Otto Graf, a stooped, straight-faced man of seventy-five, stood behind his house in the remote Ocooch Mountains. Wrapped in a gray wool coat, hand-knit scarlet scarf, and tattered tweed cap, he struggled to position the opening of an unwieldy bag of bird seed over a tube feeder held by his neighbor, Gene Kaplan.

“Gene, hold it steady!”

“Come on, Otto, just pour it already,” said Gene.

Otto was about to unleash a torrent of tiny thistle seeds into the cylinder, when the air was ripped by a metallic shriek. Both men flinched.

“Scheisse!” He spit out the word and paused when the sound echoed from slope to wooded slope. The seeds showered down, most missing their target and landing on the ground. Gene let the feeder drop to his side and laughed. Otto lowered the bag, his shoulders slumped.

Gene handed the feeder to Otto. “I have to go. My brother and his wife are here.”

“Your brother, he is here—now?” asked Otto.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s Thanksgiving weekend. What do you expect?”

Gene walked away. Otto listened to the crunching footsteps on the leaf-covered ground grow fainter.

In the silence, Otto thought of the piercing sound. He and the rest of the Kaplan Christmas Tree Farm’s neighbors were familiar with the sound. Whenever a gusty wind shoved it sideways, the weathered sign at the head of the driveway squealed in its rusted hinges. Gene hung the old sign the morning after Thanksgiving just as he had done for the past several years. CUT YOUR OWN. Its letters were still legible on the faded gray wood, but its crude image of a conifer was no longer green. His father had constructed the sign to last, with hinges that let it swing rather than crack. A drop or two of light machine oil on the hinges would have silenced it, but Gene hadn’t bothered. Otto, in his typically importunate way, had offered to oil them many times, but Gene always said no, occasionally vowing to hit him the next time he asked.

 

***

 

Never scraped smooth by any glacier, the Ocooch region was filled with steep hills and tall bluffs, their long shadows sweeping across the forest canopy below. Some bluffs cradled large chunks of limestone bedrock, exposed to the elements and poised to break free and fall, adding to the deposit of talus below. In some places, fallen, splintered trees were strewn over the rocks.

Cutting through the landscape was a mostly shallow river locals called the Crookedest. Early each spring, timber rattlesnakes emerged when the sun coaxed them out onto rock ledges high above the water.

In this rough terrain, Charles Kaplan, the widowed father of Robert and Gene, saw the chance to leave behind his morass of problems and find a new start. After having failed at construction and sales around Wisconsin, he moved with his boys to a plot of bucolic land centered in the Ocooch.

Otto sold him the land, about half the acreage he had worked hard to acquire over the years, to cover unexpected medical expenses for his wife, Mary. When she recovered, he felt deep regret. Although he was outwardly logical, his thoughts were pulled along the skewed path of the blame-monger. He sold the land at a fair price but always felt Charles had taken advantage of him. Fed by the daily sight of the house Charles built, thinly filtered by trees, Otto’s resentment grew. He imagined the day when he would somehow regain ownership.

Charles’s ideas for making a living in his new surroundings were scattershot and chancy. He thought he excelled at small-engine repair; his customers had a different opinion. When starting the tree farm, he found the work more than he could handle alone and offloaded much of it onto the boys. If they disappointed him, he didn’t hesitate to raise his hand over the slightest flaw.

Years later, Robert moved away to attend college—despite his brother’s pleas for him to stay. The punishments inflicted by Charles were now concentrated, their full weight falling on Gene alone. Within a few months he began finding comfort in compulsively counting things. He spent hours pacing the perimeter of their land; if the new total number of footsteps differed from the last, he would do it again.

One December day, a commercial Christmas tree customer’s flatbed truck was backed into the short driveway and loaded with cut trees not yet strapped down. Charles and the customer were inside the tottering shed where the tree saws were kept and customers’ money collected.

Gene, now stocky and muscular, looked on when an argument exploded over the wholesale price of Scotch pine. Never fond of being corrected, Charles grabbed the back of the man’s collar and belt and tossed him out the door.

Charles and Gene watched as the stunned man clambered to his feet, climbed into his truck, and revved the engine for a fast exit. In his haste, he shifted into reverse. Gene leaped to the side as the truck barreled backwards, but Charles was hit full bore.

As he pulled the trees off his father’s body, Gene counted them aloud. Hearing this, Charles gasped his last words: “Don’t bother counting ‘em, boy. The chiseler isn’t going to pay.”

 

***

 

It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving and the house was quiet. Gene, Robert, and Shawna, Robert’s wife, were in the kitchen, cleaning up after lunch.

“Gene,” said Shawna, “where do you keep the plastic wrap?”

Gene opened a lower cabinet and pointed. “If you don’t want to keep it down there, we can move it.”

“No, that’s fine. I just needed some of this,” said Shawna, tearing off some wrap.

“Okay, suit yourself. However you want to arrange things. You’re the cook.”

Shawna gave Robert a quizzical look. “What?” she mouthed. Robert shrugged.

“I’ll be in the shed,” said Gene, closing the cabinet before leaving through the kitchen door.

Shawna rolled her eyes at Robert and said, “Yeah, Gene, go rearrange the shed. I might want to cook out there too.” She watched Gene walk across the lawn.

“Be careful, Shawna,” said Robert. “You don’t want to get on the wrong side of my brother. You should have seen his face when I hinted I wanted to sell this place to settle probate. I swear he wanted to kill me.”

“You’re exaggerating,” said Shawna.

Robert drew his right forefinger across his neck.

“Is selling the only way? Can’t he buy you out?”

“He doesn’t have the money.”

“Maybe he could make monthly payments.”

“I’m not a bank,” said Robert, “and I sure as hell don’t trust him to keep up payments for thirty years.”

“Just the same, you need to make it clear this is just a short visit. Does he know about our trip?”

“No, but I’m going to tell him—when the time is right.”

 Shawna started for the door. “I’m going for a run before I leave. Would you mind finishing up?”

“Anything for you, babe,” said Robert.

 

***

 

Shawna headed to the right when leaving the driveway. It was more open, and the sun, though blinding, felt good.

She saw Otto by the road, emptying his mailbox. She waved to him. “Hi.”

“Hello. You are running far today?” asked Otto.

“I wanted to get in a run while it’s quiet at the farm. It should get busy soon.”

Otto frowned.

“What is it?” asked Shawna.

“If I were you, I should not expect to be so busy today.”

“Why? Where I live, a lot of people get their trees right after Thanksgiving.”

“Now and then, I do see some cars or trucks. They go up that way. It is not so easy for me to remember, though, one returning with a tree.”

“I wonder why.”

“Business was maybe a little better, back when the old man was alive.” He gazed in the direction of the Kaplan property. “I remember back then, young Gene, a skinny boy, he comes to see me. He looks scared, in his eyes. He practically begs me, ‘Buy a Christmas tree.’ Every year he comes like this. It made his father in a better mood, I am guessing. At least, then there was not so much shouting.”

“You could hear that?” asked Shawna.

“I am an old man. But I have ears like a youngster. My wife, Mary, she complains I notice too much.”

“So you bought a tree every year? That was nice of you.”

“One year, I feel so sorry for this boy, I go back and I buy a second Christmas tree.” Leaning toward Shawna, he whispered, “And I am an atheist.”

 

***

 

Back from her jog, Shawna asked Robert, “Is there something wrong with the trees here? Or the service?”

“What? Oh, you’ve been talking to Otto. Nothing gets past him.”

“Don’t you like Otto?”

“We’ve had some run-ins. He really got on my case for leaving to go to college. Like I should sacrifice everything for Gene just because he’s my brother.”

“He did seem very protective of him.”

“It’s not so much him being protective. He just thinks everything should be done his way. Anyway, the trees are fine. Otto’s just bitter.”

“About what?”

“It goes back to when he was a kid in Switzerland. His family had a lot of land and a business, but they were on the outs politically with some important families. Their business got boycotted. They had to sell their land. They lost everything.”

Shawna leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Look, Robert, Gene has a lot invested in this visit. He’s got this crazy idea that we’re staying. You need to help him. Figure out what’s going on with him. As soon as you’re done here, okay?”

Robert nodded.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” said Shawna. She picked up her overnight bag and headed for the door. She would be spending the night at her friend’s house, an hour away.

“Don’t you want me to drive you?” asked Robert.

“Why?”

“It just makes sense to have a car here, in case something happens.”

None of the other cars at the Kaplan place were operable, always being worked on by Gene, who never seemed to need, or want, to go anywhere.

“Robert, are you afraid to be alone here with your brother?” Mimicking Gene, Shawna drew her face into a menacing stare and stomped toward Robert. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Come on, knock it off.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make fun. Gene’s habit is almost endearing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Robert. “I’ll call you if I need anything. Say hi to Sandra for me.”

Shawna’s eyes lit up, and she gave Robert a quick squeeze and a kiss. “Love you.” Slipping through the doorway, she added, “It’s going to be around zero tonight. Be sure to put enough wood in the stove upstairs.”

“Yes, I know.”

 

***

 

Robert peered out the kitchen window to the shed. Tree saws hung on pairs of nails pounded into its weather-beaten exterior. He took a deep breath and walked to the small structure, where he found Gene slouched on a stool inside, his arms crossed and his face stony.

“Are you tired of waiting for me, or tired of waiting for a customer?” Robert asked.

“Look, Bobby,” Gene said, “now that you and Shawna are going to be around, we can fix this place up. Bring in more business. Maybe even plant the field ourselves. We’ll put in a cash crop this spring.”

Most of the Kaplan property was rugged, much of it not passable on foot, but in some places, it was suitable for growing fir and pine. One flat field was leased out to a farmer who grew grass hay for his livestock. In the year since their father’s death, Gene had talked about making improvements, but nothing came of it. He used the excuse the farm was still tied up in probate.

“Gene,” Robert said, “you need to be realistic about what can be done here. And about how long Shawna and I are going to stay.”

Gene reached into his pants pocket. “What’s this?” he asked, tossing a small booklet at Robert, who caught it against his chest.

“What are you doing with my passport?” Robert slid the passport into his shirt pocket.

“Why did you bring it with you?” Gene asked.

“We’re leaving for a cruise in a few days. What’s the big deal?”

“You’re going to bail on me now? The season’s just starting!”

Robert watched with concern as red blotches began to spread across Gene’s face and neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. Are you okay?”

“We have to get a tree for the house,” said Gene, knocking over the stool as he got up. Robert followed him out of the shed and watched Gene lift a saw from the top row and run his thumb over the teeth.

Gene’s plan was interrupted by the sound of a silver sedan pulling into the driveway: customers.

Gene’s face brightened as he stepped out to see a neatly dressed young couple walking hand-in-hand from their car. The woman’s chic high heels wobbled on the loose gravel.

 Gene called out, “How’s it going?”

“Great, thanks,” said the man. “We were driving by and decided to get a tree.”

“So you saw the sign?” asked Gene.

“Yeah. We thought we’d get a fir—six or seven feet would be good.” The man scanned the prices listed on the front of the shed. “I see these are cut-your-own prices. How much is it if we don’t cut it?”

Gene squinted for a moment and then joked, “It’s going to be hard to get a tree home if you don’t cut it first.”

The couple laughed. “Right,” said the man. “Well, we’ve never cut a Christmas tree before.”

“We don’t mind paying more,” said the woman.

“What’s the extra charge if we don’t cut it?” the man asked.

“There is no extra charge,” replied Gene.

“Great. We’d like a six- or seven-foot fir, please.”

Gene, no longer smiling, swung the saw upward until its handle was within inches of the man’s chest. The saw swayed as Gene tried to steady his outstretched arm. With a stare, he said, “Use this.”

The man leaned back and glanced at his wife, who tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “Let’s go.”

“Gene,” said Robert, “I’ll cut a tree for them.”

“You stay out of this!” said Gene.

“We’ve changed our minds,” said the man. He hurried with his wife back to their car.

“You can’t treat customers like that!” said Robert. “Didn’t you see they weren’t dressed for cutting a tree?”

Gene pivoted toward him. “Hey, they saw the sign.” He tossed the saw to the ground. “All these people coming around here, telling me what to do. Even Otto has been pressuring me, like I would fall for his stupid sweet talk.”

“Otto?” asked Robert, surprised by the mention of their neighbor. “You know, I saw you two behind his house. What was he pressuring you about?”

“Never mind,” said Gene, who turned and headed for the house.

The phone was ringing when he entered the kitchen. Partly to save money and partly because cell phone service was spotty in the area, Gene had kept his landline. He picked up the phone and answered. “Hello.”

“Hi, Gene. This is Shawna. I just wanted to know if I could pick up anything for you while I’m out.”

“No, thanks.”

“Also, could you please tell Robert I’ve changed my mind? I’ll be back after dinner.”

“Changed your mind about what?”

“I was planning to stay over at my friend’s, but Robert was nervous about being there in the middle of the woods without a working car. I don’t want him to worry.”

Gene lowered the phone to his now-heaving chest.

“Gene? Are you still there?”

His mind caught up, Gene heard nothing but his own scheming. He took in a deep, labored breath and raised the phone. “You don’t have to do that, Shawna. Things are slow here so I asked Robert to help me get the Buick running. We just finished. It runs fine now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in that case, I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Please let Robert know I called?”

“Sure. Bye.” He hung up the phone. The kitchen door opened. “Gene, are you all right?” asked Robert.

“Yeah, I’m just tired. Let’s go cut that tree.”

“We can do that tomorrow. Just take it easy if you’re tired.”

“I’m good. Really. You can do the cutting. Take a saw from the top row, okay?”

When they walked past the shed, Robert grabbed a saw and followed Gene.

Robert motioned to a stand of evergreens where most customers preferred to select a tree. “No,” said Gene without looking, “the better ones are out back.”

Robert, anxious, stopped walking. “Are you sure you’re all right? I really think we should wait until tomorrow.”

Gene put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Robert, I’m fine. It won’t take long to cut a tree. I saw a perfect one the other day. Shawna can help decorate it tomorrow when she gets back.” Gene started counting his steps under his breath. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Counting really works for you. I mean, you seem a lot more relaxed now. I always felt guilty about you starting that habit, though.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with it. I’d mess up some way or other, and Dad would start whacking me. And I just started counting. I focused on counting, and then—”

“It didn’t hurt as much?”

“Yeah, it was just another number.”

Robert’s eyes dropped. “I never knew that, Gene.”

“Well, you know now. Come on, let’s go.”

Gene continued marching toward the back woods. The two trudged side by side until they were at the top of the rocky bluff at the rear of the property. Beyond was a twenty-foot drop.

“There it is,” said Gene, pointing to a dense fir about eight feet tall.

Robert glanced at the tree, ordinary in every way, and wondered how it was worth the long walk. He turned back to Gene, who was now standing at the edge of the bluff, surveying the woodland in the distance. “Come here and take a look at this view, Bobby.”

“I’ve seen it before.” Besides Robert’s doubts about Gene, the recent heavy rain that had saturated the ground did not make the bluff edge an inviting place to stand.

“No, really, you’ve got to see this, with the sun setting. Don’t worry, I’m not going to push you over the edge, for cryin’ out loud,” Gene said. “Bobby, I know we’ve got to sell the place. This could be the last time we get to see this.”

Robert sighed, walked to the edge, still a few feet from Gene, and made a perfunctory scan of the scene beyond them. “Okay, I’ve seen it,” said Robert, stepping away. “Now let’s get this tree cut.”

Robert, deft in the handling of a saw, made quick work of it, and the tree fell to the ground, its tip not far from the edge of the bluff.

“Which end do you want to carry?” It was a question he had frequently asked Gene when they hauled cut trees as boys.

“That one,” said Gene. He walked around and lifted the cut end while Robert grasped the slender trunk near the tip.

“All set? Do you have a good grip?” asked Gene.

Robert nodded and the two exchanged smiles, both reminded of the countless times they had done this before.

Then, the two froze with the same uncertainty: Would the old pattern take hold? In the past, this would be Robert’s cue to give the go-ahead—but now he was filled with apprehension. He looked into Gene’s eyes, swallowed, and motioned with his head toward the path: time to head back.

Gene’s jaw clenched. Suddenly he pushed the tree hard toward Robert, knocking him off balance. His arms flailing, Robert took several steps backwards toward the bluff’s edge. Gene leaned all his weight into the tree’s trunk with a final, unrelenting push, launching Robert over the edge. With his feet above him, Robert saw trees and ground whipping into view as he tumbled past the sodden bluff face.

The first limestone rock he hit was easily dislodged. Others took a moment to break free, and Robert was lying on his back at the bottom when the last of them landed, pinning his left foot.

Stunned, Robert looked up to see Gene’s silhouette against the salmon sky. Before he could call up to him, Gene turned and walked away.

Robert’s body was bruised and sore, his mind racing. He tried to understand what had just happened, not wanting to believe his own brother just tried to kill him.

He took his cell phone out of his pocket. No signal.

Suddenly he saw Gene standing over him. He had descended along a nearby trail the two cleared years ago.

“Are you out of your mind!” said Robert. Then, in a softer voice, “Gene, I need your help. I can’t move.”

Gene crouched and examined the rock atop Robert’s foot. He probed with his fingers to check for a gap between the two. There was none. Satisfied that Robert wasn’t going anywhere, he stood and turned to leave.

Robert grabbed his ankle. “Gene, you’ve got to help me. Help me push this rock.”

“You’re giving me orders again? You don’t catch on very fast, do you?”

“Gene, come on. I’m your brother, Bobby.” It was the first time Robert had ever used Gene’s nickname for him. 

Gene leaned forward, placing his palms on his knees, and stared hard into Robert’s eyes. “Bobby? I don’t know, officer. He went to bed right after dinner.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s right, officer. He said he was tired and went up to his room and closed the door. I washed the dishes and went to bed myself. That’s all I know.”

With that, and a satisfied smile, Gene turned and stomped off.

The temperature dropped. Robert began to shiver. He reached for his cell phone. Still no signal. He thought carefully: the sun was setting, he was underdressed for the cold front moving in, and Shawna was not returning until morning. He spent the next twenty minutes shouting for help, but each time the sound of his weakened voice was swallowed by the bluff face.

Defeated, Robert craned his neck, scanning the ground around him. There was the saw, right behind him. He imagined using it to save himself—a last resort that now was his only chance. Speed was essential. In a kind of race, he would need to cut all the way through before the pain stopped him.

If he succeeded, there might be a dead branch on the ground he could use as a crutch, but finding the trail and climbing it would require the remaining daylight. It was no use to wait any longer.

Robert removed his belt and wrapped it around his leg, just above the knee. He gripped the saw handle.

He positioned the blade on his shin, as close to a right angle as he could, with the sharpened teeth puncturing the fabric of his pants and resting on his skin. He retightened his grip on the handle. The saw shook with his hand as he braced himself for the first thrust of the blade. Holding his breath, he plunged the saw forward and down into his leg.

 

***

 

Robert’s scream echoed in the deep canyon of the Ocooch Mountains. Any neighbors who noticed might have thought it was the old sign at the Kaplan place being pushed around by the wind. But one neighbor, with keen hearing, laced up his boots and put on his coat.

“You’re leaving again? You just got home,” said Mary.

“I hear something in the woods,” said Otto. “I will see what it is.”

“In the woods! Why don’t you hear me when I say it’s time to make supper?”

Otto paused and said, “I think my hearing was better in the old country.”

“In the old country,” said Mary, frowning and eyeing Otto up and down. “Yes, Otto, everything about you was better in the old country.”

Glancing at Mary, Otto sucked in his belly and finished buttoning his coat. “Maybe it is nothing, and I will bring you back a Christmas tree.”

Mary smiled. “A tree would be nice, but don’t you go tramping around the neighbor’s field by yourself.”

“Our field,” said Otto.

“That’s a silly way to talk,” said Mary.

“It is our field, and I will get it back for us. Now, do not worry about me. Gene is big now. I will tell him to cut the tree.”

Otto stopped tying his scarf. “Mary, what are you doing?”

“I’m going with you,” said Mary, pulling her long down-filled jacket from the front closet. “I don’t trust that boy. He’s always scowling, and he’s twice your size.”

“You are going to protect me from this boy? Put away your coat. He is big, but he does not hurt anyone. He thinks of me like a father now. And a father,” said Otto, finishing the knot in his scarf, “is the master over the son.”

Mary shook her head.

“I will go now,” said Otto, flipping on the porch light before leaving through the front door.

Darkness spread as he made the short walk along the road to the Kaplan driveway. When he reached the old sign, he paused but heard no sound, felt no breeze, saw no glow of light through the windows of the house. He walked to the shed, opened the door, but saw no one.

Peering down the path toward the rear of the property, he made out an approaching figure in the darkness, a hulking form growing larger—and more familiar.

“Is that you, Gene?” Otto called out.

Gene said nothing.

Otto considered leaving; it wasn’t usual for Gene to ignore him, and their recent conversations had not gone well. He watched as Gene approached with heavy steps, stopping when he was within a few feet.

Gene clenched his fists and barked, “What are you doing here?”

Otto swallowed hard and pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets. “I heard a noise. I am thinking maybe it is a scream.”

Gene grinned. “Yeah, that’s what it was, a scream. Were you concerned about me, Otto?”

Otto thought for a moment. “So . . . he is dead?”

“He will be by morning—in this cold.”

“And his wife? I saw her today, running on the road.”

“She won’t be back until the morning. I have it all figured out,” said Gene.

“But our plan, Gene. Christmas was the right time, remember?”

“Look, Otto, an opportunity came up and I took it. It’s better this way. Besides, I never agreed to that plan. I just said I would think about it.”

“Okay, I will not worry. I know you for a long time now. You are a smart boy. Soon you can sell the farm, and all the money will be yours, no brother to take half. Now do you see? And you will let me buy it for a very good price, to show appreciation.”

“You mean for helping me when I was a kid?”

“For my silence,” said Otto, “in the present circumstances. For you, it is much better that I do not know about these things. Do you understand?”

“Come on, let’s go inside. It’s cold as hell out here. Want some hot chocolate?”

Before Otto could answer, the wind picked up and set the old sign swinging on its rusty hinges. Otto winced at the sound.

“No, I am going home to my Mary,” he said. “But first, I will do something I want to do for a long time. This time I know you will not stop me.”

Otto entered the shed, emerged with a can of machine oil, walked to the sign, and squirted a generous amount on each hinge. After placing the can on top of the post, he nudged the sign with his elbow. Hearing nothing, he smiled and walked away.

---

Scott Pedersen is a fiction writer based in Wisconsin. His work has appeared in Louisiana Literature, The MacGuffin, Ponder Review and many other journals and in anthologies from Propertius Press and Scribes Valley Publishing. When not writing fiction, he enjoys performing in a traditional Celtic band.