Every Sunday, our small town gathers at New Hope Baptist Church.
Toward the far edge of the property sits a great white oak,
where its limbs spread wide over the ditch.
The elders called it the Hangin’ Tree.
On account of every few years a man would turn up beneath it.
Hangin’.
The kind of men people trusted with their daughters,
but shouldn’t.
The kind of men folks described as pillars of the community,
while secretly stealin’ from it.
Folks always acted surprised.
I never understood why.
The first name came to me when I was seventeen.
The most recent had come just before dawn...
same as these things often did.
Not in words exactly.
More like, certainty laid behind the eyes.
I never had to lure the ones it chose.
Men like Caleb Seager came willin’.
The church had no air-conditionin’.
Only four ceilin’ fans turnin’ slowly above us.
They pushed that August heat from one end of the sanctuary to the other...
without coolin’ a damn thing.
Perfume.
Sweat.
Lemon polish.
Old wood.
It all moved together above our bowed heads and pressed collars.
By the time the service started my blouse was stickin’ between my shoulder blades.
I caught him lookin’ once.
As I shifted in the pew...
parting my knees slightly,
before smoothin’ my skirt, then crossin’ one leg over the other.
Then the choir rose.
And everyone else did too.
Caleb stood with his family...
One hand resting on the back of the pew behind his boys.
Marlene stood beside him in yellow.
I could feel his eyes on my body...
burnin’ through me...
hotter than the weather.
I kept my eyes forward.
The sermon was on temptation.
How it waits in fields and kitchens.
In towns and marriages.
In the private chambers of the heart.
People hummed their agreement.
I had to bite my tongue not to laugh.
When service ended, the sanctuary broke into its practiced migrations.
Men to handshakes.
Women to casseroles.
Children to foldin’ chairs and sheet cake.
I waited by the water fountain, then I stepped outside into the noon heat.
I walked the long way around the lot.
Past the line of Chevy Stylelines and Plymouth Deluxes.
The entire time the oak in view.
For years I never questioned it.
But somewhere between seventeen and thirty-two, it had become heavy.
Not because of the men, they were easy.
Men like Caleb Seager always arrived at the same destination.
What wore on me...
was the pretendin’.
The Sunday smiles I wore,
while wives introduced me to husbands I’d already been given.
Watchin’ children run through church picnics, while I carried names no one else could hear.
The first time had felt important.
But by the seventh...
Lord, it felt like a chore.
And for the first time in years,
I wondered what would happen...
if I just kept walkin’.
Got in my car and left.
Just then...
a breeze crept in,
rustlin’ the leaves.
And for a moment,
it felt like the old oak could hear my thoughts.
I stood just outside his meadow green Ford F-One Hundred.
Pulled on the handle and climbed in on the passenger side.
Caleb sat behind the wheel...
smellin’ of cologne and summer cotton.
Grinnin’ like a boy stealin’ peaches.
He reached for my knee, then slid his hand up my skirt.
The truck shifted on its springs.
Sweat rolled down his neck.
He said my name once like prayer,
and once like an apology.
Lust moved quick.
Sin moved quicker.
When it was done, he sat breathin’ hard.
Forehead damp.
Staring through the windshield while he buttoned his pants.
As we climbed outta the Ford the wind picked up.
I stood by the passenger door, fixin’ my hair in the side-view mirror...
while he wandered into the shade of that great white oak.
Then came a familiar sound.
The creak of old wood taking weight.
Then a sharp choking gasp cut short.
Just as I finished my last pass of Revlon red...
there...
in the side-view mirror...
Caleb Seager turned slowly above the ditch.
I smoothed my skirt and walked toward the social hall.
No one seem noticed me come in.
I took a paper plate and moved down the foldin’ tables.
Ham.
Green beans.
Deviled eggs.
I took a spoonful, of Marsha Talley’s sweet mashed taters and sat near the back.
Marlene Seager gathered the boys and called for Caleb.
When no one answered,
she smiled apologetically to no one in particular,
then led them outside.
I finished my first bite before the screamin’ came.
Sharp enough to still every hand in the hall.
Chairs scraped.
Women counted their children.
Men ran.
I leaned back in the foldin’ chair,
savorin’ another bite of Marsha’s sweet mashed taters.
The screamin’ continued outside.
Somebody shouted for a doctor.
Another shouted for a knife.
They all stood in the parkin’ lot trying to make sense of it.
But they never do.
Folks spend their whole lives pretendin’ they don’t see the pattern.
Pretendin’ they’re surprised.
I knew what Caleb Seager would do.
I knew what the tree would do.
For the first time in fifteen years, I almost kept walkin’.
I could have gotten in my car and gone home.
Leave Caleb find another woman to ruin.
But for fifteen years it’s kept its promise.
And in return, I’ll keep welcomin’ these men into me.
After all, I had no desire to become the first woman hangin’ from that great white oak.
Audio backdrop: Gator Breakdown — Space Banjo
