Family Treed
Short Fiction by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Torrence Rucker
In a meadow sliced by a deep, limestone-cut stream, there on a gentle slope brushed with wildflower swaths, poses an exuberant old tree, its branches spread wide for scooping gobs of butter-yellow sunshine to fingerpaint the sky.
And one day Fred climbed that tree, quite nearly clear to the top.
Fred is a young man, quiet, what they call “taciturn,” the kind of feller you know and count on without either of you having to say much, if anything, about it. He took custody of that tree when he bought Widow Harper’s big old house, a gabled classic on one side of the stream, that tree on the other. A winding gravel road swung right past the wraparound porch before narrowing to a chert path connected by footbridge to the other side. From there another trail led the half-mile to Highway 96 and that ramshackle shack called the Dinger place.
Crissy Dinger had a lot to do with why he came to move there. After barely six months of sparking, he married her, giving her a home not ten minutes’ walk from seeing her mama, Granny Bess, anytime she wanted, not to mention those three shiftless older brothers, Cousin Cindy with the cosmetology certificate she never uses, and Cindy’s teenage twins, a swish of a boy who looks and acts like a girl and a supersized girl known for not being the type who likes boys. Not six months after that, Crissy ran off with Lester from the feed store, somewhere out west they say, certainly farther than ten minutes by footbridge and a chert path from her kinfolk.
The day Fred climbed that big old tree, he had me out there to run a backhoe for him. I figured he wanted to dig somewhere, but he didn’t say, and with Fred you kinda figure there isn’t any reason to talk about it till the hoe arrives and time comes to start digging. Problem was, some feller over in Buchananville was using it, so Cyrus couldn’t haul it to Fred’s place until it came available. We had plenty of time to kill.
Fred studied across the bridge and up the hill, checked his watch, and motioned me into the parlor. We uncapped a couple of beers and parked ourselves in front of the news channel. Not five minutes passed before Granny Bess no-knocked her big old lunk of a self right through the front door like she held an engraved invitation, her older boy and Cindy’s twins right behind her.
“Brung the beer,” she announced, waving a six-pack with three bottles already drained. She heaved herself into the big recliner while Lazy Son stretched out to wallow on the long couch, muck-crusty shoes and all. “Well?” she barked. “I need openin’.”
Girly-Boy flounced off toward the kitchen, Burly-Sis rolling her eyes before following. Girly-Boy hurried back, top-popped all three beers, then disappeared into the kitchen again.
“Wheel’s on,” Granny Bess announced, grasping for the remote, cursing under her breath when she couldn’t quite reach it. Needing to sit up, she swiped it off the coffee table. Fred never said a word when she proceeded to flip through the channels until she found that Sajak feller grinning at Vanna.
The twins returned with armfuls of food: sodas, bags of chips and pretzels, a tub of dip, some kind of sausage for Girly-Boy to gnaw on. Lazy Son drained his beer and eyed the last full one, but Granny Bess shot him a look, so he shrugged and headed for the kitchen, returning with two more from Fred’s supply. The twins fought over who would sit where until Girly-Boy spilled chips all over the floor and Burly-Sis slapped him for it, which made the boy tune up and cry like a sissy girl. Granny Bess hollered threats at both young’ns, then at Cousin Cindy when she waltzed right in and plopped down, showing no interest in controlling her heathen brats.
Nobody acknowledged me, Fred’s company. Come to think of it, Fred didn’t seem to register any more of their take-notice than a dried cowpie in a pasture would.
Wasn’t long before Ugly Son showed up. Tall and skinny, he didn’t look any better than the last time I saw him, a kid back then, in the school parade. Imagine somebody with a face touched up by a baseball bat, decorate it with angry pimples verging on open boils, and you’d be picturing somebody two shudders and a cringe handsomer than this feller. I mean, seriously, look away—which I tried to do, but he kept glaring at me as if I must be squatting in his seat. Finally, he claimed the antique-looking chair by the fireplace and snapped his fingers at the twins. Burly-Sis rolled her eyes, but Girly-Boy obediently bolted for the kitchen, then traipsed back with an open beer and a bowl of something or other. If you think you know ugly, wait till you try to stomach watching ugly eat.
When the Wheel rerun ended, a cacophony of cussing and rank-pulling ensued, the result a compromise between Granny Bess and Lazy Son, a channel offering some kind of bass-fishing show. Without a sound, Fred repaired to the kitchen, returning with another beer each for himself and me. I didn’t want to drink too much before running a backhoe, but Ugly Son kept challenging me with the vermin eye, so I figured deepening the old barley-and-hops stream would help keep him beyond the opposite bank.
A lot of rather pointed questions sloshed around in my head, but I didn’t ask them ’cause I didn’t want to have to listen to the people who might answer.
I could see that what little bit of temper Fred might have had started to steam like a microwave burrito, but still he never said a word, never made eye contact with a one of them.
Three or four bass-catches into the program, Loud Mouth barged in to join the crowd. The youngest son, he might have been old enough to buy liquor, or maybe not. He had a reputation around town for having an opinion on everything, for not knowing much about anything, and for running his mouth constantly to prove both. He started in about something the mayor had done or was going to do or maybe said he was thinking about doing, but everyone ignored him except Granny Bess; she responded to his prattle, all right—by turning up the TV. By then, the twins had started fighting, Girly-Boy crying again, so Lazy Son actually put enough space between his backside and the couch to reach out and slap them both. That triggered a free-for-all in which Burly-Sis nearly whipped his tail. Ugly Son responded by heading toward the kitchen to open more beers and make sandwiches. Girly-Boy quit crying long enough to follow and fetch himself a box of sugar cereal, which he ate by the handful, spilling bits on the furniture and floor. Granny Bess told Loud Mouth to shut up, no way do those bass shows fake it with rubber fish, now go heat me something in the microwave. Cousin Cindy slipped her nail file into a pocket, adjusted her too-tight bra, and disappeared down the hallway, something about needing to take a wicked pee. Lazy Son farted, long and loud, earning giggles from Girly-Boy.
I don’t know about you, but in Fred’s stead my druthers would be to boot their butts right out the door. I mean, seems like they’re really not even kinfolk anymore—Crissy leaving him had sawed off that branch of the family tree—and they sure didn’t know how to make themselves welcome like company in somebody else’s house. Worse, I had a feeling this was every day’s business. Freeloading, is what we call that where I come from; and since I’m from just up Highway 96, I’m pretty sure that’s what they call it here, too.
Granny Bess took a bite of whatever Ugly Son brought her from the microwave. She twisted her face into a grimace, talking with her mouth full as she described it in excretory terminology while cramming it back into the wrapper and tossing it onto the coffee table.
That’s when Fred made his move.
I mean, I wasn’t sure what he was doing at first. He just stood up, looked around until he roused everybody’s curiosity, then headed out toward the woodshed. Not wanting to be left alone with a roomful of varmints, I followed in silence, Girly-Boy trailing behind.
Fred retrieved an aluminum extension ladder from the shed, along with some kind of canvas harness or hammock or something or other attached to the end of a long braided rope. He walked down the trail, crossed the footbridge, then veered left off the path and headed straight for that big old tree by the water, stepping high through the tall grass. He leaned that ladder against the tree, pulled the cable until the extension fit tightly between two big branches, and proceeded to climb. He draped the rope and harness over a low branch, then continued upward, nothing difficult about it, until he reached as near the top as one can get, some hundred feet or more off the ground.
Girly-Boy watched, then eyed me for a minute before rushing back to the house. Soon the whole group spilled out into the yard, drinks in hand, milling about and mumbling among themselves.
When Loud Mouth announced, “He’s up to something,” the increasingly restless herd shifted gradually toward the water, craning for a better look. We could all see Fred up there, but leaves obscured our view, exactly what he was doing unclear.
I headed downstream, crossed the footbridge, and walked up close enough to see better. Fred simply sat up there, sometimes looking around, sometimes gazing off across the horizon. Noticing me below, he acknowledged me with a nod before looking away. I found a seat in the grass off to the side, sitting back against a large boulder to watch.
Granny Bess and Ugly Son went back to the house and disappeared inside for several minutes, but out they came again, a six-pack of open beers to hand out. Finally they anointed Lazy Son to cross the bridge and head for the tree. He peered into the branches, then turned toward the group and shrugged.
Not satisfied, Granny Bess dispatched her other two sons. The twins followed, Cousin Cindy a few minutes later. A spirited debate ensued, not about Fred’s intent, but over who would head up into the tree for a better look. Finally, Granny Bess charged across the bridge and joined the pack, their alpha female taking charge.
Ugly Son got the nod, but since Lazy Son and Loud Mouth both wanted the honor, too, they followed close behind, then more or less raced each other up through the branches. Burly-Girl had been chafing at not being considered for the job, so she set off on her own trek toward the top, choosing the more precarious routes as if to demonstrate her prowess. Girly-Boy wanted to go, too, but seemed a bit scared until Cousin Cindy teased him and he teased back and both eventually goaded each other to prove their worth by going up.
“Get closer, and find out what that lunatic thinks he’s doin’!” Granny Bess ordered, ground control nudging flights toward a collision course.
Two generations filled the branches, but nobody worked up the gumption to say a word to Fred. You ask me, I think they knew he wouldn’t answer, so they feigned some measure of dignity in acting like they didn’t want to know.
Ten minutes passed, fifteen, twenty . . . Eventually Granny Bess hollered, “You boys get down here and help me.”
Now, Fred must have been thinking ahead, I’ll give him that. The next fifteen minutes proved to be some of the funniest I’ve ever seen, mainly because Bess’s boys wound up having to use that harness and hundred feet of braided rope to help her flail and cuss her way up to a crotch of wide branches where she could wedge. Here I’m thinking I sure don’t want that backhoe to arrive anytime soon, because I want to keep my seat for part two of this show. Anybody who’s ever scaled an obstacle knows that getting down is twice as hard as climbing up.
“It’s the view,” Cousin Cindy pronounced. “Ain’t it pretty? You can see clear across the four hills and over to Buchananville. He come up here for the view.”
“He didn’t climb all that way for no look at no town,” Granny Bess scoffed.
“He’s watching the animals!” Girly-Boy gushed. “See the mama bird on her nest? Look, two squirrels watching us from over there.” He picked something off a branch. “See? I got a cala-piller.”
Burly-Sis scoffed at that. “No, he’s gonna steal them bird’s eggs, cook ’em, or hatch ’em and raise ’em to eat.”
Ugly Boy disagreed. “He’s got somethin’ hid up here, and we caught him before he could get to it.”
“He’s just showing off,” Granny Bess pronounced. “Good for nothin’, trying to prove he can do somethin’.”
“Prob’ly gonna jump,” Lazy Son offered, a bit too much enthusiasm at the notion in his voice. “Do his self in.”
Cousin Cindy suggested, “Maybe he’s looking to see where he wants to trim some branches.”
“I know,” said Loud Mouth. “I heard tell he’s got a backhoe comin’ from Cyrus. He’s lookin’ to see where to dig a hole.”
“What’s he diggin’ a hole fer?” Granny Bess demanded to know.
“He’s gonna plant somthing!” Girly-Boy exclaimed.
“Or bury somebody,” his twin supplied.
Right then a backscatter of dust like the smoke off an old train worked its way down the gravel road, the rumble of a truck soon drowning out the birds. By the time anybody noticed, Fred had climbed down out of that tree. He collapsed the ladder and hoisted it, then footed his way through the tall grass, across the footbridge, and up to the shed. That big old tree came alive with noise, a whole covey of Dingers not liking the idea of being trapped with no ladder. Seems now everybody did have something to say to Fred, quite a shift in the wind from sitting in his house, ignoring him while helping themselves to his stores. The truck drowned ’em out, though, as Cyrus pulled in and parked; and the diesel on that backhoe made a bigger noise as I drove it off the trailer. Fred came out and gestured simple instructions for the job, then headed back inside, no interest in sticking around to watch.
Turns out he didn’t want to do any digging at all.
So it took all of ten minutes, and I pulled the backhoe back onto the trailer as the last splintered beams of that footbridge floated down the stream. I knocked on Fred’s door. He greeted me with a handshake and a grin, inviting me inside.
He’d already cleaned up the mess, set out some snacks, opened us a couple of beers. We sat around for hours swapping stories, more words out of Fred than I’d ever heard.
“Been a long time,” he said, “since I had comp’ny.”
He has me by the place every other week or so now, maybe to play cards or sit around with Cyrus and those fellers from the feed store. I’ve met his new lady-friend a couple of times, too, when he brings her back this way instead of driving over to Piderboro where she lives with her mama and two brothers.
Sometimes I’ll stop on that gravel road and listen for the cackle of wild Dingers up among the branches, but I know they’re back in their own ramshackle house, no point in coming down to the water anymore, no way to cross. Fred’s thinking about holding his wedding right there at his place come next spring. Right outside would be nice, there in that meadow by the deep, limestone-cut stream.
I can picture it now: in the background you’ll see a gentle slope brushed with wildflower swaths, an exuberant old tree posing for the photos, its branches spread wide for scooping gobs of butter-yellow sunshine to fingerpaint the sky.
* * *
© The Fresh Ink Group, LLC, 2009
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