Forgive Us Our Trespasses

He’d once been affable, pleasant, uselessly handsome, but in old age, Peter Clarke’s demeanor was curmudgeonly, his unpleasant puss-faced pout quite repellent. He was the sort of old man that really should grow a beard. ‘Those damn trees. If only that bitch would cut them down so that we had a better view of the harbor. It would improve her view too, a win win. We live next door to idiots.” Peter Clarke and his wife, Patty, lived alone in a pretty cottage overlooking the beautiful tranquil harbor of Bairstow, Maine.

“Have you tried talking with her again?” said Patty, scion of a once great Boston family, petite to the point of frailty, not altogether of this world. She twisted in the Adirondack lawn chair to look down the slope of the lawn at the offending clump of overgrown maples and the two ugly oaks. Everything about Enid Spears, the next door neighbor, seemed ugly and crass, her family, her house, even her trees.

“I did try calling but she’s paranoid and made me talk to her boys, those rednecks, Jed and Seth. She thinks I’m out to get her.”

Patty was worried about Peter’s moodiness. He seemed angry, obsessive, at times one moment living large, small and miserly the next. Money, money, always on his mind, and now this, the dreadful trailer trash woman next door and her out-of-control trees.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m fed up Patty, she is being unreasonable. I’m going to cut down the trees that are overhanging our property.”

“You’re allowed to do that?”

“She’s housebound and never goes down the hill, she won’t even notice, and, anyhow, it’s better to seek forgiveness than it is permission.”

Things had gone badly recently. Peter managed his wife’s money and had made a complete mess of things. They’d spent too much on the cottage, squandered money on luxuries they could not afford, and then he’d lost a whale-load on a bad stock market tip. Things were beginning to look awfully bleak; they were about to outlive their money. The shame! Grocery coupons, social security checks, he’d rather be dead.

A water view is something to brag about. It is exclusive and unique, and it counts for a lot in some circles, the kind of circles that Peter and Patty aspired to be among.

“Oh you live in that sweet little house overlooking the harbor! It must be lovely being able to watch the boats coming and going, the waves rolling in!”

Peter and Patty would nod politely, “yes, it is beautiful, you have no idea… it’s a million-dollar view”.

“Ooh, can we come round some time, for lunch or dinner?”

“Of course, we’d love to have you around”, but they never invited anyone around. Their furnishings were a little run-down these days, and he’d cut back on the maid service, so the house was getting a bit tatty. He didn’t feel comfortable entertaining at home anymore, and their prestigious water view was rapidly disappearing owing to Enid Spear’s God damn trees.

Bill Pickering, the Realtor who’d sold them the “cottage with the spectacular water view”, was still doing business. Peter gave him a call.

“Yes, Peter, I think a water view adds a lot of value, perhaps half a million in Bairstow Buyers are looking for perfection, and they’re prepared to pay for it.”

Half a million would cover the loss on Patty’s portfolio. Peter could increase the mortgage based on the higher property value, or convince Patty to sell the cottage. They could move inland, find a place next to a lake, where the water views are cheaper.

“You think you can convince old Enid Spears to cut down those trees?” said Bill, the Realtor, skeptically.

Enid Spears was old Maine, the matriarch of a large rowdy family, and a misfit in gentrified Bairstow, where most the homes were owned by rich retirees, trust funds boomer babies like Peter and Patty, or summer people, folks from away. Most the old-time Mainers, had been priced out of the market. Enid however, was a savvy investor, her various businesses were doing well: a boat yard, a convenience store, a couple of Lobster boats, and several real estate interests.

Enid’s father bought the house overlooking Bairstow harbor, a 5-acre lot with 200 feet of frontage. It was the most ramshackle and lived-in property in Bairstow harbor but also the most coveted. Old vehicles and landscaping tools were rusting in the front yard, a boat trailer was half-consumed by jewel weeds and a torn blue tarp. The house was busy and noisy, often late at night when most the folk in Bairstow were asleep. Pickup trucks roared in and out, all hours. An old Trump 2020 sign flapped in the driveway, more effective than a junkyard dog or a nest of hornets.

The next day was overcast and intermittently raining. Peter discovered a pair of worn overalls and in the garage, left there by the prior owners. He took a chainsaw out of the garage and wandered down to the end of his lawn, sort of carefree, like he had no specific purpose. Enid’s house seemed quiet, the driveway was empty. No hornets.

Beneath the trees, fading pink tape attached to wooden stakes marked the property line. Peter accidentally stepped on one stake, pushed it over with the sole of his boot, and then another. He tried to push the stake back upright, no luck so he gave up. A glimpse through the trees and back up to Enid Spears house… nobody was around. He’d lost sight of the property line!

Peter cut down three of the maples, willfully unobservant. If anyone interrupted him he would claim he’d got disoriented. He urgently stripped the branches off the fallen trees, cut the trunks into smaller segments, then threw dirt on the pile, blending the fresh cut wood and the sawdust into the mud, into the past, camouflage.

In for a penny, in for a pound. No one around. Where exactly was the property line anyway? Surely an inch of trespass is forgivable, so what difference a yard? It wasn’t for Peter’s benefit anyway! He was doing Spears a favor. He rehearsed his lines, just in case, “Oh, I’m sorry, just kind of lost track of things…. you’re right, I seem to have encroached, terribly sorry, and so on”, but the Spears house seemed unoccupied. No hornets.

A girdle cut, a horizontal ring of bark, low down, concealed in the brambles and ground ivy. He’d googled this trick; the girdle-cut interrupts the flow of nutrients and kills the tree He was sweating, his heart was pounding. Girdle cuts around the two oak trees. Instant remorse and a hasty getaway. Like lighting a fuse and running for cover. Peter walked briskly back up the hill to the house. He stashed the chainsaw, threw the overalls in the trash and avoided Patty’s questions as he made his way through the house, and went upstairs to have a shower.

A few days later, no formalities. “Did you do that?” It was Seth Spears, one of the knuckle-dragging redneck sons. Very thin, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes. Tattoos. He had a nervous twitchy manner, his bright blue eyes darted back and forth, like he was searching for something. Seth was standing in Peter’s driveway, blocking the BMW. Seth came around to the driver side window, gap-toothed leer, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Did you do that ?” He rapped his knuckles on the window and pointed down the hill in the direction of the harbor, in the direction of the clump of trees.

Peter opened the window. He was probably blushing red, but there was no way this man would harm him. It was broad daylight, people were walking their dogs, children were playing on the swings further down the road.

“No, of course not,” said Peter, instinctively. It was a loaded question. He back-tracked, “What? What are you talking about?”. Peter twisted awkwardly in his seat to look in the direction that Seth was pointing, squinted as if looking for something small and elusive. He almost flinched when he saw the trees; from this angle, it was obvious that someone had aggressively hacked at them without artistry, the two oaks looked limp.

“Well we know you done it,” said Seth, leaning in uncomfortably close. His teeth were rotting, nicotine stained, he reeked of smokes and of something chemical.

“Done what?”

“We know you done it because we have it on video.”

“Well, if you have it on video, why did you ask me whether or not I did it…” Peter was sweating, “whatever it is that you are talking about.” He at least had established a bit of separation from his instinctive denial… He was now firmly in the “I don’t know what you are talking about” groove. Video though, he felt a pang of guilt..

“I thought I’d give you an opportunity to admit it, to seek forgiveness from Ma,” Seth spat heavy phlegm on to the gravel driveway, “and from the Lord God our Savior”.

The Lord God? Forgiveness! This was getting creepy. Peter knew that there were evangelicals in these parts, there were three busy Baptist churches on the western outskirts of town, approaching Trump territory. Guns, Bibles and pickups. Seth probably had a gun in a shoulder holster.

Forgiveness, perhaps it was an easy-out. Peter was indignant, but scared.

“Okay, forgive me,” Peter hang his head just slightly, just the slightest gesture of remorse.

“So you did do it?” Seth stood up abruptly and drew a deep breath, like he was sucking in the wind so that he could do something with it.

“Oh, for God’s sake, what on earth do you want from me?” Peter was inclined to just hit the gas, and get out of there.

Seth reached in through the open window, pulled the car key from the ignition and hit a button on the dash.

“Come with me”.

Seth’s brother Jed was standing at the bottom of the Spears plot of land. From this side of the property line, Peter’s land looked small and fussy, whereas the Spears’ property was a wild riot of ferns, grasses and mossy rocks.

“Where are we going?” said Peter, stumbling along.

“You can stop pretending”, said Seth, walking behind him down through the ferns and bracken, “all we want is some kind of acknowledgment, we’ll even pray with you, for forgiveness, if you like”. The arrived at the tree line down by the harbor.

“We aint sour about it”, said Jed, a big man with a huge black beard. He was wearing a grimy Red Sox cap which concealed what Peter knew to be a completely bald skull. Tattoos too, on the forearms, a black sweatshirt with a hunting logo on it.

“Look Seth, Jed,” Peter stopped and moved to a position from which he could see the two of them at the same time, “I’ve already told you, I have no idea what the problem is, though if it’s something to do with the water run-off, or the jewel weed, I’d be happy to….”

“Stop dickin’ us around,” Seth again, full-on malice, he shoved Peter toward one of the oak trees and the precipitous escarpment that fell precipitously into Bairstow harbor, steeply easy to trip, fall and dash your skull on the rocks down below.

Jed was a huge man, stunk with sweat and beer, his placid almost inert face seemed set in permanent disgust. He grabbed Peter by the scruff of his polo shirt, and pushed him so that he faced the concealed girdle-cut. Peter felt like a naughty dog having hits nose rubbed into its own shit.

“What am I looking at? You’re scaring me. I don’t understand” Peter was bleating away, his bowels felt loose. It was way too late to admit to anything, but what could these two men do to him? Psychos, yes, but they had enough sense to know that they couldn’t just beat someone up over a property dispute and get away with it. He’d sue the fuck out of them and then the shoe would be on the other foot. “You’re scaring me”

“These old oaks, they’re Spears oaks”, it was Seth again, “Grampa planted them after he got back from the war in Germany”.

“Oh jeez”, Peter was struggling to get away from Jed’s iron grip.

“His two brothers, they never came home”.

“I know you’re scared, Mr. Clarke, I know you ain’t a bad man, not deep down, but it’s troubling to us that you won’t just honest up and say sorry. How hard is that?”

Much harder than just seeing this silly charade through. They’d get their belly laughs and he’s skunk away, never apologize, never explain, and soon the trees would die.

“I’ve told you before, and I will say it again… I don’t know what you are talking about” said Peter defiantly.

Jed reached with his free hand for a large wood ax that was leaning against the trunk of the oak. A wooden handle, a polished metal head, the blade looked freshly honed and razor sharp. Very theatrical.

Seth shook his head, acting terribly disheartened at the way things had gone, “I cannot speak to my sorrow, Mr. Clarke, we know you are a God-fearing Christian man, right?”

“Yes of course.” Peter hadn’t been to church in thirty or more years, except for weddings or funerals.

“We was hoping this would go in the direction of the New Testament”, said Seth.

“But you leave us no choice, Mr. Clarke”, said Jed, pushing Peter to his knees, next to one of the neat stacks of wood that Peter had left there a few days ago. He grabbed Peter’s hand and pulled it across a log.

“Eye for an eye, hand for a hand,” said Seth.

“Stop. Stop. This isn’t funny anymore”.

Peter pushed the kitchen door so hard that it flew into the doorstop, making a loud noise that disturbed the cat and woke Patty from a nap in the living room. “Back so soon?” said Patty, a bit alarmed at the noise and at his pale sweaty face, “I thought you were going to town to the transfer station and then to pharmacy to pick up your prostate medications?”.

Peter had something red in his hands, something red on his shirt, he collapsed onto the kitchen floor, and something red spilled across the tiles. Patty was quickly at his side, staring in horror at the severed flesh and bone.

“Patty, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

A gorgeous languid day, late summer.

“I am amazed that Old Enid agreed to cut the trees down”, said Bill Pickering the Realtor, sharply dressed, wraparound shades, slight aroma of home-grown weed.

Peter had already emptied the house of furniture. “Oh, she went further, took the trees down and built a small family graveyard down there”.

Two large white crosses were located where the two oak trees had once stood. A smaller white cross was tucked into a corner of the memorial.

“How does Patty feel about things? Up and moving?” said Bill.

“Oh, she’s pretty happy. The cottage on the lake will be nice and quiet, not like Bairstow, with all these goings on”. Patty was staying with her sister in Boston. She hadn’t talked to him in weeks, didn't trust him anymore.

“The new owner is thrilled and can’t wait to relocate here from New York. He’s thinking of installing a telescope on the deck, so he can watch the boats. So, he’s happy, you’re happy, Patty’s happy, even old Enid Spears is happy, it’s a win-win”. Bill made a nice commission too.

“You could say that”. Peter was getting irritated at Bill’s blathering. The prosthetic hand was beginning to itch terribly, phantom pain, but the itch was real, and it was insufferable.

Bill suddenly removed his sunglasses, frowned, leaned forward, "any idea why she put two big crosses in the graveyard and that small cross over in the corner? Do you think it was for a family pet? It looks quite pathetic, don’t you think?”