The Killing Tree by Rachel Keener Read Free Book Online Page B

her count out each nickel and dime, he left. I had planned what I would say when he spoke to me, how cool and
     easy I would be.
Hey there yourself
, or
Oh yeah, now I remember, I met you at the docks.
I left the Credit Union disappointed that I didn’t get my chance.
    But there he was again. Standing under the awning of the Credit Union. His eyes flashing recognition as the rain washed away
     my cool speeches. I stood there and looked back. My hair uncombed and tangled, my barbecue-stained clothes clinging to my
     wet skin. I was a wreck. Even by a mater migrant’s standards.
    “It’s a mess out here,” I said.
    “Sure is.”
    “Guess it washes the coal dust out, though,” I said. “Makes everything look all shiny again.”
    He nodded, his gaze falling to the puddle I was standing in.
    “I’m soaked.” I laughed, tossing my hands in the air.
    “Look like you’re standin’ on a mirror.”
    I looked at my feet, and the silver pool that was growing around them. I could see my knees reflected in it. “Ought not break
     it then, huh? That’d be seven years of bad luck.”
    “You trust in all that?” he asked, his voice betraying a note of surprise. I looked at the ground again and saw glassy pools
     all around us, like the windows of heaven had been broken.
    “No. Don’t understand it enough to believe in it. Don’t see how black cats, ladders, or mirrors are supposed to change my
     life.” He nodded his head in response, but I couldn’t tell whether he agreed with me or not.
    “You scared to be on these mirrors?” I asked.
    “Nah. Ain’t got nothin’ to lose.”
    “Seven years of bad luck would seem like a loss to me.” I laughed. He watched me laugh, and smiled back.
    “Preacher once talked about seven years of famine. And then seven years of feast. Way I figure it, my famine’s been goin’
     on so long, ain’t no use in waitin’ for the feast. And if the feast ain’t comin’, no broke mirror’s gonna hurt me.”
    I knew of the feasts and the famines. Once in church all of the children had to march forward to say who we wanted to meet
     the most when we got to heaven. After a row of Jesus answers, I said Joseph. Not the most famous Joseph in the Bible, not
     the Joseph that was Mary’s husband. But Joseph the dream interpreter. The man in the colorful coat that understood dreams
     and prophesized of famines and feasts. I wanted to ask him why I was beginning to dream of a crushing body of water that I
     had never seen.
    “You’re saying a curse can’t hurt an already cursed person,” I said.
    He nodded. “I broke one big ol’ mirror a long time ago. Reckon I can do what I want now. Can’t put that mirror back whole
     again. There’s no changin’ my luck, but at least I’m free.”
    “Free to be a mater migrant?” I asked, wishing I had said “field hand” or “crop worker” instead. He held his hands palms up
     and looked at them.
    There was a long silence, and I began to feel a deeper chill from the rain. He looked back up.
    “Free to quit waitin’ on the feast. And let any good thing shake me up, no matter how small.”
    “Like the fire trout?” I asked.
    He smiled then. “That’s right. Like seein’ a fire trout and hopin’ every day to get to see it again. Wanna see where he was?”
    I didn’t have to answer yes. There were some things that even the rain couldn’t hide.
    Inside his truck, I guessed that it was his home. Dirty clothes were piled around cans of Skoal that lay on the floorboard.
     Fishing line and little packets of feathers and animal fur were scattered on the seat. The air was filled with heavy, damp
     scents. The sweat and tomatoes of his dirty clothes, the yeast of warm beer, the wintergreen of Skoal, and the rain sitting
     on our skin. The vinyl of the seats was ripped in several places, exposing the wires that lay beneath. And there was a patch
     of rust growing in the floorboard through which I saw flashing bits of the road beneath.