When we whispered to each other these tales of the Apple Tree Man late at night, we’d laugh. But there were nights when the moon threw perplexing shadows, nights when the wind rustled dry leaves, that we couldn’t help but look nervously over our shoulders, jump at the sound of creaking branches, the scamper of feet across tall dead grass, the thunk of an apple falling to the ground. We kept close together. Our eyes grew sore trying to penetrate the cloak of night.
Another October was nearly gone. We never planned on going to Hench’s farm, but so often at night, we found ourselves there.
This night was no different. The moon projected a silver sheen across the grass and trees, already budding with a light frost. Our breath rose visibly from our mouths.
We crawled through the barbed-wire fence, whispering, stepping among the rotten apples.
Spencer started it. Picked one off the ground and flung it at me.
It hit me in the chest. I retaliated. Scooped a small, hard one from the grass and threw. He ducked and it disappeared in the darkness. Paul and Jack joined in, grabbing ammo from the ground and chucking it at one another. The apples were cold and stung, but we laughed when we were struck. It was a joyous sting.
Suddenly, Paul yelped. “Hey!”
“Gotcha!”
We looked up. It was Hench. We hadn’t heard or seen him sneak across the frosted grass, and now he had one hand clamped on top of Paul’s head, and in the other hand he held his revolver, its muzzle digging into Paul’s temple.
Hench’s hand shook as he cocked back the hammer. The sound it made — that click like a knuckle popping — caused us all to freeze, caused the world to turn into something dream-like and unreal.
Tears ran down Hench’s cheeks. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. He shook his head back and forth, his breath escaping in choppy bursts.
We stood among the trees panting.
His voice was ragged. Torn. “You think this whole world’s yours to do what you want with?”
He pulled Paul closer to him. Squeezed the top of his head, fingers digging into his short red hair, twisting it. “Stop squirming.”
Paul’s eyes strained toward the revolver.
“Answer me!”
Jack said, “Leave him alone!” His words were like pebbles swallowed up by a deep well.
Paul shut his eyes. His face quivered. Snot bubbled out of his nose.
“Answer me or I’ll shoot you, I swear, you goddamn punk.”
Paul held his breath, his facial muscles tight, cheeks bright red, forehead salted with sweat. He stood as still as possible until his breath burst out and he sucked in enough air for all of us.
Jack’s hands clenched and unclenched, but he wouldn’t move from his spot by the fence.
Spencer tried to hide behind a branch the thickness of his finger. I was frozen in place. I felt that if I moved, Hench’s finger might slip on the trigger and Paul’s head would explode like a rotten apple.
Hench’s eyes widened. His lips trembled into a grin. He leaned down until his mouth was on Paul’s ear. “Come on, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”
“N-n-”
“Speak up. This whole world your playground?”
Paul tried getting the word out, that one simple two-letter word, but he couldn’t quite manage, just the N sound followed by a spray of spit that coated his chin.
Hench dug his fingernails into his scalp. “I can’t hear you.”
“N — n — n.”
“N — n — n?” Hench mocked.
“Leave him alone,” Jack said.
Hench rubbed the revolver’s nozzle in a small circle on Paul’s skin. “One last chance. Answer the question. I’m counting to three, then I’m pulling the trigger.”
Paul’s mouth moved again, but this time I heard nothing.
“One — two—”
The gun fired.
My heart stopped. I fell to my knees. God, no—
I heard Hench laughing as the echo of the gun faded. I looked up.
Paul’s head was still there. No gaping hole, no blood. Hench had moved the barrel away from Paul’s skull before pulling the trigger.
The front of Paul’s jeans grew dark.
Hench wrinkled up his nose and dropped Paul to the ground. “You shit yourself! You goddamn shit yourself! You really think I was gonna shoot you? You think I’m gonna go to jail for a little shit like you?”
He backed away, his gun still smoking. “I’m calling the police. I know where you live. Understand me? I know where you live.”
We grabbed hold of Paul and dragged him quickly toward the fence. We lifted him up and over, ignoring the stick of metal barbs piercing our arms and legs. We dragged him over the rough ground to our bikes. He screamed for us to stop. He stood up wincing, holding his ear.
“I shit myself?”
None of us said anything. We got on our bikes and pedaled home in silence.
I cried that night as I laid in bed. It wasn’t so much that Mr. Hench caught one of us and pulled a gun. I never really thought he would shoot Paul. The reason I cried that night was because I knew Paul had believed him. He honestly thought he was about to die, and he had frozen up and fouled himself. It was his humiliation I cried for. He’d remember that night for the rest of his life, a memory that wouldn’t go away, and when he raised own family, with his own kids looking up to him, he’d have trouble looking at them without remembering that night.
At least that’s how I saw it. A lot for a boy of twelve to think, I know.
Spencer and I saw Jack and Paul in school for the next two weeks, but we didn’t hang out after the bell rang, and we stayed away from Hench’s farm.
Until one night. After midnight.
“Get up.” Spencer shook me awake. There was panic in his voice. “Get up!”
“What—”
“Shhh! Come on.”
He threw a pair of jeans at me, a gray sweatshirt and shoes. I followed him quietly past our parents bedroom and out the door. We hopped on our bikes. I followed him to Jack’s house. Jack waited in the driveway with a knapsack slung over his shoulder.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
They took off down the street. It wasn’t until we reached Hench’s farm that I caught up to them.
Spence and I followed Jack into the orchard. I was too out of breath to protest. What was in his knapsack? Spray paint? A gun?
Jack jogged past the apple trees across the grass to Hench’s barn. I kept looking toward the house, kept waiting for the light to pop on, the sound of the screen door swinging open and slamming against the frame of the house, the sound of Hench’s drunken ‘Who’s there?’
But I heard none of that.
Jack stopped at the barn. Took off his pack and opened it. He pulled out a flashlight. Looked over his shoulder before opening the barn door.
We heard the nickering of a horse, the wind blowing through the barn’s rafters, the creaking of old wood.
“What the hell are we doing here?” I asked. “If Hench finds us—”
The look in Jack’s eyes stopped me, froze the words in my mouth so fast, I nearly choked.
“What?” I whispered.
Jack turned and headed to the far stall. The smell of hay was strong. The smell of mold and horse manure, owl droppings, tractor oil. Before opening the stall door, Jack paused, wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeve. He looked at me.
“Davy, you gotta promise not to tell. Not ever.”
I stared at him. “Tell what?”