was Barb. Ashley was his second wife. Wolf stared at his screen.
Barb: Where are you? 4 way conference 1 hour. You better be there.
“Fuck,” muttered Wolf. I’m hiding from Barb, Harry’s hiding from me. The world is one big fucking game of hide-and-seek. Oh, he would seek his younger brother. He would seek and find him, but good.
Harry will not walk out on me, thought Wolf. He watched a car go by and instantly thought of his father—not walking out on them, but driving. Wolf hated cars. Wolf hated anybody over sixty behind the wheel of a car, like that guy, because that’s how old the prick would be if he was even still alive.
Wolf turned and glared at Harry’s house. He could kick the door down, that was an option. I’m gonna huff and puff and kick this door down.
A Waverly police car drove slowly past. Wolf lowered his door-kicking leg as if he was stretching or maybe doing tai chi, and nodded toward the car. The cop wasn’t even looking his way. Wolf thought, I should go to the cops, actually. Have them put out an APB on Harry. Because he stole my four million dollars. Do they have APBs anymore?
Wolf half smiled. In a way, he was proud of little bro. Making a move. Where’d you get the balls to do this, Harry? You’re the ball-less wonder.
No, this wasn’t about balls, Harry was going truly nuts. I have to find him before he does something stupid. Like donate the money to, oh Christ...
1) Greenpeace,
2) The Sierra Club,
3) The Red Cross,
4) Some scammer on Kickstarter inventing a new vegan cheese or a solar flush techno-toilet for some Third World armpit village,
5) UNICEF.
Wolf shuddered in horror. “Fuck!”
* * *
