Sylvia Nica (17)
The Tree Stump
“I wanted you to be the first to know," Rowan tentatively confided in me.
How flattering, I thought. It was interesting how trust never flowed both ways. Rowan, when she had been fifteen, told me about the first time she kissed a man. Then, I was the first to know about her Stanford acceptance. Then, I was the first to know and then I was the first to know and then…
The only thing she had not told me about was her accidental pregnancy. She told her husband first, and I was second. I was the first to know about the settle for adoption, however.
Still, it interested me to hear what Rowan could tell me. We both grew up in rural Washington, where the thick rain and crowds of dark hemlock made you believe all your sins could be washed away by the next thunderstorm. She made me believe that good could grow from wet clay, that life would crawl out of the rabbit hole and seize you by the ankles.
“Well, spill,” I said. Sometimes Rowan could forget that I overflowed like a bucket, both with impatience and the secrets she spilled into my ears. If it was bad news, oh well. I would go to the nearest tree and spill the confession there. In a sense, perhaps it was better to wait. I always kept secrets. The age of five was when I held my first one. It was from my brother, who told me he had stolen the golden wafers and fed them to the fish. The fish died the next day.
Rowan, however, let my impatience smolder. “How is your mother?” she asked, covering my hand with hers. “I always talk about me, but I never ask about you.”
Talk about me? Talk about me. Fine, I would talk about my mother. Oh, where should I begin? I was the first lucky listener for my mother too. She did not feed wafers to the goldfish. Instead, she waxed about her affairs.
“Oh, George is wonderful,” she would say, stretching her legs wide. “He has amazing flexibility. I can hardly breathe from the excitement.”
“How wonderful, mother,” I would say, as I peeled the potatoes abandoned on the counter. “You should discuss it with father. He would appreciate the new tips.”
“You think?” she said, snapping her legs shut at the mention of her spouse.
No, you old bat, I wanted to say. I longed to shove the potato peels somewhere unmentionable, but I admit I feared George had beat me to it. Instead, I said, “Mother, you silly goose.”
Maybe Rowan would confess about her own husband’s love for erotic potato peels. I can't say I am jealous—I soak up enough romance from the cheap paperbacks I read.
“Mother is fine,” I said. “Sweet as ever. She has a cold, but she never complains, the dear, though I hear her coughing up and down the halls every night I visit.”
“A shame,” Rowan said, and her face paled as if my mother wasted away as we spoke. “Tell her to keep up her exercise. It helps.”
That old bat keeps more than enough exercise, I thought, but I smiled. “Enough about me.” Or, more accurately, about my mother. “Tell me about yourself, Rowan. I’m so worried about you.”
I was not worried, in truth. I was anxious to get it over with, or more rather, bursting with impatience, though I kept the placid smile fixed on my face. I wished Rowan would stop fussing with the clasp on her purse.
However, Rowan seemed in no rush, and I decided that before she spoke a new pelt of rain would rush upon us. We needed it. The tree near my house was growing brittle. That poor tree. The tree was my bucket; all the secrets I heard I fed to its branches. I had read in a nature documentary that trees could understand music and speech. Maybe, with all the juicy gossip I deposited, it would grow to be twice as tall as a regular hemlock. It was bursting with stories, though I wondered if it would snap from the weight. I know I sometimes felt my back ache, as if I held a heavy rock on my shoulders.
Rowan finally opened her mouth. “Ruth,” she said, “I think I am unhappy.” She began to cry. Great, ugly sobs.
That old goat.
I sat with my jaw hanging until I came to my senses and comforted her. I held her. I kissed her head and rubbed her shoulders and made up a story about a funny incident I had with a grocer. It had to be made up, you see, because if I told her one bit about my life then the secrets would roll from my shoulders and crush her. Rowan already cried like a broken hose. I could picture her, flat as a pancake, too heavy with truth. I imagined that if I crushed her with the truth, I would hang her placid, flattened corpse like a sheet to dry from my listening tree and they would feed each other and I would bring potato peels and bury them with my truths.
“Ruth,” she sobbed, “You are the best friend ever.”
Then she proceeded to tell me about all the wild antics she and her husband had in bed and how she had been frightened because she did not want anything up her backside. I had been close—it was not potato peels they used, but a potato peeler.
“Oh, you silly goose,” I said. Dare I say it, I was jealous. What my mother and Ruth shared was a sense of romantic excitement. Surrounded as I was by the rich rains and silent woods, I had twenty-cents paperbacks and a tree. I suppose it was a give and trade. I did not have to endure potato peelers in my unmentionables.
Still, the rock almost rolled from my shoulders. I could feel all the secrets I held threatening to burst, and I just hoped the thunderstorm would come so it would wash me away before I spilled.
“You alright?” Ruth asked, pulling her snotty nose from my blouse. Yes, of course I was, what else could I say. I almost began to cry.
My phone rang. Of course it did. I had almost relished crushing Rowan. I could sense it, feel it, love it. I wanted someone to feel the weight of truth on their shoulders. I wanted someone to feel the responsibility of a dead goldfish in the tank, of a confused husband forced to sleep in the garage rather than touch his unfaithful wife.
You see, I am like the tree. I may listen and nourish my wooden heart, but I also never act, and so I must share half the responsibility.
It was my mother who called, of course. Her voice was fluty and high, girlish almost. Happy. Maybe she had tried yoga. “Sweetie, my little angel,” she cooed. “I want you to be the first to know.”
“What, mother?”
“Oh, honey buns, it’s the happiest day of my life.”
“What, mother? Please tell.”
“Ruth, your father and I are getting a divorce!”
A terrible, satanic old goat. I shut the phone without another word. I hoped she would die in a vat of potato peels.
“Was that your mother?” Rowan asked, her face pale. “How is her cold?”
She died, I wanted to say. Instead, I chirped, “Much better!”
When Rowan left, I wandered to my tree. I stroked its bark, put my ear to its skin until I could almost hear the wooden heart beating. The green needles, still wet from the most recent storm, brushed my cheek like warm fingers. I could almost feel the secrets flowing through its veins, nourishing it, feeding it and corroding it.
I went inside and tossed aside the hardcovers until I found the ax I used for kindling. I took the ax and swung it as hard as I could into the tree until nothing remained but a white stump. Then, I chopped the body and used it for kindling. I made a beautiful fire and fed the hardcovers, one by one, into the fire until I saw the ink sputter and burst. I felt tears, bits of confessions, fall. I collected those in a bucket and used them to douse the fire. The rock that rolled off my shoulders crushed any remaining embers.
“You silly goat,” I muttered to myself. “You silly, stupid goat.”
I perched on the stump, letting the storm gather over my head.
The rains arrived soon after and washed away any chips that remained around the stump, and I stood in the rain and let my hair get wet and stringy and my heart soften and become full. I could almost believe my sins had been washed away, that life could crawl out of its hole and inhabit the hollow in my body.
You see, the rains always come. As I ignored the calls piling on my phone, I understood there is a mutual trust that the rains will sweep across the fields, and there is a mutual understanding that I will wait to receive them.
Sylvia is a young writer from the Midwest. In her spare time, she enjoys hiking and reading. She has been published in Blue Marble Review and other publications.
The Tree Stump
“I wanted you to be the first to know," Rowan tentatively confided in me.
How flattering, I thought. It was interesting how trust never flowed both ways. Rowan, when she had been fifteen, told me about the first time she kissed a man. Then, I was the first to know about her Stanford acceptance. Then, I was the first to know and then I was the first to know and then…
The only thing she had not told me about was her accidental pregnancy. She told her husband first, and I was second. I was the first to know about the settle for adoption, however.
Still, it interested me to hear what Rowan could tell me. We both grew up in rural Washington, where the thick rain and crowds of dark hemlock made you believe all your sins could be washed away by the next thunderstorm. She made me believe that good could grow from wet clay, that life would crawl out of the rabbit hole and seize you by the ankles.
“Well, spill,” I said. Sometimes Rowan could forget that I overflowed like a bucket, both with impatience and the secrets she spilled into my ears. If it was bad news, oh well. I would go to the nearest tree and spill the confession there. In a sense, perhaps it was better to wait. I always kept secrets. The age of five was when I held my first one. It was from my brother, who told me he had stolen the golden wafers and fed them to the fish. The fish died the next day.
Rowan, however, let my impatience smolder. “How is your mother?” she asked, covering my hand with hers. “I always talk about me, but I never ask about you.”
Talk about me? Talk about me. Fine, I would talk about my mother. Oh, where should I begin? I was the first lucky listener for my mother too. She did not feed wafers to the goldfish. Instead, she waxed about her affairs.
“Oh, George is wonderful,” she would say, stretching her legs wide. “He has amazing flexibility. I can hardly breathe from the excitement.”
“How wonderful, mother,” I would say, as I peeled the potatoes abandoned on the counter. “You should discuss it with father. He would appreciate the new tips.”
“You think?” she said, snapping her legs shut at the mention of her spouse.
No, you old bat, I wanted to say. I longed to shove the potato peels somewhere unmentionable, but I admit I feared George had beat me to it. Instead, I said, “Mother, you silly goose.”
Maybe Rowan would confess about her own husband’s love for erotic potato peels. I can't say I am jealous—I soak up enough romance from the cheap paperbacks I read.
“Mother is fine,” I said. “Sweet as ever. She has a cold, but she never complains, the dear, though I hear her coughing up and down the halls every night I visit.”
“A shame,” Rowan said, and her face paled as if my mother wasted away as we spoke. “Tell her to keep up her exercise. It helps.”
That old bat keeps more than enough exercise, I thought, but I smiled. “Enough about me.” Or, more accurately, about my mother. “Tell me about yourself, Rowan. I’m so worried about you.”
I was not worried, in truth. I was anxious to get it over with, or more rather, bursting with impatience, though I kept the placid smile fixed on my face. I wished Rowan would stop fussing with the clasp on her purse.
However, Rowan seemed in no rush, and I decided that before she spoke a new pelt of rain would rush upon us. We needed it. The tree near my house was growing brittle. That poor tree. The tree was my bucket; all the secrets I heard I fed to its branches. I had read in a nature documentary that trees could understand music and speech. Maybe, with all the juicy gossip I deposited, it would grow to be twice as tall as a regular hemlock. It was bursting with stories, though I wondered if it would snap from the weight. I know I sometimes felt my back ache, as if I held a heavy rock on my shoulders.
Rowan finally opened her mouth. “Ruth,” she said, “I think I am unhappy.” She began to cry. Great, ugly sobs.
That old goat.
I sat with my jaw hanging until I came to my senses and comforted her. I held her. I kissed her head and rubbed her shoulders and made up a story about a funny incident I had with a grocer. It had to be made up, you see, because if I told her one bit about my life then the secrets would roll from my shoulders and crush her. Rowan already cried like a broken hose. I could picture her, flat as a pancake, too heavy with truth. I imagined that if I crushed her with the truth, I would hang her placid, flattened corpse like a sheet to dry from my listening tree and they would feed each other and I would bring potato peels and bury them with my truths.
“Ruth,” she sobbed, “You are the best friend ever.”
Then she proceeded to tell me about all the wild antics she and her husband had in bed and how she had been frightened because she did not want anything up her backside. I had been close—it was not potato peels they used, but a potato peeler.
“Oh, you silly goose,” I said. Dare I say it, I was jealous. What my mother and Ruth shared was a sense of romantic excitement. Surrounded as I was by the rich rains and silent woods, I had twenty-cents paperbacks and a tree. I suppose it was a give and trade. I did not have to endure potato peelers in my unmentionables.
Still, the rock almost rolled from my shoulders. I could feel all the secrets I held threatening to burst, and I just hoped the thunderstorm would come so it would wash me away before I spilled.
“You alright?” Ruth asked, pulling her snotty nose from my blouse. Yes, of course I was, what else could I say. I almost began to cry.
My phone rang. Of course it did. I had almost relished crushing Rowan. I could sense it, feel it, love it. I wanted someone to feel the weight of truth on their shoulders. I wanted someone to feel the responsibility of a dead goldfish in the tank, of a confused husband forced to sleep in the garage rather than touch his unfaithful wife.
You see, I am like the tree. I may listen and nourish my wooden heart, but I also never act, and so I must share half the responsibility.
It was my mother who called, of course. Her voice was fluty and high, girlish almost. Happy. Maybe she had tried yoga. “Sweetie, my little angel,” she cooed. “I want you to be the first to know.”
“What, mother?”
“Oh, honey buns, it’s the happiest day of my life.”
“What, mother? Please tell.”
“Ruth, your father and I are getting a divorce!”
A terrible, satanic old goat. I shut the phone without another word. I hoped she would die in a vat of potato peels.
“Was that your mother?” Rowan asked, her face pale. “How is her cold?”
She died, I wanted to say. Instead, I chirped, “Much better!”
When Rowan left, I wandered to my tree. I stroked its bark, put my ear to its skin until I could almost hear the wooden heart beating. The green needles, still wet from the most recent storm, brushed my cheek like warm fingers. I could almost feel the secrets flowing through its veins, nourishing it, feeding it and corroding it.
I went inside and tossed aside the hardcovers until I found the ax I used for kindling. I took the ax and swung it as hard as I could into the tree until nothing remained but a white stump. Then, I chopped the body and used it for kindling. I made a beautiful fire and fed the hardcovers, one by one, into the fire until I saw the ink sputter and burst. I felt tears, bits of confessions, fall. I collected those in a bucket and used them to douse the fire. The rock that rolled off my shoulders crushed any remaining embers.
“You silly goat,” I muttered to myself. “You silly, stupid goat.”
I perched on the stump, letting the storm gather over my head.
The rains arrived soon after and washed away any chips that remained around the stump, and I stood in the rain and let my hair get wet and stringy and my heart soften and become full. I could almost believe my sins had been washed away, that life could crawl out of its hole and inhabit the hollow in my body.
You see, the rains always come. As I ignored the calls piling on my phone, I understood there is a mutual trust that the rains will sweep across the fields, and there is a mutual understanding that I will wait to receive them.
Sylvia is a young writer from the Midwest. In her spare time, she enjoys hiking and reading. She has been published in Blue Marble Review and other publications.