“Sweet Water” by Ashley Murray
--page 3

         A twig snaps behind me and brings me back to reality. Reminds me where I am--alone in front of my old classroom, locusts chanting in a cloud around me.
         Out of the corner of my eye, I notice an old man walking his dog around the edges of the school. The dog lifts his leg and a thin yellow stream sprays sideways. Hits the surface in a lopsided circle and turns the brick a shade darker.
         I sidesaddle my body away from them, hoping to send the message I have no desire to talk to anyone. But the footsteps get loud and soon the dog is at my feet, sniffing around the base of my ankles. He licks me and I stiffen, alarmed by the roughness of his tongue. By the raised bumps that run across it.Not much to look at, is it? says the old man.
         He motions toward the school with his chin and stands much too close to me. Breathes in short, shallow puffs that knock against my arm. I shake my head. The dog lies down on its side, legs spread like a wishbone, and licks its penis.
         The old man swats the dog with the back of his hand.
         No, Fred. Stop it, you dumb dog.
         He grins and a chipped tooth peeks out under his lips. He smells like fish but also a faint sweetness, of chewing tobacco and cinnamon. I’ll give it one thing though, he says, something about the place always makes Fred wanna take a leak.
         I smile tightly. Scratch the inside of my wrist and focus on a small tree a few feet away from me.
         Mesquite tree, the old man says, following my gaze. Ugly as sin, only those knotty limbs sticking up out of the dirt. But you pry up those rocks around it and start digging, the roots of that thing don’t stop.
         Something about him is familiar. The chipped tooth. His voice and the line of his face, the dark rim around his eyes. It takes me a minute and then I have it.
         Mr. Myers, my old History teacher. The one who used to throw chalk at the kids who talked during his class.
         He once pulled me aside, motioned to the C-minus exam paper I held in my hands.
         You’re not foolin me girl. I know how smart you could be.
         Ray had been waiting for me outside the door. He mouthed the word crazy and pointed to Mr. Myers. I tugged at my skirt and chewed the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh.
         Ah, I see, Mr. Myers had said, glancing over at Ray. You think you’re in love.
         I have to go, I said and headed for the door.
         He grabbed me by the wrist.
         You’re better than this.
         From outside Ray winked at me. I pulled my hand free.
         I really have to go now, I said.
         He sighed and waved me away. He looked tired.
         Of course you do, he had said.
         It’s been years now since I’ve seen him. Odd thing for a town as small as ours. But Mr. Myers always kept to himself outside of class. He lived alone, never married. Never went out much either, even when he was still teaching.
         Mr. Myers? I ask.
         He looks at me blankly.
         I was a student of yours, I say. About fifteen years ago...
         Ah, he says, interrupting me. Yes, I’ve had quite a lot of those. Students, I mean. Can’t say I remember too many. All the faces, you know. After a while they start to blur.
         He squats down on his heels, turns Fred over and rubs his belly.
         Funny little trees, he says, continuing his story as if I’d never spoken. Those taproots go on for ages, bout fifty feet or so below ground. That water is their blood. It’s like seeing sweet red and nothing else. They’ll do whatever it takes it to get it. It’s how they survive in this heat. They go straight down and sideways, suck the water up from way under. They’re backwards, can’t even grow themselves in the right direction.
         For the first time, I really look at it. I must’ve seen a million trees like this one, but I’ve never actually thought about one before. The branches are scraggly and wild, fuzzy patches of leaves growing here and there like tufts of hair on a balding witch. The visible part of the trunk is split in two pieces, forking. The joints form bent elbows around the base.
         It’s almost skeletal the way the stems wrench into one another. There’s something so beautiful about its ugliness. Something touching about the desperate way it pushes itself up from under the ground.
         I think how easy it is to believe loneliness is exclusive, that it’s something that only happens to you and to no one else.
         But really, it’s selfish to claim an emotion.
         I look at Mr. Myers and Fred, both hunched over in more or less the same position, gazing up at the tree.
         No, I think, crossing my arms over my chest. There are a lot of lonely people in the world.

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