The Old Oak Tree

by Thom Garrett and Danna Colman

Every little girl has a best friend, even the ones who never meet another child. Some have a special doll or toy. Some invent an invisible, magical companion. Hers was a tree. It stood outside her bedroom window and they came to know and love each other year after lonely year. It was her confidant, harboring her secrets deep in its roots and holding her safe in its massive limbs. It shaded her in the summer and sheltered her from rain and snow. It knew her heart, knew her dreams, and she always felt that it believed in her. This tree, her tree, cared more for her than any person she had ever known, and it really didn’t ask for much in return.

Ora Mae was old now, but she had remained steadfast, never straying from home, never giving her heart to another. She had stayed because her tree needed her, and she needed her tree. They had lived a secluded life in the desolate back roads of upstate New York. Maybe it was a little odd by some standards, but she had always been happy, and she had taken good care of her tree. Still times were tough, and sometimes a girl just has to adapt to the times.

She had heard of AirBnB, and it was a simple thing to run the ad. She was very specific — just one person, no couples, no families. And just one night. She didn’t want anyone staying here who had friends or family in the area. As it turned out, there were enough solitary travelers to meet her needs, and tonight she would welcome her tenth guest, a sort of a milestone for her.

Ora Mae tugged at the edge of the quilt one more time as if there might still be an errant wrinkle in the immaculately made bed. She fluffed the single pillow and crossed her arms over her willowy frame with a satisfied sigh. She turned to the open window and leaned on the sill, breathing in the scent of oak leaves rustling in the breeze. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, allowing the tiny twigs sprouting nearest the house to tangle in her hair. She was as content as a person could be.

Her guest arrived after dinner, and she showed him to his room. He was tired, and neither he nor she seemed inclined to chat. As she led him up the stairs, he spoke with a weary smile. “Spooky old house, innit?”

“Not at all,” said Ora Mae lightly. “I’m sure you’ll rest peacefully here.”

She opened the door and allowed him into the bedroom. He went straight to the window and pulled it shut.

“Why on earth would you do that,” asked Ora Mae.

“Bugs! Don’t want no bugs getting in while I sleep, do I?”

“Nonsense,” said Ora Mae with a matron’s finality. “There are no bugs here.” She opened the window wide. “And besides, you’ll enjoy the night air and the whispering leaves.” She leaned out and drew in a deep breath, noticing a bug, some sort of moth, flying toward the open window. Her hand shot out like a lizard’s tongue and snatched it out of the air. She gave the offending bug a quick squeeze and discreetly dropped its carcass onto a nearby leaf. The leaf rolled gratefully around the tiny morsel.

They said their goodnights, and Ora Mae left her weary guest to climb into his cozy bed. She pulled the door shut behind her and silently turned the key in the lock. She went downstairs to brew a cup of chamomile and wait. She sipped her tea thinking about the tiny moth, just like the very first one she had seen, fascinated by her tree’s new trick. Soon there were very few bugs of any kind around her house, and then, a year or so later, she watched as the smallest of its branches tangled around a bird’s foot. There’s always another bird looking for a roost in an old oak tree, and so that, as they say, was that. But squirrels do tend to love acorns, and soon birds weren’t enough. She did what she could for her beloved tree, starting with the occasional fresh roadkill, and then feral cats and stray dogs. It had become quite a chore, and her tree seemed insatiable. Times were tough, and sometimes a girl has to adapt to the times. Hence, AirBnB.

The first shout came before her second cup had cooled. Ora Mae showed no response. There was more shouting, along with pounding on the door, and then the shouts turned to screams, and then nothing more than the sound of something sliding across the floor of the room over her head. In the morning, she would rake around her tree and clean up any stray bits that had fallen. But now she was tired and ready for bed.

She went up to her room, the same room she had given to her guest. Humming to herself, she straightened the upended furnishings. She stripped off the sheets and quickly remade the bed with the sheets she had set aside. She turned out the light before undressing and slipped into her flannel nightgown. At the window she whispered, “Good night, my love,” and climbed into bed.

The old oak tree amused her with playful shadows on the wall, whispering words of love with its leaves. Branches as thick as a man’s leg slowly entered the room through the window. Just as she was drifting off, a single, thin branch tickled her ear. She swatted it away but smiled, saying, “Don’t get fresh with me! I’m trying to sleep.”

More branches now, growing into the room, surrounded the bed. Twigs and tendrils tucked themselves under the quilt to wrap around her shoulders and arms, her waist and hips, her legs and her ticklish toes. Ora Mae took a deep breath and let her beloved tree lift her above her mattress and rock her to sleep in its arms.