Why the Tree Loves the Axe

It’s Caroline, I said.

Oh. She smiled. It’s so dark in here that when you stand in the sun I can’t see anything. Hello, honey. You took that guy home last night, didn’t you? I saw you get into a taxi together.

I put my bag up on the bartop. We went to his hotel room, I said. I don’t remember how it happened.

How was it?

It was strange, said a woman on the television. It was strange, I said. Kind of nice. I can still smell the stuff he puts in his hair.

I thought he was beautiful, said Bonnie. Was he beautiful? Do you want something to drink?

No thanks, I said. No, all right, tequila. She brought a tall glass out, set it before me, and poured a shot from the bottle. He was definitely smart about me. He was very …

Say when, she said as she was stopping. Is that enough?

Fine. My legs are sore. And my neck, for some reason, I have this kind of lump in my throat. She laughed, I went on. The odd part was that he knew my ex-husband in New York, and he started telling me these things about him. Bonnie was gazing at me steadily, the bottle still slightly cocked in her hand; the night before was coming back like an hour of weather. I didn’t let on who he was to me.

What did he say?

He told me a lot of stories, they can’t possibly all be true. That after we got divorced, he was going to marry another woman, but she left him just before the wedding. And she ran off with their baby? She had a baby, and she ran off with it? I don’t know what I should do. I looked away, and without my even thinking, hot tears crept into my eyes.

She put the tequila back on the shelf and came back with a few lime slices on a napkin. What could you do? she said softly.

I shook my head; I stared at my own hands. She started to make herself a vodka and cranberry juice. That’s not funny, said the woman on the television. I can’t understand it, I said.

The drink Bonnie was pouring overflowed its glass, leaving a small puddle beneath. She reached along the bar for a white paper napkin and dropped it on the spill, and together we watched as a dark red stain appeared on it and swiftly spread—then slowed, and finally stopped just before it reached the edges. Maybe it isn’t true, she said as she wiped the counter off and threw the napkin away. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe he’s lost his mind. A man will do that, I’ve seen it.

Maybe. The hard part is …

I know, she said. But listen, why don’t you come over and have dinner tonight?

I’m working the night shift, I said. Tomorrow, we said in unison.

I was supposed to be supervising Mrs. Adcock’s eighty-fifth birthday party that evening, but when I went down to the dining room, André was already there, standing in the bright, bright yellow light that was tumbling through the windows from the last of the setting sun. He was giggling about something as the residents filed through the door; the mirth had taken his face and made a comedy mask of it. Oh, come on in, you. Come on, come on. It’s a party. Now, who all of you can guess—can guess, who can guess how old I am? That’s right, he went on, although no one had answered him. I’m thirty-one years old. You can sit there, or you can sit there. We’re going to sing this afternoon. You can sing, or you can just listen. That’s right. He looked over at me and started laughing again. Caroline, are you going to help me keep these people in line? he said. We’ve got games, guess what year it is; we got races, wheelchairs against walkers. No, you go on and get some coffee or something. I’ve got this under control.