The Wrong Tree

He says the tree is wrong. What do the squirrels know?

"I'm telling you, Martha," he said, gesturing at the oak, "this tree is wrong. The squirrels know, ask the squirrels! Look at their tails!” She squinted into the sun streaming through the leaves. Maybe fifteen feet above their heads, a squirrel was clinging to a branch. She had to admit, its tail looked awfully scraggly, but she’d never paid attention to squirrel tails before. Maybe they looked like that all the time, how would she know? It certainly didn’t look the way squirrel tails did in cartoons, thick sweeping arcs of dense fur curving majestically up and back. This looked more like a seriously overgrown pipe cleaner, twitching to and fro.

Another squirrel peeked from behind the trunk, and suddenly they were chasing each other around and across the rough bark, darting in and out of pools of afternoon sunlight before abruptly veering off onto a thick branch and fleeing into the foliage. A moment later she saw them leaping from the oak onto the pine tree in their neighbor’s yard and thence onto the roof, disappearing over the peak. She thought she heard a raucous, grating shriek a few seconds later, like an angry crow, but couldn’t be sure.

She crossed her arms and regarded her husband with what she hoped was a look of loving patience. “Do you see, Martha?” he insisted. “You see what I’m talking about?”

Oh lordy, did he actually think she’d been studying the darned squirrels? All she’d seen was a couple of fluffy little... uh, rodents? doing squirrel things, perfectly ordinary and unremarkable. She sighed, again with patience, and said, “Look, Thomas�"”

“Don’t you ‘Look Thomas’ me! I know what I’m talking about! Why is it so hard for you to admit when  I’m right?” He glared angrily at the trunk of the oak tree that shaded the rear of their house. “This thing has been growing here the whole time we’ve lived in this house. Thirty years, and who know how many years before that? In the heat of every summer I’ve sat in its shade, in the chill of every autumn I’ve raked up its leaves, in the thick of every winter I’ve collected its deadwood, I’ve watched our kids and our grandkids climb up and down every branch it’s got. I know this tree, and I’m telling you it’s wrong!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the tree, pressing her hand beneath his against the trunk. “Feel that! Just take one damned minute and feel that!”

Martha rolled her eyes and tried to pull her hand back, but Thomas wouldn’t relent. She let her head droop and vowed to humor him for thirty more seconds, and then it was time to take a stand. She couldn’t believe she was standing here in their own backyard, trying to... to do whatever it was Thomas expected her to do, when she had chores in the house to take care of. Not that Thomas would be any help with them. No, he had more important things to do, TV programs to yell at, talking heads on the news to argue with. Why couldn’t things be like they used to when they first met, when he would shove her up against the tree and take her from behind, thrusting his c**k into whichever hole he hit first as she writhed beneath his weight, grinding against the bark that abraded her face and breasts, ants crawling across her skin, biting her n*****s, lapping up the blood that leaked from her wounds. They would rut like animals, howling their lust into the night�"

With a gasp, she yanked her hand away from the tree, heart pounding in her ears. “What... what was that?” she panted. She took a step back, eyes wide and staring as she clutched her hand to her chest. “I don’t....” She looked at Thomas, uncertain what to say.

“Bad thoughts, right? Thoughts like you never imagined would cross your mind?” She nodded numbly. Certainly she’d never had thoughts like that. She’d been raised right and proper. If Thomas had ever attempted anything like that with her, she’d have been shocked, outraged. She’d have driven her thumbnails into his eye sockets, digging into the space behind his eyeballs, thumbs probing through the muscle and tissue, dragging the globes forward until she could get a good, solid grip with her hands and then tearing them from his head, joyfully crushing his eyes in her hands until they burst like grapes as he wheezed shrill gasps of agony, blood pouring from the twin holes in his face like wine from an uncorked cask�"

With a shriek, she stumbled back from the tree, staring in shock at her unmarked hands, still feeling the warmth of the sticky fluid dripping from her fingers. Thomas darted forward and put his arm around her, stroking her hair, a steady stream of reassurance flowing warm into her ear. Slowly recovering, she weakly brushed bits of bark off her palm, feeling more than anything like she wanted to run her hands under scalding water and scrub with the harshest soap she could find. The tree loomed silently above them, its shade suddenly too chilly.

Thomas led her gently away from the tree. “You see? There’s something wrong, something.... It’s not our tree any more, it’s different.” She could feel it behind them, spreading defiantly into the air, seemingly still but full of menace like a bully making a show of deciding whether he’s going to kick over your sandcastle or not. What do you think, Mrs. Wright, should I or shouldn’t I? This ol’ branch is pretty weak, should I drop it on Tommy-boy’s withered old noggin? Which snap do you think would be louder, my branch or his neck?

She shook off the thought and pulled away from her husband. “What can we do?” She eyed the tree over his shoulder, suddenly feeling like it was a rabid dog on a chain of unknown strength. “How did this happen? One minute this was our old oak tree, and now it’s, I don’t know what!” She put a fist to her mouth, fighting backs tears of helplessness.

He shrugged, turning so his back wouldn’t be to the oak. “I first noticed it a few weeks ago. Things around the tree just seemed... darker, I guess. My mood would go right down when I was out there. I’d find myself thinking unpleasant thoughts and they’d just slip away when I went back into the house, or even just across the yard. It got so it was like walking into a cold pond. I could almost see the air around the tree thicken and turn dark, like a... like a fog.

“The birds won’t go near it, they veer away at the last minute. The squirrels still go after acorns, but if there’s more than one of them, they fight. A big black squirrel killed a little red one the other day, just bit right through its skull like a kid devouring a chocolate.” He grimaced at the memory, and this time Margaret put her arm around him. “I buried the body in the side yard, far from that tree. I couldn’t stand to think about scooping out a shovelful of dirt and finding its roots down there, what they might look like.”

At the mention of roots, Margaret found herself wondering how far they might extend, and gazed uneasily around the yard. “Maybe we should go inside, Thomas,” she said. “It’s starting to get dark.” She suddenly felt as if she were standing on a thick carpet that concealed a swarm of fire ants.

He nodded his agreement, taking her arm to walk her up the stairs of the back porch. He looked back over his shoulder once more before shutting out the back yard with a slam of the door. The oak stood as always, leaves stirring gently in the evening breeze. It looked postcard-perfect, but even from a distance he could now sense its wrongness. When a blue jay sailed across the back yard and crashed into the trunk, dropping bonelessly to the ground like a rag doll, he yanked so hard on the cord to drop the Venetian blind over the sight that he almost dislocated his pinky.

Author's Note

I do this thing where I write a weird first line or two, and then keep writing to see what happens. Sometimes I get a complete story. Sometimes I get things like this, which are like chapter one of a book. Let's just pretend the rest of the book is lost and this is all that remains.

Reviews

[The Pain Stays Fresh]

Holy crap! That's really cool! I've never read anything so great about a freakin' tree. This is totally awesome!