Cherry Tree Nature

saw him spent, rejected, looking like an animal—I hated myself for ever thinking he was a superior person. "Old Joe Dan had his day," Rory said between sips of coffee, puffing on his cigarette. "All of us did," I said, "if making fool mistakes counts. Except maybe you, Rory. You never dated any girl but Rubynell, did you?" His face drained of color, he suddenly looked older than sixty—which was the average age of the classmates who attended Joe Dan's funeral. "I dated my wife more than any other ten girls," he said, "but I had the company of my share of women." "Who?" I asked. He blushed red around his ears, up to his hair line. "Well, I don't guess you would call it dating," he said. "A lot of us boys from the school would go once or twice a week to Mabel's House." I just sat there and looked at him. It was like a block of ice had lodged in my throat. Mabel's House was an accommodation for a crude class of men, the kind who slapped their thighs and laughed coarsely at women when they walked down the street. Those nice young men, none older than twenty, all from respectable middle-class families, had no business at Mabel's. "Why did you go there?" I asked. "Most of us were dating who we'd marry," he said. "We saved our nice girls for marriage . Joe Dan didn't have to go to Mabel's. The girls saved him that. I'm ashamed I ever went there myself." "I didn't expect a confession," I said. "I don't feel so nice myself. You don't think I was nice—Joe Dan and all. Charley knows I wasn't nice." "What difference does it make?" he grumbled, and lighted a cigarette from the stub of his dwindling cigarette, the ashes messing up the table. We sat silent a while, then I said, "I wonder what Joe Dan told Lori about all the girls he had back then." "He was a gentleman," Rory said. "That way he was." After we left the cafe we spoke only of the funeral, the flowers, what the minister said about life being swifter than a weaver's shuttle . When he parked in front of my mailbox, he sent regards to Charley and I sent mine to Rubynell. "We should send them a bunch of orchids," I said. "The way we cheated them." "Ah, forget it," he said, with the wave of a hand free of the steering wheel as he backed out of the driveway, his tires screeching on the white gravel. I watched him out of sight, and then I knew I had spoken the wrong thing. We had cheated ourselves, all of us. Cherry Tree Nature According to Stark The tart is hardier, That fruit a bit sour To the general palate— Fruit that won't suit Most folks' taste Fresh from the tree. The sweet ones Most folks like to plant That they can enjoy immediately Need more sun. The sweet cherry tree Is not so tough as the tart— Won't hold on so long— Doesn't stay. —Harry Brown 58 ...