Rebecca Coleman - Heaven Should Fall

When I was home for Christmas, almost right away I noticed the hacked-up tree in the backyard. It was over by the barn. What had still been a giant oak when I’d last come home was now a four-foot-high pile of splintered wood, with these long raw shards sharp enough to kill a man sticking out in all directions like some kind of lethal haystack. I asked my mom, “What happened—that tree get hit by lightning?”

She shook her head. She was standing at the stove with the teapot, raising and lowering a couple of tea bags into it to steep them. “That’s Eli’s.”

“That’s Eli’s what ?”

“His tree for when he’s mad.” She closed the lid, letting the tags and strings dangle down the side of the teapot. She nodded toward the back-porch windows and said, “Your father and Dodge cut off most of the limbs a few years back anyway, you know, because it had a disease. When Elias needs to blow off some steam he goes out there and he chops at it. Doesn’t bother me any. I wanted that tree gone years ago.”

I looked out the back window again and saw the ax wedged in a hunk that used to be a branch, off to the side, almost buried beneath the snow. We’d tried to build a tree house in that oak years ago when we were kids. “That’s a lot of steam to blow off,” I said.

She shrugged. “Olmstead men,” she said. Then she poured a cup and drank it black, without any sugar.

A little while later Elias came downstairs. He’d been locked up in his room all day, sleeping off a migraine. When he saw me he said, “I need your help with something.”

I glanced up at a motion behind him. My mother was pushing a big cellophane-wrapped plate piled high with Christmas cookies across the kitchen island. It had an oversize red bow on top.

“Need to run over to the Larsens’ real quick,” he said. “Be good if you could ride with me.”

The Larsens were Piper’s family. “Sure,” I said, and he shrugged on his coat and picked up the plate of cookies. The cellophane was bunched up so high it got in the way of his face.

“Take your car,” he said. “I don’t like driving anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Too many distractions.”

That seemed like a weird reason. In Frasier, New Hampshire, there’s really nothing but woods and fields and the occasional rotting house here and there. But whatever, I didn’t mind driving. It was only a couple of miles to Piper’s. When the house rose up along the road, a boxy white Victorian at the end of a long drive that curved uphill, Elias said, “Pull up on the shoulder a sec, all right?”

I parked on the gravel, right behind the family’s old fruit stand. The wood was gray, like driftwood, with a darker slush slopped up against the decaying boards on the bottom. You could still see the shadows of the painted watermelons, and the yellow letters, faded almost invisible but not quite, that read Fine Fresh Lemonade.

“How come you didn’t bring Jill up here for Christmas?” he asked.

“Dodge.”

He nodded. Looked out at Piper’s house, squinting. “You’re still engaged and all that?”

“Yeah. What, did you think I was going to try to move in on Piper?” He made a face but didn’t answer. “That one’s dead, junked and sold for parts, man. She’s all yours.”

“I just want to say hello.”

Sure you do , I thought.

“You’re not going to feel awkward about seeing her, are you?” he asked. “After that stuff that happened?”

I shook my head. “’Course not. Maybe if she’d had an abortion I would. But a miscarriage isn’t anybody’s fault.”

“Maybe she was never even really pregnant in the first place.”

I shrugged. Sometimes I’d wondered that, too. One day she had a positive pregnancy test, and then another three weeks went by and all of a sudden she told me not to worry anymore, she’d had a miscarriage. I’d gotten used to living in despair over it and then ta-da, the whole problem was gone. It was as if someone had kidnapped me at gunpoint and driven me all over town with their boot against my neck and then, without warning, dropped me off in my own front yard. Except that the whole experience made things so weird between us that we broke up over the phone and never really talked much after that. It had made everything too heavy, too fraught.

“Probably not,” I said, for my brother’s sake. I knew it was what he wanted to believe.

I turned the car back on and pulled up into her driveway, and we crunched through the snow and up onto the porch. Elias rang the bell with one gloved finger, trying to hold that huge plate of cookies in both arms like a squirming calf. When Piper opened the door she saw me first, because the cellophane was blocking Elias, and smiled.

“It’s the Olmstead boys,” she said, noticing my brother under there and taking the plate out of his hands. “Aww, thank you. Come on in.”

We stepped inside and Elias unzipped his coat. The woodstove pumped out blazing heat that shimmered the air in front of it like a mirage. I stomped the snow from my boots onto the rug. Piper crossed the room to set the cookies down on the dining table. She still had a fine little ass, but not for me.

“Elias, you must have just gotten back,” she said. “How was it?”

“Not too bad,” he said. I cut a sideways glance at him. He’d had his thigh torn open down to the muscle by a piece of shrapnel, seen friends die, killed people. But around Piper it came out like an underwhelming vacation.

“Slimmed down a little, didn’t you?” she said, and he looked at the ground and chuckled even though getting her to notice that had been the sole reason he’d opened up his coat. I gave him a bemused sort of look, because this was as close as Elias got to pulling out his A-game. But then something in his face changed and when I looked over I saw a guy had come in from the back porch with his arms full of firewood. As he arranged it in the fireplace, Piper asked Elias about where he was working now (he wasn’t) and if he thought things had gotten better for women now that the Taliban was gone. Latch onto that one , I thought, c’mon, dude , because Piper was a curious person, the type who really wanted to know about international politics and women’s issues. I could see in her eyes that she was hoping for a substantial sort of answer. But Elias had shut down. He just shrugged and said, “Nothing’s ever going to get better there. They all just want to kill each other. Far be it from me to stop ’em.”

The guy got done kindling the fire and came over. Piper introduced us. His name was Michael. I was going to ask where he went to school, but then he wrapped his arm around Piper’s waist and said to my brother, “Army vet, huh? Thanks for your service.”

Maybe all siblings have this problem, but sometimes with my brother I might as well consult a Magic 8 Ball to figure out what’s going on in his head and other times it’s like I know everything. These tiny cues of his, they become like a code. As soon as that guy touched Piper I glanced at Elias, saw him looking at the guy’s hand for a split second before he zipped up his coat. “It wasn’t for you personally,” he said, and Piper laughed uneasily while Michael shot Elias an offended glare.

I didn’t say anything during the drive home. Nothing about him smoking in my car. We stomped back into the house, right into the kitchen where my mom was washing dishes and my sister, Candy, was fussing around with a jelly roll cake. She had a big bowl of frosting on the island and was spreading it onto the cake in the pan. Mom asked, “You give the Larsens those cookies?”

Elias grunted a yes.

Candy licked her thumb and looked at Elias with reproach. “Well, you’re not giving them my Yule log cake.”