Fruit of a Poison Tree

I

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

My town, Martinsville, is green in the spring, yellow in the summer, red and orange in the fall, white in the winter. It is a quiet town with rolling hills expanding out to the west and south, a silken silver band slithering through the landscape to the east. And to the north, the ground slowly and continually climbs upward until it reaches a kind of rounded peak a few miles from where the incline begins. There is a feeling that hangs over the town, the feeling of being fenced in, by hills, a mountain, a river. Not that you were trapped, just that the steady rise and fall of the terrain did not want to let you go. So nobody really ever leaves. It is the same blood, the same families, only changing a little across generations.

The town itself has a pulse, a beat, a ticking clock, maybe coming from the enormous clock tower at the center of town. When you are anywhere near the center of Martinsville, you can feel the monotone clank of cogs inside the great clock that has stood since 1924. If you sit, as I often do, on one of the numerous benches downtown shaded by lovely Aspens which tremble lightly in the wind, their leaves quivering, rustling, laughing, as they often do with the cool April breeze, you can see the people walking by. You can hear the rhythm of their feet pounding, some lightly, others heavily, against the pavement. With your eyes shut tightly, it is almost as if you can hear the heartbeat of each individual as well, the proof that the town itself is alive.

From my perch on the bench, I can look down Front Street, watch the cars go by and count the colors. Three white. Four black. Six silver. One red. Two blue. And it goes on. My eyes move from the street to the buildings, sturdy and brick, some squat and others soaring to the sky, as much as they can soar at a mandated five-story limit. I can almost smell the scent of old books wafting toward me on the vernal breeze from the library, not quite a block away. As I tuck my feet beneath me, I gaze up at the leaf-laden branches above me which make a sunshade canopy, but the perfect kind which only nature could conceive: one that lets in the deliciously warm rays of light enough to kiss your skin but not too much so that it hurts your eyes.

The sound of voices catches my attention as I turn my head down the street, toward the quaint diner, the old-fashioned barber shop with the spinning red and white pole, the neglected movie theatre, and the bustling coffee shop. People are spilling out into the square, talking, laughing, smiling. Bracing my feet against the ground, I push myself to stand, aware by the stiffness in my muscles that I have been sitting for a very long time. I wonder why no one has missed me for the hours I have been from home, but I am not surprised. So I walk in the fashion of the people of Martinsville, slowly but not lazily, relaxed but with certain purpose.

Someone has brought out a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of steaming chocolate-chip cookies. I reach out for a glass and a cookie, taking them quietly from their resting place on a one of the picnic tables. Walking toward the lush grass, I sit to enjoy the refreshments, looking around me, counting the things that are green. The leaves are green, the grass is green, the car parked to my left is green as well, the dress the plump woman who owns the diner wears is mint green. Wiping my hands on the grass, I finish my lemonade and aim it at a trash can. With a whip of my wrist, I watch it bounce off the side. I stand up and walk over, only a little dejected. Just as I lean down to pick it up, I feel eyes on me and I look over to the crowd still gathered in the square. A few are looking my direction. Not truly at me, but toward me. No, they are looking through me. But I simply shrug and throw the cup away. Most people look through a quiet, five-foot-three brunette whose best claim on beauty are wide, almost animal-like brown eyes and delicate, pink lips.

Since I have not been home in some time, I make my way up the winding hill that is Garden Street to the historical homes of the town. My house is the pristinely kept, perfectly manicured, immaculately painted, white and green Colonial with four columns on the front. The house itself is white, the shudders and door green, and the scrolling, cast-iron railing is black. We have a gate in the front. Once, the fence had kept our dog, Penny, inside, but she wasn't with us anymore. After my grandmother, my mother's mother, died, Mother had taken Penny away and offered me and my sister no explanation. I only thought of Penny occasionally now.