Free The Killing Tree by Rachel Keener Page B

at home by yourself. Otherwise,
     you’ll be a woman in the prime of your looks pigging out without a man anywhere around.”
    It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Della’s lesson on men. I knew as I stuffed my mouth with fish that I wasn’t attractive or
     feminine. But my hunger and the adventure of eating fish that had been swimming just a few minutes ago overwhelmed any feminine
     wisdom that I had acquired. I ate several fillets, never waving off any that he offered me.
    “C’mon,” he said, after we finished the last fillet.
    I followed him to the edge of the stream and knelt beside him. He leaned forward and scooped water into his hands. I leaned
     forward too, cupped my hands together, and let the stream fill them. The water was cold, colder than I expected on that muggy
     summer day. It slid down my throat, more cool and comforting than sweet tea could ever be.
    We were satisfied. We sat on the bank and talked about his job. How he was careful not to bruise the fruits he picked, how
     he was sad that he couldn’t smell the plants anymore because he had worked in them so long. I wanted to ask him why he was
     a mater migrant, but I didn’t. I was afraid he would think I looked at him like a mosquito. So we talked about my job, and
     Della. I told him she was my best friend. And I asked him about the snakes.
    “You never done it?” he asked.
    “I didn’t even know places like that were around here. How did you?”
    “You and me, we ain’t the same,” he said simply.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You walk in your valley, people see Mercy Heron. You don’t gotta go no other place for people to look at you. I walk through
     your valley and people see red hands. It don’t bother me none, I ain’t shamed by my hands. But that don’t mean a man don’t
     need to go places where people ain’t always lookin’ for ’em. Those places are out there, hidin’ in these mountains. And when
     I find ’em, I ain’t a mater migrant no more. I’m just a man.”
    We traced our way back to his truck.
    “Where you live?” he asked.
    “Up from the valley, on the mountain.”
    “Do I take a left at the end of the holler?”
    “Oh, no. No. Just drop me off at the diner,” I told him, careful to disguise the edge in my voice. He didn’t answer me, and
     though I stared out the window as hard as I could, I could tell he was trying not to look at me. I was ashamed of myself.
    “I have to face my boss eventually, and I might as well go ahead and do it tonight,” I lied coolly.
    He was quiet. And I wondered what questions he was asking himself. If he struggled between wanting to believe me and his suspicion
     that I didn’t want my family to see me with a mater migrant. Did he think he couldn’t take me home because I was a part of
     the “y’all”? Was he right?
    “I had a lot of fun today, with the holler and the fish. I had a real good time. Thank you,” I stammered as he pulled up to
     the diner.
    I awkwardly stared at my scuffed pumps as I spoke, not sure of how or what to say, but knowing that it just wouldn’t be right
     not to thank the man that drove me to the wilderness, entertained, and fed me.
    “Good,” he said, still not looking at me. The easiness was gone. His silence had changed into something stiff.
    “I really do have to see my boss tonight. I’m not what you think. I’m not like everybody else here.”
    “No,” he said, before driving away. “You’re a whole different kind of woman.”

Chapter VIII
    I went inside the diner. Chairs were turned up on the tables, and it smelled of dirty bleach water mingled with barbecue.
     It was quiet, except for water running in the kitchen where the dishes were being washed.
    “Rusty?”
    There was no answer, but his truck was still there. I guessed that he was out smoking so I hurried and scribbled a note. I
     wrote that something had come up with Mamma Rutha that I had to take care of, and that I would be in for work tomorrow. Then
     I