In evenings, she sat under a  tall oak filled with age and wisdom.  She spoke to leaves; green in the spring, and rusted red in autumn.  During winter, she talked to brown limbs whose coat had fallen to the ground. She never yelled or raised her voice.

Bell spoke in soft tones. When she got older, men said she had a seductive tongue. The tall  brunette cast spells on men. Or, maybe it was the other way around.

By the age of seventeen, the freckled girl got mixed in with unsavory types. Drunks, pill poppers, junkies, she knew them all. She had the reputation of comforting them with delicate tones and warm embraces. Some called it whoring, Bell referred to it as casting out demons from men’s souls.

Every night, she  walked the south side of Main Street and turned up Broadway casting spells. Johns were grateful. Her family turned a blind eye to the sins of the youngest daughter. Church folks judged. Devils laughed.

But, in the evenings, she spoke to the  tree. No one knew what they were talking about. No one ever asked, just a tall string bean talking to a tree. Asking important questions. Talking about her dad, who used to visit her at night in her room. No one knew of these nightly visits but the tree. Oaks are good at keeping secrets.