Visitations (10 page)

Except if the police come. Then I will have to explain things. And I don’t want to talk. I just want to pick leaves and go home. I only want my leaves.

Why can’t everyone just let me be?

When I saw the odd woman in the window on the phone she must have been calling the police. Especially when she saw her man being guided to the house, his face a mask of tears and red. With me holding the strange man’s gun, it might have made her think I was hostile. Wow, why didn’t I realize this earlier? I shake my head back and forth and smack my temple.

The living room has a long couch where I get them to sit. I use shoelaces to tie up their feet. I don’t want hostages, I only want them out the way while I do a field press on my new-found leaves. Then I will exit this strange house in a strange land owned by strange people, by way of the back door and disappear.

They will never see me again.

I found the Honey-Locust tree. My job is done.

I figure the cops will take at least fifteen minutes to get to this remote setting. I had spent ten here already. That means I will need to hurry.

I am happy with all my clear thinking. This is becoming fun in a way. I haven't been in control of a crisis for a long time. Neat how it all comes back to you, dealing with issues that are unpleasant.

I run to the kitchen. I set the long gun on the counter, locate the wax paper and rip a strip off. I flatten it out on the kitchen table and place my satchel down. I carefully take the leaves out of the magazine pages and set them gently on the wax paper. I make sure they are flat and ready.

Now I need newspaper. After a frantic minute of running around the house I can’t find any. I walk into the garage and locate a recycle bin. There’s enough in it for my purpose.

When I get back to the kitchen something’s different. I place the newspaper on top of my leaves and look around. For some reason I can’t figure it out.

It’s time to leave. But first I want to check on the strangers in the living room. I go to the counter to pick up the gun, but it’s gone.

That’s what was different. The gun’s missing.

My stomach rolls. My shoulder still throbs. My head feels like it’s an egg that got cracked. But I need to do what I don’t want to do. I need to check on the strangers in the living room.

I’ve run out of time. I need to hurry so I choose to not be stealthy.

When I get there the living room is empty.

Why are they doing this? I just want my leaves. I just want to go home. I wish everyone would leave me alone. I didn’t ask for this.

It’s the same when Jimmy followed me into the woods that day. We walked and walked, looking at all the trees and their wonderful leaves. We marveled at the colors, shapes and sizes. After about three hours on our own, Jimmy wanted to head back to the teacher and the rest of the students. I didn’t.

We argued. I remember walking away from him. He grabbed my arm and spun me around. I was shocked. He yelled at me. He said we had to return to the group. We had to go back to school. We were supposed to go home.

He touched me. He yelled at me. Those two actions made me run. I always run when people touch me too much or when people yell at me.

Jimmy was found dead a week later. He got lost on his way back to the school bus.

It wasn’t my fault.

I ran from my dad. He always yelled. He died from yelling when I was twelve. Yelled and yelled and yelled. Then his heart blew up.

I come back to the room in my head. The strangers are not where I put them. Maybe they left the house. I’ll get my leaves and go.

I turn and discover the strange man has the long gun. It’s pointed at my midsection.

“Get down,” he says.

Now what do I do? I don’t want to get shot. For my leaves, for my Honey-Locust leaves, I get to my knees.

“All the way. To your stomach.”

I refuse to talk so I shake my head back and forth.

The strange man raises the gun to his eye and points it at me. We’re in a long hallway, the living room opening to my right and I think he might shoot me.

“I said all the way down.”

I shake my head again.

I hear footsteps behind me. For fear of being shot, I don’t move. I want to turn around, but I don’t want a bullet for it.

“I thought I told you to get outside and stay outside,” he says.

“I know, but I can’t leave you alone.” It’s the woman’s voice. “What if you needed my help?”

“I don’t need no help. I was just getting him to the ground so as to tie him up until the police get here.”

“He don’t look like he’s on the ground. He’s only on his knees.”

“I was working on it. Now let me do this.”

The long gun takes up its position, aimed at me again. I push off the wall on my left and dive for the dirty rug on the floor of the living room.

A loud boom echoes in the house. My hearing disappears. I race my hands over my body. No blood. No wounds.

I scramble to my feet as my hearing ebbs back. But all I hear is screaming. A woman screaming.

She was directly behind me in the hallway. The gun went off. I wasn’t there to get hit. She got hit.

The strange man is a blur as he runs by the living room alcove. I peek around the corner. He’s on the floor, holding the woman’s foot. It looks like an ankle wound. She’ll live.

I bolt for the kitchen. My field press is waiting. I carefully wrap a string around the newspaper like a present and pick it up. When I peek into the hallway, the man has set the gun down. He’s got a cloth of some kind. I can see he’s applying pressure to the wound.

I hate her screams. I have to leave. In three steps I’m in the laundry room. I unlock the deadbolt and step out into the early evening air.

A voice comes through the air at me from all sides.

“WE HEARD A GUNSHOT! IS EVERYONE OKAY IN THERE?”

It sounds like one of those handheld metal things cops use to make their voices loud.

“WE’VE GOT THE PLACE SURROUNDED. WE WANT TO TALK!”

I look left and right. I don’t see anybody. I drop my shoulders and start for the trees. Maybe they won’t see me.

I’ve done nothing wrong. I helped a man back to his house. This is all a bad case of mistakes.

I’m only thirty yards from the trees. I’m going to make it. I feel great.

“Hey, you there, freeze!”

I hate it when people yell at me. I always run when people yell.

“STOP! POLICE! I’LL SHOOT!”

I run hard. I didn’t run hard enough when the boys came to put boots to my head all those years ago. The trees are steps away. Shelter, security, and comfort await me.

I can hear the trees calling my name.

Serenity can be found in the strangest of places, the oddest times. I thought of the many journeys I’ve had in forests just like the one I’m entering. How many times I’ve sat and stared at the sky while having lunch. How many times I’ve fallen asleep in a bed of grass and soft leaves.

Ohhh, the leaves. How I love leaves.

My arm doesn’t hurt anymore. I feel whole. When I sit up, I’m surprised at how fast I’m standing. It was like I stood with the effort of a thought.

I see my satchel on the ground. I see the umbrella too. It’s still attached to the side of a man the police officers are surrounding.

One of the cops is using both hands to push my chest. They’ve holstered their weapons. They must have shot me.

The field press sits by itself a few feet from my body. I’m standing by it now. My fingers try to touch the Honey-Locust leaves before they’re blown away in the breeze.

They tumble from me. My soul aches. My spirit is crying. I can feel it.

I’m a leaf collector.

I love leaves and they love me. We have an understanding. They whisper my name. They never yell.

I look around. The trees have won. All I ever wanted was to leave a legacy. All I ever wanted was to be loved, adored.

I had trespassed one too many times in a forest where the trees didn’t want me taking from their crowns.

But in the end, I don't blame the trees. I know in their own way, they love me too because I love them.

After the light allows me passage to a new home, I have all the lovely trees I can handle. I play with the leaves and set up displays and rummage through forests for hours and hours.

I love leaves and they love me.

I’m home now.

I’m a leaf collector.

The Uniqueness of Life

A cold wind blew Rebecca’s hair up, her eyes closing as they watered. She turned to look over her shoulder. The street was mostly empty, other than two women who were entering the gift shop Rebecca had just left.

She turned back around and walked on. What gave her such a feeling of dread? Why was she feeling like something was wrong? Was it instinct or intuition?

A store window caught her attention. She slowed and gawked at a wall of televisions. The different sized screens were all tuned to the same news station, showing image after image of the current snowstorm that was blanketing the province just south of them. She shivered as the cold seemed to move right through her. She couldn’t hear what was being said through the store’s window pane and the earmuffs she wore, but she watched anyway, transfixed by the pictures on the screens. When she made to turn away, movement in the corner of the window stopped her. She did a double-take.

It was the reflection of a man standing across the street, staring at her. Even through the reflection, and the angle of the window, she was sure he was watching her. What she was surer of, was that it was her husband, Mark.

Rebecca spun around and looked across the road at her husband, a multitude of thoughts going through her mind. Why wasn’t he at work? Was he following her? Why didn’t he come over and say something?

“Mark,” she yelled, waving her gloved hands.

He nodded and turned away.

“Mark!” she yelled again, as he disappeared around the corner of a building.

What the hell is that about?

Rebecca hustled along as fast as she could on the slippery snow. She made it to the flashing yellow light on her side and, after looking up and down Main Street, she hustled across. In less than a minute, she’d reached the spot where Mark had been, and then looked around the corner where he had turned.

He was gone. Vanished.

That’s strange
.
Why would he take off like that
?

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her cell phone. After dialing his office number, she got his voice mail. She tried his cell. No answer.

Strange.

The incident only served to intensify the butterflies in her stomach, confirming something was wrong. Mark wouldn’t just walk away like that. Not after fifteen years of marriage. He was acting more like a stranger than her husband.

She decided to finish her banking and leave the downtown area. The cold had kept many people indoors today, but Mark had asked her to do a deposit at the bank for him. She’d thought she’d add a little shopping to her excursion, but now she just wanted to head home.

She started walking and thought again,
why would he do that? Even if he had business downtown today, he always had the time to stop and say hello.

A part of her was scared to find out the real reason for him being downtown.

She made it to the bank without seeing him again. The two front doors were large wooden ones that opened to two more doors that had been added for security. She stepped through and immediately headed for the line. There was one teller working the counter. She counted four people waiting to be served, which meant at least five to ten minutes of standing around. She lined up anyway, but kept a watchful eye on the window looking out at the street.

Random cars passed by slowly, their exhaust looking smoky in the cold January morning air. She reveled in the heat of the bank, loosening her scarf a little and removing her mittens. She pulled off her earmuffs and placed them in her oversized purse.

The line moved. Two people in front of her. After a minute, the line moved again.

She looked up at the bank’s window and saw Mark.

He stood very close to the bank window’s glass, staring in at her. It was a hard stare, like he was trying to bore through her, his face forward, forehead almost touching the pane.

She frowned and gestured with her hands, mouthing the words, ‘
what’s going on?’
.

Her husband just stood there, staring in at her. It was eerie how he seemed to be immobile. He looked like he was made of stone, and - although he wasn’t dressed well enough for the weather - he didn’t appear to be shivering.