When a truck carrying powerful chainsaws, along with something ominously called a stump grinder, shows up, well, you know you’re in trouble.
Mind you, an arborist is a great friend to trees. We need our limbs trimmed just the way you need to cut your fingernails and hair, although for us it’s only once or twice a year, and it’s called pruning.
I always feel especially elegant after a good pruning.
But pruning is usually done with special shears that look like giant scissors or with a small saw on a long pole. Stump grinders are generally not part of the plan.
It didn’t help when three men wearing orange hard hats went to Francesca’s door and announced they were from Timber Terminators Tree Service.
“I’m going to make a deposit on those silly hats,” Bongo muttered.
“No, Bongo,” I said, although the idea was tempting. “Let’s wait and see what’s what. Maybe they’re just here for some pruning.”
“You really are an optimist.”
Francesca walked the men over—this time, without Lewis and Clark—and they discussed costs and timing.
That’s right. They talked about cutting me down, even as they enjoyed the shade from my lovely limbs.
Talk about insensitive.
One of the men—he introduced himself as Dave—climbed a ladder to inspect my hollows. Agnes, HairySpiders, and BigYou eyed him warily, ready to defend their babies.
“You’ve got some critters here, ma’am,” he reported.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Francesca said. “Every year like clockwork.”
Bongo flew up to a spot near Agnes. “Just one deposit,” she said under her breath. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Situation like this, we’d generally advise cutting in late fall. Less likely to disturb any nests.”
“I’ve got that covered.” Francesca nodded, hands on hips. “Animals and birds hightail it outta here every May first. Wishing Day, you know.”
Dave scratched his stubbly chin. “Wishing Day?”
“People make wishes, put ’em on the tree. Animals and birds don’t like all the noise. If you could do this tomorrow afternoon, the timing would be perfect. You work on Saturdays?”
“Sure do.” Dave shook his head. “Wishing Day,” he murmured. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
Francesca nodded. She patted my trunk. “Yeah. Craziness. Can’t believe I’ve put up with it as long as I have.”
44
Early that evening, Francesca stopped by the blue and green houses.
My houses.
One with a black door. One with a brown door.
One with a yellow mailbox. One with a red mailbox.
She knocked on each door. She explained her plans for me.
Both sets of parents said they understood. They would be sorry to see me go. But it would be a relief to see an end to Wishing Day, wouldn’t it? And my absence would mean more sunlight in their living rooms and fewer acorns underfoot.
“Okay. At least let me make a deposit on the parents,” Bongo grumbled. “More sunlight! The nerve! How about less oxygen, people? Less beauty?”
“Thank you for defending me, Bongo,” I said. “But no depositing.”
Samar and Stephen were not so understanding.
They ran after Francesca as she crossed the lawn. Samar pulled on her sweater. “You have to listen to us,” Samar said. “You can’t cut down the tree.”
“I can’t?” Francesca inquired. “And why is that, dear?”
“Because,” Stephen said, panting, “it’s alive.”
“I’m quite aware of that,” Francesca said. “It’s a common trait of trees.”
She paused, peering down at the ribbon around Samar’s neck. “Why, I know that key,” she said. “I recognize the ribbon.”
“A crow gave it to me.”
“No kidding? Smart birds, crows.”
Samar slipped the ribbon over her head and handed the key to Francesca.
“Oh, I don’t want that old thing,” she said, giving it back. “You can keep it. It just made me remember … It’s not important. It opens a diary. My great-great-grandmother Maeve kept a journal after she moved here.”
“So that’s what it’s for,” Samar said.
“Where is it?” Stephen. “The journal?”
“Attic, maybe. Or, no. It’s probably in the shed behind Samar’s house. Got a lot of old family stuff stashed away in there.” She gave a wry smile. “Unless it all floated away. Backyard’s pretty wet right now. Which, by the way, is one of the reasons it’s time for this tree to say good-bye.”
Samar wiped away tears. “You don’t understand. This tree … It’s almost like it’s human.”
“That’s sweet.” Francesca patted Samar’s head. “But honey, it’s just a tree.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, I must go feed Lewis and Clark. I can hear them complaining from all the way over here. And I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”
As she moved to leave, Stephen stepped in front of her. “Before you go,” he said, his voice firm, “just listen.”
He turned to me. “Say something,” he instructed.
“Please, tree,” Samar pleaded.
I kept silent.
What more was there to say?
Francesca looked from Stephen to Samar and back again. “Children,” she said, “perhaps those video games you like to play have addled your brains.”
“Talk, tree,” Stephen said.
Silence.
“It can talk,” Samar told Francesca. “Real words. It told us a story about Maeve.”
Francesca, for just a moment, hesitated. She looked at me. “You mean metaphorically, of course. The tree seemed to talk to you. The leaves whispered and so on.”
“It told us about the hollow. And the baby.”
Francesca blinked. “The baby.”
“Yes,” Samar said. “The abandoned baby.”
Again Francesca paused. “Of course, I’ve told that family story before. You probably heard it from a neighbor.”
Stephen shook his head. “We heard it from the tree.”
“Oh, my,” said Francesca. She waved a hand in front of her face. “You’re wearing me out, you two. I am so very glad my parenting days are behind me. Listen here. You get a good night’s sleep. Understand? Or maybe some counseling.”
As quickly as she could, Francesca made her way across the lawn, her shoes caked with mud.
“Francesca?” Stephen called.
“It’s just a tree, dears. Repeat after me: It’s just a tree.”
“I was wondering if we could look for that diary.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Maeve’s journal? Be my guest. If it’s not underwater by now.” She held up her palms. “Just … no more tree craziness. You hear?”
When Francesca was back in her house, Stephen and Samar looked at me accusingly. “Why didn’t you talk?” Samar demanded.
Because it was foolish.
Because I wasn’t supposed to.
Because.
Looking defeated, Stephen and Samar trudged away. They hadn’t gone far when Samar paused and turned to Stephen.
“Something happened today,” she said. “People at school were being … weird. Talking about me, whispering. Passing notes, even.” She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About what happened last night?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I wonder what was going on.”
“You’re probably imagining things.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m used to people talking about me. Being mean. But this was different.”