The Crying Tree: A Novel by Naseem Rakha

Author:Naseem Rakha [Rakha, Naseem]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2009-06-21T06:00:00+00:00

IT MAKES SENSE, IRENE THOUGHT. Get rid of the letters. It makes sense.

It wouldn’t take much, just rake up some leaves, strike a match … She couldn’t remember Carol ever sounding so disgusted. Befriending Shep’s murderer—who wouldn’t be shocked? And who was Irene to think she could possibly go and save the man? And for what, and at what cost? Carol was right, it was stupid. Stupid and wrong and deceptive and—and she didn’t know what else.

Thunder rumbled to the west, and Irene glanced out beyond the crimson maple to see dark clouds building themselves into a wall somewhere over Missouri. She left the kitchen and went out the back door to get a closer look. She loved storms, admired how within a matter of moments the heat and dust of a day would relinquish themselves to the clouds. She sat on the back stairs and looked at the barn. It had once been painted white, but now, after years of neglect, it stood exposed and bare. If they didn’t take care of it soon, it would start to collapse. Just like so many other old places along the river.

A bolt of lightning cut a silver gash to the west. Irene counted: one, two, three … Getting to twenty before the thunder.

She could burn the letters after the storm. Burn them, then get to the business of moving on. Talk to Nate about getting the barn fixed up, and the roof on the house—that was in bad shape, too. And while they were at it, they should attach a new swing to the maple. The one there now was old and frayed, and it made her worry every time one of Carol’s grandkids headed toward the old tree.

Another bolt. Fifteen seconds to thunder.

Beyond the tree and barn lay a land Irene knew by sight, color, and smell. Placed there blindfolded, she’d easily find her way home. There was the fence line, warped osage boughs wrapped with wire, and the fields, all neatly plowed for the winter. Beyond that were the trees that abutted the river. They stood still as statues, bright reds and yellows against the darkening sky. Irene didn’t need dramatic landscapes. Thunderstorms were her mountains, the rounded ridges that lined the Mississippi gorge enough for her. She loved the russet color of dried millet and sumac, liked seeing men in coveralls and seed caps, felt at home with the sound and smell of disks breaking soil. She loved it, actually. Absolutely loved it. And she didn’t want to lose a bit of it. Not her sister, as overbearing as she was; not Nate, not her daughter, not her home or her life beside the Mississippi where storms often rolled in.

A streak of lightning. Four seconds to thunder.

A sultry-scented gust of wind pushed across the yard, bending the trees and littering the ground with leaves and dirt. Next came cold. The storm front collided full-force with the lingering heat, crashing in heaves of thunder, then breaking free with heavy, mineral-filled water.

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