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Jilly the Spy

A young girl keeps her promise to her older brothers, but the price is higher than she realizes.

By Kate SutherlandPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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Jilly, age 7 (photo by Pam Simon from Pixabay)

I pull the saw back and forth, back and forth, and watch a spray of tan-coloured dust fall around the base of the tree trunk. It’s not very thick—maybe six inches in diameter—but it takes a good deal of my strength to coax the blade through the dense wood.

Beads of sweat collect on my brow, and I feel a trickle of moisture moving down my spine. Dang, I chose a hot day for this. After thirty-odd years, could I not have waited one or two more days to seek out my closure?

My arms burn with my efforts, so I sit back on my heels and wipe the back of my hand across my forehead. The gesture leaves a glistening sheen of moisture on my skin.

I let the orange-handled tool remain where it is for the moment, about halfway through the trunk, and stand up to stretch my back. Arching gently backwards with a grimace, my face is tilted so that I'm looking up at the tree, into its thick branches. The shape of it is so familiar I could probably climb it in my sleep—although I’m sure now, as an adult, I'd find it awkward to do so. When I was a girl, I clambered up like a monkey, with effortless agility.

My two oldest brothers used to meet under this pear tree, which is located in the orchard out behind the farmhouse where we all grew up. One pear tree amidst a vast field of apples, it still stands straight and proud, and bears rock-hard fruit every summer, which isn’t good for anything really, except maybe making jelly.

The tree stands alone, surrounded by its relatives, trying to fit in, and not quite succeeding. I think that's why I was initially drawn to it; there were nine children in my family: my four older brothers, my four younger ones, and me, Jilly, the lone girl right in the middle. The lonely girl, longing to be seen.

I was seven years old when I discovered the pear tree, while on a solo wander one morning. The fact that it was different than the other trees appealed to me, and I embraced it as a kindred spirit, and climbed easily into its branches. It felt good to be there, and I decided it was my special place, where I could come and nobody would ever be able to find me. I wondered with melodrama if anybody would even notice I was gone.

One overcast afternoon I was in my tree, my bottom nestled into a V-shape in the branches, my back against the main trunk. There was another sturdy limb just in front of me, which allowed me to curl up my knees and rest my feet against it. The snug position was quite comfortable, and with my legs tucked up like that I was well hidden—a crouching animal made nearly invisible by the abundance of foliage, and the blindness of human eyes that look around, but so often don’t see what they’re not expecting.

I heard the rustling sound of footsteps through long grass, and approaching voices. I turned my head to see my brothers Tommy (age thirteen) and Kevin (twelve). They were heading towards me, and I was about to call out to them, but something about their hurried pace and furtive over-the-shoulder glances made me curious, so I stayed quiet. They came directly to the pear tree, their heads just a few feet below my huddled form.

I held my breath and kept still, a tingle of excitement in my belly. They didn’t look up. I smiled to myself with sneaky glee.

After one last glance around, Tommy pulled something from his pocket, and handed a small white cylinder to Kevin, who put it between his lips. A cigarette, most likely one of my mother’s.

“Did you bring a lighter?” Kevin asked.

“Matches.”

I watched them struggle for a minute or two to get it lit, and soon they were passing the smoke back and forth, taking turns pulling drags. They coughed with the unfamiliar sensation of breathing in smoke, but persevered nonetheless, until the bright coal reached its end, and Tommy ground it out in the dirt.

“Let’s do another,” Kevin, said, and he lit a second cigarette, this time getting it on the first try.

My mother’s voice called out from the farmhouse, “Tommy! Kevin! Get over here! These chickens aren’t going to feed themselves.”

I watched the boys jump, and fumble, put out the cigarette hastily, and then shove it into a small tin along with the remaining matches.

“Quick! Bury it!”

Digging with his hands, Kevin made a shallow hole by the trunk of the tree, placed in the tin and covered it up again with soil. Then Tommy laid a stick across the top, marking the location.

Kevin reached up into the pear tree, and my heart leapt into my throat. I could have sworn he was looking right at me, but he was too hurried to notice; he only picked two small pears and handed one to Tommy.

“Let’s take a few bites to clear our breath.”

“Good idea.”

Then they ran off in the direction of the barn.

I waited until they were out of sight before I hopped down from my hiding perch. I stared at the freshly-turned soil at my feet, dark brown and moist compared to the surrounding ground. I thought about digging up the forbidden items, to hold them in my hands and be a part of the secret, even light up the cigarette myself. But I was afraid my brothers might notice the missing match, or that the cigarette got shorter, so I left the tin buried. Besides, I thought, I was a part of the secret. An even better part, because nobody knew it.

I smiled with satisfaction as I made my way back to the house. I felt grown-up, like Nancy Drew or Harriet the Spy, pleased by my stealthy stakeout, and thought to myself that maybe one day, I would become a detective.

Over the course of the summer and into the autumn—before the leaves started to fall—I would visit my pear tree often, in the hopes I might spy on my brothers again.

They came three more times. Once to smoke the rest of that cigarette, and to replenish their stash with three more, and once to talk about the two sisters who lived down the road from us at the next farm. They talked and laughed about Chelsea’s “big melons,” which at the time I found confusing. What was so funny and special about melons? Our own garden was full of good-sized cantaloupes and honeydews, so I didn’t see why Chelsea’s were such a big deal.

The third time they came turned out to be the last; I got busted in my hiding spot. But not before overhearing their conversation:

“So, tonight, you’ll get the bottle of Pop’s whiskey—"

“I already got it. Well, I poured it into a different bottle. It’s hiding in the straw pile.”

“Okay. So when everyone falls asleep, I’ll get the keys for the truck. I told Chelsea and Annabel to meet us at the corner at midnight.”

“Then we’ll take them to the waterfall. Do you think they’ll want to go skinny-dipping?”

Tommy guffawed and gave Kevin a little shove.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

They turned to leave, and that’s when my foot slipped and I lost my balance. I caught myself from falling, but the noise was more than enough to attract my brothers’ attention.

“Damn you, Jilly!” Tommy pulled me by the foot out of the tree. I landed with a thump on my behind.

“Ow! Tommy, you jerk!”

“Who’s the jerk?” he retorted, “You were spying on us!”

“Was not!” I tried, “I was just minding my own business when you too jerks came along.”

“Did you hear what we said?”

I opened my mouth to say no, then closed it again and crossed my arms.

“So what if I did? I’m going to tell Ma.”

“Don’t you dare!” Kevin lunged at me, and I managed to dodge out of the way. He made to come at me again, but Tommy caught his arm.

“Wait,” he said, “Jilly, how about we make you a deal? You keep your mouth shut, and we’ll bring you a butter tart.”

My eyes widened in excitement—with eight siblings, it was rare to get a whole butter tart to myself—then narrowed in a frown.

“Where are you going to get me a butter tart, Smarty-pants?”

“Chelsea’s bringing some later.”

I considered. As satisfying as ratting out my brothers would be, butter tarts were my favourite.

“Deal,” I said, “But if you don’t bring me one I’m going to tell.”

“Deal,” Tommy said, and we shook on it.

As we made our way back to the farm house, Kevin said, “By the way, pretty impressive hiding spot, Jilly-bug.”

He ruffled my hair, and my lonely little heart swelled with pride, and the feeling of acceptance.

I kept my promise; I didn’t tell on my brothers. Tommy winked at me at the dinner table, which made me feel special, like I was part of their plan. I wouldn’t let them down, I vowed.

I should have.

The next morning I woke up and immediately remembered about my butter tart, and ran to the boys’ room to collect. Their beds were made, and they weren’t there. I thought maybe they’d gone down to breakfast already, so I went to the kitchen.

Halfway down the hall I heard my father’s voice, sounding angry, “They must have taken the truck; it’s gone too. Those boys’ve earned themselves a good thrashing when they get home.”

Then my mother’s voice, more worried, “I hope they’re alright.”

But of course, they were not.

Later that morning, the Dawsons called to say their girls were missing too. So other neighbours were contacted, and a search began. By mid-afternoon, my insides had churned themselves into absolute knots, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I told my parents what I’d overheard the day before out in the orchard.

“Jilly! Why didn’t you speak up right away? You should have told us if you knew your brothers were planning this. If they’re in trouble, it’s your fault!”

My mother’s voice was loud, and accusing, no doubt fueled by her fear for her sons’ safety. But as a child, I couldn’t rationalize that; I could only feel the sting of her words.

Those fucking words, they’ve echoed in my mind thousands of times since that day, and have cost me even more thousands of dollars in therapy.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault…

I shake my head now, trying to clear it, to bring my awareness back to the half-sawed tree in front of me, all these years later. My therapist has suggested I do this, to come here and physically sever my ties with the guilt and self-blame I haven’t managed to let go of.

If only I had spoken up; my brothers and those pretty girls with their big melons would still be alive. Instead I stayed quiet, and all for a damned butter tart.

I fucking hate butter tarts.

But of course it was more than my favourite treat I was desperate to earn; receiving attention from my brothers was a rare thing, and my heart craved it so much.

The truck was found at the bottom of the ravine near the waterfall. All four passengers died in the crash. Tommy and Chelsea in the front seats, Kevin and Annabel in the back.

My mother succumbed to her grief a few weeks later.

My therapist tells me it’s me who has to forgive myself, anyway.

I wipe my hands on my pant legs, and grab the handle of the saw.

family
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About the Creator

Kate Sutherland

Kate is a Song-writer, an Artist, and a Kung Fu Teacher. She loves exploring a multitude of creative paths, and finds joy in inspiring others to do the same.

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