With the chainsaw blaring in his ears, Cully Scales prepared to cut another branch from the towering birch tree. As always, he reminded himself not to cut off the branch collar, the bulge under the branch that connected the branch and tree. Then, leaning to his right, he made the initial cut halfway into the bottom of the branch then, a couple inches past that cut, he cut into the top of the branch. Again dust sprayed across his goggles. Next, after taking a deep breath, he made the final cut just past the branch collar and watched the branch fall to the ground.

“That one took a while,” Alex Hegan, his partner, remarked as he carried the branch over to the wood chipper.

“More than I figured.”

“Some of these branches are thick as axe handles.”

“They are that, all right.”

He and Hegan were partners in a tree trimming business, Ascent Tree Service, they started not quite three years ago. They met at a gigantic hardware store where they worked together in the lumber and composites department. Scales was two years older, though he appeared the younger of the two men because his forehead didn’t have a single wrinkle. Because he was several pounds lighter, with a wiry build, he did most of the climbing while Hegan collected the fallen branches and fed them into the chipper. Otherwise they were often thought to be brothers because both sported coal black beards that hung to the top button of their flannel shirts. They got along well together because each worked as hard as the other. They knew they had to otherwise they would go out of business and neither wanted to return to the hardware store as sales associates.

Around noon, even though they were almost finished trimming the tree, they sat in their truck to eat their lunch. Hegan was married and his wife seldom packed in his lunch pail the same sandwich two days in a row while Scales, who was single again, always had in his pail a ham and cheese sandwich on dill rye bread. They ate in silence, listening to a national sports talk show on the radio. Both liked to bet on college basketball games so they hoped to glean any information that might improve their odds of winning.

“You getting anything out of this guy?” Hegan asked, after taking another bite of his egg salad sandwich.

“Not much.”

“Me, neither.”

“The trouble with a lot of these current hosts is that they just like to hear the sound of their own voices.”

“That’s because they don’t know much more than their listeners know.”

Scales agreed. “They don’t give you any information, really, just their opinions and that’s not going to help you make an informed bet.”

“Still, we listen, don’t we?”

He nodded. “We do, Alex, and I suppose that’s because there’s nothing else worth listening to on the radio.”

“That’s for sure.”

Some twenty minutes later, as they got ready to resume work on the birch tree, they were approached by a stocky man walking an English bulldog whose face was as pale and puffy as his owner’s. He said he lived a couple of blocks down the street and asked if they would give him an estimate for trimming an oak tree in his backyard.

“We’d be glad to after we’re done here,” Hegan informed him.

Nodding, he gave them his house number. “I don’t know but I’m afraid it might be dying.”

“So you want to know what’ll it cost to remove it?”

“That’s right.”

He looked at his partner who didn’t appear to be paying attention as he tightened the strap on his goggles.

“As I said, sir, we’ll check it out as soon as we finish up here.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You interested in taking a look at this guy’s tree?” Hegan asked, after the man continued down the sidewalk.

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“I know you don’t like to cut down trees but, who knows, maybe he’s mistaken. Maybe it isn’t dying.”

He was always reluctant to remove a tree, even ones in serious trouble, because he believed the purpose of their business was to preserve trees not eliminate them.

*

After they examined the troubled oak tree, they stopped for a beer at a tavern in the neighborhood called “Knights and Horses.” A cardboard sign in the lone window said, in faded black paint, “The Place To Be(er).” Scales was in a good mood and offered to pay for the first round because they determined the oak tree didn’t need to be cut down. To be sure, it was infested with insects but otherwise it was in decent enough shape for a tree well over a hundred years old. It definitely needed to be pruned, though.

"You guys look like you just came out of a coal mine," a rumpled patron at the bar growled as he looked at their dusty coveralls.

"We're above ground," Scales replied, "not below ground."

"Say again?"

Hegan took a sip of beer. "We trim trees."

"Oh, I see," the patron said, circling a finger around the rim of his pint glass. "I understand that can be pretty hazardous work." 

"It can be if you don't pay attention to what you're doing."

"Have you ever fallen?"

"A couple of times." Hegan smiled.

"You've broken your right wrist more than a couple of times, Cully."

He shrugged and took another swallow of beer. "I don't know anymore. I've lost count."

"Personally, I think it's a whole lot safer to have your feet on the ground than up in some damn tree," the bartender interjected, wiping some wet spots from the counter.

"I'm not so sure about that, Abe," the rumpled patron remarked. "Did you hear about what happened over on the north side of town last night?"

"Yeah, I heard."

"I didn't," Hegan said with curiosity.

"You didn't?"

"Nope."

"Some jackasses in a couple of cars just opened fire on this one street. Cars parked there were riddled with bullets as were the doors and windows of several houses. Remarkably, no one was injured but one of these days someone will be. Mark my words."

Glumly the bartender shook his head. "That part of town is a war zone on weekends."

Hegan looked at his partner. "So maybe it is safer to be up in a tree sometimes."

"It probably is if you live over on the north side."

After finishing their second round of drinks, they got up and headed out the door with a vaguely familiar Stephen Stills song playing on the jukebox but neither of them could remember its name. They had parked their truck around the corner, and as they made their way across the parking lot, a dark blue Charger pulled in front of them at such a clip that its tires skidded a little in the gravel. A portly guy with a long face and even longer hair climbed out, and when Scales looked at him the blood immediately drained from his face. Their eyes locked for an instant then the driver turned and went into the tavern.

Scales just stood there as if in a trance until Hegan asked if he knew the driver.

"I don't know," he lied. "I'm not sure."

"Do you want to go back in and see if he's who you think he might be?"

"Nah. Let's get out of here."

*

Scales dribbled the worn Spalding basketball with his right hand then with his left, darting back and forth as if someone was guarding him, then all of a sudden he leaped above the imaginary defender and sank the ball through the rusted rim attached to the garage. Smiling, he retrieved the ball and shot another soft jumper. It missed, rolling off the side of the rim, but his next two shots went in then, catching his breath, he leaned against the garage door and stared at the faint scar on his left arm. It was still visible after all these years but he didn't have to look at it to remember how he got it.

He was still in his filthy overalls. Usually the first thing he did when he got home was take them off and hop into the shower but right now he wasn't really in a hurry to get clean. He almost felt as if he deserved to be in the rancid clothes all night long.

He recognized the guy who got out of the Charger right away even though he had put on quite a bit of weight and let his hair grow out. His name was Hal Brenner. They were classmates in high school and were members of the varsity basketball team their senior year but they seldom got into games. The starters were so much better than anyone else on the team that they rarely came out of a game.

The undisputed star of the team, Brian Garner, was someone Brenner sought to ingratiate himself with whenever he had the opportunity. He would flatter him shamelessly, shag balls for him at practice, offer him rides home from school, buy him sodas and chips at lunch. At first, Scales assumed he idolized the guy, wished he had just a tenth of his talent on the court, but then he noticed how every now and again Brenner would make snide remarks about him behind his back. Increasingly, as the season progressed, his remarks became sharper, much more personal. It was then that Scales realized Brenner didn't idolize Garner at all but actually was jealous of him and all the attention he received for his exploits on a basketball court and only was interested in diminishing his reputation to some degree. He didn't know if Brenner hated Garner but he clearly resented him.

*

The next morning, as they got ready to prune the oak tree they had examined the day before, they again tried to remember the name of the Stephen Stills song that was playing on the jukebox when they left the tavern last night.

"There was a time not that long ago," Scales recalled, rubbing the visor of his helmet, "when I knew the name of just about every song he recorded."

"But not anymore?"

He shook his head then put on his helmet.

"Say, did you ever figure out if you knew that guy in the Charger you were staring at last night?"

"Yeah, I knew him."

"You did?"

"We went to high school together."

"You friends?"

Again he shook his head. "We were both on the basketball team our senior year."

"I'm surprised you didn't say anything to him."

"What I'd have to say he wouldn't want to hear."

*

The night before they graduated from high school some of the seniors got together at the apple orchard behind the fieldhouse to drink beer and compete in the basketball drill "Knockout," which Coach Andrews often had them do at the end of practice. The basket in the orchard was nailed to one of the trees and, after taking some practice shots, they lined up in single file behind an imaginary free throw line. Garner was the first to shoot and, as expected, made his shot. The next one in line, Brenner, missed and was knocked out of the game. Scales shot next and the ball rattled through the net. The next three shooters also missed then Garner swished another one. Scales had to make his shot to stay in the game but he missed and Garner won just as he usually did at practice.

After they finished their beers, they piled into Garner's family car, a six-year-old Impala, and headed to a house near the river where they heard some girls in their class were having a slumber party. No one in the car was drunk but they were all a little light-headed, especially Brenner who kept urging Garner to driver faster. Scales assumed he was afraid they would miss something at the party but there really wasn't any reason to hurry because the girls were going to be there all night.

"Come on, Brian," he pleaded. "You're driving like an old woman. Give this crate some gas."

Garner, staring at him in the rearview mirror, just laughed and pressed his foot on the accelerator.

"Faster! You can go faster. I know you can."

In another block, they came to a Stop sign and Brenner told him to ignore it even though a car was fast approaching on their left, and foolishly he did and the driver of the car blared his horn. Brenner roared with laughter. Scales was confused. He didn't understand why Brenner was in such a rush, figured it must be the beer in his system.

"Come on, Brian, punch it! My mother drives faster than you. Hell, so does my grandmother."

Scales thought what he was saying was ridiculous because Garner was going well above the speed limit but, as if to shut Brenner up, he kept going faster and faster but Brenner wouldn't keep quiet. Not for a second.

"We're almost there!" he howled. "We're just a few blocks from the river!"

Going much too fast, Garner turned at the next corner and saw in the middle of the narrow street several broken beer bottles. Immediately he swerved to the left, trying to avoid the broken glass, but he cranked the wheel so hard he lost control of it and the car jumped the curb and plowed into a utility pole.

No one was wearing a seat belt, not even Garner, who was thrown out of the car and struck his head on a fire hydrant. Unconscious and bleeding profusely, he died before he made it to the hospital. The others suffered cuts and bruises and fractures but nothing life-threatening which all of them regarded as a miracle. Scales broke three ribs and received a nasty gash on his left arm which left a jagged scar. The car was a wreck, its windshield shattered and its engine partially ejected from the hood.

Two weeks after the accident, several friends and teammates of Garner gathered at the fieldhouse to celebrate his life. It was a very somber occasion, with hardly anyone able to share memories of the basketball star without shedding some tears. Brenner appeared more distraught than anyone, carrying on as if he had lost a member of his family. His face was a mask it was so swollen and red and his eyes were bleary from all his tears. A few people tried to console him but not Eric Tompkins, who was one of the passengers in the car that night. He was offended by Brenner's behavior, thought he was putting on a performance, and soon let him know how he felt.

"The only reason why you should be crying, Hal, is because you're in no small way responsible for what happened to Brian."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"That's an outrageous thing to say."

"Maybe it is, but it's the truth," he insisted, raising his voice. "If you hadn't kept telling him to go faster every other second, he'd still be with us."

"I can't believe you believe that, Eric. I can't."

"Well, I do, and I'm not alone."

Scales, who overheard their conversation, knew Tompkins said what he was also thinking. Brenner was indeed to blame for Garner's death. To be sure, any of the other passengers in the car, including himself, could have told Brenner to pipe down but no one did so they too were partly to blame for what happened. But, clearly, Brenner bore more culpability than anyone else despite his denial because he encouraged Garner to drive recklessly. He was so frantic in demanding that Garner go faster it almost seemed as if he wanted him to get in an accident. Scales didn't believe Brenner wanted Garner to suffer a serious injury, let alone a fatal one, but he did want him to get into trouble of some kind. That, maybe, would show that Garner wasn't perfect but was as flawed as everyone else and Brenner wanted him to know it.

*

Scales noticed that a couple of branches within his immediate reach were a little too close together, which well might promote the growth of fungus, so he trimmed them until they were a few inches apart. Next, moving a little farther up the spruce tree, he came to a gnarly branch that was almost touching a power line. Deftly, after taking a breath, he trimmed it back a fraction.

Before he started to earn his living trimming trees, he had assumed that the black coating on power lines was insulation. That was not the case, as his first boss informed him. The coating was actually weather-proofing for the metal cable so one could still get electrocuted through it. In other words, it wasn't what it seemed, just as Brenner wasn't what he seemed. He was a petty, mean, vindictive person who pretended he was your friend when he was actually someone else. Scales had come across a few others like him over the years which was probably why he preferred to be up in trees rather than down on the ground. It was more pleasant there, more honest he believed.