Category: General Fiction

Photo by Keagan Henman on Unsplash

The piercing headlights of oncoming cars intensified my growing headache. The knot behind my ear throbbed and was hot to the touch. I was grinding my teeth and holding my breath to cope with the pain. The drive home seemed much longer.

As I traveled past the neighbor’s house, a parked car looked out of place. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I had seen it before. Now, you’re paranoid. Shaking away the thought, I rationalized why it belonged there. Maybe the neighbors bought a new car or have company. I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine.

I sat there for a moment to compose myself. If Mom is awake, I don’t want her to suspect something was wrong. As I sat there, the back of my neck prickled. It felt like I was being watched. Glancing in the mirrors and then out the windows, I saw no one.

I kept my footsteps soft on the porch and quietly shut the door. I dodged the squeaky floorboards as I tiptoed towards the kitchen. Halfway across the room, a gasp followed by a shriek near the window made me jump. The pain behind my ear intensified.

“Mikey, what are you doing sneaking around like that?” Mom shouted. She was standing by the window, tangled in the curtain. An engine revved outside. Then headlights tracked across the living room wall before the sound faded.

“Good. They finally left,” she said, shaking her arm loose from the curtain.

“Who’s they?” I walked over the window and peered out.

“Some guy who wanted to sell me a new roof. Told him the one I had was just fine.”

My heart hammered at the thought of her being over powered in her own home. “You let him in the house?” I asked.

Photo by Vincent Ledvina on Unsplash

While I waiting for Dr. Cora Nelson’s reply, I read through what the materials from Alex’s backpack. I had scanned each page into my computer before allowing Mom to stitch them into the bottom backpack. The more information I read, the more conflicted I became. My conclusion – no one knew with certainty how these trees became a reality. Even the theories contradicted each other regarding the impact to the environment.

When Cora responded three days later it only contained questions. ‘How did you get this email address? Who are you? Who do you work for?’ and so on. No pleasantries or even a thank you for letting her know about Alex.

Instead of working on my client’s project, an ad for a hardware store in Maine, I sat staring at the questions. Perhaps contacting her was the wrong thing to have done. She had kicked Alex out, but I don’t know her side of the story.

My original message to her was brief. I didn’t mention the BWCA trip, the police or whoever they were, or that I had found the papers in the backpack. I finally replied that I’m Alex’s friend, a self-employed graphic artist, and that I had his backpack. I wanted to know more about her before giving out any more information.

Breathing a sigh of relief and rubbing my hands on my jeans, I turned my attention back to my client’s project. Unless I made tangible progress on the hardware store’s graphics, I’d be working late tonight. I had promised to take Mom to the Olsen’s greenhouse after dinner because she would like to freshen up the yard. I won’t feel like working after that trip.

Less than thirty minutes after I sent Cora my answers, she replied. She wanted to meet immediately. Her eagerness made me even more anxious to be rid of it. If he had hidden seeds inside, I didn’t want in my possession if those men came looking for it. I agreed to meet her at a lakeside park along highway 61 at 7:00 tonight.

I pulled into Mom’s driveway and shut the engine off. A year ago, I moved back to keep an eye on her. Even though her mind is still sharp, her physical health is worrisome. She sleeps much of the time. The doctors brushed it off as natural age progression. Then they suggested moving her into assisted living, but she refuses to because in her words, ‘I’m not old.’

Closing my eyes, I leaned back in the seat to collect my thoughts. Could I really be considered an accessory to Alex’s poaching? When I moved back in with Mom, I had to give up a better paying job in the cities. My freelance pay isn’t enough to cover lawyer fees. I can’t tell Mom, not right now at least.

I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. Now, to assess Lowry’s vandalism of the interior my vehicle. The contents of the glove compartment littered the floorboard. My emergency crate was tipped over. And Alex’s backpack was partially emptied and some of his belongings scattered between the front and second row seats. The bottom of the backpack was wedged under a second-row seat. A worn-out sneaker, a pair of rolled up socks, and a pair of frayed jeans laid near its opening.

After straightening up my belongings, I attempted to put the spilled things Alex’s pack back inside it. The man must be a master. Try as I might it wouldn’t close properly even though not everything was back inside it. I scooped up the pack and stray items, taking them into the house.

Knowing Mom might be asleep, I gently nudged the front door open; she was. The recliner would be far more comfortable, instead she was sitting up on the couch with her head thrown back. Several years ago she would have stirred or said something, but she continued snoring. I tiptoed across the living room dodging the two squeaky boards that tattled on me so many times when I was a child.

Once in the kitchen, I placed the stray items on the table and began unpacking the rest. Maybe if I saw how it was packed, I can get everything back into it. Inside were two thread bare shirts and one pair of jeans with holes in the knees. They weren’t the fancy ones you bought that way, but the kind that are worn out. Oddly, the other sneaker was towards the bottom of the pack.

It looked empty, but still seemed too heavy. I turned it over looking for other compartments – nothing. Grabbing it by the straps, I gave it a firm shake. Something shifted inside, but I couldn’t see how to reach what was hidden.

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Once Officer Johansen, Officer Lowry, and I reached the road, I was instructed to stand in front of my vehicle. They asked me a few questions and then requested my driver’s license. It was slid through a handheld device not much bigger than a cellphone and handed back.

“What’s your friend’s name?” asked Johansen.

Alex hadn’t told me not to give his name, but given his agitation I’m certain he wouldn’t want me to. The pit of my stomach ached. My mouth felt like it was lined with flannel. I nearly choked as I said, “Alex.”

The two men looked at each other and then back at me. Lowry spoke this time. “Your friend told Officer Olsen,” he pointed to an earpiece, “that it was Shaun. They had to search him to get his ID to find out who he really is.”

I sagged against my SUV. Thoughts whirled through my mind. What is Alex up to? How much trouble is he in? Am I in? I haven’t done anything but try to help Alex? Don’t say anything these guys might take to mean I’m up to something.

“What are you doing in a restricted area of the forest?” Johansen asked.

“Restricted? I didn’t know there were any?”

The officers folded their arms over their chests and widened their stances. Their stares made me squirm on the inside. “Really? You had to have passed at least two or three warning signs,” said Lowry.

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Mom struggled with the SUV door and was halfway out before I could reach her. “I’m fine, Mikey.” She pressed her lips together so tightly that they became devoid of color and momentarily disappeared. To steady herself, she gripped my arm so tightly that I had to fight back a whimper. ‘Old people use scooters and walkers’ she retorts any time I suggest she consider one. Aunt Terri, Mom’s older sister, had died over the winter. With the end of May approaching, Mom wanted put something pretty at her grave.

As we approached the entrance of Olsen’s Greenhouse, a man on one side of the doors and a woman by the other side tried to hand each of us a brightly colored pieces of orange paper. Mom refused it and said, “I’ve already found Jesus and have a church I like.”

Taking the paper, I shrugged and sheepishly grinned at the confused man. He looked vaguely familiar and glanced away upon eye contact. As we walked, I scanned the headline. ‘The BWCA Miracle Trees aren’t safe. They are an invasive species. Please don’t buy or plant them.’ It continued in great detail. It was information overload so I carelessly folded it before jamming it into my pocket.

The odor of flowers and damp soil tickled my nose we strolled along the main aisle. She wobbled like the soles of her shoes were lined with acorns from her beloved shade tree. Mom had insisted on picking out the plants herself. Even a dullard like me knew not to insult her by offering to do it for her.

As Mom examined the different flowering plants, I noticed orange flyers haphazardly tossed on the floor, stuffed between bag if soil, and on nearby shelves. A grumbling greenhouse worker walked up and down the aisles scooping them up and stuffing them into a plastic bag. A nearby display of saplings advertised that they were next generation of BWCA Miracle Trees. The fifth anniversary of the wildfire was quickly approaching and some people thought these trees might save our forests from future fires.

This newest iteration was called the ‘Amazing Ash’. The sign boldly claimed not a single ‘Amazing Ash’ tree had been infested with the Emerald Ash Borer. The pest had forced many area homeowners to cut down their trees for the past two decades. Now, they would never have to lose their beloved shade trees. Unfortunately, they cost three times as much as a regular Ash tree despite the fact they were becoming more difficult to find.