The Stump

The white tent covered— was it two hundred faces? Why are there so many, Jon thought, I need to get out of here. But then he remembered, I need to fix my son. Incandescent lighting hung all around, painting the air amber, and the surrogate father on stage finished reading a short story by Shel Silverstein: The Giving Tree. The surrogate father likened the giving tree to a parent, who gives himself away unconditionally, and the aging little boy was likened to a child who has no eyes to see this love. But Jon’s world has been spinning on a different axis; reversed, upside down. It’s been three decades since it happened.

“Up front, there is paper with envelopes…You may all come down orderly, get however many you need, and write a letter to your parents; we will be in charge of sending them out to where they live,” the surrogate father ended and disappeared from Jon’s sight.

A curse that smelled like blood entered the tent and Jon could not move. His son of fourteen years, Luke, who reluctantly came with him to this stupid Jesus camp, looked at his father and still hated him. Luke could not move. The two watched the others walk to the front, one by one. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, husbands, wives, all reaching for those blank pages, their sniffles getting louder and louder, composed from the simple Silverstein story colliding with their own mangled memories. Some guy patiently played the piano in the background. Jon wondered how many tears had watered this mountainous campground.

The blood curse lingered, but something more powerful resided within the walls of this tent and Jon, in full weakness, stood up and reached for a blank page. Luke pretended not to watch his aging father limp to grab the stupid paper and envelope. When his father turned to walk back, they caught each others’ same-colored eyes for a quick second. Luke clenched his fists and wondered when the hell he was getting out of there. Jon bent his tired back onto the chair once again. One letter. One envelope. One pen. I swear, if he writes me a stupid letter, I’ll rip it to pieces in front of his face, Luke devised. He pretended not to watch his father’s shaky hands hovering over the blank page. Dear dad, the father penned. Now Luke was curious. He kept pretending. Dear dad, I chucked that book in the ocean the day you stopped taking me to school. I thought I got rid of it for good, but it came back tonight, in this freaking tent. I remember that last night, I stayed up behind mom’s back, waited for you to come home so you could read me that damned story. I hate you. Luke’s heart tightened and kept pretending not to watch the truth unfolding: because no one can tell it like you papa. I hate you because you were always enough, and I promised myself I would never be like that boy. I would’ve made sure you never became a stump. I hate you because I would’ve loved you, and if you would’ve told me what you were planning that night, I would’ve done everything to stop you. I still remember the red ground, your face covered in it. I would’ve sat under your shade until the morning came. I needed you. Ten years is all you gave me. I miss you, I miss you so much. I don’t understand. I’m supposed to send this to you, but time travel doesn’t exist. And I guess I—

Jon couldn’t write anymore. He began to shake and so did the curse. Luke laid his hand on his aging father’s trembling shoulder. They could only stare at the green ground, for their same-colored eyes were glossy with mangled memories. “I didn’t know,” Luke said. “I didn’t know.”

35 Short Story