“Yeah.”
“She like it? She can have it. Nobody else sat in it since him.”
“He sat under this tree?” Maybelline asked, finally catching up with things.
“Yeah, he loved this tree. He also watched us. We could play and stuff and he could sit under this tree, watch, but still read the newspaper, drink his beer. We would climb it and throw stuff at him.”
Maybelline crinkled her head.
“Na. I get ‘choo. Not like that. Like, leaves, branches, and those little acorns it gets. Teasing him. He got on our nerves sometimes, like the FBI or something, always watching us. Want to see what else I would do?”
Maybelline nodded her head catatonically, not quite sure what she was agreeing to. Suddenly the girl scrambled up onto the bough above Maybelline, draping herself over it, arms hanging down. Stretching her arms, she tickled the top of Maybelline’s head.
“GIRL!” Terrence hollered. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” He stomped over, flummoxed.
“What we used to do to Pa Pa to knock his hat off,” the girl explained as if laying on a fat valley oak bough to tickle some old white lady’s head was the most normal thing in the world.
“She’s retarded,” Terrence explained.
“I’m not!” the girl answered, still clinging to the branch. They bantered.
Maybelline turned her head up to look at the girl then back at the boy, amazed. They had their own connection with this tree too.
“What was his name?” Maybelline asked, breaking through their sibling banter.
“Pa Pa?” the girl asked. Maybelline nodded her head.
“Washington McDaniel. He was here before all this was here. I guess ours was the first.” She pointed to the apartment building about 70 feet west of them. In keeping with the tradition of naming developments after what they destroy, a large metal sign fashioned in what was possibly supposed to pass as classy cursive writing said “Feral Oak Apartments”.
“Feral Oaks?” Maybelline read aloud. “You’re kidding,” she mumbled under her breath.
“I know he didn’t like it.”
She turned her head to look at the girl, “didn’t like what?”
“All the new buildings, strip malls and stuff. This is like,” the girl spread her arms out, “all that’s left now.”
Maybelline stared at the girl, now slightly irritated but not with them…Was this yet another of Millicent’s “signs”?
“Which one do you live in?” the girl asked.
“Live? Oh no. I don’t live in any of these. I don’t live here. Actually, I was here…I lived here many many years ago when it was still open. None of this was here then. I would have gotten along fine with your grandfather. I don’t like it either.”
“Like when it was the country?”
“Yes. When it was the country. It was lovely. My husband, he died—”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” Maybelline laughed. “It was a long time ago. It’s okay. We picnicked under this tree. I was 31.”
“Daanng,” the girl said. “Why you’ come back? It’s not pretty here now, and they’re cutting the tree down soon. We hear maybe next week. This tree has been here our whole lives and I’m 12, Terrence is 15. It’s like, when we hang out here, the tree’s hanging out with us, is one of us, like family.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tamara. This’ my older brother Terrence. Over there is BoJo in the red baseball cap, Ricki in the green, she a girl though you cain’t’ tell. There’s other kids but we’re the main ones. We all live there.” Tamara pointed to the apartment building again.
“Well you guys, I don’t think that’s true. I haven’t heard anything and anyway, I just—” Maybelline paused then not even sure why, decided to say something else. “I heard the tree isn’t going to be cut down anymore. It’s been saved.”
“Saved? By who? A big white man was here last week with another man. He told us we couldn’t be here next week because they’re cutting the tree down and there’s all kinda’ safety things—” Tamara asserted.
“His name is Tank,” Terrence said.
“He look like a tank,” Tamara added. They laughed.
“Well, like I said, I think our tree here has been saved so maybe that man doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Maybelline commented even as some worry settled in. She continued, “the last friend from that time in my life lives here. I came to visit her and—”
“She die?” Tamara asked, twisting her heel back and forth in the dirt.
“That’s rude, girl,” Terrence admonished. “Don’t be asking her personal stuff.”
Taken aback for a second, Maybelline answered, “no” then continued, “she’s not dead (yet?). She lives here still. She was my friend then. She and her husband, and me and my husband would hike from way over there (she pointed at a Home Depot on the horizon) and picnic right here, right in this very spot, where your grandfather sat.”
“Daaanng,” Tamara marveled.
“And this tree is special to you guys too. I think this is so neat. It’s very, well, bittersweet, in a way.”
“Yeah,” they both nodded, then smiled at the ground, a little embarrassed.
“It’s a part of our history, all our histories, so it would be wrong to cut down this tree.”
“County don’t care,” Terrence said shaking his head. “Seem like they just want to get rid of us. Like, we all hang out here.” Terrence motioned at the pod of kids.
Overwhelmed by unexpected emotion, Maybelline stood up and folded the chair. “It was so nice to meet all of you. I’ll see you again.”
“What’s your name?” Tamara asked. “You want the chair? You can have it.”
Maybelline leaned it up against the tree. “I’ll leave it right here for the next time I come, okay?”
“Okay,” Tamara said, smiling, while Terrence stood with his hands in his pockets, not sure what to think. As Maybelline was walking away, Tamara yelled after her.
“What?” Maybelline asked, turning around.
“Your name?” Tamara asked again.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind. My name is Maybelline.”
“Maybelline?” Tamara repeated.
“Yes.”
“Maybelline,” Terrence said shaking his head. “You don’t hear that one ever.”
“That’s a pretty name,” Tamara answered. Maybelline waved and quickly headed back to the car, disarmed and amazed.
Wiping tears off her face, she returned to the hotel where an envelope from Millicent was waiting for her. Once in her room, she tossed the envelope on the chair and gave way to the bed. She stared at the ceiling. It had not even been 24 hours; there was still time. She called Millicent’s cell phone. She left a message she was returning to Santa Barbara and to send any final paperwork to her address there, most importantly, the title.
The next morning she drove past the tree, a stone of dread in her gut. What if Tamara was right? No, she was the owner now. No one could legally touch the land, the tree, Millicent would see to that.
She was grateful for the long drive home even as her cell was alerting her she had messages. She turned it off. Thoughts of the tree were now taking up all the space in her mind; space previously taken up by grief and loneliness was now replaced with “what the hell have I done?” Which was better?
“What the fuck?” she said out loud, surprising herself because she rarely if ever used this word. “What do I do?” she asked no one. Fence it? Cut the kids out? Where else would they ‘hang out’? In the parking lots of their apartment complexes, the strip malls, the drugstores, behind their computers? There was no place for them. What about Tamara’s grandfather? What would he say about cutting the kids out, off? “Make it into a park” is what Millicent said. What about liability? What if something happened? This is why people fence land off from other people. Would the insurance company force her to do this? Obv
iously the little old lady that owned it never did…Millicent knew all about these things. Millicent would guide her.
Chapter 3
“I don’t know,” the professional young woman, a Planner I, said, pushing her ergonomically designed wheeled office chair away from her cubicle desk with her foot, the chair almost tipping completely back until she caught it just in time.
“Sorry, my chair almost dumped me out. What? Oh, yeah. Some old lady bought it I guess; bought it out from under them. Honestly, I don’t really care. I got assigned the project and, well, whatever. Pain in my ass. Now they all want a public meeting. I guess I have to invite the old lady since she is the owner now. They want answers. I don’t know if she will come or not but I told them I would try to arrange something.” Pause. “No. They don’t care about the tree. They want their Squirrel-Mart. I don’t know if the lady bought it to crank-up the price and sell it back to Squirrel-Mart or what. I don’t know why she bought it.” Pause. “Yeah, it was Bock Realty. Yeah, it’s Tank.” Pause. “I don’t know and I don’t really care. I’m just waiting until this weekend when Josh and I can take off for Mendocino. GOD, I need a break.”
She contemplated putting her feet on the desk like her boss, a Senior Planner III, did; her boss was out of the office. Then again, she was probably too new. It was too soon. After all, she was just a Planner I.
Once home, Maybelline brought in her suitcases, bags. She threw the envelope from Millicent on her bed and picked up her land line phone. The two of them beckoned—the landline was beeping she had messages, her cell phone was singing. Millicent again. She would listen later—tomorrow. She poured herself a glass of wine. She grabbed a “100% Natural and Organic” frozen lasagna dinner out of the freezer and tossed it into the microwave. While it was getting beamed, she tended to her plants, inside and out, her hummingbird feeders. At least everything at home was fine. Her duplex neighbor, a 40-something commercial airline pilot, of course handsome as hell, was 35,000 feet in the air somewhere. Normally she would feed his cat but had bowed out due to her “sentimental journey”. While she ate dinner out of the “100 % recyclable” cardboard container, she sorted through her mail, mostly ads for hearing aids, scooters, “less intrusive catheter bags”; she threw it all into the recycle bin. Moving outside to the covered part of her back patio, she positioned herself on a comfortable flowery chaise lounge where she could watch the hummingbirds fight for nectar space. She sat back, enjoyed her wine, and thought about her husband and the dog.
“I need that paperwork wrapped up,” Millicent’s message crackled into Maybelline’s ear the next morning while Maybelline stared at the envelope sitting on her dresser. Hitting delete, she slammed the phone down and grabbed the envelope. Still in her robe, she sighed, surrendering to the kitchen table. Without reading any of it, she signed and initialed everywhere the little stickie arrows told her to. She shoved all of it into the postage-paid envelope Millicent provided. Accompanied by the word “shit”, she put it in her mailbox by the front door for pick up. Was it too early for a glass of wine, she wondered? Lord, why was she even thinking this way at 11 a.m.? Disturbed, she decided to go for a walk.
She continued to ignore the calls and emails from Millicent. After a few days, they stopped, signaling to Maybelline that Millicent got the paperwork. She was restless so packed up her car and headed out to a “Senior Adventure” weekend canoe trip at a local lake. She’d be back on Sunday. She’d call Millicent Sunday night.
“I’m thinking another week until you get the title. I need you to know there’s been a fuss. Do you read the Santa Rosa papers, say online, at all?”
“No. Tell me.” Maybelline released a downhill sigh. “Just tell me.”
“The locals want a meeting, want to know what you’re going to do.”
“Do with what?”
“THE LAND, Maybelline. What the hell do you think?”
“Why do they care? Why do I have explain to any—”
“The county will be getting in touch. Just see what they say. I told you there was some interest—”
“Interest?”
“Maybe they will like a park instead.” Millicent launched into a coughing spasm just as Maybelline was imploring, “instead of WHAT?”
Millicent forced out, “ju—cough—hack—st wait. They’ll—hack—cough—disgusting-clearing-of-phlegm-from-lungs-sound—get in touch. I’ve got to go.” Then she hung up.
The next day, the preordained supplication arrived in the mail:
“The concerned citizens of Sonoma County, particularly the neighborhoods of Yerba Fontana and Oak Springs, would appreciate a public meeting regarding the new owner’s plans“.
The county was requesting permission to put her on the agenda for their monthly “town hall” meeting. This was no doubt Millicent’s way of telling her, rewarding her for saving the land and the tree. She was touched. They probably wanted to thank her though she still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the land. A park, yes, but Millicent had set her to thinking about liabilities, insurance—the way people can be these days; but they were already all over the land! What would be different? She would have to clean it up. Would she have to fence it? What about the kids? She would ask them what she should do, involve them. There was a chance she could even revive, inspire the whole community. The county might even be planning some kind of ceremony to thank her. Maybe they would even ask her to run for office. She walked around twisting her hands in an anticipatory tizzy.
The letter instructed her to contact “Ms. Katrina Foulip, Planner I”. It was signed by a Planner III. Riding on a warm sense of gratitude, even reverence for what she was about to do, she called Ms. Katrina Foulip, Planner I, right away. Ms. Foulip was “away” from her desk so Maybelline left a message. An hour or so later, Ms. Foulip was still “away” from her desk. She continued to be “away” from her desk until around 4:00 when she answered her phone. Sounding very put-out (which confused Maybelline), Ms. Foulip scheduled the meeting for Thursday of the following week at 1:00 p.m. Maybelline then called Millicent with the news. Millicent would try to be there if she could though she was feeling worse.
Maybelline spent the next few days grappling with the responsibility, the magnitude! She had never done anything like this before. How does someone accept the appreciation and gratitude of an entire community? Would they expect her to make a speech? Suggest they name the park after, heaven forbid, her? “Thank you for saving our tree!” they would proclaim. Oh if only Jay could see her now; maybe he can, she thought, inspired.
She began drafting her little speech when the thought of background music came to mind. She could bring her portable CD player. Perhaps something by John Denver, no, not Rocky Mountain High but maybe Sunshine on My Shoulder, I Am the Eagle? She deliberated between a poem by Frost or something by Whitman. It morphed into an hour+ spiel. She would have to cut it down. She paced back and forth stopping only to water a few plants and stare out the window. Her neighbor was home. She watched his handsome ass get something out of the trunk of his handsome car. She threw John Denver over in favor of something far more appropriate—Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi. Maybe she would hand out lyric sheets and everyone could sing along. Trying to sing like Joni, she sang a little of the song but it came out crooked, squeaky and not in a Joni Mitchell way, causing her to burst out laughing. It felt so good to laugh, she thought. So she did it again.
What to wear to the founding of a new park that includes the saving of a 300-year old valley oak? She went shopping. A khaki “safari” skirt with side-pockets seemed fitting. After searching specifically for a blouse with trees on it, she settled on a white blouse with multi-colored flowers arranged in a kind of paisley design. It was very pretty. Admiring herself in the dressing room mirror, she gandered she looked the picture of Jane Goodall in her new outfit, feeling in one moment a bit silly, in another, very important.
It had been such a long time since she had done anything like
this—indulged. Mostly she lived a quiet if not lonely life on her side of the duplex, a typical life. She spent her time reading, listening to music, container gardening, watching her hummingbirds; she took in a little television (the Hallmark Channel, PBS, the news). She didn’t go to church anymore (Unitarian) because she was coming to the conclusion she didn’t really like people so why be around them if you don’t have to? She did her time helping Jay out with his business. Some of his customers were such grumps. Husband/pet-less, she could travel, take off to exotic places, like Santa Rosa, California. She wondered what her life would be like if she and Jay had kids. Her regret about not having a kid was a lot like a hot flash. She would notice it coming on, wait for it to move through her then fade away; it always faded away. The world was on the wrong track anyway. Now it was all about smashing your face into a screen. She figured someday faces would be surgically replaced by screens, a possible upside being you could turn any one of them off. Humans hated themselves, always trying to eliminate the imperfection and messiness of being human which led to constant exhaustion and frustration, never any introspection, redirection. She could have ended up like Millicent, sacrificed it all for the kids, and now Millicent was sick, the kids not all that grateful. Would they offer to take her to Paris? Did they ever? Maybe she could take Millicent to Paris; but Millicent probably couldn’t go now…
That she owned the land and the tree and soon would face a room full of grateful citizens was sinking in. She couldn’t sleep. Well before Thursday she was packed and ready to go. She had cut her speech or what she was now calling “an inspirational call to action” (after hearing this phrase on the radio) to 30 minutes complete with Joni Mitchell who would serenade in the background. If they all started singing with the music, she would just stop talking, turn the music up and let ‘em at it. Hopefully things would not get out of hand. There would be cheering, maybe even tears. She stuffed tissues in her purse, adding in a few more to hand out. She also took a few packages of gum out of the kitchen drawer to hand out, then thought again. Gum? Why in the hell would she take gum? “You’re welcome. Now would anyone like some gum?” She admonished herself yet again for her silliness. She felt her age. This isn’t what she had planned so how did it get to this? She was healthy, well-off, retired. Why wasn’t she sitting on a beach in Maui, or taking ballroom dancing, Thai cooking, knitting, anything but creating a new park for a big tree? Constantly vacillating between feelings of anger and gratefulness toward Millicent, she knew this was more about Millicent than her. Millicent wanted this. So why didn’t Millicent just buy the damn land? At that thought, the phone rang. The dentist’s office. A diversion. Yes, she would take the earlier appointment that day.
Treed Page 3
