I felt bad about the walkways. It’s an occupational hazard. To stay alive, I need a vast network of roots. And roots can be surprisingly strong.
“Did you hear that?” Bongo asked, watching Francesca enter her house. “She sounded serious this time.”
“I’ve heard it all before,” I said.
“Unfortunately, the newbies heard her, too,” Bongo said.
Bongo calls every fresh crop of babies “newbies.” She pretends to be annoyed by their antics, but I know better.
“Listen,” Bongo urged.
Sure enough, I could hear the baby skunks wailing from their hidden nest under the porch. “But we love Red, Mama!” one of them cried.
“Hush,” their mother, FreshBakedBread, scolded. “It’s the middle of the day. You’re supposed to be asleep. You’re crepuscular.”
Crepuscular creatures, like fireflies, bats, and deer, are especially active at dusk and dawn.
“Will Red be all right, Mama?” another baby, whose voice I recognized as RosePetal, asked.
All skunks name themselves after pleasant scents. I am not sure if this is because they’re a bit defensive about their reputation, or if they just have a sly sense of humor.
“Of course,” said her mother. “Red is indestructible.”
Bongo looked at me. “See what I mean?”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “By tonight they’ll all have heard. The opossums, the raccoons, the owls … Little Harold will be beside himself.”
Harold was the smallest barn owl nestling, and a great worrier.
Barn owls give themselves sensible, no-fuss names.
“I’ll talk to everyone,” Bongo said. “Calm them down. Tell them not to worry.”
“I’m sure things will be fine,” I said. “I’ve seen a lot in my years. The things I’ve fretted about that have never come to pass! I could write a book.” I paused. “In fact, I could be a book.” I paused again. “Because, you know … paper is made of trees.”
Bongo gave a screechy crow-laugh. She didn’t even scold me for my lame joke.
That’s when I started to worry.
17
As much as I was concerned about the babies’ reaction to Francesca’s words, I was more worried about Samar. What would happen when she returned from school and saw the word carved into me? Would she think it was meant for her, and for her family, as Francesca and the police seemed to assume?
She came home alone. Ahead of her by a few yards was Stephen.
A reporter from the neighborhood newspaper was waiting on the sidewalk, interviewing people as they walked by. Word travels fast in our parts. Especially when there’s yellow police tape involved.
Had they seen what had happened? the reporter kept asking. Had they ever made wishes on Wishing Day? What did they think the word “LEAVE” meant?
The reporter approached Stephen. Did he know why someone would carve “LEAVE” into the beloved local wishtree?
Stephen stared at the reporter. Then he glanced behind at Samar, sending her the shadow of a sad smile. Without answering the reporter, he headed toward his house.
Samar’s eyes darted from Stephen to the reporter to me. She ran closer, saw the word, and gasped. She reached a hand toward me, but the police tape put me out of reach.
“Are you a resident?” the reporter asked. “Would you like to comment on the incident?”
Samar didn’t say a word. She turned and walked up the sagging steps to the little blue house, her head held high. Standing tall, reaching deep.
18
Around six that evening, Sandy and Max returned. When the police knocked on the door of the green house, Stephen’s parents opened it and answered questions. They shook their heads. They shrugged. Then they shut their door and closed the curtains.
When the police knocked on the door of the blue house, Samar’s parents opened it and answered questions. They rubbed their eyes. They sighed. Then they, too, shut their door and closed the curtains.
As Sandy and Max headed back to their cruiser, Sandy paused beneath me. “I wonder if we should make a wish,” she said. “Might be our last chance.”
“I’ll tell you what I wish for,” Max said. “I wish I didn’t have to investigate things like this.”
Sandy patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.”
As for me, I spent the evening hours reassuring the parents and offspring who called me their home. They weren’t just worried about where they would have to move, of course. They were worried about me.
I was worried about me, too. I didn’t want to leave the world I loved so much. I wanted to meet next spring’s owl nestlings. I wanted to praise the new maple sapling across the street when it blushed red as sunset. I wanted my roots to journey farther, my branches to reach higher.
But that is how it is when you love life. And I could accept that if my time had come, it had come. After a life as fine as mine, who was I to complain?
I was worried about the babies, though, about their parents scrambling to find new, safe places to line their nests, dig their burrows, hide their winter stashes of acorns.
Most of all, I was worried about Samar.
I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because she reminded me so much of another little girl from another time long ago. A little girl I’d managed to shelter successfully.
Francesca’s great-grandmother.
Like I said. We go way back.
19
Long after midnight, Samar came to visit me. She wore a blue robe. Her dark curly hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes held moonlight in them.
She sat at the base of my trunk on her blanket. She didn’t look at the carved word, or the splinter of moon, or the blue and green houses. She just sat quietly and waited.
It always took a while. But it always happened.
One by one, the babies ventured out to see her.
Harold was first, flapping awkwardly down to the ground. The raccoon babies, You, You, and You, were next. (Raccoon mothers are notoriously forgetful, so they don’t bother with traditional names.) The opossums. The skunks. They all came.
Samar sat perfectly still. The babies circled her. Together they sat in the shimmer of moonlight and listened to my leaves rustle.
Bongo settled on Samar’s shoulder. “Hello,” she said, in her crow version of Samar’s voice.
“Hello,” Samar said, echoing the echo.
Bongo squawked and Samar jumped a bit. Even Bongo’s quietest caw is a bit on the harsh side. Bongo flew up to my smallest hollow and poked her head inside, her tail feathers still visible. With something shiny in her beak, she returned to the ground in front of Samar. Gently she placed a tiny silver key attached to a long, faded red ribbon in Samar’s open hand.
“It’s beautiful,” Samar whispered. “Thank you.”
Bongo bent forward, wings spread, in a sort of bow. It was, in crow circles, a sign of great affection.
I’d seen that key before. Bongo had “inherited” it from her mother. Crows live in extended families, and they pass information across generations. It didn’t surprise me that Bongo still had the key, or that she’d decided to give it to Samar.