Walnut Tree

By Julie Mannell

Content warning: Disturbing content

It wasn’t very late in the evening when Melissa, a round-faced woman of 32, accidentally turned onto the wrong street and, glancing toward her GPS, crashed her grey Toyota Sienna into a tree.

The crash was minor but Melissa’s throat was dry. Jason, her husband, a high-strung accountant, would never forgive her if there was damage. He was loyal to the household budget and perceived any violation, however incidental, as a personal attack.

Melissa’s hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight that her fingers left sweat marks when she moved to shut off the engine. She noted that her van was still making its regular van-sounds. Lady Antebellum was still playing as she unplugged her iPhone jack.

Since the pregnancy there’d been a lot of changes, added expenses. Jason was living comfortably with his parents before the engagement. Their house was a wedding present. For Jason, life progressed with a specific pace and predictability. Change had become synonymous with Melissa.

Outside, her tears felt cold against her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she was crying and dried her face with the back of her wrist.

The street wasn’t an actual street but a laneway that ran along the backs of houses and was lined by stout rectangular garages. Some of the garage doors were modern, some were antique, and some were covered in spray-painted graffiti.

Her car didn’t appear damaged. It wasn’t a big tree. Only a small walnut. However, the thin trunk had cracked two-thirds of the way through, causing it to tip onto one of the garage roofs where a basketball-sized crater was dented into the concrete. She couldn’t know for sure that she’d caused it but felt guilty anyways.

The garage door was open and the light was on. Its amber glow reminded her of the light of a candle through the eye of a jack-o-lantern.

In a frayed lawn chair sat a man in a red plaid shirt who appeared to be sanding a long block of teak wood. He was older than her, in his sixties, but handsome. He reminded her of Billy Bob Thornton.

She was immediately self-conscious: while hurrying from her house she’d slicked her greasy brown hair into a low ponytail and thrown on an old pair of yoga pants that made her belly fat mushroom. She wasn’t wearing makeup.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to the man, catching a glimpse of her sweaty red reflection in the van window. “I’ll pay for the damages.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he answered while keeping his attention on the wood in his hands.

“No, no. I promise. We should exchange information. It won’t be an issue.” She thought of Jason. It would be an issue.

“It’s fine.” He looked up. His smile was friendly. His eyes were an icy shade of pale blue.

“Are you sure? I can go to an ATM and take out cash. It wouldn’t be a big deal.” It would be a big deal.

“Don’t bother. Not worth the fuss.” He was serene, collected, the opposite of her.

“Are you sure?” she repeated.

His eyes softened. “Of course. Nothing to get worked up over.”

“Oh my God, sir, you’re too kind.”

“Naw. Don’t mention it.”

“Really. I don’t mind paying you something. It isn’t fair.”

“No no, Sweetheart. It’s insignificant to me. I promise.”

His calm demeanor was soothing. She wanted to hug him. “Thank you. I really mean it. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

His expression wasn’t inquisitive exactly but Melissa was anxious and lonely and his effortless friendliness, the warmth and invitation in his body language, filled her with a strong yearning for his approval.

“It’s just I got a seven-month-old at home and things with my husband have been...let’s just say tense...the last few months with no sleep and the stress and I just meant to pop out to visit a friend but they recently moved and I didn’t know the street and I’ve been so distracted and in my own head...”

“It happens to the best of us.”

“But truly you’ve saved me. You’ve actually saved my life. You’re such a good man. I mean, really, I didn’t think there were any good people left in this world...”

“Stop. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal though. It’s a big deal to me.” She placed her hand on her heart which beat rapidly into her palm.

“Glad I could put you at ease.”

“And, really, it matters to society.”

“There’s many better—in society. I assure you.”

“Everyone’s so cold here. People just rush around and never help anyone, never stop to consider the situation. Oh my God, my husband’s like that. He’d kill me if he knew any of this happened. It’s like we, as a society, have forgotten gratitude and empathy and, really, just basic compassion...”

“Please, Miss...”

“...you’ve restored my faith in people. You just, I know this is word vomit, but you’ve, you should really know, you’ve really really really helped me today. In a way that I didn’t think people helped others anymore. You’re a good person and it matters. It matters you know that. It’s important.”

“Stop.”

“You’re one of the good ones.”

“I’m a serial rapist.”

Somewhere a bird sounded like a bird. An air ventilator ventilated. Only then did she notice the knives on the table to his left, the rope hanging on the wall to his right, the roll of silver duct tape at his feet.

“Do you want to rape me?”

“Not particularly.”

She motioned to an identical lawn chair across from him. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”
​
Melissa settled into the chair. She didn’t feel well. The ground seemed to her a generous swell of comforting neutrality: opinion-less and perfect. The amber light flickered. All around the night was cool and dark.

---

​Julie Mannell is an author of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, recently named a Rising Star (2023) by the Writers' Trust of Canada and one of the Niagara Region's Top 40 Under 40. She has been shortlisted for the CBC Poetry Prize, and awarded the Mona Adilman Poetry Prize and Lionel Shapiro Award for Excellency in Creative Writing. Mannell taught creative writing at George Brown College, and was an acquisitions editor at Dundurn Press, where she spearheaded their literary imprint Rare Machines. She holds an MFA from the University of Guelph where she received the HarperCollins Scholarship and the Constance Rooke Scholarship. In the past, she was named as one of Canada’s Top 30 Poets Under 30. Additionally, she was the 2020 Visiting Writer at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. She is currently a PhD student in Creative Writing at the University of New Brunswick.