Operation Redwood

by S. Terrell French

  “I don’t know.” Danny scratched his head. “I mean, it’s bad. It’s brutal. But what can you do? Maybe you should tell your mom.”

  Julian considered. “She’s in China—what could she do? The camp’s probably paid for already. Plus, I’m not supposed to know about it, remember?”

  “Maybe she’d come home.”

  “No way.” For years, his mom had dreamed of going to China. Finally, she’d gotten a grant that actually paid her to spend five months photographing Buddhist statues and temples. She wouldn’t come home without a genuine emergency.

  “Then you’re stuck. Don’t forget, my parents signed me up for two weeks of journalism camp.”

  “But that’s here, not in Fresno,” Julian said. “And you like that kind of stuff.” He sighed. “Not that I want to stay with Sibley anyway.”

  “Now that his true feelings have been revealed,” Danny said.

  The 1 California bus pulled up in front of them. It was so crowded, they had to stand in the aisle, holding on to the metal poles.

  “I should just run away,” Julian said as the bus lurched into motion. “Camp out in the Presidio or in Golden Gate Park.” There were lots of places in the park where a kid could hide. If you stayed away from the Children’s Playground or the Japanese Tea Garden, there were huge stretches of trees and bushes with hardly any people.

  Danny looked at him in horror. “Are you insane? Do you still have a fever?” He reached up to feel Julian’s forehead. “You want to live in Golden Gate Park at night? With all the homeless people?”

  Julian shrugged.

  “What about your granny? The one we had dim sum with. Couldn’t you call her?”

  “Popo? I haven’t seen her since Chinese New Year. Plus, what could she do?”

  “Rescue you from Sibley and his evil plots!”

  “I think my mom already asked her about the summer. She couldn’t do it. She was traveling or something. Plus, she works.” His mother thought Popo was a workaholic. She wrote for the Chronicle and was always late for a deadline.

  “It might be worth a try. Blood’s thicker than water,” Danny said with an air of authority.

  “What does that mean—‘blood’s thicker than water’? I never get that.”

  “You’re always so clueless about everything! It’s because you don’t watch enough movies. Blood is your blood connections, your relatives. They stick with you.”

  Julian thought about this. Popo was his blood relative, but she lived two hours away in Sacramento and he only saw her on the big holidays—Thanksgiving and Christmas and Chinese New Year. Then there was his mother, but she wasn’t exactly sticking with him. His dad—well, it wasn’t his fault he died.

  “Sibley’s blood, right?”

  “Of course! He’s your father’s brother. That’s blood. That’s DNA.”

  Julian raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, there’s another expression,” Danny said, laughing. “La familia no la escogemos. You can’t pick your relatives. Anyway, forget Sibley for now. Who’s Robin?”

  Julian pulled the cord for the next stop. “You’ll see when we get to your house. I want you to read her e-mail for yourself and tell me what you think.”

  When the bus came to a halt, the boys jumped out the rear door, walked up a block, and turned onto Clement Street. Fruit stands and stalls of kitchenware crowded the sidewalk. They jostled their way past two cafés, an Irish bar, a pizza parlor, a Thai restaurant, a Chinese dim sum place, and the Toy Boat Dessert Café. All around, voices talked and shouted—in English, in staccato Cantonese, in the sleepy murmur of Russian.

  They bought two steamed buns at their favorite Chinese bakery, flipped through the sale bins at Green Apple Books, then turned onto one of the avenues and stopped at a pale yellow row house. Once inside, they headed straight to Danny’s room where Danny switched on the computer and turned on the television. A sound like screaming chipmunks filled the room.

  “Hey,” Julian shouted over the commercial. “I want you to pay attention to this. It’s important.”

  “No problem. I can multitask.” Danny pulled up his e-mail screen. “Ah, the mysterious Robin Elder! We meet at last!” he said, clicking the mouse. Julian flopped down on Danny’s bed.

  “Well, what do you think?” Julian asked after a moment, grabbing the remote control and turning down the TV volume.

  “Wait . . . wait.”

  Julian drummed his fingers against the desk.

  “Stop!” Danny yelled. “You’re making me nuts!”

  Julian stopped drumming and impatiently unpacked his school books.

  Finally, Danny leaned back in his chair. “Well, a number of things are clear. First, your uncle, who we all know is an evil, scary, money-grubbing liar, is even worse than we thought. He’s cutting down redwood trees! Second, this girl has obviously never met Mr. CEO, or she’d never have sent him a crazy e-mail like this. Third . . . I can’t remember what’s third.”

  “What should we do? Should we write her back?”

  “Of course! We’ve got to write her back! You deleted her message to Sibley. You can’t do that and then not even tell her! That would be rude!”

  “But what should we say?”

  “I don’t know,” Danny said. “You start.”

  “OK. I’ll dictate and you type.”

  Danny’s mom was an office manager and she believed that everyone should know how to type. Danny was the only kid Julian knew who typed with all his fingers, like an adult. And his mom brought home all sorts of useful overstock. In addition to his own computer, Danny had a color printer, a fax machine, and a speakerphone.

  Julian lay down on Danny’s bed. “Um. OK. How about ‘Dear Robin.’”

  Danny made a face. “I’ll just put ‘Robin.’ From what we’ve read, she’s not much of a dear.”

  “We don’t even know if she’s a she! Maybe we should ask. But we can’t start off like that! How about, ‘I’m Sibley Carter’s nephew and I accidentally read your e-mail to him. Can you tell us more about yourself and explain what my uncle has to do with your redwood trees? I won’t show your e-mail to my uncle. He didn’t get the last one because I deleted it. Honestly, I didn’t think it would do any good and you might even have gotten into trouble.’”

  Danny typed quickly. “Go on.”

  Julian paused for a moment. “I guess we should say, ‘Please trust me. Even though I live with my uncle, we aren’t very close.’ Then how should it end?”

  Danny just cocked his head. He was still typing.

  “How about, ‘You can reach me at this e-mail address. It belongs to my friend Danny, who you can also trust. From, Julian Carter-Li.’”

  Danny finished typing and lifted his hands with a flourish.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” Julian asked. “I mean, none of this is really our business.”

  “Don’t you want to know what your uncle’s up to?”

  “I guess so,” Julian said. “You’d better send it before I lose my nerve.”

  Danny pressed Send.

  “Let me see it.” Julian sat up on the edge of the bed and reached for the mouse.

  Danny pulled it away. “Before you get upset, I should tell you I changed a few words.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just to make it sound better.”

  Julian grabbed the mouse and clicked:

  “Are you crazy?” Julian said when he’d finished reading the e-mail. “Are you trying to make me look like an idiot?”

  “No, trust me,” Danny said with enormous sincerity. “It’s better this way. She’ll take us more seriously.”

  Julian put his head in his hands. “Danny! You totally screwed this up.”

  Danny was silent for a moment. “Oh, come on. It’s not such a big deal. If you really don’t like it, send a retraction. You can type it yourself.” He stood up and offered Julian the chair.

  Very slowly, Julian pecked out:

  Danny watc
hed over his shoulder. “You really think that’s better?” he asked incredulously. “Oh, well. You know best. Send away.”

  Julian sent the e-mail and then said, “I’d better do my homework.” He pulled out his math book. “I have two pages of math for tonight and three still from yesterday.”

  Danny sighed heavily and set to work himself, alternately scribbling furiously and singing along with the TV. Julian lay on his stomach, writing neatly and figuring his algebra almost automatically. He was in the middle of solving a particularly difficult equation when he heard a voice at the door.

  “Hola, mi hijito.” Luciana Lopez stood leaning against the door frame in her work clothes, a halo of black curls around her face. “How are you, Julian?” she asked with a searching look. “Are you feeling better? Danny said you went home sick.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. I’m better today.”

  “Can Julian stay for dinner, Mom? Please?”

  “Of course, Julian is always welcome. Papa will be home soon. You boys are doing your homework? Such good boys! But Danny,” she chided, picking up the remote control and turning off the television, “no more TV, OK? These shows, they are baby shows anyway.”

  In half an hour, the sound of the running shower told them that Danny’s father, Eduardo, was home. A little later, Luciana called the boys to supper. In the bright kitchen, she questioned them about school. Eduardo told about his afternoon, fixing a backed–up toilet in the middle of a fancy engagement party. Julian wolfed down two platefuls of spaghetti and six pieces of garlic bread, then sat back contentedly.

  “Well, you must be feeling better,” Luciana said. “You certainly have a healthy appetite!”

  “He’s a growing boy!” Danny said with feigned pride. “And you know, his aunt only feeds our little vegetariano pig knuckles and cow tongue.”

  “I had cow tongue once,” Eduardo said. “It wasn’t bad. But you know what they say: You shouldn’t taste anything that can taste you back!”

  Julian couldn’t help twisting his tongue about to see if he was tasting it or it was tasting him, which made everyone laugh. When the boys had cleared the table, they rushed back to check Danny’s e-mail, but there was no message from Robin Elder.

  “You see,” Julian said bitterly. “She’s never going to write back now. She’s going to think we’re just a couple of stupid kids.”

  “Oh, lighten up!” Danny said. “Who’s she? Mother Teresa? She’s probably just a stupid kid too.”

  At ten minutes to eight, Julian opened the heavy door to his uncle’s house and found Daphne and Sibley sitting in the living room, with brochures and papers spread out on the coffee table. Julian waved and headed toward the staircase.

  “Julian!” his uncle called out. “In a civilized society, it’s customary to greet people when you walk into their home.”

  “Hello, Uncle Sibley. Hello, Aunt Daphne,” Julian said. “How are you?”

  “Just great,” Sibley answered in a decidedly un-great tone. “And you? Are you feeling better today?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Julian replied. He could do “social graces” as well as anyone.

  “You finished your homework?”

  “Yeah, I mean, yes. At Danny’s.”

  “I appreciate that you’re on time tonight,” Daphne said. “One point. But I have to deduct two points for this morning. You didn’t clear away the cereal bowls or make your bed.” She gave him a pitying look. “Julian, I wish I didn’t have to keep doing this, but we’ve talked about it before.”

  Julian sighed. Another point in the hole. Daphne had promised to buy him a laptop when he reached twenty-five points, but so far, he hadn’t even gotten above zero.

  And now he really could use his own laptop. Now that the mysterious Robin Elder was out there in the universe somewhere and might just decide to write them back.

  he day after the boys received Robin’s latest e-mail, Danny had a dentist appointment after school. Alone, Julian climbed the steep hill to his uncle’s house, wondering how he could respond to Robin. Clearly, she still didn’t understand a thing about Sibley. Maybe he should just tell her that her cause was hopeless, that it was ridiculous to think that he could change Sibley’s mind about anything. But then she’d have no reason to write to them at all.

  Near the top of the hill, Julian turned down a wide street lined with ornate apartment buildings and enormous mansions. Robin might like these houses, he thought. They weren’t dirty or ugly-looking. They were beautiful and elegant. He tried to figure out why the houses here looked so different from the houses where he and Danny lived. They were bigger, of course, but it wasn’t just their size. It was something about money, he decided, that made them look so solid and harmonious, something he couldn’t put his finger on that made the houses only for rich people, like his uncle.

  His mom had never owned a house; they had rented the same shabby flat since he was a baby—the bottom floor in a gray house with a pointed roof and peeling shingles. Upstairs there used to be an old Russian lady, who would babysit Julian when his mom was away, but then Mrs. Petrova moved to Florida. A couple of Japanese graduate students moved in to her place but they were so quiet you’d hardly know they were there.

  The inside of his mom’s house was also different from his uncle’s. For one thing, the dishes didn’t match. And the furniture was mostly odds and ends she’d picked up at garage sales. The walls were covered with masks his mother made—painted masks and red clay masks and white papier-mâché masks, and Julian’s favorite, a gnomish green face with horns holding a large purple marble in its mouth. Her portraits—black-and-white photos of brides and grooms and unfamiliar children—littered the hallway and covered the dining-room table.

  Sibley’s house was like his office, every surface gleaming and smooth, everything in its place. It was quiet and dustless and cool.

  Julian remembered how excited he’d been when he’d first seen the house. All he’d known then was that his uncle had moved to San Francisco and wanted to meet him. At first, his mom hadn’t wanted him to go. She’d said his father never wanted to see his family, and they never wanted to see him. But then she decided it was time to let bygones be bygones.

  It was right before Halloween. Glowering jack-o-lanterns lined his uncle’s wide steps. As Julian listened to the doorbell chime, black silhouettes of witches and devils had peered down from the golden windows. Inside, he had been awestruck by the enormous rooms, the gleaming silver, the sophisticated elegance of his aunt and uncle.

  They’d set up a formal visitation schedule—dinner on the first Friday of the month—except when Sibley and Daphne had other obligations, which turned out to be often. When his mother got the China grant, Sibley was her only real option. She’d stood, rubbing her slim fingers together, her face nervous and beseeching. Sibley appraised the two of them by the light of the chandelier in the cavernous entryway. “Not a problem,” he’d said after an awkward moment. “Plenty of room here.”

  Now Sibley’s steps were lined with urns of gaudy spring flowers. Julian unlocked the front door and found, on the side table, a postcard of a monkey staring at a giant golden Buddha. On the back was scribbled: Working hard! So many things that would interest you—wish you were here! Love, Mom. Julian folded the postcard in half and stuck it in his back pocket, then jogged up the wide main staircase and down the hallway to Preston’s room.

  Preston, still in his school uniform, was sitting at his desk, playing a computer game. Julian came up behind him and gently lifted off his headphones.

  “New game?” he said softly.

  Preston shot down an alien spaceship. “Gram sent it to me.”

  Technically, Julian thought, she was his grandmother too. But she lived in Boston and had never even sent him a birthday card.

  “Don’t you have homework, buddy?”

  Preston closed the game with a sigh. “I’m supposed to pick a topic for my final project.” He swiveled his chair toward Julian. “On ecology. We were suppo
sed to have one last week, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “Ecology’s a pretty big field. There must be a million things you could pick.”

  Preston slumped down farther in his chair. “I’ve been thinking and thinking, but I’m stumped!”

  Julian laughed. “Well, if you’re ‘stumped,’ maybe you should write about a tree.”

  “A tree?” Preston said doubtfully. “I was thinking maybe spiders.”

  “Come on, you live in California, land of the greatest trees on Earth.”

  “You mean redwood trees?”

  Julian had suggested a tree because he couldn’t resist the pun. He hadn’t been thinking about Robin. But if Preston became an expert on redwoods, all the better! His uncle wouldn’t be able to sway him so easily then. Preston’s soul was unformed, and still innocent, he thought. He couldn’t stand to think of him ending up like Uncle Sibley.

  “Redwoods might work,” said Preston, thoughtfully. “We went on a field trip to Muir Woods last year. Do you think there’s books on redwoods? We have to make a bibliography.”

  “There must be.” Julian sat down at Preston’s computer. “You have Internet on this thing, right?”

  Preston nodded.

  “You can start there.” He pointed to the set of encyclopedias on Preston’s bookshelf. Preston picked up Volume 21, Ra–Ru, and began looking for “Redwood.” Julian opened the online catalog for the San Francisco Public Library. “Here’s The Ever-Living Tree: The Life and Times of the Coast Redwood,” he said. “And Coast Redwood: A Natural and Cultural History. You’ll definitely have enough for a bibliography.”

  He typed “redwoods” into the search engine and clicked on one link promisingly titled “Fun Facts for Kids.” “The magnificent coastal redwood,” it began, “once covered millions of acres, from southern Oregon to the Santa Cruz Mountains in California. Today, experts estimate that about 4 percent of the original redwood forest remains.”