This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.
Text copyright © 2017 Kathy Allred. All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the rights holder.
Cover design by Winterheart Design.
1st edition 2005, 2nd edition 2017
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
The Sweet Gum Tree | By | Katherine Allred
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PART TWO | CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
The Sweet Gum Tree
By
Katherine Allred
One
Growing up in the Crowley Ridge area of Arkansas, I paid little attention to the sweet gum trees except to admire their brilliant colors during the fall. And maybe to laugh when the Judge cursed each time he ran the lawn mower over the hard burs they produce, the tiny missiles banging against the house or car with a loud thunk and denting the mower blades he kept so carefully honed.
It wasn’t until I was a grown woman that I realized the true nature of the tree. A sweet gum is the chameleon of wood, its corky exterior hiding its inner ability to imitate anything from cherry to mahogany. But its real value, one unrealized by most people, is its deep red heart, steady and strong. They see only the pale fibrous wood, easily warped, that surrounds the core.
Like the town of Morganville saw Nick Anderson.
As with most small town southerners, respectability was as much a part of my DNA as was my hair and eye color. It was the goal everyone strived for, the standard by which every citizen of Morganville was judged. And while my family, the French’s, wasn’t the richest—that honor going to Ian and Helena Morgan—we were one of the most respected. Thanks mostly to the Judge, my grandfather.
His name was Carl, but no one, including his daughters, ever called him anything but the Judge. He retired from the bench when I was five, and since my own father pulled a vanishing act shortly before my birth, the Judge stepped forward to fill that role for me. I thought the man walked on water and took every word from his lips as gospel.
“Alix,” he told me. “Stay away from the railroad tracks. A wowzer cat lives under the trestle, and you don’t want to get tangled up with one of those.”
“What’s a wowzer cat?” I asked, enthralled.
“It’s a fifty-pound cat with eight legs and nine bung holes, and it’s meaner than a gar.”
The Judge had an odd sense of humor.
The summer I was eight I spent most of my free time stretched out in the high grass near the trestle, trying my best to catch a glimpse of this elusive animal. I felt sorry for it and thought if anyone could tame it, I was that person. After all, hadn’t I tamed the half-wild kittens in the barn?
I remained a believer until my first close encounter with Nick Anderson that fall.
Everyone knew who the Andersons were. Frank, Nick’s father, owned the salvage yard on the outskirts of town. It was five square acres filled with the rusting, twisted corpses of dead vehicles, most of them shrouded in weeds or covered by wild morning glory vines. In between the rows, pools of stagnant water lay, their surfaces multi-colored with the iridescent hues from leaked oil. And at the very back of the lot sat a tiny trailer, in little better shape than the vehicles surrounding it, where the Andersons, father and son, lived.
Frank Anderson was the only person in town who cared nothing about respectability. He was a large man, well over six feet, and his weight showed his propensity to strong drink. I never saw him dressed in anything but khaki pants, soiled with stains of unknown origin, his huge stomach, covered in a badly stretched T-shirt, sagging over his belt.
It wasn’t uncommon to find him sitting on the bench in front of the general store or staggering down Main Street, a bottle gripped in his right hand, mumbling about the sons of bitches who all thought they were better than he was, and how he’d show them someday. Every kid in Morganville knew to give him a wide berth when he was in this condition. Frank Anderson wasn’t exactly what you’d call friendly even when he was sober. Drunk, he was downright dangerous.
Apparently, the only one who could stand him was Liz Swanner. Jenna Howard, my best friend since kindergarten, told me Mr. Anderson paid Liz to let him “do it” to her. I don’t think either of us was exactly sure what that meant, but I thought Liz could probably use whatever money he gave her. After all, she had six kids to feed and no job to support them. The whole family was on welfare, although they barely got enough to survive.
The Swanner house was the last one between the salvage yard and town. It sat alone, an outcast from its neighbors, a single story shotgun house with flakes of paint clinging here and there to its weathered boards. Several mangy dogs graced the bare dirt in front like living lawn ornaments, the Arkansas equivalent of pink flamingos.
I stared out the truck window as the Judge drove by the Swanner’s house, my curiosity boundless toward a life so different from my own, but there was no sign of human habitation. Lindsey, the youngest of the Swanner brood was in my class at school, but no one really knew her. She always kept to herself, seeming to shrink into invisibility in spite of her white-blonde hair and blue eyes. No one was ever cruel to her. Most of the kids simply forgot she was around.
That particular day, my mother and my aunts had run me out of the house while they prepared for the church social to take place the next day. It would be the last hurrah before school started and they were going all out for the event. Mounds of food already filled the refrigerator and both the Judge and I had been threatened with Dire Consequences if we were to touch it.
I was sitting on the swing that the Judge had made for me in the backyard; a logging chain with the ends wrapped around a sturdy branch of the sweet gum tree and nailed in place, with a notched board seat. Years of use had worn away the grass beneath it and left a deep groove where my feet dragged. Bored, I was contemplating enlisting Jenna to help me corner the wowzer cat when the Judge appeared from the shed and headed for his truck.
In stature, the Judge was one of the biggest men I’ve ever known, but physically, he was short without an ounce of fat on him. A pair of black glasses with thick lenses was constantly perched on his nose and his crew-cut hair was dark gray on the sides, blending into a lighter gray strip down the center of his head. His manner of dress was always the same; a brown work shirt and jeans on week days, a suit on Sunday.
As soon as I realized he was leaving, I leaped to my feet and followed. The Judge never offered to take me with him, and I never asked permission. It was understood by everyone concerned that where he went, I went too.
The truck passed the Swanner house and I shifted my gaze forward as we turned in at Andersons Salvage Yard. The Judge pulled to a stop at the end of a row and we climbed out. The main focus of the salvage yard was the big tin building sitting in front of the gate, heat waves shimmering from the top and the scent of stale oil and gasoline permeating the air.
I could feel Frank Anderson’s glare as soon as we stepped inside. He was sitting behind a dirty counter,
his feet propped up on top of it. “Judge. What brings you out this way?” His voice was surly, like he was doing us a favor by acknowledging our presence.
“I’m looking for a fuel pump that’ll fit the ‘52 Chevy I’m rebuilding. Think you might have something?”
The Judge had bought that car the day he retired and spent most of his time working on it. At first, he’d let me sit inside while he tinkered, until the day I accidentally blew the horn while his head was under the hood. Now I was banished to standing beside him, handing over tools as he needed them.
“I might.” Mr. Anderson turned his head. “Hey, boy!”
The rustling sound from the back of the building was the first indication I had that Nick was present. Partially hidden by the shadows, he rose from the engine parts that were scattered around him like chickens around my mother’s skirt at feeding time. Silently, he moved through the debris and stopped at the counter, waiting.
“Go take the fuel pump off that ‘52 Chevy pickup in the back of the lot.” Mr. Anderson turned his glare back on the Judge. “It’ll probably work.”
When Nick grabbed a toolbox off the counter, I decided to go with him. The town being small, I knew who he was, but I’d never talked to him before. I was eight, he was ten, and even if there hadn’t been a gap in our ages, Nick didn’t frequent the same circles I did. As far as I knew, he didn’t frequent any circles at all. The few times I’d seen him at school, he had always been alone, leaning against a tree or the building, watching but never participating in the play. The only difference between him and Lindsey Swanner was that everyone knew Nick was there. Even at ten he was hard to ignore.
“Don’t get dirty, Alix,” the Judge called as I skipped out the door.
“No, Sir. I won’t.” I was well aware of the repercussions from Aunt Darla, the oldest of my mother’s sisters, if I got dirty. The woman considered dirt of any type her mortal enemy and searched it out with a diligence that was both frightening and awe-inspiring. When I was little she had me convinced that one speck of dirt on my person had the potential to kill me on the spot. It wasn’t until I had a few bouts of hysteria that my mother forced Aunt Darla to retract her previous statements and assure me that I wasn’t going to die. These days I repaid the favor by getting dirty at every opportunity, thereby sending Aunt Darla into a few hysterics of her own.
The Judge says what goes around, comes around, and we both understood his warning was mostly for show. At least if Aunt Darla yelled at him, he could honestly say he’d told me to stay clean.
Since Nick’s legs were twice the length of mine, I had to run to catch up with him. When I did, I watched him from the corner of my eyes. He was tall for his age and thin, his body all sinew and bones that seemed to protrude in every direction. His black hair was thick and long, even for a world that used the Beatles and the Rolling Stones as the current fashion trend.
“You must know a lot about motors,” I ventured when the silence became too much for me.
“I guess.”
A thrill of excitement shot through my stomach. He was going to talk to me! “I help the Judge work on his car sometimes.”
He glanced in my direction, his gray eyes skeptical. “You’re too short to reach the engine.”
My nose promptly went out of joint. “I am not short. My mother says I just have a delicate bone structure. Besides, I don’t work on the engine, I hand him the stuff he needs.”
When he didn’t answer, I decided to forgive him for the insult. “My name is Alix.”
His lips curved upward a bit. “I know who you are. Everybody in town knows who you are.”
I was mortified by this news. Sure, I’d done some things that tended to get me noticed, like waltzing up the center isle at church and stretching out on my stomach with my chin propped on my hands as I listened to Reverend Green’s sermon. But that had been years ago and I was hoping people would quit bringing it up every chance they got. Having a reputation can be tough when you’re eight. It was time to chance the subject.
“I’m going to catch a wowzer cat this afternoon,” I bragged. “It lives under the trestle down at the railroad tracks.”
One of his eyebrows shot up. “What’s a wowzer cat?”
“It’s a fifty pound cat with eight legs and nine bung holes, and it’s meaner than a gar. But I’m going to tame it and take it home with me.”
This time his teeth showed when he grinned. “Even if it was real, why would you want to take something like home?”
I wasn’t about to admit I felt sorry for it. “To scare my Aunt Darla.” I hesitated. “You don’t think there really is a wowzer cat?”
He stopped at a battered blue pickup and took out a crow bar to pry up the hood. “Who told you there was?”
“The Judge.”
One of his shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Maybe he was trying to scare you into staying off the train tracks. They’re too dangerous for a kid to play on.”
He moved around the truck to lean over the fender well, his too-small shirt riding up his back with the movement, and suddenly I forgot all about wowzer cats and my reputation as I stared at the raw welt he’d exposed.
The only time I’d ever been hit by an adult was when Mama spatted my bottom for saying a cuss word in front of a church elder that I’d heard the Judge use, and then I cried for two hours. Mama felt so guilty she cried with me and promised to never spank me again. Next time I cussed, she’d just wash my mouth out with soap and have done with it. When I tested this out by gingerly licking the bar of soap, I decided my cussing days were over.
But I knew instinctively what the mark on Nick’s back was. It was two inches wide and curved around his side, the edges of the strip laced with cuts, most of it dark blue in color.
Lifting one finger, I touched the mark gently. “Does it still hurt?”
His body jerked and stiffened as he spun to stare at me, his eyes going the same shade of black-gray as the sky when it’s going to storm. I stared right back, not willing to give an inch, but inside a mixture of horror and sympathy filled me. None of it showed on my face, though. Even at my tender age I understood pride.
“Why did he hit you?”
Nick’s hand tightened around the wrench he was holding. “He doesn’t need a reason.” He glanced toward the tin building. “Look, don’t say anything to anybody, okay? Most of the time I stay out of his way.”
“I won’t tell, I promise. But you need some medicine on it.” For once I was willing to take Aunt Darla at her word. Uneasy visions of gangrene, tetanus, and infection bounced inside my head.
“Don’t have any. Besides, it’s getting better.”
Maybe, but I wasn’t taking any chances. “I’ll be right back.” I headed for the truck at a run, and once there, rummaged frantically through the glove box until I found the small round tin I was searching for. Bee balm.
Wherever the Judge went, there was sure to be bee balm nearby. He bought it in bulk, twelve tins to the box, and swore the salve could cure anything. I knew from firsthand experience that its powers were nothing short of miraculous. The Judge had slathered it on me for everything from a splinter wound to a skinned knee, and each time I had healed with no permanent damage. The only unhappy incident connected to the salve was the time I thought it must be a balm to soothe bees and applied it to the back of a honeybee gathering nectar from the clover in our yard. Unfortunately, the salve stuck the bee and me together, and I wound up getting stung. Obviously, it was not meant to soothe bees, because that one was pretty ticked off by the experience.
Nick had one end of the fuel pump off by the time I slid to a stop beside him. “Hold up your shirt.”
He paused, eyeing the tin in my hand. “What’s that?”
“Bee balm. It will keep you from getting an infection.” I ignored the gleam of amusement in his eyes as he straightened and lifted his shirt just enough to expose the welt.
Keeping the honeybee in mind, I dipped out a tiny bit of salve and went to
work on his back. His skin was hot under my hand, and in spite of his scruffy, worn clothes I could smell the clean scent of soap coming from him. He watched me, his expression hooded as I moved around his side and finished where the welt ended on his stomach.
“There. All done.” I put the lid back on the tin and held it out. “You can keep it. We’ve got lots more.”
Still watching me, he slid it into his shirt pocket. “Are you gonna be a nurse or something?”
“Nope. I’m going to be a writer.”
His expression turned to one of intense interest. “It takes someone special to write books.”
“Well, I’m special, then, because that’s what I’m going to do.”
“You may be right, Peewee.” He lifted a hand and tugged on one of my dark pigtails. His tone was so warm that I couldn’t take offense at the nickname. Coming from him, it sounded more like an endearment than another slur on my size.
“Do you like to read?” I asked, leaning on the fender as he went back to work.
“When I can. The old man thinks reading is a waste of time. He’d rather spend his money on liquor than books.”
This attitude boggled my mind even more than his wounded back. Everyone in my family read. Books were as necessary to us as food or sleep. I don’t know how old I was when I started reading, but I know my mother accidentally discovered my talent when I was four. She had bought me a new fairy tale, promising to read it to me that night when I went to bed. Unwilling to wait that long, I was reading it aloud to my dolls when she came into the room. From the amount of excitement this feat generated, you’d have thought I’d found the cure for cancer. I couldn’t imagine anyone who thought reading was a waste of time.
I was still thinking about this weird behavior when I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. Lindsey Swanner was standing a few cars down from us, one finger in her mouth as she watched Nick. Her hair was tangled around her shoulders, and she was barefoot.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Waiting on me.” He finally freed the fuel pump and pulled it out from under the hood.