The Leaning Cedar

Mrs. Belkin adjusted her bifocals, parted the curtains, and peered through the sash window's poor glass. Her steady gaze followed the front walk, moved away from the old farmhouse through the bleached-bone picket gate, traveled down the narrow gravel road all the way to the leaning cedar. A man walked along the fenced boundary that ran just behind the cedar, perpendicular to the road.

The old Willard place with its falling-down barn lay beyond the cedar, beyond the man. He approached the tree, shoulder dipping in concert with his short leg. Henry Willard. As far as Mrs. Belkin was concerned, no matter what he said, the distance from the northern border — which ran right behind her house — to the tree, was indisputable. The survey had pegged it. An eighth of a mile. Six hundred sixty feet. Not a foot nore or less, Everett used to say.

The gorge began its gradual descent, swallowing the barbed wire fence, several posts to the right of the tree. Henry Willard raised a hand to shade his eyes. He seemed to survey the dying tree's angle, the crown of brown needles. To Mrs. Belkin, Henry's teetering stance and the listing attitude of the cedar implied a shared destiny. In fact, everything about the Willards —from their rotten fenceposts to their too-small eyes and recessed chins — supported Mrs. Belkin's belief that a family's future is as much shaped by the work of its hearts and hands as it is locked into its genes. How could these miserable people ever have added anything to the world other than sour stomachs and eyesores, she thought. Thank God Henry was the last of the drunken lot.

What that man did with his life was a mystery to her. She abhorred waste, and the worst kind was the slow but certain erosion caused by alcohol. She had never mentioned her feelings to Henry, though, even after forty years as a neighbor. People of uneven backgrounds were better off left unmixed. "We're not vegetables in a quick stew, you know," she used to say to Everett.

It was just a year ago that the Allis-Chalmers rolled over and buried Everett's lean body at the bottom of the muddy gorge. He had been putting up new fence after removing the crumbling posts the Willards had neglected. Ever since that day, Henry had stalked the common border grumbling about stolen land. Henry followed the fence line in the direction the tree pointed, crossed over the cattle guard and headed up the road toward the Belkin house. He walked a crooked line, his head hanging. Mrs. Belkin scratched at her spotted hand. I suppose he's planning on killing himself again, she thought. Man isn't good for much else.

When he reached her picket gate, he opened and passed through it dumbly, not bothering to latch it behind him. He stumped along the concrete walk and up two steps to the porch, bald head slick as a greased piglet. Mrs. Belkin moved away from her window and hid behind the front door, hoping he would turn around and walk back down the road. She had seen him do it before. There's always a chance a mind like that will change course in midstream.

"Mizz Belkun. This won't take long, but there's somethin' important." From behind the door his voice, graveled with static, wavered in volume as if they had gotten a bad connection. "Mizz Belkun …"

Mrs. Belkin undid the deadbolt and opened the door just enough to allow a slim conversation. "What is it, Henry?" The man's forehead, shining with perspiration, had sprouted a fresh scrape — dotted with pinpoints of blood — which resembled a poorly-tatooed rose.

"I need this sent to my nephew." He held out a wrinkled piece of paper, face flushed.

"What's wrong with sending it yourself?"

"Damn school kids stole the mailbox. Truck won't start. Battery's dead. Here," he said. "M'last will and testament. You won't be bothered anymore after t'day."

"Oh Lord," said Mrs. Belkin, biting her lip. "Henry, you've talked like this before, and things always worked out. Now why don't you just go on home and lay down awhile, and next thing you know everything will be all right."

"Not this time, Mizz Belkun." His liquid eyes were deep as an old cow's.

"Now Henry, I believe everything will work out, the Lord will provide, and tomorrow will bring a new day. If it'll make you feel better, I'll send it … but that don't mean I condone this foolishness, you understand?"

"I do."

"All right then. Give it here."

Henry handed the paper through the opening.

"You're not even going to fold it?" she said. The idea of laying eyes on something as personal as his last will repulsed her.

"Nohhh," he said. His alcohol breath made her stomach feel queasy. "Just a second," she said. "I'll get an envelope."

"That ain't nezsary, ma'm …" But Mrs. Belkin left and returned with an envelope within seconds.

"There," she said. Henry folded the paper unevenly and tried, with fingertips made of flattened clay, to stuff it in the envelope.

"Here." Mrs. Belkin thrust her hand through the opening. "Give it here. Let me do it."

"Thank you, ma'm."

"You needn't be so polite, Henry." She refolded the paper and inserted it in the envelope. "I'm only doing this to get you out of my hair. Not that I believe for a second this is your final goodbye."

Henry stepped down off the porch and headed up the walk without saying another word. Just as Mrs. Belkin started to close the door, he turned, saying: "Oh, the tree, ma'm. I'm givin' you the tree."

"You mean the leaning cedar? I refuse to argue about this, Henry. You know as well as I do you can't give something to somebody that isn't yours to give.”

"Beg your pardon, Mizz Belkun, but you're mistaken."

"No, I am not mistaken, and neither was Mister Belkin the day he restored that fence you and your family had neglected for Lord knows how long."

"I can show you the ol' wire, ma'm. I can show you where it growed into that old cedar, and it ain't the side where Mr. Belkun put the wire."

"I'll not go out there, and I'll not hear any more about it. I've got the survey and Mr. Belkin's word, God rest his soul, and that's better than any old barbed wire. Now good day!" She started to close the door again.

"Now just you wait a second, Mizz Belkun!" Henry headed for the porch, limping up the porch steps. "The Willards 've been here longer than anybody and I've growed up with that tree. I know it like the back of my own hand. That tree belongs to the Willards."

"Are you calling my departed husband a liar?" Mrs. Belkin’s pupils narrowed, shining like polished buckshot. "Now you get along!... I don't care to be bothered by the likes of you. Not today, or any other day, for that matter."

Her words were meant to cut like a dull blade. She supposed Henry, in settings less reputable, had been called everything from a braying ass to a worthless worm without so much as raising an eyebrow; still, she couldn't help thinking this time she just might drive the thick-headed fool from her doorstep once and for all.

"I reckon it'll have to come down, then, Mizz Belkun," said Henry, assuming a matter-of-fact tone. "Seein' it's the only way I can give it to you proper." He turned and stepped down from the porch.

“Ha! Saying its yours is one thing. Doing an hour's work to make it yours is another! You won't be the one to bring it down, I'm certain of that.”

Henry turned, hitched up his baggy khakis and waggled a crooked finger. "If it's the last thing I do, Mizz Belkun — and by God it'll be just that — I'm goin' to cut down that cedar and do what I please with it."

"Like hell you will."

"Nobody takes away my last will, Mizz Belkun, not even the likes of you!”

Mrs. Belkin slammed the door so hard her bifocals slid to the end of her nose. She moved to her window and got them adjusted just in time to see Henry pass through the opening without latching the gate again. “Hard­headed old …" She jerked the curtains closed.

*

Twenty minutes later a buzzing chainsaw drew her to the window again.

She parted the curtains and gasped. Henry kneeled by the leaning cedar with the chainsaw on the ground. It sputtered and stopped. "That tree does not belong to the Willards and I'll be damned if you're going to cut it down!" She flung the door open and scuffed down the front steps.

She had not walked the road for some time. She couldn't even remember the last time, unless it had been the day of Everett's accident. Could it have been more than a year? Her swollen feet moved grudgingly, as if, in the heat of summer, she trudged through mud.

When she had traveled a short distance between her house and the cedar, Henry started the saw again. Once more it sputtered and died. She would have taken the old Dodge and driven down to the tree, but she wasn't sure it would start right up. Besides, she would have to go back in the house and find the keys first, climb in and out of the car, which hadn't been that easy the last few times she'd attempted it, and push the stiff pedals with her sore feet.

Just then something in the distance quickened her aggravation. "For God's sake," she said. "Not now, of all times." A small green car pulled even with Henry, slowed, then came straight for Mrs. Belkin.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Belkin," said a homely man leaning out the driver's window as the car squeaked to a stop. He had hollow cheeks and hair that looked as if it had been coated with turpentine, combed straight back, and cured in the sun. "We were just on our way to visit awhile and share God's Word with you." His drab wife and little girl sat in the front seat while two younger boys sat in the back with hands folded.

"I'm afraid I'm busy today." Mrs. Belkin turned and headed up the road. Henry's cursing accompanied each pull on the starter cord. The Jehovah's Witness had shifted into reverse. Slowly he backed along beside her, his head and one arm hanging out the window.

"I don't mean to make a bother of myself, Mrs. Belkin, but have you ever considered why the nations of this world never seem to be able to get along?"

Mrs. Belkin stopped, out of breath, heart pounding. The distant sputtering had stopped. Henry's intensified language no doubt meant trouble. If she was any judge of character, the saw was in as poor condition as its owner. This, combined with her heavy breathing, convinced her it might not do any harm to rest a second. She removed her bifocals and wiped both sides of her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. "Well," she said, panting. "In truth I never pay much mind to that sort of thing … but I'm sure you've got it all thought out." She took a deep breath. "Why don't you just tell me the answer while I rest a bit. But don't take long."

The man turned off his engine, opened his door, Bible and pamphlets in hand, and stepped out on to the road. He was tall. Baggy trousers and a matching brown suit coat hung on his frame. A black tie descended from a small knot bunched beneath his prominent Adam's Apple. Mrs. Belkin heaved a deep sigh and kept one wary eye on Henry, now standing with hands on hips, looking down at his chainsaw.

"All anyone has to do is read the newspapers to see what kind of mess the world is in," he said, "what with wars and persecution and a lack of natural affection and such." Mrs. Belkin felt his brown eyes sweep across hers. "There's an inborn selfishness people have to cast off before they can be the kind of people Jehovah wants … Let's see, I believe that's in Romans here —"

"You don't need to quote verse to me," she said. "I know what's in it.”

"Well, the uh … you can see what with this sin in the world, this selfishness in everybody, when you put them all together in a government, it just magnifies the whole thing."

"Especially the government," said Mrs. Belkin. "God knows Everett and I've paid our share of taxes."

"Oh, yes. I agree, Mrs. Belkin," he said. "And you can see what happens when governments put their selfish interests first. Greed and corruption, terrorism, hatred and persecution, border wars …What the world needs is a surefire way to undo the whole mess. Fortunately, Jehovah has provided a plan, as I can point out here in Proverbs." Mrs. Belkin was beginning to think the man was not all that unbearable, better than most of them, in fact, when the sputter of the chainsaw snapped her to attention.

"This is all fairly interesting, and I've enjoyed our little chat, Mr. …"

"Phelps, Mrs. Belkin, the name's Raymond Phelps, but if you don't mind I'm just now getting to the good part —"

“Right now I do mind, Mr. Phillips," she said, fitting her bifocals in place. "Maybe some other time, like I said." She turned and headed in the direction of the cedar. Henry was getting into position to cut, kneeling by the tree. Her feet ached and she still felt short of breath. A rooster tail of wood chips sprayed from Henry's saw. My God, she thought, he's got the thing working and I'm not going to make it. If only Everett were here. She stopped and turned. "Mr. Phillips, on second thought, I wouldn't mind hearing a little more on the way, if you would be kind enough to drop me at the entrance to my property, right up there where that tree's leaning."

"Well, yes, I guess I could do that."

Mr. Phelps ordered his little girl into the back and helped Mrs. Belkin into the front seat, next to his wife. Then he got back in on the driver's side and started out for Mrs. Belkin's house.

"Where are you going?" snapped Mrs. Belkin.

"Up to the house to turn around —"

"Just back up. Just back on up, it's not far." Mrs. Belkin felt a warm flush creeping up the back of her spine.

"If you say, ma'm."

"No sense in driving one direction to get to another." She turned to study the scene out the back window. Henry had already cut a ways into the trunk. "And might as well be quick about it," she added. A trio of small faces studied her with polite curiosity.

"I'll surely do my best, Mrs. Belkin." Mr. Phelps stuck his head out the window. He backed up for a moment, then retracted his long neck and began using the rearview mirror. "I believe it's Proverbs 3," he said, “where it talks about trusting in Jehovah instead of taking matters into our own hands." He caught Mrs. Belkin’s eye with a sideways glance.

Mrs. Belkin turned to look out the back window once again. One of the small boys also turned. She could feel the other two staring at her. As far as she could tell, Henry had cut about a third of the way through the massive trunk, which was as big around as a bushel basket. At the rate they were moving, she guessed they would reach the tree shortly and she just might be able to stop him in time. As she turned back, she noticed Mr. Phelps stealing another look at her out of the corner of his eye.

"As I'm sure you know, Mrs. Belkin, these being the end times and all, the time has come for a new kind of government, a new age, you might say, where the content of people's hearts leads them to do what is right …The time has come for —"

"The time has come for stopping here and now and letting me out of this goddamn car!" commanded Mrs. Belkin. The warm flush had made its way to the back of her neck, and her cheeks tingled.

"Yes ma'm," said Mr. Phelps. "Whatever you say." He opened his door and walked around the front of the car. Mrs. Belkin pawed at the door handle.

"Here, let me," said the wife, reaching to help.

"I can do it myself." When the door opened, Mrs. Belkin nearly fell out of the car and into Mr. Phelps' arms. Once she gained her feet, she lit out in the direction of the leaning cedar, about a dozen fenceposts away. The old spring flowed under the road and down the sloping hill, past the tree, into the gorge. Mr. Phelps said something about The Coming Kingdom and some kind of literature, but the growl of the saw washed out his voice.

Her feet grew heavier with each step, and she began to feel dizzy.

The small green car backed down the gravel road, turned around, drove past the Willard place and disappeared where the road curved behind the old barn.

Henry kneeled in the muck between the barbed wire fence and the tree, hands on the vibrating saw. Cedar chips sprayed like a fountain of rusty water. Mrs. Belkin stopped and planted her feet in the mud a few feet from him, out of breath, chest heaving.

"Henry!" she shouted. "Shut off that damned chainsaw!"

The buzzing stopped with a heavy clunk. Henry released his grip, leaving the saw stuck two-thirds through the trunk, and stood, nearly losing his balance. He glistened with sweat and his knees were plastered with mud. The scrape on his forehead had grown more distinct, as if the blood-tatooed rose had hardened into a scar. This workmanlike Henry seemed a stranger to her. She summoned all her willpower, remembering what Everett would have done had he been standing in her shoes.

"Henry, this is my property and that's my tree."

"M'am," said Henry. "I'm warnin' you. This ain't no place for you to be. I didn't even bother notchin' the road-side of the tree, 'cause with the lean, it knows where it wants to fall. It's goin' to come down right along the fenceline, just the way I want it. You needn't worry none. It'll be on your side of the fence, your husband seen to that. But these here rusty staples with the bark growed around 'em gives me the right to bring it down. This is my tree till it touches ground. Now you'd better get out the way and go on back to your house and let me finish my bizness."

Her hands trembled. How could it have gone this far? She had hoped he would go home and sleep it off and forget his foolish mission, but this day, of all days, he was as determined as she. There was no turning back now. She took a deep breath and set her jaw.

"As long as this tree's on Belkin property, I'll be the one to decide its future. Now you get out of my way!" She lunged forward and shoved Henry in the chest with all her strength. He stumbled back a couple of steps. She leaned down and laid both hands on the saw handle. "I'm taking this saw."

Henry moved forward and shoved her aside. She nearly fell. He yanked the starter cord and pulled the trigger. Chips started flying.

Mrs. Belkin regained her footing, moved behind him, and stared at Henry’s rear end as he worked, bent over. The saw was more than two­thirds through the trunk now. With the angle, and the weight of the crown, the old cedar could not stand much longer. She stepped back, took aim, advanced two steps and kicked him right where she knew he was most vulnerable.

Henry stumbled forward and went down, groaning and holding himself.

She bent over, pushed the kill button, planted her feet, and gripped the saw handle. When she pulled on the handle, the cut opening cracked — widening — the blade slid free, and the weight of the saw, combined with her backward momentum, propelled her into a fencepost.

She steadied herself against the post and strengthened her grip on the saw, which sagged in the mud. It was too heavy to hoist. She pulled it along as she walked, dragging the blade's end in the mud, struggling along the fence line toward the road. She might not save the tree, but she was hell-bent on claiming his saw. She stopped at a post, rested, steadying herself, and adjusted her grip. The new posts were sturdy as could be. Everett had seen to that, too.

A drop of sweat hung in her eyebrow. She pushed onward. Henry's moaning had stopped. She could hear his footsteps, sloshing in the mud. Maybe the thing to do was pour out the gas. No. He'd just get more. His muddy hands grabbed her from behind.

"Gimme that damn saw!"

She clutched it with all her might. No stinking Willard would ever cut down a Belkin tree and get away with it. No Willard dare cross a Belkin at all.

He jerked at her arm, grabbed both shoulders, turned her toward him, and shook his fist in front of her nose. The cedar towered over him.

"Give it here!"

"Not on your life!"

He reared back his fist just as a loud cracking split the air. He swung, connecting dead center on her jaw. She stumbled backwards, still clutching the saw, bounced off barbed wire, pitched sideways, and fell into the mud, pulled down by the weight of the saw.

She lay on her side, facing the fence, disoriented. Her muddied bifocals stared back at her from below the bottom strand of barbed wire. She released her death grip on the saw and reached for her glasses. A widening shadow moved along her arm. Was that thunder crackling? A storm? A man's voice shouted a warning. Is that you, Everett? She twisted her neck to get a better look. Henry’s work boot kicked at her backside, jolting her. She pitched forward and rolled onto her stomach. Everything grew dark, and what felt like a sudden violent downpour descended, pounding her into the muddy earth.

*

She woke to mottled sunlight, unable to move. An oppressive weight squeezed the air from her lungs. Rough, heavy branches pressed down hard on her neck, the small of her back, the backs of her legs. Sharp barbs stung her side. She managed to turn her head, chin in the mud.

The muddy sole of Henry’s work boot, buried beneath the huge tree trunk, came into blurred focus an arm's length from her nose.

Imprisoned in their cool damp resting place, the unlikely bedfellows lay silent, still. Mrs. Belkin felt tired, peaceful. A slow-motion dizziness crept into her fading consciousness, and a strange satisfaction grew within her, soothing her troubled soul.

She lay her head down and listened to the excited chattering of sparrows. Everett used to say they were like a gentle alarm clock. She would be still so as not to wake him. She sighed, thanked the Lord for his kindness one last time, and surrendered to the encroaching dark.

***