Old Man Westle and the Hettleback Tree

Mama and Papa say he only comes out at night.

But I know better. I seen Old Man Westle.

They say they never seen him out in the day. They never seen him. That he never comes out.

But I know him. I seen him.

Frizzy gray hair that goes in all directions like Al Einstein. Long gray beard that reaches to his solid silver buckle. Gray eyes, shit through with flecks of blue. Every part of Old Man Westle's gray except for his skin. I told Mama, but she told me not to tell lies. But I know. I seen him.

Old Man Westle's skin is blacker than midnight. An unnatural color, it is. I know what black people look like, mind you. Old Man Westle's the darkest I ever seen. Darker than midnight clouds.

I was playing in the street, throwing my ball back and forth with my doggy, Marny. I threw it long down the street. Marny caught it, but instead of coming back, she kept running. Right into his yard. Into Old Man Westle's yard. She only did once, that time. Just that time.

I chased her, right up to his yard. I kept calling for her, but she wouldn't come. I'd been told never to go on Old Man Westle's lawn. When we moved here, Mama tried to knock on his door. Stood there for a good five minutes, she figures, knocking. She had a cake, wanted to give it to him, maybe cheer him up. Neighbors had told her he was a shut-in. Mama's sociable like that, bringing people cakes and casseroles.

Two days later, a letter arrived. From him. From Old Man Westle. Said to please leave him be. Mama didn't like that. Said he coulda just said it to her face instead of wasting stamps.

So I chased after Marny. Into Old Man Westle's yard. Where I'd been told never to go. Never ever.

Marny'd gone around back. Through an open door in the fence. I came up to it. I called her. She didn't come. I called her again. She didn't come. So I went in. Into Old Man Westle's yard.

When I went in, I get something change. The sky had been a brilliant blue. Suddenly it was purple. Purple as a king's coat. It was weird. And when I looked at my arms, they were orange. Bright and shiny, with a kinda glittery shimmer. I walked up, around the house, calling for Marny. I rounded the corner, and Marny was sitting there, pink with white and red polka dots. Right by Old Man Westle.

She had her head in his lap, leaning up against him like she'd always known him. He was petting her with his jet black hands, scratching behind her ear. Just how she likes it.

Behind him, dead middle of the yard, was a tree. It was pure jet black, just like him. Just like Old Man Westle. It had these glowing white triangles hanging off it, like lights, giving off a bright glow.

"Are you Old Man Westle?" I asked.

"I am, child. You and you dog came in here without asking, little one." He spoke with a melodious, smooth voice, dripping with kindness like honey. He had a strange accent, one I haven't heard before or since.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll take Marny home right now."

"Now, now, child. It's alright. No need to hurry. You and your pet are here, might as well stay." He stood up from his yellow rocking chair and walked over to the tree. He picked two of the triangles off the tree, and once they separated with a snap, they turned a deep angry red, like blood. He extended his arm and offered one to me.

"Would you like to share the fruit of the Hettleback Tree with me, child?"

I took it delicately from him. It's four faces were unnaturally smooth, yet it was slightly squishy, like a grape or a plum.

"Just take a bite, like this." He demonstrated, biting off a corner. His teeth were gray too, I noticed. Same shade as his hair and eyes and bread.

I took a bite, just like him, and an explosion happened in my mouth, an explosion of taste I can't describe. It was sweet, sour, salty, savory. It was a night under the stars with your best friends. It was ice cream on a hot day. It was a
Thanksgiving feast you'd helped make. It was every good thing and every good taste in the world. I crammed the rest in my mouth, trying to savor the flavors and experience them all at once.

Old Man Westle laughed at that.

"It's good, isn't it? I grow it myself, from dreams and joy. It makes a delightful pie."

Marny stood up. Slowly, she trooped over to the gate and slipped through. I looked back at her, then back at Old Man Westle.

"Well, you best be getting home, child."

And so I did. I left.

The gate was never open. Never again. And Marny never again went on Old Man Westle's lawn, or into his backyard. And I never again saw him, black as midnight. And I never again saw the Hettleback Tree. Or tasted its fruit, red as blood, a million flavors at once.

I told Mama about Old Man Westle. She says he's just a crazy old coot. But I told her about him. About his midnight skin. And his yellow chair. His blue grass. And his tree, dark as him. She told me my imagination ran wild. That it's not true.

But I know better. I seen him. I seen Old Man Westle.

And I seen the Hettleback Tree.