Harold woke to thunder. He sat up and listened. The thunder sounded again, and the shockwaves rattled the windows in their old panes. He swung his legs around and placed his feet on the floor. He braced for the pain he always felt in his joints when he got out of bed, and he stood up, wincing.
“Hey Betty,” he said while stretching his old bones. “You awake?”
“I don’t want to be,” she mumbled. “What time is it?”
“It’s four-forty-five,” he said as he shuffled over to the window and lifted the blinds to check out the storm.
“Come back to bed,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Sleep is painful,” he said. He looked back over his shoulder at the bed. He had a hard time seeing her. He wondered if it was all of the pillows or if he needed his glasses.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Is it your back again?”
“No. Not that kind of pain. It hurts my heart. My soul,” he said.
“What?” she asked. “Your heart and soul? You’re fine. Get back in bed with me,” she said.
Thunder crashed. Harold turned his attention back to the storm on the other side of the glass. “Yes. Sleep hurts my heart and soul,” he said. “I can control my thoughts during the day, so things like the loss of a loved one won’t hurt me, but at night, my subconscious takes over, and I can’t stop the dreams. Nightmares, really.”
“You and your crazy imagination. I don’t think you could you be any more melodramatic if you tried. Now, stop letting all of the light in and come back to bed.”
He let go of the blinds, hobbled past the bed to the living room, and watched the early-morning storm from the large picture window. The rain-filled winds carried neighborhood things through the air. Garbage cans. Beachballs. Plastic grocery bags. Recycling bins. He watched as the wind danced with the large oak tree out front.
The oak tree was the reason Betty and he bought the house over fifty-five years ago. She was pregnant with their first child, and they were driving around, trying to get an idea of where they wanted to raise their family.
“Harold, I love that house! Please pull over,” she said. He did. “Don’t you just love that tree?” she asked.
“It’s grand,” he remembered saying.
“I want this house,” she said.
“It’s not for sale,” he said.
“That’s a perfect branch for a swing,” she said. “I can just see our kids swinging off of that branch.”
“Yes. That’s the perfect branch,” he said.
“Will you go talk to them?”
“What would I say?” he asked.
“Ask them if they have ever considered selling, and, if not, would they mind calling us when they’re ready?”
They had to wait three years before the owners were ready to sell the house to them, but when the opportunity arose, they seized it and never looked back. One of the first things Betty had Harold do after they settled into the house was to hang a swing from the branch. He remembered the smile on her face when he hung and leveled the swing. She held their daughter, Kelly, on her lap and swung for over thirty minutes that afternoon. He remembered thinking that Hellen looked so beautiful and full of joy, and the laughter that erupted from Kelly’s little belly was forever etched in his memory.
He snapped back to reality when he heard a thunder boom. He watched as leaves blew off the tree and the younger branches bent to the will of the storm. The howling wind made the old house creak and the windows whistle. In all of his eight-three years on this Earth, he could not recall ever seeing a storm of this magnitude. It was then that he heard an ear-splitting crack, and he watched as the seat of the swing touched the ground, followed by the large oak branch. He thought he felt the floor rumble when the enormous branch landed on the ground. The whole scene seemed to happen in slow motion. The exposed innards of the tree looked jagged and white against the gray of the morning.
Still in his pajamas, he put on his shoes, went to the garage, and cleared the clutter from the floor around the aluminum ladder that hung on the wall. Betty had slowly taken over the garage with her various boxes of holiday decorations and things she just couldn’t bear to get rid of. He took the ladder off the wall hooks, one side at a time. He had owned the ladder for years and was saddened at how heavy it had become. He laid it down on the floor, sat on a box of Christmas decorations, and waited for the storm to pass.
When the storm sounds had calmed, Harold opened the garage door to sunlight. The smell of rain and wet soil filled his nostrils, and the tiniest droplets of water still hung in the spent air. He struggle-dragged the ladder across the grass, past the fallen branch’s wet leaves, and he set it against the base of the tree. He incrementally worked it up the side of the tree three inches at a time until it rested next to the exposed tree viscera. He put his foot on the first rung and carefully climbed. Once he got to where the branch previously existed, he touched the jagged smoothness of the tree flesh. The rain droplets on his face felt sad, and he wiped them away with his pajama sleeve. He climbed down and went back into the garage where he pulled out five miscellaneous pieces of lumber and carried them to the wounded end of the tree branch. He dropped them on the wet grass. Then he went back into the garage and grabbed a handful of large nails from the nail bin on his shop table. He grabbed his hammer, too. He walked back to the fallen branch and began nailing the pieces of lumber to it so that half of the lumber was attached to the branch and the other half hung out over the end of the bough. He cradled the branch and tried to lift it but couldn’t. It wouldn’t budge. He went back into the house and got his phone.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?” his daughter asked over the phone.
“Hi, Kelly, I’m okay. How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“That was one hell of a storm. Are you guys okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. The lights flickered, but the electricity never went out, which I’m grateful for. Resetting all the clocks is so annoying. Everything okay over there?” she asked.
“Well, that’s why I was calling. A branch fell, and I need some help with it. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”
“I could come over and help after I get dressed.”
“Do you think Doug could help, too? It’s a big branch.”
“Sure. I’ll double-check with him, but we don’t have anything going on until later this evening. We’ll be over in about half an hour,” she said. Harold quietly changed into his work clothes and waited in the garage.
True to her word, Kelly and Doug arrived at Harold’s house a half-hour later. He met them in the yard.
“What happened?” Kelly asked as he pointed to the fallen branch.
“The storm ripped it right off,” he replied. “I’m trying to fix it,” he said, hugging Kelly and shaking Doug’s hand.
“That was quite a storm,” Doug said.
“You’re telling me. Any damage at your place?” Harold asked.
“Just some leaves and small branches,” he said.
They walked closer to the branch.
“Dad, what are you doing with the boards and the ladder?” Kelly asked.
“I’m trying to reattach the branch,” he said. “I figure all of us can lift it back up there, and then I’ll hammer the boards into the tree. Kind of a brace,” he said as he gestured to the lumber attached to the fallen branch and then pointed to the exposed flesh of the tree where the branch had been. He saw Kelly and Doug exchange a look. “I think, with the lumber bracing it, it should heal and grow back stronger, you know, like muscles do?”
“Dad, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Kelly said.
“Well, we won’t know until we try,” he said. “Right?”
“Dad…”
“Look, we get it up there,” he pointed, “I nail the brace boards into the exposed tree innards and then let the healing begin. We let nature take its course.”
“Dad, it’s not like a broken bone. Trees don’t heal like that.”
“Can you please help me try?” he asked. “It’s your mother’s favorite tree. She’ll be devastated when she sees that the branch has fallen. I’ve been afraid to wake her.”
“Dad,” Kelly said. She walked close to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Mom is gone. She left us two years ago.”
Harold stepped back from Kelly’s touch. Her arm dropped. He stared at her.
“Left us?”
“She’s dead, Dad.”
“I know. I know,” he said. “I just want to honor your mother’s memory.” He looked at the fallen branch and then at the tree. He looked back and forth. He stood vacillating between what he saw and what he thought.
“I respect that,” Kelly said. “I want honor her memory, too, but I don’t think we’ll be able to reattach the branch.”
“Yeah,” Harold said. “I guess not…”
“Harold, why don’t you go get some brunch with Kelly, and I’ll clean this up for you?” Doug suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Kelly said. “Let’s get something to eat, Dad.” Kelly put her hand on Harold’s shoulder again and guided him toward the minivan. Harold walked beside her.
“Is the chainsaw in the garage?” Doug asked.
He nodded and pointed. “On the self against the back wall.”
He folded himself into the passenger seat, and Kelly shut the door behind him. For some reason, he felt like she had sealed him in the van. He watched as Doug brought the chainsaw from the garage, sat it on the ground, and had a conversation with Kelly. They hugged and Kelly turned toward the car. Doug primed the chainsaw, pulled the starter cord, and the machine gurgled to life. Harold watched as Doug began grinding through the limb with the saw. He became conscious of the condensation that his breath had left on the passenger window because it clouded his vision. He wiped it away with his sleeve and wondered why he wasn’t crying.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer.
He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last few decades in the Chicago area.
Learn more at www.jasonfisk.com
About the Author
