The Killing Tree by Rachel Keener

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But that didn’t work. So he tried music. He paid for some of Crooktop’s best “pickers” to come and play. They picked the banjo
     and the guitar. Outsiders called it bluegrass or country, but up on Crooktop there were only two types of live music—gospel
     and picking. At first it had worked. People left their Tuesday casseroles at home for the music. But Rusty eventually realized
     that they weren’t eating enough to cover the cost, so Picking Tuesday became ordinary Tuesday again. I never made any money
     on Tuesdays. I never really had to work on Tuesday, though I was scheduled to. I would spend my time cleaning, reorganizing
     the silverware, or taking smoke breaks with Rusty. But on that Tuesday, I spent my time thinking about Trout. Wondering how
     much more time was left in the growing season. Whether I would see him again.
    “Let’s smoke,” Rusty called from the kitchen.
    I nodded, even though I dreaded spending time with him. It was strange that I was so drawn to a man that Crooktop despised,
     while Rusty, one of its most respected young men, made my stomach turn. Rusty made a decent living, came from a good family,
     and he went to church. Check, check, check—it was almost a complete list.
    “How’s your family?” he asked as he lit his cigarette.
    “Pretty good. Yours?”
    “Same as always, I reckon. Listen, I’ve been thinking about making a little visit to your place. Maybe taking your grandparents
     some pig. I know what a time your grandpa must have outta your grandma.”
    “I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s awfully nice of you, but Father Heron’s awfully busy, and he just lost his dogs, so
     now is probably not the best time.”
    “But I worry about y’all. I worry that your grandpa needs a helping hand,” he said, with smoke pouring out of his nostrils.
     “You couldn’t even come into work the other day ’cause of something going on with your crazy grandma. I’d like to ask your
     grandpa if I could, well, if I could help take care of you a little. So that he won’t have to worry about you too.”
    “I take care of myself. Always have,” I replied, wondering if Della could get me hired at the Ben Franklin.
    “Just the same, you reflect a spell on it. I’ve got a lot to offer,” he said as he walked back inside.
    I needed that diner job. There were so few jobs available for girls in the valley. I was too young to be hired by the bank,
     I refused to be a cafeteria lady at the school. But how could I refuse a man, without making him feel rejected? Only Della
     could answer. At the end of my shift I started walking toward the Ben Franklin.
    I felt him coming even before I heard his truck round the top of the hill. That clanky roar and sputter. I knew that he was
     coming for me.
    “Hey,” he said smiling. “Where you headed?”
    “Ben Franklin. How about you?”
    “I was hopin’ you could give me a bite of some of that pig you serve up,” he said. “But now I’m thinkin’ Mexican sounds better.”
    “Like tacos?” I asked.
    “Somethin’ like that. Hop in,” he said, never asking me if I wanted to, just knowing that I did. He leaned over and opened
     the door. His arm stretched out long, and my eyes met the curve of his shoulder and the smooth tan skin that was covered with
     bristly hairs. I sat inside his truck. There in the middle of town, knowing that I was making May Flours’ day.
    The windows were rolled down and the wind whipped my ponytail around and pulled loose hairs across my face. The air smelled
     fresh and pulled away the smoke that clung to me. I breathed deeply and felt happy. In that moment, I was exactly where I
     wanted to be.
    “You doin’ all right?” he asked.
    “Fine. You?”
    “Worn out,” he said. “Boss raised the quota to thirty crates of maters today. Got stung by a hornet, and now the sting’s dried
     up I can’t