He sat on a wicker chair half-gazing at the land below—the roaming hillside caught the glow of the soft dying day. The sky was the same grey that blankets the horizon after an autumn rain. The shadows stretched numberless across the barren field like dark tentacles. He traced each of them as they retreated into a row of trees across the land, counting each as if they were wrinkles upon the earth. His eyes then followed the field as it drew closer.
The floor of the deck on which he sat was worn and old. Cracks and bruises from long winters had etched their place into the planks.
Just beyond the porch was a single oak tree. It reached at least fifty feet in the air – its autumn leaves seemed to melt into the grey sky beyond it. At the tips of the tree the branches grew thinner and appeared naked. They reached to the heaven like thin fingers. The living air carried its breath through the young man’s mind – his thoughts absorbed the ebb and flow of all things. And there he sat.
He stared at the tree and wondered how far the roots stretched beneath the earth. Did they travel ten meters or a few hundred? What maze did they make beneath his feet? And did they travel close to the core of the earth?
He placed a cigarette to his lips and sparked a match. The clouds of smoke trailed out of the corner of his mouth, flowing into the darkness of the world that was. All was still yet the breeze reminded him of the world’s motion—the spirit impelled him forward. The mystery beyond the trees seemed to sink deeper into the shad- ows. He thought about the unknown land—what critters scattered around its earth? What birds chirped? What flowers bloomed? He wondered if the tree’s roots could reach that far—to the distant land. Is that where evil had come from—within those shadows—from these very roots?
The door creaked open behind him and then shut abruptly.
“Manhattan?” came a voice.
“I’m fine with my beer. Thanks though,” he said.
The older man walked to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from the younger man. He had dark circles under his leaden eyes and thinning grey hair. He wore a leather coat and faded jeans.
“Still smoking those things?” the man said. The younger man did not reply but continued to gaze at the field below. “Things will kill you.”
“What doesn’t?” replied the younger man with a laugh. “Good point,” said the older man. “Manhattans don’t kill you. Goddamn right. Do you know the secret of making a good Manhattan?”
“I prefer making bad Manhattans,” replied the younger man.
“It’s all about the whiskey,” the older man said seeming to not hear him. “And, the cherry juice. It gives it just the right kind of sweetness. I bet you never knew to put cherry juice in a Manhattan.”
The younger man took a longer drag from his cigarette. Did the horror come from a single seed?
“Who would have thought to put cherry juice in one of these anyway,” said the old man.
“Mom always put cherry juice in Manhattans,” said the younger man as he sipped his beer. A squirrel hopped up onto the railing of the deck. It seemed to stare at the two men but then darted off abruptly.
“The whiskey has to be Makers Mark,” the older man continued in between drinks. “It’s the key—that and the cherry juice. I’ll teach you one day.”
“Right,” said the younger man.
“So what’s new?” asked the older man.
“Same old,” said the younger man as he peeled away the label on his beer.
“Have any idea of what’s next?” asked the older man.
“What do you mean?”
“You know—practical stuff.”
“Oh,” said the younger man with a smirk. “Because I oh-so-rarely imbue practically.”
“No, you do,” said the older man, “but you know making money is a good thing.”
“Yeah,” said the younger man.
“It doesn’t grow on trees,” said the older man.
Did nature need the horror—the tragedy? Did it benefit from our destruction? Did it grow from that very tree and others like it?
“You thought of any girls to introduce your brother to?” asked the older man.
“He doesn’t need a girl,” said the younger man.
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
“It might hurt.”
“No it would do him good.”
The sun sank deeper leaving a lasting red across the field that blended within the darkness from the shadows. The wind blew again and carried a flock of birds across the field into the darkness as if on purpose— as if that motion that dwelled within all things forced them into the shadows—refuting any notion of autonomy, stripping the providence behind their fall. The younger man felt the serpentine of dark roots from the solitary tree beneath him.
“Do you need any new clothes?” the older man asked. “Winter coat? Dress shirts? Socks?”
“All set,” answered the younger man.
“You sure are quiet.”
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About things.”
“And what is the answer to these things? You must have some.”
“I don’t know if I do.”
“You must by now.”
The younger man looked up at his father—he stared deeply into his eyes. His eyes looked more tired than usual—tired and detached.
“I think you should use your talents,” he said. “You have so many talents. I wish I had known my talents and used them. I could have done so much more—made so much more.”
“You did just fine, Dad,” said the younger man.
“Food for thought anyway,” said the older man. “This is a great Manhattan.”
The younger man looked away from his father and again at the thin fingers of the solitary tree that reached toward the heavens. Would it ever reach that splendor? And if it did, would it find peace in the spirit that dwelled within the setting sun? Would it find order or would it find only chaos?
“I think that tree’s dying,” said the older man as he polished off the last of his drink. “It’s old and ugly. It might be time to cut it down.”