Authors: Elyse Douglas
The vision shattered when Rita’s face fell into darkness. Her troubled eyes closed, opened, then returned to the page, widening, swimming over the words.
Now, my eyes scarcely rested on her as she read, for I became keenly aware that even the slightest disapproval from her could cause permanent emotional scaring. It became painfully obvious that I had no real power over Rita whatsoever. She held it all. She was the Queen of the Earth, and she held the power of life and death over me with a simple arch of her eyebrow, the turn of her hand, or the subtle readjustment of her body.
I watched anxiously as her slender fingers gently twisted the pure golden strands of her hair; I struggled to relax as her peculiar radiance put me in a state of restlessness. I knew my story was good. I knew a lot of S.A.T. words and had used as many as possible. But none of that would matter unless she actually liked the story.
Then Rita shifted. I heard the squeak of plastic and my eyes opened. She made a little grunt of displeasure and lifted her gaze to meet mine, preoccupied. She was silent, needing time to adjust to the change of reality, as she pondered my story. “Aren’t you going to read mine?” she asked, pointedly.
I stiffened and sat forward. “Yeah, sure…”
My eyes snapped to the pages before me and I began reading her story. By the second paragraph, I realized that it was not only good, it was remarkable. It flowed effortlessly, like the quiet meandering of a river, unraveling the plot and ideas in a natural, sensitive style. It was quality, mature writing.
It was about a woman who fell in love with a large oak tree that had spread itself generously over a little dirt road, at the foot of a sloping hill.
The tree told the stories of the people who had passed and paused, using its trunk and shade for rest; it told of the families and the events it had witnessed, of conversations it had heard, and of advice it had given during its long good life.
The idea seemed a little odd to me at first, but the writing was compelling.
When the tree saw the girl come into view, it instantly fell in love with her, and vowed that it would always love and protect the girl from any harm for as long as it lived. The girl said that she loved the tree more than anything else because she thought it the most beautiful and magnificent thing she’d ever seen. She lived and slept in its broad, sturdy branches and learned many practical and inspiring lessons from the tree.
By the sixth page of the story, I was impressed and humbled. I paused long enough to pass Rita an admiring glance. She sensed my gaze and looked at me over the pages of my story.
“What do you think? she asked, uneasily.
“I’m almost finished,” I said.
Meanwhile, a crowd of the curious was collecting in booths and at the counter; they whispered and passed us sideways glances. Rita didn’t seem to care or notice. I swelled with happy conceit, adjusting my proud shoulders. I wanted to shout, “Hey, losers, I’m with Rita Fitzgerald. You’re all just pathetic jerk-offs.”
I finished Rita’s story about the same time she finished mine, because she’d re-read particular paragraphs. She was silent and contemplative, so I spoke up.
“Why does the tree die at the end?” I said.
Rita quickly scratched some notes in her spiral notebook, laid her pen aside and folded her hands, twisting them gently. “Because the girl had to leave.”
“A little pun?” I asked, trying for a bad joke.
Her forehead wrinkled, not getting it.
“You know, leave… Tree. Leaves.”
The forehead smoothed in recognition. She chuckled, a low throaty sound that struck me someplace deep in the chest.
“No pun, intended, Alan,” she said, smiling. “No, it’s just that it was a road. The tree lived on a road…”
“Okay…” I said, still not getting it, but nodding my head.
“You know, roads and movement.”
A vague idea struck. “You mean like the road of life or something.”
Rita lit up. “Yes! Yes, Alan. You got it! I didn’t know if anyone would get that!”
I didn’t really, but I didn’t want her to know that. Her perfume entranced me. I grabbed a french fry and chewed vigorously.
“You see,” she continued, “life is always moving. Things are always passing, people coming and going, like on a road.”
It was almost too poetic for me. “What’s the tree stand for then?”
“Protection. Safety, I think.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but you were in love. I mean, the girl in the story was in love with the tree. Why didn’t you stay with the tree? Stay and be protected?”
“Because the tree also means life—you know, the tree of life. But it has to die, too. I mean, everything dies. Just look outside at the trees. All the leaves are falling. Some of the trees have died since last fall. Birth and death right outside Jack’s Diner. So, the girl realized, I think, I mean, I’m still working on it with Ms. Lyendecker but…the girl realized, at some point, she’d have to go off down the road anyway.”
“You mean, like living her own life? Growing up?”
Rita licked her lips, thoughtfully. “Yeah…I think so.” Then more firmly, grabbing the idea. “Yeah. You’ve got to grow up. That’s it, Alan James. That’s good!”
“But she left before the tree died,” I said. “I mean, I just don’t get that. The tree died, I think, because the girl left him.”
Rita’s eyes clouded over. “Yeah…I’m not really sure about that. Maybe it just sounded good. Maybe she left before the tree died. Maybe she couldn’t stand to see the tree die. It would hurt too much. So, she left.”
That struck me as tragic and I’d never thought of Rita as being tragic. But I was still greatly impressed with Rita’s story and explanation and I wasn’t going to risk being offensive. “Oh, yeah, well, it’s good. The writing is great. I mean, better than good.”
Rita fumbled for her pen. “You really like it?”
“Yeah. It’s really good, Rita.”
Her faced opened into pure pleasure. “Thanks, Alan. If you like it, then I’ll keep working on it.”
Seconds later, her mood changed. Her mouth puckered in indecision and she slumped and faced the window, squinting into the sunlight.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She stared down at my story as if there was a big ugly bug crawling across it. “Alan,” she said, with quiet authority. “Everybody in your story is so angry.”
My heart jumped. I shrugged, in obvious agreement. “Well, yeah. I know. That’s kind of my style.”
Rita was silent.
“You didn’t like it?” I asked, masking a tepid anxiety.
She squirmed. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…Well, I mean, what’s it really about?”
I shrank a little. My voice lost its vigor. “You know, it’s kind of a play on the phrase, ‘Left To Die.’”
Rita nodded. “Okay…Yes. And so this guy, Pete, is angry because people don’t really understand him?”
I got defensive. “Well, it’s not just that. Pete believes that people and nature are basically destructive, but despite that, he has to fight on. He’s actually a hero.”
“I don’t think all people are destructive or bad,” Rita said.
“Oh come on, Rita, you’re just naïve. Nature is constantly eating itself. People are stealing, killing and fighting wars all over the world.”
Her voice gained strength and conviction. “I’m not naïve, Alan! What is your middle name?”
That disarmed me and I stammered. “Whaa, why?”
“What is it?”
I hesitated. “It’s James. Alan James.”
“Alan James,” she repeated, reflectively. “I like it.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I feel you’d be less pessimistic if you used both names. Alan. James. Alan James. It adds strength and optimism. I’m going to start calling you that.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Rita. A name doesn’t…”
She cut me off. “I’m going to show you how fun the world can be, Alan James. I’m going to show you how to be Alan James, not just boring and brooding Alan.” She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes, for emphasis. “I’m going to rehabilitate you.”
“Rehabilitate…?”
“Yes.”
I blinked rapidly, tingling from head to toe. “Okay…” It sounded delicious and daunting, but her treatment had already begun to take effect. I felt absolutely euphoric.
My oatmeal arrived, steaming. The banana came sliced, overripe and piled in a little mountain on a separate blue chipped dish, but it smelled good. The waitress refilled the coffee and withdrew, wordless. I added sugar and some milk to the oats, and spooned a couple of bites, chewing slowly and stealing sporadic glances, looking for Rita.
A moment later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Startled, I turned.
She was heavy, with a fleshy round face and short brown hair. Her smile was uncomfortable. “Hi, Alan.”
I swallowed the bite. “…Hi.”
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
I came up blank and she giggled. “Oh, my, well it’s been 15 years or more and you didn’t come to the 10
th
or 15
th
high school reunions. Picture me about 70 pounds lighter, with long auburn hair.”
The giggle jarred my memory. “Ellen Tucker…”
I stood when she spread her fat hands and grinned, as if she was about to perform. “That’s me! I recognized you as soon as you came in.”
I stood awkwardly, laying my paper napkin on the counter. “Well…how are you?”
“Just fine, well, you know, as fine as one can be these days with everything that’s going on. Things changing so fast, you don’t know which way to point your head.”
“Yeah, big changes.”
She looked me over. “Well, look at you, Alan. You’ve gone and got yourself handsome.”
“You always were a charmer, Ellen,” I said, lying.
She giggled again. “We both know that ain’t true, Alan. And I haven’t changed any except that I’m fat. But you have. You’re all filled out and your hair’s long and as thick as a brush. You’re never going to go bald.”
“Good hair genes,” I said.
“You even look taller.”
“Still 5’10”. So how are you? What are you doing?”
“Training to be a nurse. I’m going to be working at the county hospital. Thank God I’m still young enough. A lot of the older folks are just standing in place. Don’t know what to do with themselves. Just watched their retirement vanish. So sad.”
“Town seems quieter…”
“Lots of people moved away, especially after the factories shut down and …” Her voice trailed away and she shook off a sorrowful thought. She swiftly changed the subject. “And you’re a doctor, I hear.”
“Yes…”
“Living in New York City?”
“Yes.”
“Married?”
“Almost three years.”
Her face was alive with interest. “Three years! Why you’ve just started. Keith and I have been married 12 years now. You remember Keith Parry?”
“No, I don’t believe…”
She cut me off. “He was a year behind us.” She batted her eyes, playfully. “I married a younger man. We have two boys, both little terrors. Do you have any children?”
Under her scrutiny, I shifted my uncomfortable gaze away from her. “No…no children.”
“Well, you have lots of time. I bet your wife is one of those career women, isn’t she?”
Her questions were beginning to irritate me. “Well…she’s an attorney. She stays pretty busy. We both stay really busy,” I said, a little defensively.
“Well, Hartsfield is proud of you. Sure are. We knew you’d do well. Just knew it. I heard your father had a stroke and moved away.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. To sell the house.”
“That was one of the prettiest homes in town. Still is.”
I pocketed my hands, nodding. “Yeah…”
We’d pushed the small talk to its limit, and had arrived at the respectable moment to speak about Rita. I’d seen the constraint in Ellen’s eyes during our brief catch up and heard the forced gaiety in her still little-girl voice. But she trembled, just a bit, as she spoke, and her eyes lacked luster.
I was straining to appear cool and blank as marble, while my head was a tangle of unexpected questions and unanticipated emotions. My brow was wet. I fought the urge to reach for the napkin and mop it. I’d been in Jack’s long enough to feel that grief and loss had crept into every corner and crack of the place; had seeped into the walls and yellowed the photos; had smothered the old triumphant breaths and soaring cheers that had once crackled in the air; had transformed the life of this popular teenage beauty, with all the vitality and joy of spring, into a wizened old crone.
Ellen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I guess you heard about poor Rita and Dusty?”
“Yes…”
“What a tragedy. What a horrible and terrible thing. Darla was such a pretty little thing, just like her mother. So smart, so sweet.” Then with a quiet ferocious agony, she said. “God in heaven!” Her eyes filled with tears. She recovered, with effort. “This town…after all we’ve been through with our job losses. Lord, Alan, we are all still so devastated for her. Have you seen her?”