The Girl in the Trees

  Miranda wanted to put into words exactly what she was dealing with. She started to write down some questions, but every time she got around to describing her present dilemma, she realized that any reasonable "advice person" she wrote to would probably want to alert some authority figure at once. A child in her situation could not be allowed. It was perfectly impossible, morally, ethically, legally, any way you put it and yet there she was and still wanted to be, more or less. A companion would have been nice. She'd thought about putting up something online like a house-mate ad, but again, who would not turn around and inform social services as soon as they saw, as soon as they knew? She wasn't so much afraid of people with bad intentions as she was of people with good ones, as if anyone trying to help would be hurting instead.

  Still she went about her daily routines just the same. The goats didn't know that she was alone; they still needed milking. The chickens didn't know that she was afraid; they were still laying eggs right on schedule. The horses seemed to know that she was uneasy; they nuzzled her gently and made soft, sympathetic whinnying sounds. But the bees went about their business as usual, the haylift project remained to be done, and as the days grew progressively shorter she spent less and less time online and more and more just sitting in front of the woodstove at night in the dark, huddled under her favorite old yellow blanket, and counted the days it had been.

  She was sitting like that one cold autumn night when the winter was just coming around. The wind was rattling through the trees and she knew that the morning would see several branches come down amid piles of newly fallen leaves. As she listened to the whistling and the howling of the wind, she didn't even notice the front door being opened, or the person who was coming inside. It was when the door slammed that she jumped up and reached for the gun.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda grabbed the rifle from its box below the window and quickly brought it up to face the intruder, who stopped right where she was just inside the door and put her hands up.

  "If you shoot me," she said, "you'll just have a mess to clean up."

  Miranda didn't flinch but the woman slowly lowered her hands to her side. She was old, tall and sturdy like Calvin, with a mass of tangled and very white hair piled high on her head. She was wearing a shabby green overcoat and muddy brown boots, and smelled like she'd been sleeping in a barn for a month. Miranda sniffed and came close to gagging on the odor. The old woman laughed.

  "You're a nice one, I can see that," she said. "Now do you mind if I come in or are you just going to shoot?"

  Miranda lowered the rifle for a moment, but raised it again as the old woman took two steps forward. The visitor sighed.

  "Just make up your mind. My feet are killing me."

  Miranda shook her head but put the gun back in its spot. The woman approached the other side of the fireplace.

  "Why are you freezing in here? That fireplace don't work?"

  "It works," Miranda muttered.

  "Then come on, build a fire!" the old woman commanded. "I'm tired and I'm frozen as well. Do you have any tea? I'd love a cup of hot tea."

  Without asking, she parked herself on Calvin's big brown leather chair. Miranda found herself obeying without thinking about it. Before she knew it she was kneeling in front of the fireplace, piling up kindling on top of some twigs, surrounding the heaplet with a couple of logs and digging out the long matches from the poker stand.

  "Now that's better," the old woman said as the fire began to alight. "Now how about that tea?"

  "We only have mint," Miranda said. She wanted to add that she'd gathered and dried the mint leaves herself, and that she was saving it up for a special occasion, and that she really loved the taste of mint tea, especially iced in the summer, but she held back. She wasn't used to talking that much, and anyway, she didn't even know who this person was, or why she was there.

  "Sounds yummy," her guest replied with a snort. Miranda went into the kitchen area in the corner of the room, and put a kettle on the hot plate.

  "It's freezing in here," the old woman complained. "I don't know why you were just sitting there in the cold. Where are your folks anyway?"

  "My grandfather's out," Miranda called from the kitchen. "Out on business. He'll be back tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" the old woman grunted. She was beginning to thaw out a bit and took a long look around her. She saw a dark living room, with only one lamp lit, in the corner where Miranda'd been sitting, and otherwise only the light of the fire. The walls and the floor were old wood and dark. Aside from two chairs, the one she was in and the one where Miranda had been, there was no other seating, and between them was only a small walnut footstool which looked like it served as the dining room table. She could see the balcony looming above the far side of the room, beneath which were bookshelves crammed with old books, and to the far left the kitchen where Miranda was now. To the right of her, against the far wall, was a door which led, she correctly imagined, to a bedroom.

  "Where's the toilet?" she asked and Miranda directed her back to that bedroom, where the bathroom was off to the side. The old woman struggled to her feet, she really was tired, and took herself there. By the time she returned, the mint tea was ready and sitting by the chair on the footstool. Miranda was standing beside it. The old woman towered over her. Not that Miranda was small. She was already five foot two and thought herself tall for her age, but the old woman must have been more than six feet and well over two hundred pounds. To Miranda she seemed like a giant. She smelled terrible too, and Miranda had to stand back as she passed and collapsed once again on her grandfather's chair.

  The old woman reached for the cup and took a slow sip.

  "Very nice," she grumbled. "Very nice."

  She put the cup down and fell fast asleep where she sat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Miranda hunched by the fire and watched the old woman doze. She was filled with conflicting emotions. A part of her was worried, concerned and confused about the unwelcome presence, and she wasn't decided on how to proceed. She'd said that her grandfather would be back the next day but of course if the woman stuck around she'd discover the lie, and then what? Clearly she had to get rid of her, but would that be easy to do? Who was this woman and what did she want? Miranda assumed she was just some homeless old tramp who'd somehow been wandering around in the hills and seen the faint light coming out through the window. Miranda was now wishing she'd sat in the dark.

  Another part of her was genuinely excited, even thrilled. Here there was someone to talk to! There hadn't been an actual guest in the house for so long, and now she was tongue-tied and suddenly shy. She hadn't been able to get a word out, it seemed, and there were so many questions she wanted to ask, and things that she wanted to say. She felt there was something familiar about her vistor, but on reflection she realized it was only her age and her size that reminded her so much of Calvin. It was merely the presence of an old person inside the house that brought back all of those feelings. How she wished that her grandfather was still alive. He would have known what to do. He wouldn't have stupidly turned into a mute, obedient servant the way that she had. He would at least have found out her name!

  Miranda let the fire go out without adding more logs. It had barely warmed up the area around it but she didn't care. She was used to the cold. She switched off the lamp and sat in the dark for a while, then finally picked up the rifle again and hoisted it with her up to the loft. She pulled up the ladder behind her. She felt safer that way, knowing that no one could easily get up to her. Maybe the old woman didn't mean any harm, but Miranda wouldn't take any chances. She had a hard time falling asleep, though, with the visitor snoring below and the stench of her rising above. When she did sleep, she dreamed about blizzards and wandering lost in the trees with only a talking green apple to guide her. The apple gave her conflicting advice, making her turn left, then right, now east and now south. She did whatever it told her until she decided to eat it instead. She brought it up to her mouth but
saw that a bite had already been taking out of it, and a worm poked its head out and was laughing hysterically. Miranda awoke startled but the sounds that she heard were the birds, and the ten-minute rooster, and the old woman snoring away.

  Miranda leapt down from the loft and got down to business as usual. She would deal with the visitor later. She grabbed a brown pear and headed outside, closing the door quietly behind her. The work kept her mind off her problem. The goats needed milking and being led out to pasture. The horses and chickens needed their feed. She had water buckets to fill from the well, and just enough irrigation to let to the garden. She checked on the battery backups and noted the levels. She collected the eggs from the coop, and by the time she returned to the house it was already late in the morning.

  The old woman was no longer in Calvin's chair. For a moment, Miranda thought that maybe the woman had left, simply gone, but then she heard noises come from the bedroom, and moments later the woman came out. She had taken a shower and changed into some of Calvin's old clothes, a white shirt and overall jeans. She had even put on a pair of his work boots. She looked radically changed, fresh and scrubbed, but Miranda's first thought was of how much electricity the woman had used up with the hot water heater. Then she was ashamed of herself about that. Miranda stood, speechless and timid as the woman walked over to her.

  "Hope your grandpa won't mind," she said, laughing "but they are a good fit! Got anything to eat around here?"

  She brushed right past Miranda and marched into the kitchen where she proceeded to open up all the cupboards and drawers, inspecting each one before moving on to the next.

  "Apparently not much," she grumbled. There wasn't a whole lot to see, just flour and oil and rice and beans, sugar and salt and a few herbs and spices. The tiny refrigerator under the sink held some eggs, some goat milk and cheese. That was it.

  "I could make you some flapjacks," Miranda volunteered. "Or some eggs if you like."

  "Pancakes and eggs! Sounds good to me," she replied.

  "I'll just wait over here," she added and took herself back to the old leather chair and plopped down, apparently believing that Miranda was her own personal maid. She might as well have been. Without another word, the young girl went about making the old woman's breakfast. Her brain was buzzing with all that she wanted to say, but she just couldn't speak. Her visitor didn't have the same problem. Rest and hot water had loosened her tongue.

  "It's a hell of a place you got here," she announced. "I like it. Sure do. Don't know how you can stand it, but there you go. Everybody's got their own ways. Grandfather, huh? No mom or dad? No brothers or sisters? Just you on your own and the grandpa? Guess you got a lot of fresh air. You can't bottle that! Uh-uh. No sir. Course you got to like animals. You like animals? You must. Is that sheep I hear? No, got to be goats. And chickens. Those eggs from your chickens? Course they are. Plenty of work to be done on a farm. Your grandpa makes you do all the work? How is that? Going away and making you do all the work? Not much fun. Less you like it, of course. You like all that work? Guess you do."

  Miranda didn't bother to answer. She could hardly have, anyway, since the woman didn't pause for a second in her prattle. She kept up the chatter the whole time Miranda was cooking, and then even while she was eating. Miranda stood by her, watching and listening, while the old woman seemed to talk to herself. Was she crazy? Miranda couldn't tell. It was just like watching a show.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The woman was still jabbering away when somebody started pounding on the door and shouting for Calvin. It was the old sheriff, who had returned this time by himself. It was such a long hike from the fire road that he couldn't convince his partner to come along a second time unless there was a real emergency.

  "Calvin? You in there? Come on, open up. It's Jeff Rangold. Sheriff Rangold."

  The old woman stopped talking and looked up curiously at Miranda, who was standing as if petrified, unmoving. The old woman whispered.

  "Well, aren't you going to get the door?"

  Miranda had no choice. She had to go now. Surely the sheriff had seen her, and yes, now he was also calling her name. She let out a sigh that was more like a sob and, sniffing back sudden tears, made her way to the door. When she opened it the sheriff had taken his cap off and was rubbing his bald head with a handkerchief. He looked worn out and red.

  "Morning, Miranda," he said, peering inside.

  "Good morning, Sheriff Rangold," she replied, and then there was silence for several moments. The sheriff leaned forward, trying to get a better look in the house. From where he was standing, he couldn't see much.

  "Mind if I come in," he asked, and as Miranda hesitated he simply brushed by her and went on in anyway. As he did so, the old woman slowly got up from the chair and turned towards him. He nodded a greeting.

  "Morning, ma'am", he said, replacing his cap on his head and tapping the brim in a sort of salute.

  "Good morning, officer," the old woman said. "Sure is a beautiful day now, isn't it?"

  "Bit warm for me for this time of year," the sheriff replied. "I'm not given to walking so much."

  "It is a long way up that hill," she agreed with a smile that revealed a few missing teeth.

  "Long way," he repeated and then turned back to Miranda who was still standing back at the door.

  "Is Calvin around?" he asked her and she shook her head.

  "Away on business," she said.

  "Business?" the sheriff seemed doubtful. "What kind of business?"

  "Family business, he told me, " she said, and then taking a deep breath she added, "he's gone down to Los Angeles. Don't know when he'll be back. Meantime he asked auntie to come here and stay with me."

  The sheriff looked puzzled. He'd known Calvin a very long time, and had never yet known him to go off on that kind of journey. Still, "life is long", as a teacher once told him in some foreign language. You never know what might come up.

  "Didn't take you with him," he half-asked, half-noted, still speaking to the girl.

  "Got to look after the place," she reminded him. He nodded, then turned back to the old woman and said,

  "So you're a Harden?"

  "Caroline Harden," she replied without hesitation, and reached out her hand. As he took it she said, "most pleased to meet you, officer Rangold."

  "Call me Jeff," he told her.

  "I'm Calvin's sister," she said. "I haven't been up here in years, not since Miranda was a brand new baby. And look at her now," she clucked. "She's so big, and she's such a hard worker too. You should see her take care of all this."

  The sheriff nodded.

  "Yes ma'am," he agreed, "I know old Calvin is so proud of her. Tells me so all the time." Saying this, the sheriff realized that it had been quite a long while since he'd last seen Miranda's grandfather. He studied the old woman's face, and decided she resembled a Harden for sure. He tipped his cap and turned to leave.

  "Well," he said, coming up to Miranda, "I was just making sure. Some folks down in town been a bit worried about your grandfather. Haven't seen him around much these days."

  "He don't like to go out," Miranda replied, and immediately wished that she hadn't.

  "Yes, I know," the sheriff looked at her closely, but she didn't anything else.

  "I'll be off then," he said and walked out the door. Miranda held her breath as she watched him go by. He took several steps, then he turned around, walked back up to her and said,

  "If you ladies ever need anything," and he handed Miranda his personal card.

  "Thank you, sir," she said, not even glancing at it.

  "Have a good day now," he said, and this time he left them for good. Miranda watched from the door until he was gone. That takes care of the Carters, she thought. She could go back to the store as regular. Now there was just the old woman.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That one had crept over and was standing behind her. Miranda was still lost in her thoughts and didn't notice her until she sp
oke up.

  "Los Angeles, huh?"

  "What?" Miranda turned and nearly collided with her. The old woman took a step back and licked her lips while studying the girl. Miranda said,

  "I think you should go now."

  The old woman laughed.

  "You think I should go? Do you now?" She turned and walked back to the big leather chair where she plopped herself down and put her feet up on the woodstove.

  "I don't know about that," she said. "I think I might stay."

  For the first time since the woman had mysteriously appeared the previous night, Miranda suddenly felt like completely herself once again. She marched over to where the woman was making herself quite at home, and stood right beside her and said,

  "I don't even know who you are."

  The old woman glanced up at her for a moment, then turned her gaze to the window.

  "You can call me Caroline. Caroline Harden. I've been called many things, some much worse than that."

  "You're not Caroline Harden," Miranda declared. "My grandfather never said he had a sister."

  "No, but you did," the woman now known as Caroline rejoined.

  "I don't know why you are lying, but you are," she added. "I've got to think about this."

  "You don't have to do anything but leave," Miranda raised her voice. "I've been nice to you. I let you sleep here. I made you breakfast, let you take my grandfather's clothes. I don't owe you nothing and you got no right to be staying. I said you should go and I mean it."

  Caroline looked back at MIranda for a moment, looked away again, but then she stood up and brought her great bulk up against the small girl.

  "Tell me about this grandfather of yours," she demanded. "First you said he was away on business, would be back today. Then you tell the sheriff he's gone off to Los Angeles and you don't know when he'll be back. Obviously there is such a person as grandpa. Or was. Maybe not anymore. Is that it? Am I right? He's not coming back. He would if he could but he can't. Why is that?"