Photo taken by Nic Bragg
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The Colored Tree“Marc was gliding up the path; his eyes were full of joy. He’d been back to that darn tree again. His hands were in his pockets and he had a smug look on his face. He looked cool.
As he walked up the steps, and onto the porch, his face started to lose its joyful color. His hands rose out of his pockets and into each other. His eyes shut; he whispered a prayer and stepped in through the doorway.
‘Where ya been boy?’ my father said as he lifted his half drunk body out his chair. ‘Where ya been?’
Marc's eyes closed again asking for strength of will, or divine intervention, I don’t know which.
‘Hey boy, ya been ta that tree again, haven’t ya?’ Marc just looked down at his feet. Dad took that as a YES. ‘Told ya what I was goin' ta do if you went back there, didn’t I’
My big brother arms were rapped around his body. His right hand on his left shoulder, his left hand on his right hip. It was his timed look of submission; he’d gotten it from Mom. It’s the way she stood before she got beat.
‘Boy what color was dat tree today?’ he was really drunk.
‘Red’ Marc hesitantly said as if his life hung on its color. Still to this day I don’t understand the whole colored tree thing. I think it was some code, Marcs way of showing resistance. Whatever the color meant it sure made Dad angry that day. His lips tightened and his pupils shrunk with rage and froze with hate.
Marc’s eyes closed, his knuckles went white, the flex before the punch. Dad stumbled closer.
‘What did you say boy!’
I remember looking at my dad and asking God not to let this happen again.
‘Boy you better answer me!’
‘Red, that is what I said Paul, Red’ Marc hasn’t called Dad, Dad since our mom died.
Crack, fist to face, face to floor. ‘Get up and look me in the eyes,' Even slurred words can sting like a bee.
I had to use all my strength to stop myself from falling my body at my dad.
Slowly Marc’s hands released from their state of submission, and found the floor. He got up and rewrapped his hands around his shaking body.
‘BOY THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE, TELL ME WHAT COLOR WAS YOUR TREE!’
Dad didn’t even wait for his reply, he just starting hitting him and kicking him and pushing him, until he fell against the back wall. Dad hands pulled back for a moment, but satisfied with their work they returned to his side. He sucked on his tongue and spat in Marc’s face. ‘Get out of my face!’ he said as he returned to his chair and cans of beer.
‘Get out of my sight!’
Marc stood up, hands hiding his face; his bear arms were as white as a ghost. He stumbled down the hall, and into our bedroom.
‘Alir, go suck up to your sissy brother.’
I took my fathers sadistic words to heart, and ran down the hall to help Marc. When I found him, his arms were wrapped around his legs, his pants were wet, and his face was tucked into his knees. He looked and acted just like mom, God bless her soul, praying for deliverance, but never taking action.
A few days later all Hell rose up and stung my family once again. You see it was the cold November night in question, and my dad had just finished his twelfth can of beer. And that, that was the first of many bad omens predicting the night that lay ahead.”
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