When I was young, there was a large sugar maple outside my window, approximately two houses and one street away. Directly behind it stood a streetlight positioned at just the proper angle to shine right through my window to the head of my bed. The effect of this was to cast the tree in a sharp relief, so that on even the most moonless nights, its outline was distiinctly defined.
This was unfortunate, the uppermost branches of the tree came together to form what in my mind appeared to be the profile of a great demonic head, the glow of the lamp's bulb uncannily piercing through where the eye should be.
It more or less retained its shape on all but the most blustery of nights - in fact, a light breeze would make it laugh, gnash its teeth, or mutter soundlessly to itself. And, invariably, it stared directly at me, the upturned gap in the branches where its mouth should be smiling in a quiet promise.
It would get me. Maybe not this night, or the next, or even this year. But it had the patience of the tree it inhabited, and could wait.
Moving my bed never occurred to me - in fact, I vaguely recall thinking that if I wasn't where I could stare back at it, it could come closer without my knowing. I'd toyed with the idea of busting the streetlight, but I was too young to dare that kind of vandalism. And again, it would leave me merely unable to see my nemesis.
In any event, these were actions that seemed silly and unimportant during the day, and only mattered when I was unable to pursue them, as I was on my watch. My only respite was winter, when the face grew skeletal, then faded into dry sticks. But spring would return, and every leaf would grow back - just so. The face was back to stare, laugh, and promise.
One year - think when I was about 10, the city widened the street that ran past my house. The tree was marked, a day-glo slash spray painted across its trunk.
It was to be a casualty.
I was ecstatic. For the next couple of weeks, I was more vigilant than ever at night, and I scoffed openly at the tree in the safety of day. I was less than gracious in victory.
Then it was gone, sliced cleanly less than a foot off the ground. I didn't even see where the remnants went, being at school at the time. The stump soon followed as the road crews moved in, and it was like it had never been. The streetlight, unfiltered, forced my to finally move my bed, fatigue accomplishing what fear had failed to do.
In the years that followed, changes came to my life - nothing others haven't gone through - but tough changes nonetheless. I gradually began to wonder, as brooding grew and innocence dissipated, if perhaps when the tree was cut down, the demon had not been destroyed with it.
Maybe it had simply been set free.
--:--
I'm about 8, and walking to the movies with my sister and her friends. We're going down our town's main road, and - being the youngest in the group by about 3 years, not to mention a little jerk - I'm running out ahead of the rest of the group by a good 20 yards.
Suddenly, a boxy blue sedan makes a screeching left turn into the intersection just ahead of me, and comes to a halt. The driver opens the door. He is a large, fleshy, mustached man in his late 30's - mid 40's (at my age, everyone looks old). He glares at me, and says, "Get in."
That's it. No lure, no offer of candy, no niceties at all. So it doesn't really click. The closest thing I can recall thinking is "This guy's bossy, he's grumpy, he looks mean. He must be a friend of my dad's. Maybe I'm in trouble for being out here."
Somebody yells "NO!!!"
Then, a pair of arms wrap around me from behind. Jenny Fiorello (not her real name), my sister's best friend (not to mention my number one crush in the 5 or so years following this episode), has grabbed me from behind. It is at this point in time I realize that I had actually taken 4 or 5 steps forward, and was practically in reach of the driver. He just needs to step out.
He sizes both of us up for too long a time. Then, looking at the rest of the group of kids coming up behind us, he slams his door, and peels off.
We go home and tell the folks. Actually, as it was in the days before Hardcopy and Fox-Style news, I think we went to the movie first, and then told my parents. They showed mild interest, but didn't pursue it further. Being little kids, we pretty much forgot about it as well.
But as I grew up, the episode haunted me with two possibilities:
If I had gotten in, where would I be now? Would I be now?
And, since I didn't report it, who was the next child to get in?
And how many more were there that got in afterward?
Now, it may be my brain trying to fit unlike puzzle pieces together, but it doesn't help that my recollection of the man very much resembles someone I've seen since - both in newspapers and in books...
Comments