But all I could think about was the red maple.
My mother had always been unusually protective of that tree.
She never allowed landscapers to work near its roots.
When the roots cracked part of the walkway, she paid to repair the walkway rather than removing the tree.
Once, Joe suggested cutting it down.
My mother stared at him for several seconds before saying:
“That tree stays exactly where it is.”
He never mentioned it again.
That night, I drove to Birchwood Lane.
The house felt emptier than it ever had before.
Not temporarily empty.
Final.
I went into the garage and found a shovel.
Then I walked into the backyard.
The maple was enormous now.
Twenty-seven years had transformed it from a young tree into something solid and established.
For several minutes, I simply stood there.
Then I started digging.
The ground was difficult.
Roots twisted through the soil.
More than once, I nearly stopped.
Maybe I had misunderstood Joe.
Maybe “buried” was metaphorical.
Maybe grief had made me hear what I wanted to hear.
Then my shovel struck metal.
The sound was unmistakable.
I dropped to my knees and cleared away the dirt with my hands.
Beneath the roots was a sealed metal container wrapped in old layers of plastic.
My hands began to shake.
I carried it to the porch.
Inside was a folder.
The first document was a police report.
Date: August 14, 1996.
The name listed on the report was Joseph Beaumont.
My husband.
The offense was assault.
I read the document once.
Then again.
The victim was a woman named Clare Ashby.
According to the report, Joe had been involved in an argument with her at a bar.
The confrontation escalated.
Joe struck her.
Her nose was broken.
Clare reported the incident to police.
