Trimming the Hedge
Published in Claudius Speaks, 2017
It’s deep into summer, and I am in the side yard helping Dad trim the hedge next to the house. He is using the shears, and they gleam dully as they snap-snap-snap off the ends of the thin branches of the hedge. The twigs spiral to the ground, where I rake them together and pile them with all their bunches of pale green leaves into the waiting bushel-basket. Mom kneels quietly by herself across the yard, working a hand spade in the flower bed. I see the white pencil of her cigarette dangle from her lips as she works. It’s hot today, and I’m bored. I hate yard work, but I’m the only son left at home, and Dad says I have to do this before I can go swimming. I sigh and pull at the big work gloves he gave me. We don’t talk much while he works.
Like most of the houses in our neighborhood, our house is surrounded by shrubs and hedges. During breakfast this morning Dad said he wanted to get them all trimmed before he has to leave on another long business trip. He works the shears, the trimmings fall, I rake them into piles and put them into the basket. Once it’s full, I get to leave for a few minutes and dump the basket in the alley next to the garage. I take my time, and when I return he gives me a grim look. He works the shears faster than before, and the branches shake as he attacks them. I put the basket down and pick up the rake, waiting again, staring at the road as a car goes by. His breath is coming in big puffs. I glance at him and notice beads of sweat falling off the end of his nose. The air is thick, and I feel sticky and drowsy while I wait for him to finish where he is working and to move down the hedge so I can rake where he now stands.
Huffing hard, he finally takes a step back from the hedge, digging into his back pocket with one hand. I move around him and rake the new trimmings into a pile while he pulls out a white handkerchief and wipes his bald head. He jerks his chin up and snaps, “You missed that one.” I look over to where I was raking but I don't see it. I stand and look, afraid to move, but more afraid to do nothing. “Over there!” He barks and points this time, to my left, waving the handkerchief under his finger. I feel blind… and stupid. I sense the blood rise in my neck, ears and face. The green of the summer grass nearly matches the green of the hedge, but most of the twigs are falling into the bare dirt under the bushes. Why can't I see it?
I look left, then right, then back and forth in front of me, by the hedge, at my feet. Still nothing. Just grass. I take a faltering step in the direction he’s gestured because I feel a need to do something. He is watching me now – I can feel his glare. Pressured, I start to get desperate. It mustbe here, but I still don’t see it! I turn my hands over and shrug. “Where? I don’t…” I start to say as I look over at him.'
Without a word he drops the handkerchief and comes at me. His face is twisted and hard. His light blue eyes suddenly look like ice. I know he’s going to grab me, so I drop the rake and duck, avoiding his meaty hand as he reaches for me. I slip by him, careful not to step on the handkerchief, and then I fly! Inside this dream, I’m a bird, and my feet are my wings - a blur of motion. He had his chance! I dash across the yard for the street. I am filled with speed. For an instant I think, he’ll never catch me!
“God-damn it! Come back here!” his growl is loud behind me. My dream-bubble pops, pierced by the threat behind the command. If I keep running, it will be worse when I come back. And I have to come back. I have nowhere else to go. I’ve won the race, but there isn’t a finish line. I’m already slowing down as I look over my shoulder and run off the curb into the street. Mom sees me running without looking, and screams, “Patrick! Stop!”
It’s too much. Both of them yelling at me. Why isn’t she on my side?I think.Ever?I slow to a stop before I get to the middle of the road. There aren’t any cars coming. But dad is. He’s like a slow-motion movie monster as he steps off the curb and reaches out for me. I flinch and he grabs me by the scruff of my T-shirt and half-drags, half-carries me back to the hedge. On the way, I finally see the twig. I see it from a distance as clear as my reflection in a mirror. It’s almost shining as he pushes my face down into it, twisting my head with his hand as he does. I smell its sappy fragrance as my teeth push into the grass around it. I smell the grass, the dirt. I taste them.
“See it NOW?!” he grunts through his clenched jaw as he pushes me one last time and lets go. I roll onto my back, panting for breath. “Now pick it up!”
Without a word I reach over and pluck it off the ground. It isn’t shining any more. It’s limp and broken, and it sags in my hand as I lift it. I drop it into the empty brown basket, and watch it descend, landing softly, with a little bounce. As it stops, its picture is etched into me: one small twig, alone at the bottom of a big basket.
Published in Claudius Speaks, 2017
It’s deep into summer, and I am in the side yard helping Dad trim the hedge next to the house. He is using the shears, and they gleam dully as they snap-snap-snap off the ends of the thin branches of the hedge. The twigs spiral to the ground, where I rake them together and pile them with all their bunches of pale green leaves into the waiting bushel-basket. Mom kneels quietly by herself across the yard, working a hand spade in the flower bed. I see the white pencil of her cigarette dangle from her lips as she works. It’s hot today, and I’m bored. I hate yard work, but I’m the only son left at home, and Dad says I have to do this before I can go swimming. I sigh and pull at the big work gloves he gave me. We don’t talk much while he works.
Like most of the houses in our neighborhood, our house is surrounded by shrubs and hedges. During breakfast this morning Dad said he wanted to get them all trimmed before he has to leave on another long business trip. He works the shears, the trimmings fall, I rake them into piles and put them into the basket. Once it’s full, I get to leave for a few minutes and dump the basket in the alley next to the garage. I take my time, and when I return he gives me a grim look. He works the shears faster than before, and the branches shake as he attacks them. I put the basket down and pick up the rake, waiting again, staring at the road as a car goes by. His breath is coming in big puffs. I glance at him and notice beads of sweat falling off the end of his nose. The air is thick, and I feel sticky and drowsy while I wait for him to finish where he is working and to move down the hedge so I can rake where he now stands.
Huffing hard, he finally takes a step back from the hedge, digging into his back pocket with one hand. I move around him and rake the new trimmings into a pile while he pulls out a white handkerchief and wipes his bald head. He jerks his chin up and snaps, “You missed that one.” I look over to where I was raking but I don't see it. I stand and look, afraid to move, but more afraid to do nothing. “Over there!” He barks and points this time, to my left, waving the handkerchief under his finger. I feel blind… and stupid. I sense the blood rise in my neck, ears and face. The green of the summer grass nearly matches the green of the hedge, but most of the twigs are falling into the bare dirt under the bushes. Why can't I see it?
I look left, then right, then back and forth in front of me, by the hedge, at my feet. Still nothing. Just grass. I take a faltering step in the direction he’s gestured because I feel a need to do something. He is watching me now – I can feel his glare. Pressured, I start to get desperate. It mustbe here, but I still don’t see it! I turn my hands over and shrug. “Where? I don’t…” I start to say as I look over at him.'
Without a word he drops the handkerchief and comes at me. His face is twisted and hard. His light blue eyes suddenly look like ice. I know he’s going to grab me, so I drop the rake and duck, avoiding his meaty hand as he reaches for me. I slip by him, careful not to step on the handkerchief, and then I fly! Inside this dream, I’m a bird, and my feet are my wings - a blur of motion. He had his chance! I dash across the yard for the street. I am filled with speed. For an instant I think, he’ll never catch me!
“God-damn it! Come back here!” his growl is loud behind me. My dream-bubble pops, pierced by the threat behind the command. If I keep running, it will be worse when I come back. And I have to come back. I have nowhere else to go. I’ve won the race, but there isn’t a finish line. I’m already slowing down as I look over my shoulder and run off the curb into the street. Mom sees me running without looking, and screams, “Patrick! Stop!”
It’s too much. Both of them yelling at me. Why isn’t she on my side?I think.Ever?I slow to a stop before I get to the middle of the road. There aren’t any cars coming. But dad is. He’s like a slow-motion movie monster as he steps off the curb and reaches out for me. I flinch and he grabs me by the scruff of my T-shirt and half-drags, half-carries me back to the hedge. On the way, I finally see the twig. I see it from a distance as clear as my reflection in a mirror. It’s almost shining as he pushes my face down into it, twisting my head with his hand as he does. I smell its sappy fragrance as my teeth push into the grass around it. I smell the grass, the dirt. I taste them.
“See it NOW?!” he grunts through his clenched jaw as he pushes me one last time and lets go. I roll onto my back, panting for breath. “Now pick it up!”
Without a word I reach over and pluck it off the ground. It isn’t shining any more. It’s limp and broken, and it sags in my hand as I lift it. I drop it into the empty brown basket, and watch it descend, landing softly, with a little bounce. As it stops, its picture is etched into me: one small twig, alone at the bottom of a big basket.
