Exceptional A psychological trip. Tree Tag by humpwhistle Artwork by MoonWillow at FanArtReview.com

Dr. Chapman cleared his throat—his usual signal that the pleasantries were over, and the session was about to begin.  Jack wondered if the doctor was aware of his ‘tell’.  He also wondered if every patient routinely shrank his shrink. “Jack, as we discussed, I asked Dr. Ballard to sit in on this session.  She’s done a lot of work in the area of suppressed memories and might be able to help us shed some light on your apple orchard incident—specifically, offering insight on why this particular memory has been in hiding all these years, only to come roaring back at this particular time.” Jack offered a nod to his guest skull-cracker.  He decided she looked enough like a psychiatrist. Severe hair, dark pant suit, minimal make-up.  Probably a pole up her chute, too.  He conceded she might have been attractive if she wanted to be, but if asked to describe her in one word, Jack would have chosen cold—as in frigid.  “As I told Dr. Irving, ma’am, I’m certain it is a bona fide memory.  I just want to know how I could have forgotten such a thing.  And why nobody ever reminded me.” She knitted her hands over one crossed knee.  “You may have a point about the memory, Mr. Presi--” “Jack, if you don’t mind.  People rooting around in my cranium ought to get to call me by my first name.” She glanced at Dr. Irving, who shrugged.  “Jack.”  She said it as though it tasted bad.  “But on the chance the event never really occurred, can you explain where the memory might have come from?” Jack didn’t think that question was worthy of a PhD from Yale.  “I’m sure you’re aware I’m now a published novelist, Dr. Ballard—how the mighty have fallen, right?  Anyway, I’m told we scribblers tend to live off our imaginations.” She re-knitted her fingers.  Another tell?  “Is that what this is?   Are you suggesting you might have made up the orchard story?” “Not consciously, I’ll tell you that much.  Ever since I brought it up, my mental condition seems to be under some serious question.” “Perhaps your subconscious concocted the story.” “Isn’t that your bailiwick, doctor?  I mean, if I were conscious of my subconscious, that would pretty much cross my wires, wouldn’t it?” She did the finger thing again.  Definitely a tell.  Now all Jack had to do was figure out what it told.    “Would it?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. He raised one of his own.  “I’ll try to answer yours, if you’ll try to answer mine.  Who’s on first?” “What?” He threw up his hands in triumph.  “Second base!” Doctor Irving cleared his throat.  “Jack, why don’t you tell us both about the orchard incident.” He’d told it so many times in recent weeks, he wasn’t sure if he could remember it happening any more, or just knew it by heart.   It wasn’t much of an orchard really.  About forty anciently gnarled, spooky apple trees rowed over two or three acres situated smack dab in the middle of a rolling field of nothing—nothing but worthless scrub, grasshoppers, and snake spit. There was no sign there used to be farm anywhere in the vicinity, or a road, or even a dirt track leading to the place. In fact it was an orchard totally out of place, and a place seemingly out of time. It was a hot, muggy day.  Probably somewhere around mid-August because every summer at about that time me and the guys would get so bored with our vacation routine,  we'd fill canteens, stuff PB&J sandwiches into our back pockets, and hike the two tall-grass, bug-infested miles out past the Murphy farm to visit the eerie old orchard.  Ostensibly, the idea was to play tree tag among the knotty, arthritic, easy-to-climb skeletons, but in the end, the game always turned to speculation—about the mysterious origins of such a place.  We were still within earshot of old lady Murphy’s laundry ripple-flapping in the hot breeze when the game began.  “I still say it could have been Johnny Appleseed planted ‘em.” At barely eleven years old, Ricky Satriano was the youngest among us, and not yet as jaded as his five twelve-year-old companions. “You say that every friggin’ year, Ricky,” this from his older brother, Danny.  “When’re you gonna stop believing in the Tooth Fairy?” “Didn’t say nothin’ about the tooth fairy.”  Wisely, Ricky veered just out of range of Danny's swatting hand. “Same thing,” said Danny, clearly regretting he hadn’t swatted first and chided second. Ricky kept veering right, hiding behind Beansy Stoltz’s bulk.  “His real name was John Chapman, and he planted apple seeds all over…” Beansy sighed, grunted, and shouldered Ricky onto his backside in the tall grass.   She riffled through her note pad.  “Yes, Beansy Stoltz.  Didn’t you tell Dr. Irving he was the boy who had lost his mother to a sudden illness that summer?”  Jack figured the female doc was right on cue.  The first mention of Beansy, and she had to try to draw blood.  Had to look for holes in his story. “Well, he didn’t exactly lose her.  She ran off with a milkman. But even we kids knew the illness bit was a dodge.  Adults think they can lie to kids.  But that’s just the arrogance of size.  Kids learn to lie before they learn to talk.  It’s their only defense in the war against their parents, the original super powers.” “Did you lie as a child, Mr. Presi--” “Now cut it out, doctor.  That was a long time ago, and guys who write eerie beach books for a living are required to sign away all rights to the courtesies of past office, get it?  So I’m just Jack, okay?” She did the thing with her fingers again.  “Did your parents lie to you, Jack?” “Does Santa Claus count?” “You consider Santa Claus a lie?” “Well, if you don’t, lady, maybe we should switch places.” Doctor Irving stepped in again.  “Perhaps you should go on with your story, Jack.” It didn’t escape Jack’s attention that Irving called it his story.   Well, Ricky bounced back up like a yo-yo, frantically rubbing his bare arms.  “Geez, Beansy, you got snake spit all over me!” Of course the rest of us are howling over his humiliation.   “So you thought humiliation was funny?” Jack let his annoyance show.  “Listen, doc, the only thing a twelve-year-old boy likes better than looking up little Betsy Sue’s dress is seeing one of his friends step in dog do, or in this case, fall into tall grass covered in snake spit.  Sure it was funny.” “And the other boys felt the same way?”   “Why do you think comics get hit in the face with pies all the time?” “But that’s not real.” “Geez, doc, I figured you would have parsed this out for yourself: the pie is dog do and snake spit.  And it’s always funny.”    Anyway, Ricky was still whining.  “What’d you do that for, Beansy?” Beansy kept on walking.  “For talkin’ like a teacher in the middle of vacation.  Do it some more, pipsqueak, and I’ll knock you down again.” Danny stopped laughing.  “Hey, lay off my brother, lard ass.  You okay, Ricky?” Me and the Delaney brothers, Billy and Rad, stopped laughing too.  I said, “Beansy doesn’t like comin’ out here.  He thinks the orchard is haunted.” “What’s the matter, Beansy,” Danny called.  “Afraid the men in the black pajamas are gonna get you?”   “Who are the men in the black pajamas?” “How should I know?  Danny said it, not me.” Jack noticed the doctors exchange a glance. He decided to continue his story.   Well, Beansy kept walking while flippin’ a long-fingered bird over his shoulder. “Come on, guys,” I said.  “We’re almost there.  Let’s have some fun.”   She uncrossed her legs, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and rested her chin on the backs of her re-knitted fingers.  Trying to demonstrate her interest, Jack figured.  He decided her body language was pure amateur hour. “So did you have fun?” “Oh, yeah, we had a ball.  Until Beansy fell out of a tree and broke his fool neck.”   When the rest of us got to the orchard, Beansy was waiting.  It felt like all the earlier animosity had faded away.  So, we gathered around one gnarled old tree, ate our sandwiches, drank from our canteens, and ragged on each other like it was any other summer day.  All except for Beansy, I think.  I recall him being, I don’t know, aloof, preoccupied, maybe.   “Tell us about him.”  “Ah, so you’re another one who doesn’t think he really exists, right?  Lady, I grew up with him.  If he doesn’t exist, I guess I don’t, either.” “Describe him.” “Beansy?  Well, his real name was Benny Stoltz, but he got his nickname because of his … talent for flatulence.  But otherwise, he was just another kid, you know?  One of us.  We all lived on the same dead-end street, we went to the same school, our parents all mingled, too.  Living on Camden Street was like having a crazy extended family.  Any one of the mothers would smack any of us if she thought it was called for.  And the fathers, well, the fathers ignored us all equally.” “Even your brother?” “What?  Barry?  He was older than the rest of us.  Eight years older than me.” “Was Barry there  that summer?” “Barry?  No.  He must have been away … at camp, I think.” “Tell us more about the orchard.”    After we ate, we made Ricky ‘it’ for tree tag on accounta he was the youngest, and the rest of us scattered into the orchard so we wouldn’t get killed.     “You just said, ‘on accounta’.” “Yeah, so?” “You sounded like a little boy.” “See?  I’m reliving my memory.  That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” “Also, you said you ‘scattered into the orchard so you wouldn’t get killed’.” “Killed?  No, I said tagged.  I’m sure I said tagged.  Except Beansy, of course.  He fell out of a tree and got killed, but nobody knew that was going to happen.” “You’re aware, Mr. President, that the Secret Service nor any other agency has been able to come up with any documentation confirming that Benny Stoltz ever existed, correct?  No birth certificate, no school records.  We can’t even find evidence of a Stoltz family ever living on your street, or anywhere in the neighborhood.” Jack rubbed his hands together.  “Yes, I’ve been so informed.  And I can’t explain that.  But you have found records of Danny and Ricky Satriano, and the two Delaneys, right?  Ask them about Beansy.” “Yes, sir, we’ve found their records.   You were telling us about tree tag.”   It’s just like regular tag, see?  Only you can climb trees so you’ll be safe from the guys comin’ after you, you know?  Beansy couldn’t run very fast, but he could climb like Mrs. Murphy’s cat.  But he didn’t really want to come to the orchard at all.  They didn't give him a choice.   The doctors exchanged glances again. “Jack, your brother ever go to the orchard with you?” “Barry?  No.  He was older.  He was at camp.” “You had a nickname for Barry, didn’t you?” “A nickname?  No, I don’t think so.” “Didn’t you use to call him Beansy?” “No, no, no.  Beansy was my friend.” “Barry wasn’t at camp that summer, was he, Jack?  He got drafted that year, didn’t he?  Barry was in Vietnam that summer, isn’t that what you mean by ‘camp’?” “No.  No.  Not that summer.  That was later.” “I have his documentation right here, Jack.  Your brother Barry was stationed in Hue that summer.  He was a sniper, but he got shot out of a tree.” Jack buried his head in his hands.  “Oh, Beansy.  What were you doing in a tree?” ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^    “I have to concur with your hypothesis, Dr. Irving.  He’s been carrying a lot of guilt around for a long time.  This 'repressed memory' is a remarkable manifestation of deep-seated, long-standing personal regret.” “We’re alone now, Janet.  No need for formalities.”  Irving absently straightened perfectly straight files on his desk.  “First his beloved brother is killed in ‘Nam when he’s still a boy.  Then, while he’s enjoying a college deferment, both the Satriano boys, and the Delaneys get drafted, shipped East, and turned into hamburger like the whole Vietnamese army had it in for anyone from Camden Street.” “It’s so unfair.  A little insular neighborhood like that ends up bleeding to beat the band.”  “Unfair is just what young Jack must have thought—but from a much darker place. It’s like his whole tribe gets wiped out while he’s playing commando on panty raids.  Pretty remarkable he didn’t crack then and there.” “Instead, he goes on to become President of The United States.” “Where it becomes his responsibility to send more Satrianos and Delaneys into other twisted, gnarled and deadly apple orchards.” “You think that orchard really existed, Ted?” “You know, I do.  I think our boy Jack always saw something sinister in those old maimed trees, but wouldn’t admit it to the other boys.  It became a symbol for all the places he never wanted to go.” She closed her briefcase.  “Like Vietnam.  What’s next for him?” “A lot more talk, and a lot more pain, I’m afraid.” “You know, he wasn’t a bad President.” “I’ll tell him you said that.”                       Recognized Author Notes 'Who's on First' is an old Abbott and Costello comedy routine. No ex-Presidents are depicted. The human mind is capable unfathomable deceptions.

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