(7)
— Originally published in Pangolin Papers, Fall, 2003
Continued from page (6)
He spread a camping tarp over the pickup’s passenger seat,
laid the saw on its side, and folded the tarp over it.
It reminded him
of the way Joey looked when Riley put him to bed. The knapsack fit
on the floor with room to spare. He’d have to drive gently
to keep the saw from falling off the seat. Back in the apartment, he
stared through the window at the fading light.
As darkness fell, he forced himself to wait. It must be completely
black. Clear sky. There’d probably be a moon. Never mind. The
mature oaks and maples at the end of the street would cast shadows.
He dressed in his old fatigues and boots and stuffed a bandana in his
rear pocket.
By nine, convinced it wouldn’t get any darker, he slipped out of the
apartment and drove slowly and quietly. Before the final right turn into the
cul-de-sac, he parked, took the chainsaw and his knapsack, and slid silently
from the truck. No one on the street. Lights inside the houses. Families
cleaning up after dinner. A television flickered in a window. As he turned the
corner into Doris’s street, he stopped. A dog was barking frantically. Of
course. The Milligan’s mutt. Barked every time anybody went by their place.
He’d quiet down as soon as Riley was past.
Down the street to the yard. He paused in front of the neighbor’s
place. Doris’s car and the black pickup were still in the driveway.
Porch light
on. Damn. Lights on in the living room and Joey’s room.
Didn’t provide much illumination close to the street. The moon
was brilliant but blocked by the tall trees. The street lamp.
Shit. He’d forgotten about the street lamp across
from the house. He’d have to be quick and quiet.
He darted to the cherry tree, knelt, and pushed away the weeping
limbs. By the light of the street lamp, he gauged the thickness of the trunk.
He started the cut with the bow saw. Six inches above the ground. A quarter
inch in, he wiggled the saw out. Sap poured from the wound. The sharp
sweet tinge of pitch filled his nostrils. He stopped, looked, listened. No sign
anyone had seen him. He resumed his sawing. Rough going. Pitch clogged
the saw teeth. He worked the saw out, wiped the blade and the tree wound
with his bandana, forced the saw back into the cut. No good. It was going to
take too long. He eased the saw out, again wiped its blade, and put it into
the knapsack.
TOM'S TALES