TheBanyanTree: A Lesson on Trust (caution: disturbing content)

[pat.martin]

I am involved in another writing/critiquing group and am learning to write
memoir pieces of 1000 words or less.  I may have sent in a longer version of
this story some years ago, but this is my latest attempt to condense and to
show rather than tell...  One of these days I'm going to start writing a
novel, and I'm practising.


A Lesson on Trust
By Pat Martin

(Caution:  Disturbing Content)


            As I slipped my feet into sandals and hiked up my
peddle-pushers, I shouted through the screen door to my grandmother, "I'll
be outside."  I brushed my reddish blonde hair out of my eyes and scouted
the front yard for a place to sit.
            The weeping willow tree offered semi-shade so I spread my
blanket beneath it.  Instead of tanning like other kids, my skin quickly
turned a nasty red if I was exposed to the sun.  My bare arms and legs, I
noticed, were as white as the sleeveless blouse I wore.  I sighed.    As a
twelve-year-old, I hated my appearance.  I was pale and skinny; I seldom
smiled.  My grandfather called me the ugly duckling.
            The smell of ripening apples and plums, and hay in the making
perfumed the still air.  The summer sun's warmth relaxed me.  I lay face
down, folded my arms beneath my head and closed my eyes.  In minutes, the
farmyard sounds-the screeching of hens, a rooster's crow, the bleating of
goats-diminished.
            When I opened my eyes, I saw a young tomcat I called Boots
inching his way toward me.  Some twenty wild farm cats lived on my
grandparents' farm and whenever I visited, I tried to befriend them. I had
never been able to get close enough to touch any of them but I was certain
that with slow movements and softly spoken words I could eventually convince
them that people could be trusted.
            Boots was less frightened than most and taming him was a
definite possibility.  As he picked his way across the mowed lawn toward me,
I knew he wanted to be friends.
            Slowly, I reached my hand towards him.  "Boots," I whispered,
and rustled my fingers in the grass.  The pupils in his golden eyes
narrowed.  Ears pricked, he crept closer, ready to bolt at the first sign of
danger.  He was only four feet away when the growl of my grandfather's Buick
pulling into the driveway startled him.  In an instant, he dashed behind the
house.
            The car glided into the carport, idled and died.  Papa got out,
glanced toward me and grunted.  His face looked grim and unfriendly.  He was
in a black mood.  Again.  My stomach somersaulted; I shivered in spite of
the heat.
            "Hi Papa!"
            My grandfather's weekend rounds took him to several supermarkets
to pick up boxes of meat scraps for the cats.  He lifted a crate of them out
of the trunk and headed toward the backyard.
            I folded my blanket and followed.  It was getting late, and I
planned to help Granny make supper.
            In front of me, cats of every color appeared-black and white
spotted ones, gray ones, tortoise shells, ginger cats and the bobtail-and
swarmed Papa.  Most of them kept a safe distance, but the bravest ones
including Boots clamored around his feet, and almost tripped him.
            "Get out of here!" he roared.  "God damned cats!"
            Papa reached for a broom leaning against the back staircase and
lunged towards the milling, meowing mass.  With lightening speed, he slammed
it down hard on the nearest cat-Boots.  The terrified cats dispersed in all
directions.  He pursued them, slashing the broomstick like it was a machete.
            "No!" I screamed.
            He ignored me.
            Heart racing, I tore up the back stairs and into the house.
             "Granny!  Papa's killing the cats!  "Help me!"
            My grandmother knelt on the floor, retrieving some canned food
from a bottom cupboard.  Her soft brown eyes glanced at me and widened.  She
shrugged and looked away.
            "There's nothing I can do," she muttered. "Don't go out there!"
            I heard fear in her voice.  Ignoring her, I whirled around and
charged outside, leaping
down the stairs two at a time.
            "Stop!  Papa.  Stop!"
            Papa turned to face me.  His face was an angry red color and his
green eyes glittered.  He held Boots upside down by the tail.
            "Is he dead?"  I wailed, unable to believe my eyes.
            Papa lifted the sleek black and white body high in the air as if
displaying a trophy.  It didn't move.  There was no sign of Boots in this
lifeless carcass.  I saw what trust had done for Boots, the boldest of the
farm cats.
            "No!" my scream shattered the air.
            Papa's eyes met mine.  He jiggled the corpse so that Boots'
broken neck wobbled, then turned away and strode toward the bushes at the
edge of his property.
            I followed in spellbound horror.  Tears streamed down my cheeks.
My hands covered my mouth.  I still couldn't believe that Boots was dead.
            As Papa passed a wooden telephone pole at the roadside he
stopped to whack Boot's head against it, then hurled the limp body into the
brush.
            Tears blurred my vision.  I staggered into the orchard and
dropped into the long, sweet-scented grass.  With my eyes pressed tightly
shut, grisly images bombarded my mind- the insanity in my grandfather's
eyes, Boots' shattered skull and the red, black blood that dripped from his
nostrils.
            I relived my own struggle to escape the grasp of my mother's
hands as she wrenched my hair and beat my head against the kitchen table's
metal edge until I knew I was going to die.
            I breathed in, breathed out.  The sound of my beating heart
filled my ears.  The world around me faded.  I found escape in the safe
haven of my mind.

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