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Eddie
Willers
shifted
his
glance
down
to
the
street
,
to
a
vegetable
pushcart
at
the
stoop
of
a
brownstone
house
.
He
saw
a
pile
of
bright
gold
carrots
and
the
fresh
green
of
onions
.
He
saw
a
clean
white
curtain
blowing
at
an
open
window
.
He
saw
a
bus
turning
a
corner
,
expertly
steered
.
He
wondered
why
he
felt
reassured
—
and
then
,
why
he
felt
the
sudden
,
inexplicable
wish
that
these
things
were
not
left
in
the
open
,
unprotected
against
the
empty
space
above
.
When
he
came
to
Fifth
Avenue
,
he
kept
his
eyes
on
the
windows
of
the
stores
he
passed
.
There
was
nothing
he
needed
or
wished
to
buy
;
but
he
liked
to
see
the
display
of
goods
,
any
goods
,
objects
made
by
men
,
to
be
used
by
men
.
He
enjoyed
the
sight
of
a
prosperous
street
;
not
more
than
every
fourth
one
of
the
stores
was
out
of
business
,
its
windows
dark
and
empty
.
He
did
not
know
why
he
suddenly
thought
of
the
oak
tree
.
Nothing
had
recalled
it
.
But
he
thought
of
it
and
of
his
childhood
summers
on
the
Taggart
estate
.
He
had
spent
most
of
his
childhood
with
the
Taggart
children
,
and
now
he
worked
for
them
,
as
his
father
and
grandfather
had
worked
for
their
father
and
grandfather
.
The
great
oak
tree
had
stood
on
a
hill
over
the
Hudson
,
in
a
lonely
spot
of
the
Taggart
estate
.
Eddie
Willers
,
aged
seven
,
liked
to
come
and
look
at
that
tree
.
It
had
stood
there
for
hundreds
of
years
,
and
he
thought
it
would
always
stand
there
.
Its
roots
clutched
the
hill
like
a
fist
with
fingers
sunk
into
the
soil
,
and
he
thought
that
if
a
giant
were
to
seize
it
by
the
top
,
he
would
not
be
able
to
uproot
it
,
but
would
swing
the
hill
and
the
whole
of
the
earth
with
it
,
like
a
ball
at
the
end
of
a
string
.
He
felt
safe
in
the
oak
tree
’
s
presence
;
it
was
a
thing
that
nothing
could
change
or
threaten
;
it
was
his
greatest
symbol
of
strength
.
One
night
,
lightning
struck
the
oak
tree
.
Eddie
saw
it
the
next
morning
.
It
lay
broken
in
half
,
and
he
looked
into
its
trunk
as
into
the
mouth
of
a
black
tunnel
.
The
trunk
was
only
an
empty
shell
;
its
heart
had
rotted
away
long
ago
;
there
was
nothing
inside
—
just
a
thin
gray
dust
that
was
being
dispersed
by
the
whim
of
the
faintest
wind
.
The
living
power
had
gone
,
and
the
shape
it
left
had
not
been
able
to
stand
without
it
.
Years
later
,
he
heard
it
said
that
children
should
be
protected
from
shock
,
from
their
first
knowledge
of
death
,
pain
or
fear
.
But
these
had
never
scarred
him
;
his
shock
came
when
he
stood
very
quietly
,
looking
into
the
black
hole
of
the
trunk
.
It
was
an
immense
betrayal
—
the
more
terrible
because
he
could
not
grasp
what
it
was
that
had
been
betrayed
.
It
was
not
himself
,
he
knew
,
nor
his
trust
;
it
was
something
else
.
He
stood
there
for
a
while
,
making
no
sound
,
then
he
walked
back
to
the
house
.
He
never
spoke
about
it
to
anyone
,
then
or
since
.
Eddie
Willers
shook
his
head
,
as
the
screech
of
a
rusty
mechanism
changing
a
traffic
light
stopped
him
on
the
edge
of
a
curb
.
He
felt
anger
at
himself
.
There
was
no
reason
that
he
had
to
remember
the
oak
tree
tonight
.
It
meant
nothing
to
him
any
longer
,
only
a
faint
tinge
of
sadness
—
and
somewhere
within
him
,
a
drop
of
pain
moving
briefly
and
vanishing
,
like
a
raindrop
on
the
glass
of
a
window
,
its
course
in
the
shape
of
a
question
mark
.
He
wanted
no
sadness
attached
to
his
childhood
;
he
loved
its
memories
:
any
day
of
it
he
remembered
now
seemed
flooded
by
a
still
,
brilliant
sunlight
.
