the six dark holes along the edge of his lawn. He didn’t turn his head to see the truck in the shadow of the tulip poplar. He tracked neither Rudy’s figure nor mine. He withdrew, closed his front door. A moment later the porch light went off.
I fastened my belt and crawled across the lawn to Rudy, who knelt on the grass, grinning like a fool.
“Did you shit yourself? I almost shit myself,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I shit. Luckily my pants were down. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You can go if you want to. I’m not leaving without planting the trees,” Rudy said.
“Rudy,” I said. “It’s time to go.”
“We’ve got to plant the trees and then we’ve got to water. I am not letting these trees die just because you’re a pussy.” I won’t bother pretending I was surprised, let alone that I considered for one moment leaving him there alone.
I buried the hose end in the roots of the first pear tree. Rudy reached into his jacket for a tall can of Natural Ice. He sprawled on the dark lawn, propping himself up on one elbow, and I sat next to him. With the patience of a high-wire act, we moved the hose from one tree to the next, and we passed the can back and forth. “What did I tell you? If someone was coming for us, they’d be here by now,” Rudy whispered. We listened to an owl call, a squirrel rummage, the low burble of the water, the distant whine of a police car. Which got closer. Which careered around the corner, which pulled up behind Rudy’s truck just as the porch light flashed on again, just as the principal opened his door, no longer in a bathrobe but dressed for all the night to see in a shirt and tie, wrinkle-free slacks to match.
The sheriff’s deputy stepped out of his car, but Rudy’s business wasn’t with the deputy, and it wasn’t Rudy’s way to triangulate. He rose to his feet and faced the principal. “Those are prime trees you got there,” Rudy said. “Should be producing fruit in five years, tops. Three Fellenberg plums. Three Kieffer pears. I know you said you didn’t want apples and I respect that.”
“Mr. Gibbs, I am a reasonable man,” the principal said. “I am not sure what you are doing here, but I will give you the opportunity to remove those trees.”
“Yeah, or what, you’re going to suspend me?” asked Rudy.
“I’ll press charges,” the principal said.
“Charges?” asked Rudy, squeezing the beer can with one hand until it crunched. “Let’s talk about charges. I’m giving you these trees free of charge. You should be thanking me.” He whipped back and threw the can hard against the house. The principal ducked, but the can went wide, missed him by a mile. If it was a duel, I was Rudy’s second, and it could be said that we stood, if not our ground, then on the ground. We stood on the ground, side by side, as the sheriff’s deputy made haste across the lawn. “I warned you, Rudy, I warned you,” he said.
“You warned me,” Rudy said. “That’s true. And I’m warning this fucking yuppie that he better take care of these trees or he’s going to wish he did.” He had time to spit on the ground before the deputy wrestled him down, shoved a knee into his back, and cuffed him.
The deputy glanced up at me, breathing heavily. “Get into the squad car, Miss Conley, if you please.”
“Make a run for it,” Rudy said, his face pressed into the grass.
“Be smart. I know where you live,” said the deputy. I walked toward the car, but Rudy went limp and had to be dragged. His bootheels left long muddy streaks across the sidewalk.
The principal had come down to the edge of his yard to oversee the operations. He watched us sadly, with his hands folded behind him, certainly the same pose he struck while giving Perley laughing lessons. I opened the door to the sheriff’s car, but thought of commentary and conduct, thought of what I’d said or done since the moment the deputy arrived, which was exactly nothing. I turned back to the principal. “Remember that they need plenty of water when they’re young like this,” I told him. “Gallons and gallons. Remember to mulch them before it gets cold, cover them when it freezes. Remember to prune them in the spring.” It wasn’t shooting the