36 Inches Later

by Elise Kibler

Outside of Rube’s house, a dwarf peach tree grows. The tree is precisely three feet in height, its stump sturdy and average, signifying a healthy and normal peach tree seemingly to follow suit, but at exactly thirty-six inches, its branches explode violently and flatly from all sides, as if an invisible plateau plagues any further vertical lengthening. Rube stands on the front porch of his ranch-style home in the silk robe Marvin calls “effeminate” and touches the top flap of the robe in a way Marvin would hate, with his nails laid out neatly across his collarbone. With the other hand, Rube takes a sip of his coffee and rolls his eyes at what was supposed to be the very centerpiece of the yard. Instead, with the peach tree in the foreground, the ranch house in the background, and Rube standing on the front porch in between, the whole scene appears to be a haphazard arrangement of increasingly portly objects. Just thinking of this makes Rube scoff to himself and head back inside.

On his way to the kitchen, Rube glances at himself in the large mirror hanging in the foyer. The robe is loose and he catches a peek of his own hairy loins. He rather appreciates the contrast in texture between the robe and the loins. Marvin was wrong; the robe undoubtedly emphasizes a sort of masculinity he will just never have.

In the kitchen, Rube’s cat, Cher, sits on the granite countertop next to the stove. She is majestic and unforgiving. Rube is reminded of this when she inserts her claw into his thigh as he passes. “Cher.” Cher calmly removes the claw and replaces her paw on the counter in a way that makes Rube proud. Rube pours himself more coffee and sits down at the kitchen table. The peach tree has been weighing on him especially heavily these past few weeks, what with Marvin’s measured phone calls and the days getting longer and longer.

Rube remembers when Marvin brought the tree home, his slight frame heaving it out of the back of their car, rogue pellets of soil marking a fractured trail to the front porch. The fump of the young tree’s base as it hit the cement pavement just before the step. Rube was standing in the doorway with his coffee, much like this morning, his robe tied neatly at the side, the French way. “It’s a peach tree,” said Marvin, and the two of them had suddenly kissed, framed by their new house waiting to be unpacked just beyond the front door.

The idea, Marvin explained as they headed inside, was that he, Marvin, would stay as long as Rube could take care of the tree. If not, he would go. Marvin was always very attached to symbols and superstitions (“The universe is infinite,” he would say, as if the expanse of the cosmos could somehow justify his avoidance of red garments or the number twelve). So although the tree’s refusal to further sprout was not technically Rube’s doing, Marvin insisted it was a “symbol” and packed his canvas totes full of books and cutlery before saying a tearful goodbye to Cher in the kitchen.

So much time had passed since the sapling’s arrival that Rube was sure the peach tree deal was off the table. And yet there Marvin crouched, four years and thirty-six inches later, at the base of the tree at dawn, clutching a ruler. “I thought you were sleeping in today,” he had said, rising to face Rube, the ruler swallowing its long tongue with a violent snap.

They had it out in the kitchen. Rube arguing, reasonably, that if Marvin loved him, the peach tree was just a plant. Marvin, convinced they were tampering with fate. Rube, that the plant was, as promised, taken care of, just rather compact. Marvin, that the plant’s dwarfed stature was a sign. Marvin, again, that if Rube had a problem with the stars, perhaps the two of them were not “meant to be.” Marvin, throwing things into bags, kissing Rube on the cheek with a painful gentleness, closing the front door behind him. Marvin, in Rube’s dreams, kissing statues and making lists in bed. Marvin’s space, no longer occupied, making ghosts all over the house. Rube wondered how he could have fallen so terribly for a believer in fate, signs, and things “meant to be.” Yet here he was, sitting with Cher so many weeks later, losing weight and sense of self.

The next day, Grisha calls. An hour later, Rube is sitting in the passenger seat of her old Volkswagen Beetle, headed to Permanent Lanes. The windows are down halfway and when Grisha hits seventy-five, Rube reaches his arm out to rest it on the current, playing his fingers back and forth in the wind.

Grisha sits Rube on the well-worn bench of their favorite lane and places his bowling bag between his feet. The bag hasn’t been opened for months now, and Rube wonders if Marvin was the last person to touch it, to unzip it with his long fingers and roll the ball from between his legs toward the pins. Grisha unzips the bag herself. She picks up the ball and unsentimentally plops it in Rube’s lap, her hoop earrings juddering slightly as she pats it with a few whaps before reaching down for her own.

“You’re up, bucko,” she says, resetting the pins before heading off to the bar. Rube takes the ball between his palms and gently places it at the foot of the slick track. When Grisha returns with a beer Rube is still crouching there, three fingers tucked in the ball’s emerald resin, resting his forehead against the solid green orb as if attempting to transfer a prayer. “Rube. Get up right now.” Grisha grabs Rube’s shoulder with her thickly manicured fingers and eases him up on his feet. The ball rolls into the gutter.

By the time they leave, the sun has long set. Rube waves to Grisha from the front porch as she speeds off, before heading inside and attaching Cher to her cat leash. Cher scratches him only once, likely sensing the depth of Rube’s emotions, but Rube is certain she rolls her eyes several times before submitting.

They go around the block once, Rube lightly sweating as Cher plows bravely on, her tiny paws dusting the wet grass. When they turn the corner, Rube can see the peach tree’s tendrils protruding like a belly from the impossibly unified front-lawn procession halfway down the block. The closer they get, the longer Cher lingers, sniffing cracks of sidewalks, daintily skewering beetles. She suddenly ducks behind a tree with such vigor that Rube involuntarily follows suit with a little gasp, tripping over his loafers as he does. “Cher!” he says, in a hoarse whisper, touching his collarbone and catching his breath, giving her a little spank on her square bottom as she examines the inner bark of the oak. Rube looks about in what he hopes is a blithe manner in order to count witnesses, and it is only then that he notices the little car parked three-fourths of the way down the block. The night is nearly black, but Rube can see the silhouette sharply through the glass. Blood pulses through his neck.

Rube leans on the tree for what must be five or six minutes, frozen in contemplation, until Cher gently inserts a claw into the toe of his shoe and looks up at him condescendingly. Rube puts a hand to his head and presses his temples together with his thumb and middle finger. Then he straightens his spine and, with a firm, confident grasp on Cher’s leash, makes his way toward the house. Rube can see the silhouette in the car shifting as they near the front lawn.

The car door opens and the street lamp shines transparently through Marvin’s blond hair as he approaches Rube and Cher, the three of them forming a half-ring around the peach tree. Marvin bends down to pet Cher’s head, and she ducks between Rube’s legs (destroying the semi-circle, Rube notes). “Marvin.” Marvin rises and looks at Rube.

“I came to get the tree,” he says.

“What?” Cher rolls her eyes.

“I want to take the tree to my new place. I think I can save it.”

“Save it? What do you mean, save it? It’s perfectly happy here. It’s the centerpiece of the front lawn.”

“It’s stifled here. Clearly,” says Marvin, patting the flat top of the peach tree.

“Marvin...” says Rube, reaching out and tracing the seam of Marvin’s T-shirt against his arm. “Marvin, come on, this is ridiculous.”

“I know. But I need the tree. I miss the tree.”

“No, you miss me, Marvin.” Marvin’s eyes are full with tears, but not a single one makes it over the crest of his lower lashes.

He shrugs pathetically. “I need the tree.”

Rube walks toward the house, Cher following tightly behind him.

“Rube!”

He returns moments later with a shovel and places it in Marvin’s hands. Rube reaches down and picks up Cher, who climbs proudly onto his shoulders and then his head, and they make their way into the house. In the kitchen, Rube puts on a record and feeds Cher. In the kitchen’s tiny corner window, he can make out Marvin’s profile as he unearths the peach tree. Small shovelfuls of dirt make soft plods as they hit the grass, and every so often, Marvin pauses to wipe his brow. He never was terribly athletic, Rube notes, as Cher crowns herself on the back of the armchair. Rube joins her, and there they sit for nearly two hours, until Rube rises with resolution and stands at the counter. He cries for several minutes, short circuits of heaving and breathing, then, with Marvin’s figure still clear and perfectly framed through the kitchen window, makes himself a Manhattan, saves the cherry for last, and ties the stem in a knot with his tongue.