Born Trouble Read online

were completely unsupported as I hung suspended by the strength of my grip and the embrace of the tree, and I began to despair of reaching my goal. But at last my hand contacted a shelf of sorts above me where the opening widened out, and when hopeful fingers explored over its edge, they were rewarded with the warmth and texture of a fur-clad animal.

  It was also endowed with sharp teeth and entertained its own notion of what to do about strangers up to no good. The creature retreated as I resumed my exploration, and I had to force another inch of elevation to get a grip on its fur and pull it toward me. It came reluctantly, in full protest, squalling and pushing its tiny claws into my flesh. All I had to do was to get it under my shirt where it would feel warm and safe, and then I could turn my mind to getting out of the tree and going home.

  After considerable effort I managed to get the raccoon tucked away, but as I began to back down my progress halted. Something wasn't right. I tried again, but some force held me there with both my arms lifted above my head, the baby raccoon in my hand. A gentle breeze set the trunk to creaking and I could feel a slight twisting of its inner structure. The tree had come to life, as though awakened by the trespasser who dared to explore its heart--or stomach. I had read about Venus flytrap plants and my imagination began to explore new territory, with the darkness, the squirming raccoon, and the twisting tree providing ample ground over which to roam. Panic began to raise its ugly face in the dark and I finally decided I had to do something drastic.

  Fully alarmed, I loosened the grip my shoes had on the tree, quite prepared to endure a nasty fall as an acceptable price for my freedom. It was not to be. Like a cork swollen in the neck of a jug of hard cider, I was stuck fast. I had given no thought to the light jacket I wore over my shirt, but when I tried to back down, it had caught on the woody surface and rolled up under my armpits, making an admirable seal. The tree owned me, and I knew mama coon was not going to be pleased when she returned.

  There was much to think about but precious little to do. Going up seemed the only option, but that was what had gotten me into this fix in the first place. Being ten years old, I considered myself pretty tough, the eldest daughter who had an example to set. Tears were for babies, not for one who could read sign and bring home Two-banger on her own. Ah! The cow and Ben! Perhaps it was the relief I felt at remembering I would be missed, or the dejection at the thought of how they would find me, but in the dark, quiet bowels of the tree, with the baby raccoon looking for its own escape, the tears, then the sobs, then a wailing cry felt strangely comforting and hopeless all at once.

  Things could hardly get any worse, I thought. Well, what did I know? After perhaps another half-hour of waiting and wailing, a ghostly play of light in the opening above me got my attention first, a tear-blurred streak of brightness that could only be one thing--a flashlight. That also meant it was Dad, because we were a poor family and batteries were too expensive to entrust to Ben. My wails subsided long enough to hear Hounder's muffled baying, then a slurred mix of barks, curses and some strange scratching noise below me.

  I called out, "Daddy! Daddy, I'm in here! Help--I have a coon, and I'm stuck," and it all seemed to tumble out at once.

  Dad's answer baffled me. "Hang on, Sweetheart; don't move. We've got a problem."

  'Don't move'? Was he kidding? But then I began to perceive the problem. No less than the odor of rising bread, fresh mown hay, or a barn stall in need of mucking out, the perfume of skunk is a familiar country smell. Hounder seemed almost fond of it and frequently came home reeking of bouquet de skunk. It wafted up to me now and the scratching I heard below my perch began to widen my eyes and give me a fresh interest in religion. Oh Lord, please no...

  In searching for me in the gloom, Hounder had surprised a big striped skunk foraging along the fence. The large pin oak with a hollow base offered the closest refuge, and I now had a fellow prisoner, which, like me, awaited its fate.

  I think Dad might have seriously considered leaving me there till morning, both as a suitable lesson and as a way to pay homage to a bushy flag raised in warning. But facing Mother with that news would have been unthinkable. He had to act.

  "All right, Ab, just hang on a bit," he said. "I'm going to leave Ben here with you and go to the house for some supplies. Try to be quiet and maybe this blamed skunk will leave. Be back in a few minutes."

  He took Hounder with him, hoping the absence of the noisy dog would convince the skunk to come out and go about its business, simplifying things enormously. But I was not prepared to wait patiently, or quietly. In the half hour it took Dad to get back, the woods and the oak rang with my cries and Ben's intoned pleas for silence. The skunk went nowhere.

  When Dad returned and heard my caterwauling, he turned to Ben in frustration.

  "I swear, Ben, what have you been telling her?"

  "Nothing, Dad, honest. She just won't stop bawling."

  "I don't suppose there's any chance that blamed skunk cleared out?"

  "I don't think so, less there's a back way."

  "Lord help me. Ah well, I guess there's nothing else for it. Might as well see if we can scare it out."

  A few rocks chucked into the hole had no effect, so Dad tried a series of solid whacks against the trunk with a stick.

  "Maybe we could start a fire and smoke it out," Ben offered.

  I began to cry again. Hearing Dad mumble something about just cutting the damn tree down didn't help.

  "All right, Ab, all right," Dad said. "I'll get you out. Just button up your mouth and hold your nose."

  "Daddy? What are you going to do? Daddy?"

  "Stand away, Son. Give it room."

  I heard a stick being rattled around on the inside of the tree, with Dad yelling and hollering full voice all the while. Things began to happen. The yelling stopped, and after a brief pause, Dad unleashed a string of creative curses that would widen a sailor's eyes.

  And then, when again I thought things could not worsen, my prison turned into a fumigation chamber, a vile and oily tunnel of torture. I gagged and wretched repeatedly, and thought I was going to choke to death on my own vomit. The skunk, however, apparently slinked away, quite satisfied, I'm sure, at how things had turned out. No one else was very pleased, including the now desperately squirming ball of fur I still clung to. Its tiny claws were raking my arm, but to my credit (I think) I never considered putting it back with its siblings. We were going to escape together, or not at all.

  I heard what sounded like a ladder bang against the tree, and a short time later the flashlight shone in my eyes from above as Dad peered down at me from the upper hole.

  "Oh, great, just great," he said as he looked at the baby raccoon in my hand. "Give me that thing," he said as he reached down and tugged on the little animal.

  "Whaaaaa," said the coon.

  "No, don't hurt it!" I cried. "It's mine," and I dug my fingers into its fur.

  "What it is," Dad corrected, "is born trouble. Just give it to me and I'll hand it to Ben. Ben! Get up this ladder and take this damned..."

  It is some measure of the love Dad had for me, or the fear he had in facing Mother empty handed, that he returned to the ground and crawled into the living hell of that tree. He grasped my kicking feet, trying to pull me down, but in vain. "How could I have raised someone with so little sense?" I heard. Once again I was sure things had hit a low point. But there's always room for deterioration.

  Dad was soon chopping at the upper hole in the tree, balancing on the ladder while the chips rained down on my head. The blows of the ax, the grunts of exertion and acrid abuse of the English language, all served to remind me of a photo I had seen of a bear digging determinedly for a ground squirrel. I began to have second thoughts about being rescued. "I'm scared, Daddy," I whimpered.

  "Don't worry, Ab. I'm"--and more chips rained down--"going to"--I covered the top of my head, fearful of the ax slipping--"get you." His determination was, with hindsight,
admirable. At that time, however, I began to consider the tree as a refuge.

  A few more minutes of chopping to enlarge the upper hole seemed to satisfy him, and I heard the ax thud on the ground. "Just hang tight, Pumpkin," he said, panting as he poked his head into the hole, and then he climbed down. And that's what I did, just hung there, tight as a driven nail. What now? My eyes were useless and I strained to hear what Ben and Dad were up to. I thought about my new pet, and wondered if I should get another one, just in case, and I wondered where the mama was. And what would happen if I couldn't get out of the upper hole? Would they bring me any food? And then I thought about how Mother said I was growing up so fast, getting bigger every day, and I felt the tree move slightly, a kind of swallowing motion, I reckoned. I heard Dad tell Ben to stay there, that he would be back from the creek in a minute. Moments later I heard Ben's voice from the hole above me.

  "Sis? You're going to be all right, hear me?"

  I sniffed and tried to contain my whimper, but his reassurance seemed to bring out the dread in me. I had visions of Dad cutting off the top of the tree and taking my head with it. "Just get me out, will you? Is my raccoon okay?"

  "I've got it in my shirt, Ab. Here comes Dad.

  "What's he going to do? Ben? It's my coon, remember?" A conversation ensued below, and I