by Sara Cassidy
“They’re not just quiet,” Leland says. “They know how to be quiet.”
“Yeah.” Imogen stops for a moment. “Imagine how loud the world would be if there were no trees.”
“Mom says it was part of an orchard, like, a century ago,” I say.
“That’s for sure,” Imogen says. “If you climb high up and look into your neighbors’ yards, you’ll see other trees from the orchard.”
“Can we really still climb it?” Silas asks.
“Just don’t go under the tree house. And avoid this area.” Imogen points to a split in the trunk. “You should be all right if you climb that side. But your tree is likely infected with Armillaria, or honey fungus. It’s a root disease that spreads to other trees. I’m sorry, kids, but it looks as though your friend will have to come down.”
My throat burns. Silas looks to the sky, trying to keep his tears from falling. They trickle toward his ears. Olive knits her eyebrows as if she can think herself out of this situation. And Leland? He slides down from the fence and stretches his arms around our tree’s rough trunk. “It’s okay,” we hear him whisper. “It will be all right.”
After Imogen leaves, Olive and I step branch to branch, climbing up, up, up. When we get as high as we can, we look across the neighborhood.
“There!” Olive cries out, pointing. Sure enough, there’s an apple tree in the backyard of the house two doors down. “There too!” she says excitedly. We see tree after tree. The neighborhood unfolds before us. The trees may be separated by fences, but they’re in a pattern.
“Wow,” Olive breathes. “We live in an orchard!”
It is amazing. All these years, these trees have been quietly growing apples and sleeping through winter. They are uncomplaining and patient—like Richard.
Chapter Five
Richard’s funeral is today. Halfway through the morning, Mrs. Reynolds pages Silas, Leland and me to her office. Mrs. Reynolds is our new principal. She loves rules. Some of the kids call her Mrs. Killjoy. It’s mean. She makes us feel mean. Our school was a happy place before she arrived. Since she took over, we’re no longer allowed to use teachers’ first names or make calls on the office phone unless it’s a matter of life or death. We’re not allowed to throw balls against the school wall or climb in the ravine behind the school.
When Mrs. Reynolds started as principal, she met with about forty students. She met with Abelius, who has impulse-control issues; in kindergarten, he squished a caterpillar we were all sketching. Another kid she called in was Janine, who’s in my grade and still isn’t reading. She met with this kid Max, who is super artistic but cries a lot, and Amelia, who is really, really large.
She called in all the kids who sort of stuck out, or weren’t normal, whatever that means. That included me, Leland and Silas. She mentioned that we were late for school often and said something about how difficult life must be for our single mom.
“It’s not difficult, it’s fun,” Leland said.
“It must be hard not having a dad,” Mrs. Reynolds said.
“We have a dad,” I said, surprised by the anger in my voice. “He just lives far away.”
“I see,” she said snidely, as if our dad didn’t want to see us, which is total bunk.
“We’re usually late because I’m building with Lego and Leland is coloring and Liza is playing chess with Mom,” explained Silas. “We’re late because we’re happy.”
Mrs. Reynolds’s mouth opened and shut and opened again. She looked like a trout.
“Mom works hard,” Leland said thoughtfully. “All single moms do.”
Silas and I tried not to laugh.
Leland looked at us. “Well, that’s what Mom says!”
Silas and I shook with laughter. Leland laughed too. Mrs. Reynolds stood up to let us know we could go.
So now we’re in her office again. It’s totally tidy. The pencils in the pencil jar are all nibs up and perfectly sharpened. The three books on her shelf are about business management. The one plant is plastic. Nothing is out of place. Mom once said that Mrs. Reynolds was a “control freak.”
Mrs. Reynolds takes a stuffed owl down from a shelf and drops it into Leland’s lap. I guess it’s supposed to make him feel comfortable. “Your mom called to say she is taking you out of school before recess. Where are you going?”
My mouth locks. It’s none of her business where we’re going. Silas gazes out the window.
“To a funeral,” Leland answers.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Reynolds says with genuine sympathy— I think.
“Yeah, it’s not a fun-eral.” Leland snickers at his own joke. “Mom says Silas and I can stay in the car, but Liza’s going into the graveyard.”
“Who died?” Mrs. Reynolds asks.
I close my eyes and frown. I’m trying to keep her out. Leland’s too young to realize she’s being nosy.
“A friend,” Leland says. “Well, a neighbor, kind of. But not the kind that has a house. He slept in the park.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Reynolds’s head jerks back. “A homeless person?”
“Kind of.” Leland glances at Silas. Tears run down Silas’s cheeks as he looks out the window.
“His name was Richard,” I burst out.
I stand to leave and motion to my brothers to follow. I want to get out of there. Only Leland says goodbye. Mrs. Reynolds says nothing.
We sit on the edge of a planter in the schoolyard and have our snacks. Mom drives up as I finish my carrot. There is no garbage can, so I ram the end of my carrot into the planter’s soil. I leave the green end sticking out. “Liza!” Silas hisses. Then he shoves his carrot into the dirt too.
On the way to the Royal Oak Burial Park, I breathe on the car window and write my name in the mist. The end of my finger is dirty from the planter. I think of Mrs. Reynolds with her tidy office and her clean hands. Richard was dirty and rumpled and didn’t have a job or money, but he was a better person than Mrs. Reynolds.
Chapter Six
The boys and I like the idea of missing school, but none of us wants to stand by Richard’s grave. I’m wearing a skirt and itchy tights. At least Mom agreed I could wear high-tops and a jean jacket, seeing as Richard wasn’t exactly Mr. Fancy.
Mom thought it was better for the boys to sit in the parking lot than not to go at all. “It’s different from normal to be in a hot car in the middle of nowhere. Doing things differently is a way to honor death,” she explains as we drive along. “Death makes things strange. It makes us look at everything again. In a way, it wakes things up.”
“Like that tree over Richard’s bench,” Silas leaps in. “I never noticed it before. But now that there’s no Richard, it’s like it sings. It’s a really neat tree. It’s got long droopy branches like a willow, except it can’t be a willow—the leaves are shaped like keyholes.”
“A weeping oak,” Mom murmurs.
“The bench sure stands out now,” Leland adds. “It’s so empty, it shines.”
“I feel guilty when I see it,” Silas says. “Like I’m betraying him.”
“Survivors’ guilt,” Mom says. “You feel guilty that you’re alive and he isn’t.”
“Yeah,” Silas says. “And I felt guilty when he was alive because I had a house and nice clothes.”
“Why didn’t he have anything?” Leland asks. “Why did he live outside?”
“I don’t really know,” Mom says. “But he probably had a mental illness.”
“He was sick in his mind?” Silas asks.
“More like his mind didn’t help him get the things he needed,” Mom says. She pulls the car into a parking lot that’s empty except for two other cars. “Here we are.”
The boys pull out their books. Mom insisted they pack serious books, no comics. That was more respectful. She and I stroll across the huge lawn of the “park.” It is surprisingly beautiful, quiet and treed. We’re careful not to step on the plaques in the grass that mark where people’s ashes are buried. Their tidy rows remind me of the o
rchard.
At a knee-high pile of dirt, we meet up with our neighbor, Nicole, and two men who introduce themselves as Richard’s neighbors. I ask if they left the sunflower and the photograph, and they nod. Nicole has learned that Richard had no living relatives, so the city is paying for his cremation.
“I’ll bet Richard would have preferred a green burial,” Nicole says. She tells us about her mother’s “green” funeral in England. In a green burial, she says, the body is put in a biodegradable casket, something like cardboard or bamboo. The body isn’t preserved with formaldehyde to make it last. “You want the body to rot. Or, sorry, to decompose,” she says. “Family and friends plant native plants on the burial mound. There are no stone slabs or bronze plaques. Instead, the grave becomes part of the ecosystem.”
A tall bony man in dark jeans and a loose suit jacket strides toward us. He carries a simple wood box. Mom puts her arm around me as I realize with a shock that Richard is in the box. Well, his ashes are.
The thin man introduces himself as Mitchell Harlan. He’s a church minister who tries to help people living on the street. He often visited Richard.
“We are here to remember and say farewell to Richard Karl Lind,” he begins. It’s a shock to hear Richard’s full name. “Richard was a gentle, very private person who lived in public. He was a man of few words, but he did once tell me that his parents died in a car accident. He was left alone in the world at nineteen years old. Perhaps he never recovered. He lived in Meegan Park for twenty-seven years, often inviting the kindness of strangers—”
“And neighbors,” Nicole breaks in.
“Yes,” Mitchell agrees. “Richard had a gift for turning strangers into neighbors. And you did your best to make him your neighbor.
“Richard accepted his fate, though I believe he accepted it too well. I never learned to what extent Richard chose the life he lived. In my mind, he was a mild and meek soul who didn’t know how to ask for help.
“Only two weeks ago, I said to him, ‘Richard, you are getting too old to be sleeping outside.’ ‘I know,’ he agreed. I said, ‘How about we finally get you a bed somewhere?’ ‘Okay,’ he said.” Mitchell imitates Richard’s thick voice, and we smile. “It was the first time he had ever agreed—” Tears stream from Mitchell’s eyes. A crow flies overhead, so close we hear its wings beat against the air. “Well, Richard,” he continues. “This sure isn’t the home I imagined for you. But I am glad you are here, in the splendor of this old park. I hope you will be at home in this place.”
Mitchell invites us each to say a few words. Nicole speaks first. “Richard, you always reminded me to take in the world around me, to question my hurry and my greed. You made me thankful for what I have,” she says. “Goodbye.”
Mom reads a poem called “This is what was bequeathed us.” She tells us it is by Gregory Orr, an American poet. It’s about what people are left with when someone dies. The last part goes:
No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.
No meaning but what we find here.
No purpose but what we make.
That, and the beloved’s clear instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake.
The two men say in unison, “Peace be with you, Richard.”
Then it’s my turn. My mouth is dry. I feel weird. I’ve never said anything more to Richard than “Hi.” Now, words work slowly from my mouth, difficult as gravel, “Thank you, Richard.”
Mitchell lowers the small box into the hole in the ground, fills the hole with dirt and lays a plaque with Richard’s name on top.
In the morning, I had picked a few late-blooming flowers from the park, even though Silas reminded me we weren’t allowed to. The park is a protected area. I decided an exception could be made for Richard. He had lived in the park for so long. I lay my bouquet beside the plaque.
“Beautiful,” Nicole whispers.
I feel like a hypocrite. Why didn’t I give Richard flowers when he was alive? Was I afraid of him? Is it easier to be kind to him now that he’s dead?
Mom tucks a few toonies into the fresh dirt of the grave, and everyone stands there.
After a few minutes, the adults start chatting about the weather, the traffic and a new highway overpass. I can’t believe it! How can they talk about such stupid things? Then they’re joking with each other, waving goodbye with a cheery “great to see you.”
I look back at the place where the trees bow over Richard’s remains, as if they know he is there. I remember how I said “thank you.” What was I thanking him for?
For not getting angry that I did nothing to help him?
“You look mad, Liza,” Silas says when I get back to the car. I am angry at the stupid adults with their meaningless prattle. But something else is bothering me. I’m angry at Richard! For what? For making me feel helpless for so long?
I picture him in his dirty clothes, with his knotted hair, and I feel annoyed. I am tired of feeling bad for him. It isn’t my fault he was the way he was. I dive into one of the books the boys packed. By the time we are back at school, I have forgotten about Richard.
Chapter Seven
I’m putting the nose on a papier-mâché piggy bank for Leland when the lovers’ phone rattles with force. Silas holds the tin can to my ear, since my hands are covered with goo.
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A moment later, Olive bursts into our kitchen. “That’s it! I want a shower with real soap and real shampoo. I’ve been washing my hair with eggs and beer for seven months. I want new clothes. And a new book—smelly-new, you know? I want the cover to crackle when I open it, like there’s a secret between me and the book. I know a secondhand book tells the same story, but I want something that’s all mine. I want socks that fit like they were made for my feet. I know tons of fossil fuels are burned to make them and package them and ship them from China. Oh yeah, I know it.”
“Socks from China?” Leland is amazed. “That’s over the sea, right?”
“Olive, you’re normally so unflappable,” Mom says. “Imperturbable.”
“Unrufflable,” Silas adds.
“Unshakeable,” I put in.
“Dispassionate.”
“Nonchalant.”
“Downright unflusterable.”
“Not anymore!” Olive fires back. “I’m perturbed. Ruffled. Flustered. Flapped!” She cracks a smile. “Seriously, Mom won’t even get me new shoes!”
We all look down. Her runners look like they’ve been clawed by raccoons.
“Hey,” Mom says gently. “Liza has some old—barely worn—shoes that might fit you. Hop in the shower. I’ll see what I can find.”
Olive looks sheepish. “You know, I love living simply. Really. I like biking everywhere. We have more time together as a family since we’re not running around shopping for this and that. I’ve learned to mend and be resourceful and self-reliant. I’ve tried to be happy with what I’ve got.”
“You want a little buffing up,” Mom suggests.
“Something in the latest style?” I venture.
“No!” Olive says. “I look at the girls at school dressed in the latest from the Gap, and I can see they’re naked underneath. I’m not a pervert—I mean I see who they are. Here. Now. Maybe you have to live the way I’ve been living to understand that.”
“I think I understand it,” Silas says. I’m not surprised. Silas is happy being his dreamy self, and he’s no flashy dresser.
“I’m tired of everything I have,” Olive continues. “And I’ve read everything in the library.”
“Here.” Mom hands Olive a fluffy pile of bath towel, face towel and facecloth. She plunks a bar of soap still in its wrapper and an unopened bottle of shampoo from her last hotel stay on top. “The spa awaits.”
While Olive is in the shower, Mom, Silas, L
eland and I ransack our closets and bookshelves and fill a basket with clothes and a box with books. I can’t believe how much stuff we have that we don’t need.
Olive tears up when she sees them. “Thanks,” she says. “I feel better. Ready for Round Two of walking with a small footprint.”
She leaves our house scrubbed and shining and dressed head-to-toe in “new” clothes.
The phone rings. Mom answers. “Shhh!” she says to us. “It’s the pomologist.” Into the phone Mom says, “Oh, I see…uh-huh…Isn’t that amazing!… No kidding…Wow, really? That’s unbelievable…Right, no problem… Got it…yes. Thank you,” and hangs up.
“It’s a Winter Rambo!” she tells us. “Pale yellow skin streaked red, tender sub-acid flesh. Asymmetrical in shape. Sweet flavor. It’s been in the records—in England and the United States—for six hundred years! Shakespeare could have eaten one!”
It’s cool to know the name of our beloved apple. Now, the tree has a history. It gives me the same feeling as when I heard Richard’s full name at the funeral. I feel like I can do something about the tree, save it maybe. As for Richard Karl Lind, maybe I could do something for him too.
At supper, Mom says that loading Olive up with all our extra stuff reminded her of a job she once did. She was helping Kwakwaka’wakw people insure potlatch objects that a museum was returning to them. The museum was repatriating these items a hundred years after basically stealing them from the First Nation community. Mom explains that the word potlatch means “to give away” or “a gift.” A potlatch is a party thrown by the hereditary chief or a wealthy family in the community. The main purpose is to share wealth, which includes stories and songs.
“In the past they shared dried food, fish oil, even canoes,” Mom explains. “A family’s status was raised not by having a lot, but by how they shared.” She gets a book from the shelf and opens it to a photo of an awesome-looking man with dark hair and a strong nose. “This is Chief O’waxalagalis of the Kwakwaka’wakw. He said, ‘It is a strict law that bids us distribute our property among our friends and neighbors. It is a good law.’ But the Europeans outlawed the potlatch. They considered it uncivilized!”
