Tree of heaven

gibson grand
Jul 30, 2017 · 3 min read
Photo by Ellie Lane

Wyatt no longer enjoyed the taste of tobacco but he lit another cigarette just the same. The warm smoke helped fight the chill that had descended on the valley. He continued along the path, closing the collar of his flannel around his neck as a damp breeze shook the giant Virginia pines. Perhaps it was the bitterness of aging but it seemed to Wyatt that the autumn months were growing longer and colder; endless weeks of decay with a promise of rebirth that never seemed to come.

He stopped at the top of the hill, where he had found the Parker girl, her broken body propped up against the base of an Ailanthus tree, her hair speckled with its radiant orange seeds. It was one of the police officers who told him that the name meant “tree of heaven.”’ Wyatt didn’t believe in heaven but he supposed if such a place existed, Amie Parker would likely be there. At the time he found her, she was only a week shy of eighteen.

It was springtime when he came upon her and at first, he thought nothing of finding her sitting alone under the tree. She had always kept to herself and had a reputation in town for being prone to daydreams and laughing inappropriately at inside jokes no one else understood. But as he drew closer he saw that her dress was torn, revealing a pale white breast and her once bright blue eyes had turned lifeless and grey as they stared down on the Little Miami River. It felt like hours until the police arrived, during which Wyatt had to resist the urge to brush the ants off of her dirty bare feet. He couldn’t help but stare at her bloody mouth, which the killer had molded into a grim smile.

No one knew who murdered Amie Parker. The police had questioned Wyatt, along with most of the men in town, and concluded it was the work of a transient. He told them she came into the liquor store once a week to buy a quart of Jack Daniels for her mama. He didn’t tell them that he occasionally snuck her miniature bottles of whiskey or about the time he felt her up in the storage locker in exchange for some cigarettes. And he didn’t tell them that when he was alone at night, he frequently fantasized about the color of her panties and the soft skin on the inside of her thighs. After all, he wasn’t the one who killed her and there was no reason to place suspicion on himself.

Wyatt has walked this path every day since he found Amie Parker under the Ailanthus tree. He tells himself it is in hope of finding some overlooked clue: a piece of fabric or perhaps a muddy shoe print. But all he really wants is capture some remnants of her life–to breathe the same air that she once did, and to find joy and comfort in being alone.

© 2017 gibson grand

The New North

// Home of storytellers // Facebook: @thenewnorth

gibson grand

Written by

Writer of fiction, ower of money. A collection of my short stories and poetry, Leave Your Money on the Dresser, is available on Amazon. http://gibsongrand.com

The New North

// Home of storytellers // Facebook: @thenewnorth

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