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Property Dispute

Her eyes snapped open at the first earth-rending sounds outside. She flung aside the blankets and scrambled to the window. What she saw momentarily brought her to her knees.

"No!" she shouted through the window glass and raised a trembling fist.

She willed her legs to straighten and propel her toward the closet door. Throwing on a pilled pink fleece bathrobe, she staggered down the hall of the mobile home.

Adrenalin and rage drove her toward the kitchen door and onto the back lawn. The tractor that had wakened her was idling near the copse of trees. Its stack belched blue smoke as it waited patiently. Her landlord dragged a logging chain toward the tallest tree, a maple just beginning to open its buds.

"What are you doing?" she screamed, her hands clawing at her face.

He heard and turned toward her. His rheumy blue eyes contemplated the sagging pink robe and her bare feet before concentrating once more on his task.

"Stop!" The cry was barely distinguishable as a word. He had a second to prepare before she was on him, using her teeth and fingernails like a she-cat protecting her young.

He was not a strong man but he had a weight advantage against her. Before she could tear his pale eyes from their sockets he tossed her to the ground and sat on her, forcing her wrists above her head.

For a few seconds, he squinted at her as if she were a total stranger. When he spoke, his voice was calm and almost meditative. "Now suppose you tell me what your problem is, Missy?"

She snarled at him and craned her neck to look toward the maple. Purple blossoms and pale green leaves adorned its base, crocuses she had planted herself.

"This is my property, Missy. You rent this land," he continued. "If I decide I want to remove a diseased tree from this lot, I'll do it."

He looked at the tree and back at her, then stood, offering her a hand. She shook her head. Crawling on hands and knees, she approached the tiny flowerbed. Tears wet the ground where she stopped.

The old landlord cussed softly and picked up the chain once more. "Them's just flowers. What's so special?"

But he did not hook the chain around the maple. He hobbled toward her when she did not answer. "Missy?"

She glanced up at him, hair clinging to her moist face. "My little girl is sleeping," she whispered. "Please . . . don't wake her." And she once again caressed the earth where her stillborn daughter was embraced in eternal rest.

Learn more about this author, Sandra Petersen.
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