Tony
At this point, you might be thinking that I left Jake because I stopped loving him; I promise you, that wasn’t the case. There were a lot of reasons behind my decision, but that was absolutely not one of them.
Most of my reasons had more to do with me than with him—which might sound like a line, or a convenient load of bullshit, but really isn’t.
I was no longer happy living in New York. That’s what most of it came down to. It had been fun at first; there’s so much to do and see there, so much to experience. Jake was more familiar with it than I was, of course, having spent the bulk of his childhood in Connecticut, only a short drive from Manhattan. And I was happy to let him act as tour guide.
Perhaps a little too happy. Maybe I grew too used to it, too dependent on him. Because, as our careers took off, and Jake became less inclined to do anything else, to spend any time together, to do anything but work, work, work; it left me at loose ends.
There’s no shortage of ways in which one might entertain oneself in New York, but they always seemed to be the sort of thing that I wanted to do as part of a couple, or with a group of friends.
I mean, if I’m going to spend a significant amount of time alone, I’d prefer that time to be in nature, by which I mean the countryside. Central Park is magnificent, as far as city parks go, but there’s something inescapably urban about it. Even the squirrels have attitudes, and don’t even get me started on the pigeons!
Also, I know I said that “our” careers were taking off, but that’s not quite accurate either. Jake’s career had certainly done so. He was on the fast track for getting everything he’d ever wanted. He was the Usain Bolt of financial advisors; no one could keep up with him. Whereas my career limped slowly uphill, dragging its feet every step of the way, like I was wearing cement shoes—in the non-mob-related, no one was dropping me off a pier, kind of way.
I don’t think we’d even been there a year before I’d realized that I hated what I was doing. Choosing to major in business, like Jake was doing, so that the two of us could move to New York together and become a power couple? Why had that ever seemed like a good idea? It wasn’t. It was a huge mistake. And I’d wasted years of my life and tens of thousands of dollars—including a good chunk of my parents’ savings—in pursuit of it.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love New York. It’s a great place to visit. I just didn’t want to live there anymore. I still loved Jake, too. But I knew in my heart that it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later this life that he viewed as perfect, and that I very much did not, was bound to start falling apart.
At some point, probably soon, either my boss would get fed up with my subpar performance and hit the kill switch, or I’d decide I’d had enough and quit. That would be the first brick, the first fracture, the first step on the road to our destruction.
And yes, I know. I owed Jake that truth. I really should have talked to him about how I was feeling. I definitely should have made some mention of it when we started talking about getting married. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. After he’d made it clear just how transactionally he viewed marriage, and by extension our relationship itself, I didn’t know how to bring it up.
What was I supposed to tell him? Jake’s work schedule was already out of control. We barely saw each other anymore—and that was causing its own set of difficulties. Could I really suggest that he put in even more hours in order to support me while I floundered around trying to decide what I wanted to do next? I couldn’t afford to start over. I couldn’t afford to go back to school. I couldn’t afford to take a pay cut while I worked my way up some new ladder. I was out of my depth.
Could I ask him to give it all up—to choose between me and the city he loved, the career he loved, the future he deserved and was certain to get?
Even I could see that he’d found his métier. He belonged in the city in a way that I did not. He deserved to have everything he was working so hard for. I didn’t want to take that from him, and I didn’t want to leave…but I also didn’t want to stay.
Who’s to say now, what might have happened, if things had been different? Maybe we would have talked. I mean, eventually, I’’m sure we would have. And maybe things would have worked themselves out. But in the midst of this unacknowledged and possibly made-up crisis I was struggling with, a real crisis occurred.
My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and given a very grim prognosis. It’s not unfair to say that I freaked the fuck out. But who could blame me?
At first, it had seemed that Jake and I were on the same page. He’d cried with me when we first got the news. He’d said and done all the right things. So naturally I assumed he was as devastated as I was. Thinking we were both equally frantic to get back home, to spend as much time as we could with Pops before it was too late, I began making plans…
“So, when do you want to leave?” I ask, looking up from my laptop where I’d been bookmarking possible flights.
Jake has also been busy on his computer. I’d assumed he was talking to his boss; explaining what had happened; informing him that he’d be working remotely for the foreseeable future. But now, as he glances away from his screen he looks puzzled. “Leave for where? Did we have plans for tonight?”
“No, I meant when do you want to leave for Texas.”
“Oh. Uh, I don’t know.” He sits back on the couch, looking weary. “I guess…whenever they tell us to? I mean, that’s not really up to us, is it?”
“Of course, it’s up to us,” impatience makes me snap. “And who do you mean by ‘they’ anyway?”
“Well…yeah.” He winces a little, and glances away, looking pained. “I guess I mean your mom. Sorry.”
“Jake. I’m a grown-ass adult. Do you really think I need my mother to book flights for me?”
“No! Of course not. That’s not what I meant.” His gaze shifts to my computer. “You’re not…you’re not looking up flights now, are you?”
“Yes! Of course, I am!”
Jake’s expression softens into a look of compassion. “Babe. I know this thing’s got you all shook up. And I guess it’s good that you’re trying to be pro-active, and all. But don’t count your dad out yet. He could rally, you know.”
“I know that! I’m hoping he does.”
“Right. So, I don’t think we should try and plan anything just yet, you know? Let’s just see how things play out. Maybe we’ll get lucky and we won’t have to go at all.”
Not go at all? My eyes narrow in suspicion. What the hell is he talking about? “Okay. When do you think we should go?”
He shrugged. “Oh, you know, maybe if your dad’s condition worsens, or if he doesn’t respond to the treatments. Or if he goes into hospice—we’d obviously have to go, at that point. But otherwise—”
“You think I’m gonna wait until he’s on his deathbed before I see him?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying, either. Obviously, I’m hoping he can beat this thing. I’d certainly prefer that he live a long and healthy life. I hope we’ll get to see him dozens of times—hundreds even—before then. I’m just saying, that would be one scenario.”
“Okay, so…not this week, then?”
“This week?” His eyes widen. “No! Of course, we’re not going this week. I’ve got meetings every day. And…and, what would we even do there?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Spend time with my father who is dying? Be with my family? Help out, somehow?”
“If you want to help your family, you should stay out of their way,” Jake says as his expression ices over. And while I knew that Jake’s family dynamic growing up was very different than my own. While I knew that his parents’ behavior had left scars on his psyche that I couldn’t even fathom. The differences in how we thought, what we believed, the lens through which we viewed the world, had never seemed so clear, or so vast, or so staggeringly insurmountable as they did in that moment. “You can’t just think about what you want, Tony; you have to think about your parents, too.”
“Excuse me? How am I not thinking about them?”
“I’m just saying. They’re gonna have enough to deal with right now. Dropping us into the mix, on top of that, would only make things harder for everyone. We’d make extra work for your mom to try and handle. You don’t want to do that, do you?”
“Okay so—again—what do you think we should do?”
“Stay here, like I said. Maybe work a little harder—”
“Work harder? Jesus Christ, Jake—we barely see each other now as it is!”
“I know. But this… it’s not just about us, Tony! Why can’t you see that?”
“Why can’t you see that it’s never about us anymore?”
“I think you’re missing the point. All I meant was that, if we want to be helpful, we should maybe try and work a little harder now, so that we can afford to help your family pay for the things they’re gonna need going forward.”
“Like what?”
“Like…I don’t know, specifically. There could be a lot of things. Hiring nurses to care for your father when he comes home. Building ramps in the event he’s gonna need a wheelchair. Renting equipment—like hospital beds, for example. Or commodes. Maybe helping to pay for whatever medication he might need. Or even mundane stuff, like helping to keep the lights on when he’s no longer able to work and they have to close the farm or sell the house or whatever it comes to.”
Of course, he has to bring up the farm. He’s been complaining about it for years, bitching about how unsustainable it was as a business model. Except that the one time I specifically asked him for help, he’d shot me down.
“Oh, so now you’re worried about the farm? That’s real funny, Jake. ’Cause when I asked you to maybe give them some financial advice—”
“I can’t take your parents on as clients,” he insisted, word-for-word what he’d said before, just like the soulless, robot that I’m convinced he’s becoming.
“They’re not clients, Jake. They’re my family.”
“I know! That’s what I just said, isn’t it? I can’t take family on as clients.”
“Oh, for— You know what? Forget it. This is getting us nowhere.” I refresh my laptop’s screen and scroll around for a few minutes until I find what I want. “Last chance,” I say, fingers poised above the keyboard. “Are you coming back with me, or not?”
Jake sighs defeatedly. “Are we still talking about this week?”
“No, actually. I’ve accelerated my schedule. I’m leaving tonight.”
“To—? Tony. We-we can’t leave tonight! What are you thinking?”
“I can, though, Jake. I can leave tonight. In fact, I’m going to. The rest…well, that’s up to you.”
“Okay, but…well, what about work? You’re not gonna be doing your career any favors if you just take off without a word to anyone.”
“Fuck my career. It’s over. I was gonna quit anyway.”
“What? Since when?”
“Since… You know what? Who cares? That doesn’t matter either. We should have had that conversation a while ago. We didn’t and that’s one-hundred-percent on me. But there’s absolutely no point in discussing it now. In fact the only question we need to decide right now is one ticket or two?”
“One,” Jake says in a soft, little voice that still somehow managed to sound both mule-headed and cold.
“And…done.” I power off my computer and get to my feet. “I need to go and pack.”
Jake stays where he is, staring blankly at the wall. When I walk back into the room a few minutes later, he’s still sitting there, in exactly the same place, like he hasn’t moved at all. Like he maybe hasn’t even breathed in the interim. Any other time, I’d be concerned about the bleakness in his gaze as he turns to look at me. But I’m too shattered, too angry, too scared. My father is dying! That’s all I can think about, the only thing I’m concerned with. I can’t wrap my head around anything else.
“So, what are we doing?” Jake asks in a voice that sounds calm and matter of fact. Looking back at that now, I think about how much effort it must have taken for him to sound that way. At the time…I took it as proof that he was no longer the man I’d fallen in love with.
“I mean…what is this?” Jake asks, flapping a hand in the direction of me and my luggage. “Are we…are we taking a break, or something?”
“We could call it that.” I try for a casual tone, but even to my own ears I know it comes across as petty and mean. His words have stung me. What does he mean by “taking a break” anyhow? Is that code for wanting permission to see other people while I’m gone?
On some level I realize how unlikely that is. With his schedule, he probably couldn’t find time to date, even if he wanted to. But this whole scene reeks of finality. “Or we could call it what it really is, a breakup.”
Pain blossom in his eyes. “Tone…”
“Don’t pretend you’re not relieved.”
“You think I’m relieved?”
“Yes! Relieved that I won’t be around anymore, nagging you to take some time off. Hell, I’d be relieved if I were you.”
“Well, I’m not!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really!”
“Well, either you’re a liar or you have your head so far up your ass that you probably see daylight every time you open your mouth. And I don’t think you’ve lied to me, much—or intentionally. So, I’ll go with head up your ass.”
“That’s not fair,” Jake objects weakly—not fighting for me to stay, not fighting for us. Not fighting at all. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to change your mind?”
“Nope. Because the only thing that’s changed around here is you,” I tell him and finally—far too late—I see a spark of protest.
“How?” he demands angrily. “Tell me. How have I changed? I’m not the one who— No. Fuck, no. That’s bullshit, Tony. You know it is. I am no different now than I was when you married me.”
“Too true. And that was a mistake, as well. You’re not the same as when we met. You’re not the man I fell in love with. That’s what I meant.”
And of course, he has no answer to that. Maybe because he knows I’m right. Maybe because he’s finally realized it’s over and he’s too shocked to speak. Or maybe it’s because he simply has nothing left to give. I don’t either.
I sling the strap of my carry on over my shoulder, pick up my bags and open the door. “Bye, Jake,” I say, turning for one last look. “If you need to reach me, you know where I’ll be.”
I wasn’t expecting him to follow me to Texas—really I wasn’t. I wasn’t throwing down ultimatums in the hope that he’d change. At least, I didn’t think I was then, and I still don’t now. Not really.
On the other hand, I can’t deny how much it surprised me when he didn’t make any effort at all to keep in touch. Other than one single phone call. And I know what you must be thinking, that I must not have made much of an effort, either. Which is true. But there’s a reason for that…
When I get to Heartwood, heartbroken, exhausted from the red-eye flight, the line at the rental car counter, the three hour drive through rush hour traffic; and already strung out on regret, I find everything at home in a state of chaos.
The farm is foundering—apparently, it has been for some time. Which makes me even angrier at Jake for not having helped, for not having cared. And, most of all, for having been right.
I’m run off my feet for several months, shepherding Pops back and forth to his appointments, back and forth from his bed to his chair, even back and forth to the toilet. When I’m not helping him in the shower or holding the basin for him when he throws up, I’m working to save the farm, or fighting with Tim—who was young and healthy and stubborn as fuck. Who should have been doing more to help out…
Do I wish now that I’d shown my brother more compassion? That I’d realized, at the time, that he was just a frightened, angry kid? That he was probably doing all that he could?
And that he was as scared and overwhelmed as I was? Sure, I do. But at the time…I guess I was doing the best that I could, too. And maybe that wasn’t good enough—no, I know it wasn’t good enough. But it was all I was capable of.
For the longest while, every aspect of my life felt like a runaway train, speeding toward collision. It took a while to slow all the engines down, to flip all the switches that needed to be flipped, to restore order. And by then I was so tired, so angry, so hurt, so…over it.
I didn’t regret quitting my job. I didn’t miss my life in the city. I didn’t love the work I was doing on the farm, but I didn’t hate it, either. In fact, I’d discovered an aptitude for it—which surprised the heck out of me. Most of all, I was home. I was back where I belonged, where I fit in, where I was needed.
I would like to think that it was that feeling that motivated me to file for divorce without so much as calling Jake first for a conversation. I don’t believe that I was merely acting out of spite or pettiness, or from a twisted need to exact revenge—I hope I wasn’t, although I’m sure he probably thought that I was.
But I really just wanted to draw a line under that chapter of our lives. I wanted us both to be at peace, free to go out there and live our best lives. Which Jake apparently wasted no time in doing.
What did you think I was going to do? Join a monastery? Die of a broken heart?
“Asshole,” I grumble.
“I’m sorry?” a startled voice says in reply. “Are you talking to me?”
Glancing up, I see Eric, one of our full-timers hovering in my office doorway. “Did I…do something I shouldn’t have?”
I shake my head. “No. Sorry. I was just thinking out loud. What can I do for you?”
“Right. Well…” As Eric advances into the room, I see that he’s clutching a piece of paper in his hand. Actual paper. Because, even after several years of trying to modernize things, there’s still not a single system in this entire business that has entered the twenty-first century. That’s been at the top of my #BusinessGoals list every quarter since I’ve been back. Ask me how well that’s been going—or, better yet, please don’t. “D’you remember that plot of pine trees we missed shaping last month because the new cabins had to be decorated and the roads were blocked?”
“Vaguely.” Decorating the cabins to look like gingerbread houses had seemed like such a fun idea when we first came up with it. And I gotta admit, people do love them; they’re a big draw. But given how disruptive the whole process is, I’m sorry I ever thought of it.
“Well, we never got around to it—which you said was okay. You said it could be done any time.”
“Theoretically, sure. You’re not suggesting we should do it now, I hope?”
This time of year, the hills are alive with the sound of trees falling. And yes, when a tree falls in a forest, it makes a sound—whether you’re there to hear it or now.
‘Chop your own tree’ is the bedrock of our business. It’s a popular option with a whole helluva lot of people; just not with me. My life would be less stressful—and my insurance premiums a lot less expensive—if we weren’t encouraging people to wander around carrying bowsaws and handsaws and axes and other sharp implements that they usually have no idea how to properly use.
But people assign an almost mystical significance to the activity. ‘Finding the perfect tree and cutting it down yourself’ is a rite of passage for some folks. It’s the holiday version of ‘saying yes to the perfect wedding dress’. It’s the kind of thing that can make or break the holiday for them.
You can’t argue with those kinds of people; and I wouldn’t even try. After all, these are the people who allow us to continue paying the bills around here.
Still, what it means is that there are always a lot of families, often with small children, roaming the property at this time of year. Adding a crew with chainsaws to that situation is a classic example of taking a bad scenario and potentially making it a whole lot worse.
“No, I know,” Eric says apologetically. “It’s just that those trees are a pretty good size right now. We’ve sold a couple as it is, but I think we’d sell a whole lot more if they were topped up. And by next year, they’ll probably have grown tall enough to be in a more expensive size bracket. So…”
I hold out a hand for the paper. “Let me see.” If it’s a small enough plot, I might let it slide. There are always a few people, each year, who won’t be satisfied with anything less than a monster tree, so we always want to keep a few of those. But one glance at the paper is all it takes for my stomach to bottom out. “Oh. That plot.” It’s probably a good thing there’s nothing in my stomach at the moment.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but there’s probably a reason I’ve avoided topping up those particular trees, getting them all prettified and ready for the axe. And that reason has become a lot more…shall we say present…in the last forty or so hours.
“Okay,” I say, placing the paper down on my desk and turning back to my computer. “Thanks for the reminder. I’ll take care of it.”
Eric shoots me a puzzled look. “So, d’you want me to put a crew together? Or…?”
“Nope. I got it,” I say, adding a smile and a, “Thanks again for bringing it to my attention,” to hurry him out of the room.
My parents’ favorite movie has always been Field of Dreams. We watched it so often, when I was growing up, that large chunks of dialogue are permanently lodged in my brain. I think the reason they like it so much is because they identify with the protagonists—a pair of quirky romantics passionately pursuing a dream that no sensible person would’ve considered, a dream that has a good chance of being financially ruinous.
Christmas trees are among the most labor intensive of all farm crops. And the Texas climate isn’t really suitable for many of the most popular trees—all the spruces and firs that the rest of the country favors.
But that’s not what’s brought the movie to mind. See, there’s a scene toward the end of it, where James Earl Jones talks about memories being so thick that you’d have to swipe them away from your face. That’s what I’m feeling right now. Only my memories aren’t swarming like fireflies, they’re moving in like a derecho storm—immense and unstoppable, lighting up my mind with an ominous green glow.
“You can’t say I didn’t help,” Jake had protested the other night. “I always pitched in with whatever needed doing. I dug holes, planted trees…”
Yeah, he had.
Here in Texas, pine seedlings go in the ground in January. After they’re planted, the newly restored fields blaze with the bright, lime green of the spindly, new growth—what’s known as candles. That was the task that occupied Jake and me, during the second half of our first winter break together. We planted trees and fell deeper in love—and took every chance we could find to get our hands on one another’s bodies.
There was one particular moment though, a moment that’s seared itself so deeply into my mind that I’m sure the memory of it will be with me my whole life...
The day is warm for January—T-shirt weather—and while the work we’ve been doing isn’t that hard, we’ve both worked up a sweat. The field we’re planting had recently been tilled. The newly turned earth is pliable, it gives beneath our feet, it smells like Spring. It’s the start of a new year, a new season. And with Jake beside me—Jake, to whom everything here is new and wondrous—it feels like a brand-new chapter of my life has begun as well.
I’m kneeling in the soft dirt, showing Jake how to set the seedlings in their holes properly—with the roots extending straight down, no J curves or bunching. I’m breathing in the scents of pine and soil, of skin and sweat and the faint camphor fragrance of the rooting powder. As we carefully set the new tree in place, gently tamping fresh soil around the fragile stem, our fingers meet and intertwine. Jake’s startled breath catches my attention. Glancing at his face, I’m surprised to find him looking at me with a wide-eyed, almost panicked expression.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Are you okay?”
Jake shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Wh-why? What’s happened? What’s going on?”
“I…I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Oh.” I drop my gaze back down to where our hands are still joined. I want to snatch my hands away but his fingers are clutching mine so tightly, I’d have to pry myself loose. I have no idea how to respond to this confession.
Clearly, he does not consider this good news. Which, considering the state of my own feelings, is both disappointing as fuck and pretty damn awkward. “All right, well…”
“I mean, I’ve never— That can’t be what I’m feeling, can it? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know, Jake. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Isn’t it…well, you know, too soon?”
“I’m not in your head, so I can’t tell you what you’re feeling, dude. But no, it’s not too soon. It’s been known to happen.” Hell, I’ve managed it, haven’t I?
“Well, what I’m feeling right now is that this is how I want my life to be. I want to spend every day like this.”
“Planting trees?” I’m startled into asking. That seems unlikely. This is quickly turning into one of the strangest conversations ever.
“No. I mean, no…not necessarily? That’s not the point. I meant with you. Together. As a…as a team. A partnership. It doesn’t have to be work related, necessarily. Unless you want it to be. I just…want to be with you. But—”
I have no idea what more he might have said because I’ve launched myself at him, knocking him flat on his back and clambering on top of him. I pin him to the ground, with my hands in his hair; and I’m kissing him furiously, more relieved than I want to admit. He might not know how to categorize his feelings, but I have no such problem.
The next few minutes are a blur of heat and need; of greedy mouths and impatient fingers; of hands delving under clothes to find smooth skin, warm flesh; of teeth clashing beneath the demands of lips and tongues.
“So…was that a yes?” Jake asks when we finally break for air. The smile that shapes those reddened lips is oddly complacent. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s the look of a man who’s confident and sure, certain of his answer. But his eyes betray him. There’s a hint of hesitation lurking in those heat-glazed orbs.
“Yes,” I answer, smiling back at him. “And just for the record? I love you, too.”