There Was a Chainsaw. There Was a Tree.

He set the alarm for 1:30 AM. "If the early bird gets the worm, then the night owl gets a buffet," Barron smirked at his cleverness. His "worm" was over fifty feet tall: Mr. Freeman's oak tree. It stood on the border of their backyards, and he wanted it down. He couldn't say why, just that he did, and tonight was the perfect opportunity with his parents on vacation and the Freemans staying overnight in the city. No one would be around to hear the deed.

Beginning two months ago, Barron Abernathy researched how to cut trees down like most eighteen-year-old boys. He watched YouTube videos. He learned enough to know it was dangerous, which only excited him more. However, his cocky nature assured him it would be alright. Besides, their houses were the only two on the hill and way too far for the tree to land on.

The stars filled the sky, and because they were some distance from town, Barron could see them if he had taken the time to look up. He positioned enough lamps around the oak to see clearly, fired up his dad's chainsaw, and mimicked his YouTube videos. It took a couple of hours. Although arrogant, he was also careful and cautious and worked slowly. "No need getting killed over a stupid tree," he thought. The crime was finished, and the criminal was asleep in bed before the Freemans arrived later that same morning.

Mr. Freeman walked out to the back porch to grill some hamburgers for lunch. Suddenly, his adrenaline surged. Something was odd. He couldn't say what it was, but his yard didn't look right. A weird thought went through his mind, "Too much sky." He knew that was it, but what did that mean? How could there be too much sky? Then he saw it. The horizontal carcass of his beloved oak tree.

His wife came out to the porch when she thought she heard a scream. She saw her husband running towards the crime scene and gasped. "The oak!" she said. "Oh my! Was there a storm last night?"

Mr. Freeman was on the edge of a meltdown. The oak he planted the year they moved in. The oak that held the kid's treehouse. The oak his son fell from, breaking his arm. The oak that held the tire swing – fallen! Strange thoughts can go through one's mind when in shock. This was true of Mr. Freeman. "My oak had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put my oak together again."

He investigated more closely and saw that it was intentionally brought down. He ran back to the house, passing his wife, who was still on the back porch. "I'm checking the cameras," he yelled. He had just installed webcams after his wife grew alarmed when the news reported a rash of home break-ins in the area. He went to his computer, pulled up last night's video, and saw the neighbor boy. Mr. Freeman called the police.

*****

"Alright, kid. I saw the video, now come clean," the police officer said while standing with Mr. Freeman in Barron's driveway.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Barron said.

"C'mon, kid, you're wearing the same hoodie."

Barron had never been accused of being brilliant. "There must be hundreds, perhaps thousands of hoodies like mine."

"With sawdust all over? Now I've had enough. You've been caught on camera. It clearly shows you cutting down his tree. It's enough proof."

"Why did you do it?" Mr. Freeman couldn't hold back any longer. "Why did you cut my tree? You punk!"

Barron had seen enough crime shows to remain silent.

"I've always known you were a worthless, spoiled brat! You loser! You piece…."

"That's enough, Mr. Freeman," the officer interrupted. "I know you're angry, but let me handle this."

"Do I need a lawyer?" Barron asked. "I know my rights."

"You committed trespass in the second degree, which is an infraction," the officer said. "You will pay a fine, that's all. You won't need a lawyer. Now, Mr. Freeman can sue you in civil court. If he does that, you might."

"I'll sue your butt. You better believe I will," Mr. Freeman said without adding any names he wanted to call him.

The officer wrote a ticket and handed it to Barron. "I'm curious, kid. Can you just tell us why?"

Barron shrugged, "There was a chainsaw. There was a tree."

*****

That afternoon, Mr. Freeman went to the crime scene. He wasn't ordinarily hostile, and eventually, his docile demeanor returned. Hurt now took front and center stage as he assessed his loss. He went over the fallen tree limb by limb, trying to find his memories.

He remembered it was a lower limb, large and knobby. He couldn't forget those knobs. They made building the treehouse challenging and removing the rotting frame even more challenging. "There it is! No, that's not it, that's it. No, that's too high. Gone! It's just gone!" He ran his hand through his hair.

He found the tire swing. It was pinned down by the trunk. However, there was no way to get to it without cutting his way through, and he didn't have the heart for that yet. His irrational eyes hunted for the limb his son fell from, but there was no way for him to tell which one it was — they all looked alike.

He finally gave up and began to weep. Another strange thought hit him, "My memories had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put my memories together again."

He returned to the house, plopped on the living room couch, and sulked. His wife came over, "Help me clean. No use crying over spilled milk." He obeyed and started clearing off the coffee table: two coloring books and a storybook were left by his grandkids. He picked them up and noticed the front cover of the storybook, a life-sized egg sitting on a wall, smiling.