Under the Shade of the Maple Tree

I submitted this short story to the 2023 Cedarburg Writes contest. I did not win.

Mark squinted down at his clear plastic cup and then back up, looking across the river to the old mill. He scanned the crowd, watching the interactions of people gathered—drinking wine, eating brats, and listening to music. The music was loud, even from across the river. There were gaggles of kids running around by the riverbank, the older ones daring the younger ones to dip their toes in the slow-moving current, against the warnings of their mothers.

The sun was high up in the sky. It was hot—as it always was for Strawberry Fest—and the only relief Mark felt was to be sitting on the cold stone wall on the opposite bank, under the shade of the maple tree. He had sat there with Jerry for every festival since they first met. But today Mark was alone.

Was it sixteen or seventeen years ago? Mark wondered as he stared at his untouched cup of strawberry wine. Mark met Jerry in this very spot, however long ago it was. He had been new in town and was waiting for a friend with whom to enjoy the festival. But Mark was at the wrong park by the wrong mill. Jerry had noticed that uneasy young man, anxiously checking his watch and glancing at the river. He had approached Mark and said, “the duck will leave when it chooses to, no matter how much you look at your watch.”

Jerry was never looking for friends, but he found them wherever he went. That day he found Mark. Jerry was one of those rare types whose smile could cheer up even the most forlorn man leaning off the edge of a bridge. He was generous in all manner, but especially with his time. He was kind to everyone he encountered, and would look them in the eyes when they talked. He cared about what they had to say. Everyone left Jerry’s company feeling better—not just about themselves, but about life and the world around them.

That day, sixteen or seventeen years ago, Jerry sat down next to Mark and offered him a glass of bright pink wine and Mark’s life changed. It’s true that every event in life will change a person’s course in some small way, but there’s a noticeable difference in Mark’s life before and after knowing Jerry. Mark became more confident and content. His angsty youth gave way to a softer and gentler adulthood.

Jerry was old enough to be Mark’s father, but instead of becoming a father figure, he was more than anything a trusted friend and confidant. All of Mark’s big decisions were discussed in detail with Jerry on the stone wall. They would meet there every festival, without fail, and share their lives over a bottle or two of wine.

During Mark’s hardest times—like the year his fiancée left him—he felt abandoned by everyone. His friends were her friends, except for Jerry. Jerry was there to listen, and to use his amiability to help Mark make new friends. In the intervals between the festivals, they would meet at one of the coffee shops in town. But the festival days on the stone wall beneath the maple tree were where Mark most felt the warmth of friendship and of life.

It was always Mark that came to the stone wall with troubles. Sure, Jerry had friends and parents get sick and pass, but he had a perspective that Mark admired and longed for. Jerry would say life is absurd and what matters is that we are here. Every moment we have—with ourselves and our friends and our family—is improbable and ridiculous and strange and wonderful.

Even when Jerry started to get sick, he retained that outlook. The June day on the stone wall when Jerry told Mark about the stomachaches, he joked that maybe now he’d lose a little weight. As usual, he brought the wine and poured two glasses. But his glass remained full the entire afternoon.

A few months later, at the harvest festival, Jerry looked thin and wan. But he still had his smile and a bottle of wine. Again he poured two glasses, and again his went untouched. He was old, but his voice had always been full of life. Now, he sounded weak, and hoarse. He could see Mark becoming despondent and tried to cheer him up with his self-deprecating humor and affable smile.

It was a long five months until the next festival. On a snowless but cold February day, Jerry arrived bundled up in a peacoat, wool hat, and thick scarf. Mark hadn’t heard from Jerry since Christmas, when they met at a coffee shop and Jerry finally looked as old as he was in years. Jerry was quieter then, less boisterous, but warm and genial. Mark wasn’t sure Jerry would make it to Winter Fest. But there he was, glowing. His face looked healthy. His voice had regained some of that trademark vitality. Jerry was in remission. He laughed, saying he had another ten years at least. He downed his glass that day.

Now four months later, Mark sat on the stone wall with two full glasses of wine. This time, Mark brought the bottle. He took a sip but couldn’t stomach it. Instead of sweet strawberry, it was sour and upsetting. As the sun drifted across the sky, Mark stared at the water crashing over the dam to the river below. He shook himself out of his trance. The children dipping their toes in the river and their soused parents were dispersing now. A duck that had been flirting with the brink of the waterfall suddenly took flight. He stood up, smiled, tossed the bottle in his backpack, and hurried down the street, over the bridge and into the dwindling crowd.