Hanging Secrets

The fields were finally alive with color. Like an artist’s palette, strokes of green and yellow wove themselves across the hillsides. Susan’s mother was driving their 1952 Station Wagon over the country roads with a forlorn look on her face. Sitting in the passenger’s side, 8 year old Susan held her hand out the window.

As the duo approached a bend in the road, the car moved in a new direction. Plumes of exhaust puffed into the air from smoke stacks in the distance. It brought to mind a rather distinct night that took place a week ago.

Susan’s mother had read her a bedtime story Friday evening. Tucking her daughter to bed, Ms. Johnson left Susan’s door cracked to allow just enough light to flicker through. Although her mom repeatedly checked and found nothing, Susan was convinced something crept around her closet at night.

Susan fell asleep just to wake up again around 3 a.m. Rubbing her eyes, she got up to use the restroom.

As she tiptoed into the hallway, Susan inhaled the Marlboro smoke that filled the air. While it was typical for her mom to light a couple smokes during her shows, Susan thought it odd that her mom was still up so late.

Not wanting to alert her, Susan peaked out from behind the family’s kitchen island. She could see her mom sitting in their olive armchair. Her hair was unpinned and tangled. Occasionally she took a puff of a cigarette and shook off ash in a nearby tray. She was holding onto a yellow piece of paper that was timestamped; it was one of her mom’s weekly checks.

Susan slumped to the floor. Although she was young her mother had made it clear to her they were having issues with money. Ms. Johnson, Susan’s mom, had told her they would need “to think of something smart soon”.

Susan had become accustomed to seeing Mr. Edwards stop by the house. He would leave letters with her mother that frequently held the phrases “final warning” or “foreclosement proceedings” printed on the front.

Dodging an unexpected pothole, the Station Wagon swerved and Susan broke from recalling last Friday night’s events.

“I’m sorry sweet-pea, but we’re going to have to pull over. It looks like she’s giving me issues again.” Ms. Johnson was referring to the car’s ever-so-loving knack to break down on long car rides.

As the car sputtered to a stop, Susan could smell the grassy aromas flooding into the car. Parked on the side of the dirt road, Ms. Johnson got out of the car and began fishing around the trunk for a tool box.

Suddenly left in a silent car, Susan’s thoughts began roaming to earlier this week. Squirming uncomfortably in her seat, Susan unclicked her seatbelt and got out of the car. Her chest felt tight with guilt. A secret was weighing on her heavily but she didn’t dare bring it up to her mother.

“Ah! I got it…” Ms. Johnson was murmuring to herself as she pulled out a wrench from the toolbox.

Taking in the surroundings to escape her wandering thoughts, Susan was surprised to see they had parked right next to a pear orchard.

Excited, she looked over at her mother. “I’m going to pick some pears okay?”

Ms. Johnson peeked out from under the car’s hood. “Sure thing sweetie. Don’t wander far though. I should have this up and running soon.”

Stepping into the overgrown grass, Susan could feel the morning dew seep into her stockings. The water was cold and shook off any sleepiness she may have had. It felt just like Monday night when she was brushing her teeth.

When brushing her teeth, water had trailed down her arm and begun to dampen her socks. Feeling the chill of water leaking onto her foot, she quickly moved forward to keep her arms over the sink. When she finished, Susan leaned over the pink enamel to open the sink’s cabinet. Putting away the tube of toothpaste, she accidentally knocked a series of bottles off the shelf.

Susan knelt on the floor trying to collect what had fallen. As she came across a container she hadn’t seen before, she let her fingers graze over the label.

“Susan! What are you doing?” Ms. Johnson had appeared in the bathroom doorway. She quickly grabbed the bottles and put them back in the mirror cabinet.

“I’m sorry, it was an accident!” Susan was fumbling over her nightdress as she got up from the floor.

“Never take those, understand?” Ms. Johnson gestured to the new bottle Susan hadn’t recognized. “You would get a very bad stomach ache.”

Susan shook the rest of the week’s memories from her head as she began walking through the orchard. The shrubs had bloomed and the crop was plentiful this year. Rows upon rows had pear trees full of fruit.

Susan found it funny. There was no consequence to living life as a tree, while there seemed to be so many pitfalls for being human.

Just as she thought this, Susan tripped on a knotted root. Looking up she was surprised by the growth of the tree she had stumbled over. Nearly 30 feet tall, the pears on the tree were golden in color. They didn’t match the neighboring trees at all. Each fruit seemed to be about twice the size of her hand.

Susan smiled at the rather abnormal tree. and began to keep walking. However, before she could step onto the path again, a stranger’s voice whispered.

“Are you sure?”

“Hello?” Susan called out confused. “Is someone here?” She looked around, there was no one in sight.

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure of what?” Susan responded fearfully.

“Are you sure you don’t want to share?”

“I don’t know who you are! Where are you?!”

“You’ve been looking at me this entire time.”

Susan felt her heart drop as she pieced together who was speaking. Standing tall above her was the golden pear tree. “It can’t be possible, but are you…” Susan trailed off.

“A tree? But yes of course! I am the tree of secrets. Look upon my limbs carefully.”

“Upon your limbs?” Susan let her eyes take in the branches of the tree. Surprised, Susan hadn’t noticed the bells growing alongside the pears. The bells were sprinkled throughout the leaves and chimed softly with the breeze.

“Hanging before you are secrets of old and new. You can share yours too, but beware of the price that ensues.”

“What good will come of sharing my secret?” Susan asked bewildered.

“The stress one feels with a secret that weighs heavy, can feel light again with a simple levy.”

“What is a levy?”

“Consider it a small fee for the trouble of taking your worry. A small trade if you will, from someone already buried.”

“So a trade of secrets?” Susan paused for thought. “And I have no more worry?”

The tree burst out with a cackling laugh. “Yes! Yes! Precisely! A trade…So do we have a deal?”

Susan faltered a second. She was growing uneasy by the shift in tone from the speaking tree. “I suppose so…”

“Wonderful! Now just pick a bell to recite your secret.”

Walking forward, Susan picked a bell that was older than the others. Cupping the little instrument in her hands, she began to tell the rest of her thoughts from this week.

“I wasn’t supposed to touch anything from my mother’s medicine shelf.” Susan explained. “There was a bottle that my mother had warned me about but I couldn’t think of any other way to help her.”

“Mr. Edwards stopped by again on Wednesday. When he was pulling up to the house, my mother began to cry. I knew then that if I could scare off Mr. Edwards, it would show him our house wasn’t worth the trouble. He would finally leave us alone.”

“When he came inside, he had a series of papers for my mother to sign. I offered him a glass of water, which he accepted.”

“I slipped into the bathroom, grabbed some medicine and poured it into his drink. If he got a stomach ache, he would see the water was bad and the house was too old.”

“I was so sorry to hear yesterday that Mr. Edwards is now in the hospital. My mom said he is very, very sick.”

Feeling relief from finally sharing her story, Susan was able to take a deep breath. Her chest wasn’t tight and she didn’t feel sad anymore. Everything was perfect. Looking down to her hands, she was amazed to find the bell she had picked was now a pear. Above her in the tree, a new bell began to grow in the spot she had plucked her bell.

The tree once again spoke up.

“Through the bars a prisoner reached, to grab the keys that could set him free. But he never got a chance to leave his cell, for the judge Mr. Dowley knew far too well. This prisoner was a crook, a scoundrel, a thief, and didn’t deserve to go killing on sprees.”

“Now at the base of his final resting place, lies the wealth he keeps locked and safe.”

“Susan! There you are. I’ve been calling your name for 10 minutes. Come on, the car is fixed.” Ms. Johnson took Susan by the hand and led her away from the tree.

Susan was stammering nonsense, unable to articulate the experience she just had. “Mother we might need to stop at the sheriff’s office! Something bad happened. We could be heroes and save our house!”

Ms. Johnson looked startled that her daughter had pieced together the foreclosure on their house. “Susan, what? Stop talking nonsense. We are going to the bank for a loan, end of discussion.”

As Susan and her mom reached the edge of the orchard, they got into the car and drove off.

“Mother, what's that?” Susan pointed out the window as they drove near a field with a weathered building.

“Hm? Oh, that’s the old courthouse. The whole place is in shambles. It’s a shame too, the locals can’t place the graves with any living family members.”

“What do you mean?”

Ms. Johnson looked at her watch slightly annoyed. “Well they aren’t exactly your typical graves Susan. They have no names on the tombstones.” She glanced at her wrist again and took a deep sigh. “You know what, it would be easier to just show you what I mean. At this point we are going to make our appointment time at the bank.”

Irritated, Ms. Johnson pulled the car over once more. “Follow me,” she said. “The graves are around back.”

As Susan got out of the car, she gasped. A steeple had been built at the top of the courthouse. Now slanting sideways from the rotting of wood, the steeple barely managed to hold a very old townbell. Susan could feel the frown on her lips. The bell to the steeple matched the one she had just picked from the tree.

Susan followed her mother around the building to an overgrown pasture in the back. 10 gravestones stood crookedly from the ground. And Ms. Johnson was correct, it would have been impossible for any of the townsfolk to figure out who laid at each grave because none had names.

Instead of names, each stone carried the engraving of a pear with a poem written below it.

Ms. Johnson took her daughter’s hand and gave it a gentle reassuring squeeze. “This is where they laid to rest the prisoners who died from the courthouse jail.”

Susan felt sick to her stomach as she lingered at one of the stones. The poem resonated with her experience today:

“Misfortune will reap the wearied, as those never satisfied try to unearth the buried. Laying eight feet below might lie one home’s saving, but beware your decision, for a curse may follow with a gift that keeps giving.”