Loss

When Ms. Schneider received her first eviction notice she chose not to ignore it. Her rebellious streak was far stronger than that. Instead, she walked outside, stuck that little pink slip on a pole, and lit it on fire. It was such a tiny display and left just a bit of ash, but it caused a stir. In a town with a population of three hundred everything caused a stir.

Nobody wanted to evict Ms. Schneider. She was something of a local icon. Everyone was fairly sure she'd been around longer than Bradenburry was, even though Bradenburry was two hundred years old. There were always stories about the old woman, only made more infamous by her constant finger-wagging every time someone passed over her yard. Nobody knew why she wanted everyone off her grass. It was just as shriveled and brown as she was.

Her house was falling apart. Coming undone at the seams really. The moulding had taken on an unintended meaning in its name. Half of the building was sagging steadily into the earth like a gimping veteran who'd lived through too many wars. To top it all off, there was this aged sycamore tree leaning nearby that had been killed off by beetles. It was an axe over a chopping block and Ms. Schneider's old hovel was right smack in the way should it decide to fall.

She urinated on the second notice. Thankfully it wasn't in the public eye, so nobody had to go through the unpleasantness of arresting her for indecency. No, she was content to do it privately, put it back in an envelope, and let the mailman deal with the odiferous present. Witnesses said he turned green.

By the third notice the ordeal had become a joke. It had to be a joke. Otherwise it was too undignified to think about. At the end of the day we were still trying to kick an old widow out of her house. That it was for her own good was only a passing comfort.

I was chosen to make the house call. My name was drawn out of the neighborhood hat, along with a lot of nervous laughter and shifty glances. It was probably rigged. I was the newest blood in Bradenburry, a whole two years young, and had the least weight. I didn't argue. I was curious enough to want to know more about the old woman, something beyond the he said she saids.

The nervous laughter followed me out the door as I headed towards her street.

I was stunned to find her on her front porch. Before it aged it was probably quite lovely and impressive. Now it drooped on both ends, the shoulders of a retired blue-collar worker. Ms. Schneider rocked back and forth, her feet in slippers and tapping the creaking wood as she went.

I was careful to keep on the sidewalk and off the dead grass. She didn't look at me, but she talked.

"We had this old tradition in my family, this old-time thing. Marriage was a big deal back in my day. None of this splittin' up swill over the living room furniture."

I paused on the steps, staring and silent.

"We'd plant a tree, see. Me and my husband. He was a big strong kinda man. A real man. Wanted to raise him a family up good and right. So we stuck that big sycamore down and its roots was our roots. We planted it on our ground and set to buildin' our lives all around it."

She grew quiet. Her eyes were rheumy, and they still weren't looking at me. Somehow I just knew I wasn't supposed to talk so I didn't.

"When it was time to go t'war, well, he went. Had to protect his country, see. There was a real evil in the world, not like there'd ever been before. Men all want t'be heroes. He died like one, too. He planted a little seed up inside me and then scattered to th'wind when he threw hisself on a grenade."

I winced. I hadn't been prepared for this. Still I wasn't sure what to say, so I continued to say nothing.

"My baby boy, he was a sweet boy, let me tell you. He was just like his daddy. Hard workin' thing. He and I kept this place runnin', leastways t'suit our needs good enough. He was sharp as a whip. Got hisself a scholarship and a full ride. He was on his way."

A tear trickled down her cheek. I looked away.

"A drunk driver took him. He was nineteen. He was engaged t'be married, ready to give me some grandbabies."

"I'm sorry," I murmured.

"Words," she replied. It wasn't harsh, just blunt. "Them's just words we say to make ourselves feel better. I started thinkin' maybe I was some kinda Job. You know Job. The devil was given leave t'make his life hell just t'see if he'd stay loyal. And I said Lord, Lord Almighty, if you're testin' me take it all from me. Lord, take it all."

Her eyes were finally on me, boring into me. I couldn't meet them. I stared at that dead sycamore tree, full of holes, brown and rotting as it stood. Her words came spat past her teeth.

"What I wanted was for him t'take me, too. I was tellin' him t'take me. I praaaaayed and I praaaaayed. I prayed for it like a dyin' man prays for life. I wanted him t'stop my beatin' heart, because it felt like it shoulda long ago. But he never did. I'm ninety seven, and I think that's the cruelest thing of it all. Ninety seven and nobody wants me, and I got nothin' left but bitter bones."

The rocking resumed, creaking back and forth steadily.

"I ain't no Job, boy. Job weathered through them storms. I let 'em eat me. If there is a God up there waitin', he'll hear no praise from my bitten tongue."

Ms. Schneider raised her hand and pointed it at me accusingly.

"Now you get out of my yard."

And I did.