Shake The Leaves Not The Tree (Short Story)

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-Hannah

It was at least one hundred years old. Towering up to three stories tall, the old willow played peacefully with the wind. Its drooping branches fluttered with the breeze, gently caressing the blades of grass as if it were a friend. Or perhaps it was a gesture of thanks? After all, it was the dirt beneath our feet that gave birth to the sapling years before our time.

The drooping tree was seeded long ago, taking root into the swampy town of Boulder, Georgia. It was here when our ancestors built this town with splintered logs and red clay, and it was here when we put up our first Walmart last year. Extraordinary enough, the tree had even withstood a couple hurricanes, some snowstorms, and a forest fire. And it sure as hell took some beatings over the years.

How many memories were twisted within its trunk, running through the outlets of twigs? I was once told that a tree’s memories were stored in its leaves. When the memories became too heavy, the leaves would fall off so new memories could grow. I’m not sure what would become of the old memories though. I suppose once the leaves disintegrated back into the earth, they were stored there for eternity or something.

Caw Caw Caw.

A restless raven was perched on the willow’s upper branches, its call shattering the afternoon silence.

“I made it over as soon as I could, Glunny,” Bill said out of breath before shoving a sweating cup of iced tea into my hand. “Richard is finally doing it, huh? We all knew he was crazy, but this is insanity!”

Insanity. And that it was.

Richard lived in the house smack dab in the middle between Bill and I for the last twelve years. All three of us had been more than just neighbors—we had been great buddies. We used to do loads of stuff together from doing our yard work at the same time every Saturday morning to playing change poker when the wives were out for the evening. But those days ended after Richard’s wife and two sons left him last summer. That’s when Richard started acting odd. Well, more odd than usual.

At first, Richard gave all his shirts to the local thrift store as an act of reinventing himself, which can be considered normal for any man going through a divorce. Bill and I even helped Richard haul the bags to the donation drop off. Shortly after that, Richard refused to wear any shirts that weren’t mustard colored. We figured it was because his wife used to always nag about the mustard stains on his nice shirts.

But then Richard decided to build a pool about six months ago, and that’s when we knew the man was spiraling downhill faster than we could help him. He was at the point where an iced tea and night of poker couldn’t even help. Instead of filling the pool with chlorinated water like any normal person, he began filling it with old cans and empty bottles. The other night when I was taking the trash out, I caught him inspecting the growing pile of junk with a flashlight before muttering something to it.

Last month he bought a bunch of teacups, and not just any teacups. They were the ritzy ones that wife never lets me touch. We didn’t know what Richard was planning to do with the teacups until he started placing them all over his overgrown front lawn. It was probably a week or so later when he finally pulled out his shotgun and shattered each teacup with a slug. He left the pieces in his yard like a floor of broken tile. I still cringe whenever I catch him walking outside barefooted.

Now Richard was up to something none of us wanted to see. He was trying to crank up a dying chainsaw. His round belly was the only fat on his sun beat leather body, but it didn’t seem to hold him back from his aggressive movements. His thinning mullet was still in the process of transitioning from blond to silver, but his handlebar mustache, on the other hand, was like a foxtail dangling above his lip, still full and thick. He was wearing a sleeveless mustard color shirt, cutoff blue jeans shorter than they ought to be, and untied steel tip boots. Overall Richard looked as if he just crawled out of a bear’s den and hadn’t had a proper cup of Joe in days.

I took a sip of iced tea as I watched Richard from my backyard, and then sent a sideways glance at Bill who was also watching our mutual neighbor make a fool of himself. “Richard has been trying to get that chainsaw started for the past half hour. Seems pretty gritty about it this time.”

Bill scratched the dark stubble under his chin. “The only reason he bought that house was because of that willow tree his wife loved so much. And he paid a pretty penny for it too. Now all he ever talks about is making firewood with it.”
It was going to be a real shame to watch the willow’s life come to an end after all these years. It was identified as the oldest tree in town, and there was even a fund box to have a fancy plaque made for it. “Once the town catches wind of this nonsense, Richard better skid out of here.”

“I reckon so,” Bill spat to the side. “That reminds me, Glunny. Saw that for sale sign in your front yard. Guess you and Etta finally decided on moving up and outta here, huh?”

I kept my gaze on Richard in the distance, who was still fussing over the chainsaw. “Etta insists on moving elsewhere. Wants a house with a white porch and matching fence.” But that was hardly an excuse. If I was being honest with myself, I was the one who wanted to move more than my wife did.

A few months ago I was diagnosed with colon cancer. Out of all cancers, it had to be colon cancer. And no one knew about it except Etta. Bill didn’t even know, and I planned to keep it that way. I figured I’d move upstate, buy a house like Etta always wanted, and then keep my treatments a private affair. The cancer was curable, but my pride wasn’t.

Truth was, I was more terrified of people seeing me go through that drawn out process than admitting I had cancer. If word got out, people will see me different and they will treat me different too. Bill looked up to me and I didn’t want him to think of me as a weak man. I wanted him to still think of me as the man who once killed a rattlesnake with his bare hands, the man who could hold his liquor down better than anyone else, and the man who hadn’t lost a single game of pool in his life. I wanted everyone to still see me as that man.

Because I am that man.

I’d lived in Boulder, Georgia for all 53 years of my life as a fifth generation. If the cancer didn’t kill me, leaving might. Everything I ever wanted was right here in this muggy town, and it was going to be difficult to see someone else living in my wood framed, two-story home and driving down my dusty, red roads. Hell, even imagining Bill with another neighbor twisted my gut something to awful.

“Well look at that, Glunny,” Bill whistled out in dismay. “He’s actually doing it this time.”

The cup of iced tea suddenly slipped from my hand, hitting the porch boards with a high-pitched shatter.

Richard had tossed the dead chainsaw aside and grabbed a rusty handsaw, and he was headed right for the willow tree. The man swung back the tool as if it were a bat, ready to strike at the target. Any man in his right mind would know better than to use a saw like that.

But Richard wasn’t in his right mind.

“Maybe we should stop him?” But I was already making my way over to his yard.

“Wait,” Bill snatched my shirt, tugging me backwards. “Are you crazy? That man has a weapon in his hand.”

“I can’t stand here and let him get rid of something just because he and his wife carved their initials into it. The tree is practically a monument around here.”

“We knew this day was coming, Glunny. Richard’s been talking about cutting down that tree since Annie left him. This ain’t a surprise to us.”

Bill was right. We knew Richard had been blabbing about doing it for a while, but I didn’t think he would actually go through with it. He loved that tree. Maybe I should emphasize on the word loved. It was past tense. But what changed? His wife leaves him and he suddenly felt obligated to chop away all traces of her?

I raised a hand over my brow and squinted under the afternoon sun, sweat glazing my forehead. Richard plummeted the saw into the tree, the tool wedged in the trunk. He grabbed the handle and acted as if he was about to start hacking away, but then the strangest thing happened.

Richard fell to his knees, his head dipping down and shoulders shuttering in a way that indicated he was sobbing. With a raised hand, Richard pressed his palm against the trunk.

And then he just froze.

After a few moments of nothing, Richard finally stood up and brushed off his bare knees. He yanked the saw from the trunk and hurled it over his shoulder. Standing straight with a puffed out chest, he flounced to where the garbage cans were lined up on the side of the house. Richard then chucked the saw into the trash. But that wasn’t the only thing he tossed away. He ripped off that ugly, mustard colored shirt he was wearing and crammed it into the can without any hesitation.

Bill rubbed the back of his neck. “What is he doing?”

I blinked, unsure if what I just witnessed was real or not. “I don’t know. It’s like he just snapped out of it or something.”
“No,” Bill corrected. “I think he finally accepted his situation.”

Richard peered to where Bill and I were standing on my back porch, and offered us a lively grin with a quick flick of the wrist. “Good afternoon, boys.”

“Good afternoon,” Bill and I repeated in union, our voices still clinging on to puzzlement.

“You made a mess of yourself, Glunny,” Richard hollered, pointing to the spilled iced tea and shattered glass residing by my feet. “Let me help you clean it up.”