Why the Tree Loves the Axe. Jim Lewis

article was directed at me; each was a parable that had been sent my way, and my task was to find the proper meaning and apply it to the city around me. I knew that my fate depended on discovering what was hidden within the stories, but I couldn’t make sense out of any of them; I was too tired, too simple and stupid.

      The police were waiting in the bus and train terminals, but they thought Domino was still in town. He had sent a letter to the newspaper written in neat letters on a sheet of school notebook paper, and they had printed a reproduction of it:

      

      I am a master of the Game, but I didn’t do this. Ask anyone. The bags were evidence that they stole from the House. They called themselves Officer Oregon, Officer Florida, and Officer Ohio. They told me to sell them, and then they tried to take more from me than I got. I told them I had enough, I didn’t want to do any more, and they said Nigger you are going to die. Because my father was a black man they said that. So they framed me, but they won’t ever find me. May God have mercy on you and your families.

      

      Where was my sweet city? On the outskirts of town, a factory full of jobs had shut down; it made engine parts; the owners had disappeared. Four hundred men and women were out of work. Above the article there was a picture that showed a long, low brick building beside an empty parking lot, with a taller building rising behind it. A few men in jeans and work shirts stood outside the fence, staring at the camera with no expression at all.

      And there was no nature or high thinking to console them. But what did that mean? What subtle lesson was I meant to learn? To have pity, to be angry? To quit what home I had and run? I thought it was my fault that I didn’t understand.

      By the time the bus came there was nothing left to read; I took my seat and stared at the floor. The backs of my thighs were raw in a kindly sort of way, and my tongue was sore and tasted of Charlie’s mouth. The dress was a little bit rumpled and it no longer fit so closely, but it still had its shimmer. When a short bald man in a black silk shirt boarded the bus and sat in the seat next to mine, I was afraid he could smell the night before on me, so I pulled my hem down, shifted away from him, and turned my face to the window. A bright corner went by, and with it a revolving tableau: a car was stopped at an angle to the curb, and next to it I saw a police cruiser with its doors still open and its lights beating lazily against the noontime sun. There were two young black men facedown on the sidewalk with their arms stretched out on the pavement, while two policemen stood above them, one talking into his radio while the other was staring at something in his hand.

      Old Station was crowded with Sunday shoppers, strolling in a sun so bright that I couldn’t see. It was a breezy day, and the pennants that hung from the buildings were flapping loudly; a woman went by with one hand clutching her jacket closed, and another woman at my side stopped suddenly, turned around, and grabbed to get a better hold on the bag she was carrying. What had happened the night before was a secret; I wasn’t going to share it with any of them, it would be a mystery to my fans and followers.

      After I’d showered and changed I went out to see Bonnie at work. The place was empty and dark, and she was standing behind the bar, sipping a glass of soda water and watching a black-and-white movie on a television that was perched on the ice machine at the end of the bar. When I walked through the door, she stared at me for a moment and then put her hand up to shade her eyes. Who is that?

      It’s Caroline, I said.

      Oh. She smiled. It’s so dark in here that when you stand in the sun I can’t see anything. Hello, honey. You took that guy home last night, didn’t you? I saw you get into a taxi together.

      I put my bag up on the bartop. We went to his hotel room, I said. I don’t remember how it happened.

      How was it?

      It was strange, said a woman on the television. It was strange, I said. Kind of nice. I can still smell the stuff he puts in his hair.

      I thought he was beautiful, said Bonnie. Was he beautiful? Do you want something to drink?

      No thanks, I said. No, all right, tequila. She brought a tall glass out, set it before me, and poured a shot from the bottle. He was definitely smart about me. He was very …

      Say when, she said as she was stopping. Is that enough?

      Fine. My legs are sore. And my neck, for some reason, I have this kind of lump in my throat. She laughed, I went on. The odd part was that he knew my ex-husband in New York, and he started telling me these things about him. Bonnie was gazing at me steadily, the bottle still slightly cocked in her hand; the night before was coming back like an hour of weather. I didn’t let on who he was to me.

      What did he say?

      He told me a lot of stories, they can’t possibly all be true. That after we got divorced, he was going to marry another woman, but she left him just before the wedding. And she ran off with their baby? She had a baby, and she ran off with it? I don’t know what I should do. I looked away, and without my even thinking, hot tears crept into my eyes.

      She put the tequila back on the shelf and came back with a few lime slices on a napkin. What could you do? she said softly.

      I shook my head; I stared at my own hands. She started to make herself a vodka and cranberry juice. That’s not funny, said the woman on the television. I can’t understand it, I said.

      The drink Bonnie was pouring overflowed its glass, leaving a small puddle beneath. She reached along the bar for a white paper napkin and dropped it on the spill, and together we watched as a dark red stain appeared on it and swiftly spread—then slowed, and finally stopped just before it reached the edges. Maybe it isn’t true, she said as she wiped the counter off and threw the napkin away. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe he’s lost his mind. A man will do that, I’ve seen it.

      Maybe. The hard part is …

      I know, she said. But listen, why don’t you come over and have dinner tonight?

      I’m working the night shift, I said. Tomorrow, we said in unison.

      

      I was supposed to be supervising Mrs. Adcock’s eighty-fifth birthday party that evening, but when I went down to the dining room, André was already there, standing in the bright, bright yellow light that was tumbling through the windows from the last of the setting sun. He was giggling about something as the residents filed through the door; the mirth had taken his face and made a comedy mask of it. Oh, come on in, you. Come on, come on. It’s a party. Now, who all of you can guess—can guess, who can guess how old I am? That’s right, he went on, although no one had answered him. I’m thirty-one years old. You can sit there, or you can sit there. We’re going to sing this afternoon. You can sing, or you can just listen. That’s right. He looked over at me and started laughing again. Caroline, are you going to help me keep these people in line? he said. We’ve got games, guess what year it is; we got races, wheelchairs against walkers. No, you go on and get some coffee or something. I’ve got this under control.