The Oak

Part I

            Sam and Tom gazed up through the nimble branches of the tree and wondered, wordlessly, how winter could have crept upon them. Only days ago did the blackbirds sing tunes rich with dissonance from the sycamore trees, and now it seemed that the very tune that had haunted them receded into the bitter wind. The birds were weary from the cold now, hiding timidly in their peep-holes the way a self-conscious man might hide within himself. From time to time they peered from their hiding places to stare down warily at the two men, their beady eyes darting back and forth to detect any sign of malice, their wings prepped to take flight. The pumpkin-colored leaves shriveled, falling to the ground around the men.

            Tom took a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket and held it open to Sam before taking one for himself. Tom was a gentleman, everyone always said. Parents would’ve whipped the hell out of him as a child otherwise. Fear’s a powerful force – it can shape a man, you know. Take any man with the slightest doubt of his dignity and you can turn him into anything – even a monster. Tom knew this, surely.

            Sam sat with his back against the tree while Tom lit his cigarette, and he slowly became aware of how cold it was. He shivered and tugged at his jacket, keeping the burning cigarette close to his face to bask in the minimal warmth it provided him. Tom lit his own cigarette and rested his head backwards against the trunk of the tree, exhaling his first puff of smoke. He stole a sideways glance at Sam and smiled solemnly.

            “Look at our tree, Sam,” Tom said. Sam had known it would be a pitiful sight, felt it, even, in his heart, or maybe his bones. And he had seen a little, too, when he looked upward through the branches towards the gray sky, with its ominous clouds rolling inward from the sea, pregnant with the prospect of rain.

            “I’d rather not talk about it. Let’s just enjoy our cigarettes for a bit. It’s been a while,” Sam said. He tapped his cigarette to get rid of the ashes, and they scattered like memories into the wind. “I warn you though, we shouldn’t stay here too long. There’s a storm coming. It’s already damn cold enough, the last thing we need is to be caught in a storm.”

            “What’s a little rain going to do?” Tom protested. “Come on, Sam, toughen up a bit. We’re army men.”

            “Right,” Sam said slowly. “Army men.”

          It is true that the men were once army men, but that was many years ago. They were no longer young men, but they were not old men, either – they sat at a particular crossroad in life where lust for young women becomes unbearable and the fear of bodily decay becomes an imminent threat in the mind. Their heads shone with the prospect of a gray invasion, preluded by the developing patterns of gray hair near their scalps. Their backs hunched slightly as the hand of time applied its gentle pressure – but a gradual pressure, one that is not distinguishable by the day, but rather by month, or by year. And in their faces were etched the marks of wise men who had seen all too much – men who had seen the rich fruit the world has to offer, and the bitter fruit, too, dressed in its notorious disguise.

            “Hershey’s buried somewhere here, you know,” Sam said, breaking the brief silence.

            “Your dog? I forgot about the little guy.”

            “Yeah – my pup. Son of a bitch raccoon got him. Poor fella. Carried him to this tree, set him down, dug a hole. My God, Tom, that was decades ago.”

            “This spot – it means a lot to you,” Tom acknowledged.

            “It meant a lot to all of us,” Sam said.

            “It did. But I never set anything to rest here.”

            “Bullshit, Tom. We lived our childhoods huddled under this tree, and here we were safe from the fear that spread across the rest of the world. Here it was that we shed tears of laughter and indulged in childhood innocence, Tom. But look at us now. We’re cranky old men back where we started, looking for a fragment of ourselves when there is nothing to be found. Here lay the memories of a perfect world, Tom – and I’ll be damned if you disagree with me.”