By Scott Michael Powers

One stormy spring day, Arlene Wollemacher dug a hole in the backyard. She took off all her clothes, climbed in, pushed loose dirt to cover her feet and ankles, stood straight, and stretched her arms toward the clouds.

When her husband finally came home, he found her like that in the dark.

“Oh, Joel, I’m so sick and tired of caring, of nothing ever getting better. I’ve decided to become a white oak tree. Then I can bring happiness to birds and squirrels just by being here. I won’t have to try to please anyone. Or change anybody. Or change me. And I won’t have to give a shit anymore about you or your constant demands that we live up to your ideals, your constant judgment. I’m almost out of tears, Joel. So.”

“Christ, honey,” Joel said. “It’s about to pour. Come inside.”

“No,” she said. “I need rain. I’m freshly transplanted.”

Just then, a strong breeze dropped from a dense, dark cloud rolling their way. Wind flicked and flapped Arlene’s long, naturally blonde hair like a flag, but she stood strong.

Joel didn’t. The gust about knocked him off his feet. That’s when she figured he was drunk already.

Clearly, Joel was embarrassed by the wobble, pissed even. “Get your skinny ass in the damn house, Arlene,” he commanded.

When she did not respond, he yanked her arm, but she had already stiffened some, and her feet had taken root. The strength of her steadfastness surprised Joel, far surpassing his expectations. His grip slipped. He stumbled and fell just as rain unleashed.

“‘Your body, my choice!’ you like to say? Well, not anymore,” Arlene said. “I made this choice.”

Joel sat in the grass. Heavy rain pelted them both as they realized this, indeed, was it, or might as well be. Not like they didn’t see this coming. Not like this, but still. Joel shuddered and sucked air, his version of crying. Arlene shed her last tear.

Joel went inside to drink alone.

He drank even more in coming days, weeks, and months. He never went out back again. He neglected the yard, the house, and himself. He got fired. In due time, the bank foreclosed on the house and kicked Joel out.

Meanwhile, Arlene barked over, budded branches, leaves, flowers, and acorns, and grew.

The bank sold the house to a foreign investment fund, which hired a local management company to run it as a rental. Tenants came and went every year or two.

Because she wasn’t any good at counting anymore, Arlene wasn’t sure how many years had passed—twenty maybe?—before that midwinter night when the house caught fire and burned down. Unscathed herself, and a good thirty feet tall, she towered over terrible devastation and smoldering rubble, iced by firemen’s hoses.

In the spring, a crew with heavy equipment cleared everything except Arlene. After that, a landscape contractor came regularly to cut grass, pull weeds, and prune Arlene’s branches. Cub Scouts planted flowers. Who knew how many more years went by? Arlene didn’t.

At last, Joel returned. She sensed him when the pickup parked at the curb. She knew him when he came toward her, even though he was an old man now, and fat. His once-beautiful and meticulous auburn hair was gray, thin, and patchy. His once milky-smooth face was coarse and drooping. He carried a shovel.

He stopped twenty feet out and took her in, craning his neck. Arlene was more than fifty feet tall.

“You’re looking good, Arlene,” Joel said.

In spite of everything, Arlene still was vain enough—and rightfully proud of her looks—to relish his compliment. The best revenge, right?

She wished she could reply, “You should see me in October; I’m glorious!”

Joel addressed her trunk. “What am I doing here? Huh? You know, I never remarried? Well, I couldn’t. I told everyone you were still alive somewhere. Did you know your sister Evelyn tried to have me charged with murder? You probably saw cops come around. You probably guessed. Yeah. Nothing ever got by you, does it? I never remarried, but I did… well, I’ve got two daughters and three grandkids. No. Four. Four grandkids. Ha! They all hate me. I haven’t seen any of them in years. Shit.

“I quit drinking, though. OK, a bunch of times. Yeah. But this time for good, because I’ve got plans, finally.” Joel stabbed the shovel into the ground and turned over some sod. He dug up some more.

“You were right,” Joel said. “You were right about everything. I knew that first night, when I sat right there in the rain and cried. Remember?” He dug some more. “I don’t know why it’s taken so long. Anyway, I’ve come back to you, if you’ll have me. Ha! Even if you won’t. I can’t let you get rid of me so easy.” He dug until he had a pretty good little pit, almost knee deep.

“Yes, Arlene, you were right. Just be!” he yelled, a touch of sarcasm or resentment, or both, in his voice. “So I’m joining you. I’m going to become a tree too. Can’t say if this is love or punishment, honey. Karma? But we can be together, and share squirrels and songbirds, and just stare at each other, for the next hundred years. How does that sound to you?”

The idea mortified Arlene, but she couldn’t say so.

Joel took off his clothes, swinging and flinging each shoe and article like a strip show. Repulsively naked, he stepped into the hole and pulled dirt to fill around his legs.

A woman across the street watched and called 911.

After Joel explained to the police what he was doing and why, they took him to a hospital.

Arlene wished she could laugh out loud. Otherwise, she felt no remorse. She’d made her choice.