Memory Tree

By Bill Mathis

Eula’s stardust—spirit—has been waiting for her father to return to their old farmhouse so she can learn why he didn’t rescue her, her brother, and their mother. Dying of cancer, her father Duane, finally returns. He wants to pass away with his guilt and remorse of not being able to rescue his family and, more importantly, his secret shame over the way he dealt with his mixed race relationship. Retha, a nurse specializing in end of life care, works to help him overcome his regrets. In the process, each realize their secrets and their families are intertwined. In this touching and deeply layered story of race, prejudice and love, an Eastern white pine tree—named Memory—presides over the front yard and proves to be a generational refuge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: May 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781624205965

Book preview

Chapter One

My real name is Beula, but I couldn’t say the B when I was learning to talk, so Ooola became Eula. Mommy said adding an H to the end of Beula made it sound too old. Besides, I was named after Granny and her name didn’t have an H at the end either. She wasn’t old yet. At least she wasn’t back then.

Some people think stardust is like spirits, which are like ghosts. I’m not like that. Ghosts and spirits can touch things or move things or spook people or animals or birds. I can’t. It’s like I’m a dandelion, all white and poufy, except I’m a cluster of stardust nobody alive can see. I think where I want to go and somehow, I’m there.

Only I don’t want to go other places. Not away from the house. I’m afraid to. I mostly stay at the top of the archway between the kitchen and dining room.

I can hear and see and think. I can’t smell, talk out loud, sneeze or touch, but I can remember those things. I don’t cry real tears, but I sure remember what they were like, and the pain and fear. In my mind, I’m telling all this to Memory. I always liked writing stories, now it’s telling them. I’m just an invisible poof of stardust. Waiting. Telling my life to Memory. And now to you.

It bothers me that there is no—oops, there are no—pictures of me or Jimmy hanging in our house now. Or of Mommy. Even Dad. Anywhere. There used to be. Some were of Mommy and us kids. Some were of me and Jimmy with Dad. None were with all four of us together. I don’t understand why the pictures are missing. It would be nice to see them every day. Something to look at while I remember, think, and just exist as sawdu…Oops again—I almost said sawdust. Now that would be weird. I mean stardust.

Maybe I was thinking of sawdust because Dad was a wood carver, too. A good one. The wood carvings he made of us are also gone. Why would they be missing, too? Who would sneak in and take them and the pictures? How could I not have seen them do it?

See, I’ve been waiting a long time in our old farmhouse for Dad to come back. When you’re dead, you don’t think about time, that’s why I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting. I won’t leave until my stardust meets Dad’s or I at least know he remembers us. I don’t know where else to look for him, so I’m waiting here.

Things were really scary the bad day. A big angry man attacked Mommy down by the lake. She yelled for us to run and get Dad.

We did.

We screamed for Dad when we got to the house. He hollered to wait on the porch. He was in the shower and had to pull some clothes on and get his gun. He yelled he was hurrying as fast as he could. He sounded upset.

Except we didn’t wait for him. Instead, we ran back to the dock. Mommy was gone. Then the crazy man attacked us. We ended up in the lake, next to Mommy.

After Dad didn’t rescue us or show up, Jimmy’s stardust kept telling mine to go up to the house and wait for Dad’s stardust. Mommy agreed. She thought maybe Dad died near the house or on the way to save us. She said I was always a daddy’s girl anyway, so I should go. Mommy also said Jimmy’s stardust would stay by hers forever and mine could be with Dad’s until all four of us can get together. She said Memory Tree would look over me, even inside the house. So, I went. It took a while for my stardust to get through the water.

The only problem was, when my stardust finally got to the house, Dad wasn’t here. Not him alive or his stardust. I did see that the barn had burned down. Wouldn’t Dad’s stardust have found mine if he died in the fire?

How did the barn burn down? It must have burned down after the bad man attacked us. But how? Why wasn’t Dad here? If he wasn’t dead someplace around the house, where did he go?

Dad was supposed to come rescue Mommy. Me and Jimmy, too. Dads do that. Rescue their family.

Our dad never came.

So, I’m here in the house, waiting for Dad.

Waiting to learn what happened.

Waiting for my forever to start.

Chapter Two

Let me tell you about Memory Tree.

As I said, we called her Memory, like the tree was a person. Dad named her when he was a boy. Said he talked to her, too. He said Memory is an Eastern white pine. That she’s over two-hundred years old. I told you she was really old.

Dad said maybe a little Indian kid’s foot pushed the seed from a pine cone into the earth and that started her growing. Mom said we should call the Indians Native Americans. She was careful about the names people are called.

Dad told us Memory is one hundred feet tall. He’s a forester and he should know. He said she is almost four feet in diameter. There’s another measurement, around the tree, but I can’t remember what it’s called. A hundred feet is very tall. We could see Memory from miles away when we were driving home from town. It’s also higher than all the other trees in the national forest next to our place. I suppose it might be even higher than one hundred feet now. Dad did say older trees still grow a little each year, and it’s been a long time since the bad day.

Each year, Jimmy and I tried to climb higher in the tree. Just before we turned nine, we made it high enough to look down on the roof of our house. Dad said we were probably thirty feet up. We didn’t dare climb higher. Besides, our hands and feet were all covered in pitch and grit.

Me and Jimmy used to crawl in between the lowest branches. We’d listen to the robins, chickadees, and sometimes the mourning doves. Sometimes we talked to Memory out loud, sometimes just in our heads.

It’s been a long time since anyone alive talked to Memory. Or climbed in her. Or camped out in sleeping bags on the ground beneath her branches.

Today, people driving by can barely see our old farmhouse. Trees and brush and sumac have grown up to it.

There were no neighbors when Dad, Mommy, Jimmy and I lived here. Back then, hardly anyone knew our family existed.

Memory did.

Chapter Three

January 3, 2019

All of a sudden, it’s been busy around here. First, two men plowed out the driveway and shoveled the walk and porch. Next, they got the lights and heat on and the water running.

One of them said, This is strange. Opening up a home in the winter. Don’t we usually open this place in the spring and close it in the fall?

Yup. We been doin’ this place for twenty-five years. Sad thing is, I don’t think anyone has visited here for years.

So, why we doing it? The shorter man was working with the pipes under the kitchen sink.

The tall man was lighting the pilot on the kitchen stove. The owner grew up here and wants to come back and die here, that’s why. When you finish the sinks, go bring a good supply of wood from the shed to the porch. The tall man kept talking as he moved to the dining room. He patted the large heater. The man said he wanted the wood stove to be available, along with the gas heater in the dining room. Ya don’t see these kinda heaters anymore. It’s vented to the outside, plus the electric fan circulates the warm air. Nope, ain’t seen one of these in a long time.

He bent over, opened the small door and lit the pilot light. Straightening up, he said, This thing will heat the living room and the bedroom, keep the pipes warm at night, too. Good thing, guess there’s going to be a nurse staying with him till he kicks off.

Who were they talking about? Did they mean Dad was finally coming home? He did grow up here. Does someone else own our home and I’ve been waiting in the wrong place? Are they confused? I am.

While those two worked on the plumbing and heat, two more men took the dining room table apart and put it in the living room, against the fireplace that never worked. Next, they brought in a big bed and set it up in the dining room by the heater. Does Dad need a special bed to die in?

All the men left. The next day, a man and woman came and cleaned the whole house. They even stocked the fridge and pantry. I heard the woman say, Honey, we been cleaning this place for over twenty-five years. You know the guy who owns it?

Nope. Everything is handled through West Michigan Property Management in Ludington. The owner of the house has lived in the Upper Peninsula, Houghton, since 1985. Never met him in person. It seems, every year, he still wants the place opened in case he or family come here to get away in the summer. The man stopped talking and sipped his coffee. Guess, back in the late nineties, several guys came a few times in the fall to bow hunt. Never him or the family. Two weeks ago, Fred, the manager, called, said the old man was dying and wanted to kick off down here. That’s all I know.

He poured some coffee for the woman. While you clean the bathroom, I’m going to fill the wood stove so all someone’s gotta do is light it. Every year, Fred told me to make sure wood was cut, dry and ready in the shed. As if the shed ain’t been full all these years.

Someone’s been opening up the house and closing it down every year. Other than those bow hunters, no one ever came. The first few times, I got excited when people showed up to open the place up. Now I’m used to it. Kinda like part of spring and fall. It was nice to see people. Wow. Twenty-five years sounds like a long time. I told you stardust doesn’t keep track of time.

Oh, wait. I do remember that right after I got into the house, several policemen knocked on the door. I heard one say, I don’t think Mr. Gleason has returned. His answering service must a been correct. He’s started over up north. Probably doesn’t know about the barn and probably doesn’t care. This place ain’t worth much. Even that hay field is sad looking.

The other one said, I agree. No sense wasting our time further. If I lived out here, I’d get the hell away, too.

Why would Dad have started over instead of rescuing us? Moved away? That doesn’t make sense. He loved us.

Today, I still don’t know if they’re talking about my dad coming home to die. Will being old make him look different? Will I recognize him? Oh, please, if it is him, let me hear him talk about us so I know he remembers. He’s gotta talk about why he didn’t come rescue us. Please. Please. Please. If he dies, our stardust can be together and maybe we can find Mommy and Jimmy.

Wait, how long does people stardust last?

January 7, 2019

You won’t believe this. A woman came in last night and moved into my folks’ bedroom. She’s wearing a Detroit Tigers hat, a cowboy shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. She’s not fat, kinda skinny. Her skin is dark, but lighter than Granny’s, and really smooth, too. I can’t tell how old she is, but her hair is all white, short and kinky. She doesn’t move like she’s old, like Granny’s neighbor did.

She checked everything all over, lit the wood stove in the kitchen and pulled something out of her pocket and talked into it, must be like a beeper you can leave messages on. She said, Okay, Marcy. This is Retha. I’m here to help Duane Gleason die. Everything looks prepared, food, all the medical supplies and equipment. There’s twelve inches of snow on the level, at least a week’s supply of wood on the porch, and the shed is stuffed with dry wood, oak and pine, all split.

She turned the dial on the heater, waved her hand above it like she was feeling if it was getting warmer. There’s a big gas space-heater in the dining room. It works well, in spite of the drafty windows. I got a supply of Cherry Coke and green tea, so I’m all set. Bye now. I’ll keep you updated. She sat down, blew her nose and wiped tears from her eyes.

Duane Gleason? That’s my dad’s name! I can’t wait to see him. My mommy’s name was Ellie Bryant. Us twins’ last name was the same as hers. My Dad and Mommy weren’t married. I don’t know why we have Mommy’s last name.

~ * ~

December 27, 2018, Riverside, Michigan

Retha McGuire entered her two-bedroom apartment tucked under the eaves of an old home on one of the hilly streets in Riverside. She stepped out of her winter boots, hung her expedition coat on the hall tree, turned the tea kettle on, adjusted the thermostat and eased into her recliner.

That was a rough funeral, she thought. Not the hardest she ever attended, but one of them. A seventeen-year old boy finally succumbed to injuries from a gunshot wound to his abdomen. She was with him twenty-four seven the last two weeks of his life. After time in the hospital, he was doing well at home, until infection set in. Again. His family couldn’t manage the intense home care and their jobs, so she came in. Slept on their couch, kept him cared for, and dealt with him and the family when the doctors turned the kid over to hospice and her.

After the funeral, the family met with her. Thank you, the mother said. My husband and I are each struggling to keep two jobs, plus our two other sons on the straight and narrow. You helped us so much. I don’t know how we can repay you.

Her husband added, I’m still not sure how you helped us find the money for the funeral. He paused, then hugged her. Most of all, you got us better prepared for our boy’s death. As prepared as possible. He wiped his eyes, motioned for the younger brothers to follow him, took his wife’s hand and left.

Retha stood to ready her mug. That’s what I do, she thought. She helped dying people die peacefully, as mentally and emotionally prepared as possible. That’s not what the agency brochure said. Not in those words. They used flowery ones, and phrases like, end of life, transitions, as if it were a trip to the botanical gardens with soft waterfalls, birds sweetly chirping, beautiful smells. Similar to death being viewed as floating away on a cloud. Retha didn’t use those words. Oh, she adjusted her vocabulary to the clients and the family, but she tended to be very direct. Not obnoxious or in your face. Just calm and honest. More importantly, she got the client and family to talk about their lives. Their past, their pride, their sorrows, often their secrets, especially their fears. Talk about their beginning and their expected ending. She worked with them to understand the grief process, the steps, the ups and downs, how not to rush the process.

Retha took a long view of life. Had to. She loved cosmology, the universe, how it formed over the billions of years, how she knew humans derived from stardust. Neil deGrasse Tyson was one of her favorite persons. Genealogy was also important to her. She managed to integrate those loves into her care for others.

People often looked doubtful or suspicious when she walked through the door with her suitcase and introduced herself as the caregiver sent from the agency. They loved her when she left.

She never got into women’s fashions. As a kid and teen, Retha preferred jeans and blue t-shirts or flannels, along with work boots, better yet, cowboy boots. Certainly not dresses. She never wore the big afros when they were popular or, later as she aged, wigs. Her hair, now snowy white, was cut close to her head. She was ten when she informed her mother she would run away if forced to grow her hair out, straighten it, mess with it, and wear dresses. You learn to cut it and pick it out yourself, Ida, her mother, said. And your clothes just better be clean.

Her father laughed. What you going to do when kids laugh at you and rag on you? She showed him her fist. Well, in that case, let me show you a few things.

Her aging father, Daniel, the retired educator, local historian, community elder, taught her how to defend herself and emphasized the need for her to always be polite, use humor and not be the aggressor when she faced tormentors.

You’re colored, he said, White folk don’t need an excuse to blame colored people. You can’t be seen as the aggressor. Even if you’re defending yourself, you will be blamed if you’re scrapping with a White person. Just keep that in mind. Don’t be afraid, but realize the cards are stacked against you.

During her school years, there were tormentors. Mostly from other colored kids. Tom-boys and masculine-dressed girls weren’t always accepted in her community. She knew old folks gossiped about her. Always behind her parents’ backs, never to their faces.

The teakettle whistled. She stretched, poured herself a big mug of green tea with honey and returned to the chair.

ELC, End of Life Care, was a small agency that specialized in providing live-in personal care and medical staff for dying people. They networked around the state with hospice organizations, community health centers and social service agencies. Their reputation grew for their willingness to serve the marginalized, the rural, and the fact their staff was willing to live in for weeks, even months.

As she sipped her tea, she let her mind wander over the many years and various clients she helped, how she turned her paychecks back to the agency, her retirement and social security carried her just fine, thank you.

Her cell phone vibrated. It was the ELC number. How did the funeral go? Marcy, the staff placement coordinator, asked.

All things considered, pretty well. I think the fact the kid that shot him wasn’t in a gang, admitted he was messing with the gun and it was an accident, helped. I’ve been to some… Her voice faded as she recalled some of the inner-city funerals she attended when gangs were involved.

Yes, I know you have. I think your efforts with the family played a large part in today being such a peaceful experience. Thank you.

Retha didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t need thanks. She knew Marcy well, they worked together for many years. Retha was glad for her recognition, but didn’t need it. Out with it. You got something else for me, don’t you?

Marcy’s chuckle was warm. Yes, young lady. We have an interesting—

Don’t you, young lady me. You’re just trying to find out my age. Hoping I’ll say I’m not young and I’m this many years old. Everyone’s always trying to figure out my age. You do know, don’t you, there’s a note on my personnel file stating that when anyone tries to get my birthdate, I’m to be called with who’s asking and why? She waited a moment. Go ahead. Answer my question. You know that note is there, don’t you?

Marcy laughed. Okay, I’m guilty, and truly, I wasn’t trying to trick you.

Retha harrumphed. Guess I’ll believe you. My age is unimportant. It’s what I can do that counts. Besides, ladies should never be asked their age. Now, start talking. Where you want me to go?

Marcy tried to sound like the announcer on Wheel of Fortune. And…Retha…You just won a vacation to the winter wonderland situated in the heart of the national forest…Split Creek, Michigan.

Retha contained her gasp. Her heart raced, tears came to her eyes, her mind spun. Finally, she managed to say, hoping she sounded sarcastic and not shocked, Wow. Split Creek. A place I’ve always wanted to visit. She managed a quick sip of her tea, took a big breath to calm herself. So, tell me about the situation. I have lots of winter clothes. The minivan is running well and the timing for me to be gone is fine. One of my kids needs a place to get his head on straight. Again. It’s best he does it alone.

Oh, Retha, which one of your twenty-some foster kids this time?

Jeremy, one of the kids I fostered some years back. Just divorced, lost his job and needs a place to sort things out. He knows I may or may not be here. I’m tired of hearing his love life problems, it will be good for me to get away and him to be alone. Now give me more info. Who, when, where, why? She lifted the mug to her lips.

I remember Jeremy and it’s been more than some years back. I guess once a mother, always a mother. So, here’s the dope. Apparently, an old retired forester wants to return to his childhood home to die. Wants to keep his identity a secret. Doesn’t want the info getting out into the community.

Retha sucked in a breath, along with some tea, and began gasping.

Retha, are you all right?

Retha managed to swallow, wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Sorry, I inhaled some tea, that’s all. Now go on. I’ll try not to drink and think at the same time. She set the mug down and switched the phone to speaker so she could wrap her arms around herself. Focus, she told herself. Focus.

"The man is seventy-four, he’s