The Tree
The sound of chainsaws filled Charles's head. It filled the bedroom, the bathroom, the space under his bed, the gaps between his teeth. He groaned as his eyes raked the face of an unsympathetic clock. Six-thirty? He considered storming downstairs and demanding that they all go to hell on a Saturday, but it would not restore sleep. The dreams were dead. The saws had seen to that.
An orange ribbon had cast a warning from the tree's trunk all week, silently broadcasting its obituary to the neighborhood. No one stopped to say goodbye to the friendly oak, so reverent and patient in its prolonged occupation of the street. No one asked Mr. Haley why he would remove the landmark, its smooth branches spreading wide above their privacy fence. No one cared. Charles flinched as a dull boom shook the windows. The din of gurgling mechanisms diminished to a chatter, then stilled. Silence pervaded the room as if the world had ceased to exist alongside the tree. It was the quiet that followed the eulogy—the mum of muted contemplation and fatalistic awareness.
From his bedroom window, Charles could see the tree well. It was the only tree in their yard that the Haleys had not removed in the four years since they had moved onto the property. The Mr. and Mrs. had watched them all fall over the years, unblinking and satisfied, as nameless men stripped pine and maple and dogwood from the yard. The great oak marked the finale of their toppling campaign.
The broad shoulders of Mrs. Haley stood out against the empty street, her arms crossed as she looked on impatiently. The treemen glanced back at her nervously as they stood talking to one another in a tight circle, their tools dangling in the calloused grip of grimy fists. One wore an old ball cap and a blank expression, both faded beyond recognition, while another wore a bright orange vest that resembled a life jacket. The third man was the oldest, his angular features, like forgotten framing, gone stiff with weathering.
Downed, with the men crawling among its branches, the once-verdant monolith rapidly wilted. In death, the tree illuminated the past: days spent riding beneath the low-hanging branches, acorns popping under tires as the wind carried the scent of clean timber through his streaming hair. Charles’s vision evaporated with the scattering of dying leaves, his silent reverie burst as the saws roared back to life, and the dark-headed men set to delimbing and portioning up the thick trunk. Their dissecting movements were thoughtlessly efficient. Within minutes, the tree was obscure.
Mr. Haley joined the treemen as they dutifully fed branches into his new wood chipper, its green paint shimmering in the unfiltered light of morning. He ran a hand across the logo, brushing away a layer of sawdust, a broad smile on his face. The chipper idled throatily while the men prepared another bundle of branches to offer the gorging beast. Sensing triumph, Mrs. Haley joined her husband at the machine, barking orders in broken Spanish at the workers grunting along. Her round cheeks shone rosily as she absently sifted through the wood chips collecting in the catch-all.
"You should have them put this around my azaleas, Harry." Mr. Haley grumbled, then winked at the stiff-backed old man before flipping a toggle switch on the chipper’s control panel.
The machinery awoke with a metallic screech. Mrs. Haley jumped back, swearing as she cupped her hands over her ears. "...like children," were the only words that could be heard above the raucous grinding. Haley and the workers laughed heartily as the plump woman fled from the noise, her face flushed, jowls shaking. With wolfish grins, they resumed feeding long life into the metal mouth.
The road was a stranger without the sprawling landmark, a naked stretch of asphalt stripped of shade and deeper meaning. For a moment, Charles saw the little boy again, arms outstretched as he ran breathlessly through a summer downpour, "Last one to the tree is a rotten—"
The boy dissipated, leaving behind the tree’s glaring absence and a lingering odor of rain. Into the chipper went yet another memory. Out came the sawdust. Charles could only watch, wringing his fingers in agony over the work of dirty hands. The old oak was gone, and the men were all laughing.
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