I did not play favorites.
Over the years, many families had called those houses home. Babies and teenagers, grandparents and great-grandparents. They spoke Chinese and Spanish, Yoruba and English and French Creole. They ate tamales and pani puri, dim sum and fufu and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Different languages, different food, different customs. That’s our neighborhood: wild and tangled and colorful. Like the best kind of garden.
A few months ago, a new family, Samar’s family, rented the blue house. They were from a distant country. Their ways were unfamiliar. Their words held new music.
Just another transplant in our messy garden, it seemed.
Except that this time, something changed. The air was uneasy. The parents in the green house refused to welcome the new family. There were polite nods between the adults at first, but then, even those vanished.
Other things happened. Someone threw raw eggs at the blue house. One afternoon, a car passed by, filled with angry men yelling angry things, things like “Muslims, get out!” Sometimes Samar would walk home trailed by children taunting her.
I love people dearly.
And yet.
Two hundred and sixteen rings, and I still haven’t figured them out.
Our neighborhood had welcomed many families from faraway. What was different this time? The headscarf Samar’s mother wore? Or was it something else?
As all this unfolded, busybody that I am, I kept tabs, eavesdropped, observed. I never interfered, though. Trees are impartial observers. We are the strong and silent type.
Besides, what could I possibly do? I had limbs, but they could merely sway. I had a trunk, but it was rooted to the earth. I had a voice, but it could not be used.
My resources were limited.
So, too, as it turned out, was my patience.
15
When you’re the neighborhood wishtree, people talk. It didn’t take long for folks to learn about the ugly word carved into my trunk. People stopped to stare. They gathered in little groups. They grimaced and shook their heads and murmured. By lunchtime, the police had arrived.
I am not, as it happens, a stranger to law enforcement. A pair of calico kittens reside across the street. They love climbing up my trunk to my uppermost branches. Unfortunately, they don’t love climbing back down. In the last two months, Lewis and Clark have been rescued twice by the fire department and three times by the police.
Sandy and Max, the same police officers who’d rescued the kittens just last week, climbed out of their patrol car to check me out. They frowned. They searched the lawn for clues. They talked to passersby and took photos.
“Bongo,” I whispered, “I’m an official crime scene.”
She was not amused.
The owner of the houses—and, therefore, technically, of me—was the one who’d called the police. Francesca, tall and thin, with short, dove-gray hair, lived across the street. The blue and green houses had belonged to her family for generations.
Francesca was also the owner of Lewis and Clark, my intrepid visitors.
With a grim look on her face, Francesca strode across the street to talk to the police. Lewis and Clark squirmed in her arms.
“That tree,” Francesca said to Sandy, who was taking notes on a little pad. “It’s been nothing but trouble for as long as I can remember.”
Francesca has never been the sentimental sort. She likes cats more than trees.
To each her own. I happen to like trees more than cats.
“Oh, but people love the wishtree,” said Sandy. She looked me up and down. “Although I imagine it’s a lot of work for you.”
“Every year, the day after Wishing Day, I swear I’m going to cut that thing down,” Francesca said.
It was true. But I knew Francesca didn’t mean it. She and I went way back.
“The cleanup isn’t the worst of it,” Francesca continued. “The things people wish for! The craziness! Last year someone wrote I wish for chocolate spaghetti. In permanent marker. On a pair of underwear. Tossed it way up high.”
“Chocolate spaghetti,” Sandy said. “I could get behind that.”
“Craziness, I tell you.” Francesca stared at me. “It’s just a tree, after all. Just a tree.”
“Just a tree” seemed a tad unfair. But Francesca looked tired and angry, so I tried not to take it personally.
Sandy closed her notebook. “People believe what they wanna believe. About trees.” She stared at the newly carved word. “About people, too.”
“What now?” Francesca asked.
“Dunno,” Sandy said. “The tree belongs to you, not the new family, and you’ve been here forever.”
Francesca smiled sadly. “S’pose it could be me they’re hoping will leave.”
They watched Max place a circle of yellow crime scene tape near my trunk, using metal stakes. “Don’t think so, Francesca,” Sandy said.
Max joined them. He stroked the kittens, who purred loudly. “One problem, in terms of prosecuting anyone,” he said, “is the history of this tree. It’s almost May, when people leave their … wishes or whatever. Hard to say for sure this isn’t part of the whole, you know, tradition thing.” He shrugged. “That’s assuming we figure out who did this, mind you.”
“People are supposed to make their wishes on a rag or piece of paper, not carve it into the trunk,” Francesca said. “That’s why, back in Ireland, they called these ‘raggy trees.’ Nowadays, a lot of people just tie a tag around a branch and write their nutty wishes.” She shrugged. “In any case, ‘LEAVE’ is not a wish. It’s a threat.”
“It certainly is,” Max agreed.
Francesca nodded at the cracked and buckled walkways leading to both houses. “Tell you one thing. Wishtree or not, this oak is destroying the walkways. Messing with the plumbing, too. Roots go on forever.” She shook her head. “Maybe it really is time to cut it down. No more leaves to rake. No more Wishing Day mess. No more of this … unkindness.”
Lewis leapt from Francesca’s grasp and dashed for my trunk. Sandy tackled him just in time.
“We’ll finish up our investigation in a day or two, be out of your hair,” Max said. “Then you’ll be free to do whatever you want with the tree.”
“You know,” Francesca said, taking Lewis from Sandy, “my father almost cut this tree down years ago. My mother wasn’t having it. Family lore or some such thing. Soft-hearted nonsense.” She sighed. “Guess it’s up to me.”
“Meantime, you keep us posted if anything else happens,” Sandy advised.
Francesca headed across the lawn, holding the kittens close. “‘LEAVE,’” she murmured. “What a world. What a world we live in.”
16
When you’re a tree, a phrase like “cut it down” is bound to get your attention.
Francesca had hinted at such things before, but always in jest, after a long October afternoon raking my newly shed leaves into crisp hills. Or after a particularly messy Wishing Day. Or after stepping on my acorns in bare feet.