FICTION
The Baobab Tree by Karen Shepherd
R
ebecca keeps a framed picture of a baobab tree opposite the bench in the entryway of her home. Her eight-year-old twins tie their shoes and drop their school backpacks beneath it most days. When sunlight slips through the open front door, the glass over the picture becomes reflective. The girls use it to adjust ponytails or check that the jam from their toast has been wiped from their mouths before heading out the door. After dropping the girls at the bus stop, Rebecca sits on the bench to remove her boots. The earth outside is damp from the overnight rain, but the skies are clear now and a stubborn September is refusing to let autumn’s crisp air take the stage just yet. The smell of wet dirt mixed with the day’s awakening heat evokes the memory of him sitting beside her and the freshly watered tomato plants twenty years ago. Dan was in her volunteer cohort and his
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assignment was in the same village on the Kenyan coast. The female volunteers swooned over his green eyes and broad chest. Rebecca saw him more as a distraction, as well as someone who felt entitled to win over whomever and whatever he wanted with his charm. She wondered if ignoring him was in fact what led him to seek her out with greater effort. She was sweeping out her one-room African home when he stopped by one morning. Laundry already hanging, she planned to grade compositions written by students at the secondary school where she taught. Having a schedule, even on a Saturday, was what helped her stay grounded and gave her something to focus on other than the heat, the cockroaches and the strange mix of boredom and stress that came from living in a different country. “Well, look at you, Becca. Not even nine o’clock and you’re getting on with your day.” His voice was sultry like the air as he approached from the dirt path. “Let’s go to the
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