Windfall

by Sara Cassidy

  “Uncivilized to share stuff?” Silas asks. “That’s crazy!”

  “It threatened the European view of economics—you can’t just give stuff away!” Mom says. “The Europeans raided potlatches and arrested people. They seized ceremonial objects and gifts. They took food, ornately carved masks, feast bowls, you name it. First Nations are still asking for these items back. Once in a while, a museum does the right thing.”

  I leaf through the book and come across a photograph of three people dressed in woven capes. They are wearing shining earrings made, the book says, from abalone shells. They stand in front of a huge wooden building.

  “That’s a longhouse,” Mom tells me. “Several families lived together in one building. They were very common along our coast.”

  “How big were they?”

  “Well, it says this one was fifty feet by a hundred feet. So, five thousand square feet,” Mom says. “Probably seven or eight families lived in it. That’s the size of that house going up on Dallas Road. That house is for only one family. Four people.”

  “How big is our house?” I ask.

  “Twelve hundred square feet,” Mom answers.

  “And that’s big enough? I mean, are we happy?” The question leaps from my mouth.

  “We’re very close,” Mom says, reaching out and ruffling my hair.

  It’s true. We’re usually at each other’s elbows. “We keep each other warm,” I say, without really thinking.

  “There’s truth to that, Liza.” Mom nods. “I’m always amazed how little oil we need to heat this house.”

  Chapter Eight

  Olive and I are out riding our bikes on the weekend when I recognize a tall man carrying a box to the curb. It’s Mitchell Harlan, the minister from Richard’s funeral. “Hi!” I call. “Remember me?”

  Mitchell tilts his head one way, then another. He squints, and then his face relaxes. “Of course! The memorial! Funny. I was just thinking of Richard. I always do when I put out a box.”

  We look down at a cardboard carton filled with red apples. “This is the fourth I’ve lugged across the yard this fall. My apple tree is going bananas. Or it’s going apples. A bumper crop.”

  Mitchell invites us in for tea and apple cake. I explain that Olive knew Richard too.

  “I always felt comfortable with Richard,” Mitchell says, slicing the cake. “With some people who live on the street, I’m on my guard. They’ve had difficult lives and are often angry for good reason. But even though they have good reason to be angry, that doesn’t mean they won’t bite. You have to be careful. Richard wasn’t at all like that.”

  “He was sweet,” Olive says.

  Mitchell looks at us carefully. He bites his lip. “I’m going to tell you something,” he finally says. “It’s a sad story, but it teaches. All Richard ever asked me for was fresh fruit and vegetables. I liked how he said vegetables. He said every syllable—ve-ge-ta-bles. When you’re eating from food banks, you get a lot of donuts and bread and canned food. Nothing fresh.

  “One afternoon I got a call from the police. Richard had gone into someone’s yard and taken a few apples. The people who lived there were not happy. To them, he was just some dirty intruder.” Mitchell shakes his head. “Poor Richard.”

  “What happened?” Olive and I chorus. We’re horrified.

  “If you were the police, what would you do? The officers led Richard out of the yard, but there was no way they were going to arrest him. They could have charged him with trespass and theft. The homeowners wanted them to. The police asked me to talk to them. I sat at their kitchen table, and I told them Richard was harmless. I told them he had gotten confused. I said he would never trespass again. That’s what they wanted to hear.

  “It was weeks before Richard stopped trembling. I did my best to comfort him, but he didn’t sleep well for many nights.”

  Mitchell reached for the teapot and topped up our cups. “The saddest thing was that Richard didn’t even pick those apples,” he said. “He just gathered windfall.”

  “Windfall?” I asked.

  “Apples that fall to the ground because of wind or the simple pull of gravity.”

  Mitchell looked at us sadly. “When I was a boy, my mom would ask me, ‘If a hungry man steals a loaf of bread, is it really stealing?’ I believe food can’t be stolen. Hunger is different from greed.”

  Olive nods. “My mom says that if someone asks for water, we should always say yes. And if we’re sharing a cup of water with someone, it’s wrong to drink more than our share. Water belongs equally to everyone.”

  “I hate those companies that put it in bottles and sell it,” I say sourly.

  “Some say that water, air and land belong to everyone equally. They say that property is theft—just by owning something, you’ve taken it. I agree,” Mitchell says. “I certainly believe that my apples are common property. Especially after what happened to Richard. That’s why I put them out for neighbors.”

  Olive and I pedal home with plastic bags of Mitchell’s apples hanging from our handlebars. At one point I tease Olive about having an emotion to report. At Olive’s house before supper, everyone holds hands and talks about how they felt that day.

  “That story sure was sad,” Olive says. “Imagine calling the police for something like that.”

  I’m not feeling sad though. I’m actually feeling kind of happy. I’m happy Richard did something. He tried to get what he needed.

  It’s funny how I keep being reminded of Richard. Mitchell’s story and the bag of apples bumping against my knee as I pedal keep Richard close. Even the startling emptiness of Richard’s bench is an echo of his life. But echoes eventually die too, don’t they?

  Chapter Nine

  At lunch, someone grabs my elbow. It’s Niall. As far as I’m concerned, he is the cutest boy in the school. His wavy black hair shines down past his shoulders. He’s the school high-jump champion, wiry and nimble. He has a perpetual cold, which means there’s not a lot of competition for dating him. Niall makes supercool stuff. He once connected an amplifier to the cutlery drawer so the rattling of knives and forks was broadcast through his house. He did the same thing with a drainpipe. He called it audio art. Usually Niall is mellow, but today he seems agitated.

  “Liza, I’m going to propose a compost program,” he says. Niall is in BRRR!, Boys for Renewable Resources, Really! They’re GRRR!’s sibling organization. “It’s cheap and simple. A bucket in every classroom for lunch scraps. We only need to find a farmer to pick up the compost once a week.”

  “I can find a farmer,” I say, a little too eagerly. Mom knows a few farmers.

  “Killjoy will probably say no,” says Niall, “unless there’s a whole lot of support for it.”

  Mrs. Reynolds—Killjoy—has blocked every one of BRRR!’s and GRRR!’s initiatives. Last year we held a bicycle wash and a plant sale. We raised hundreds of dollars for solar hot-water panels for the school. But Mrs. Reynolds said the panels were aesthetically detrimental. She meant they were ugly.

  “I was going to ask if you would help me draw up a petition and collect signatures,” says Niall.

  A petition sounds exciting—if I’m working on it with him.

  Niall and I spend the rest of the lunch hour in the library. We laugh a lot trying to get the wording right. The petition can’t be too brazen or too shy.

  Niall asks where I had gone last week. He’d seen me and the boys get in Mom’s car. I tell him a little about Richard.

  “Yeah, I used to see him around,” Niall says. “He was just a bum.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I say, surprised Niall would be so cold. “He was homeless.”

  “Yeah, I know. Lots of those guys on the street are totally fine, and young. Why don’t they just get a job?”

  “Well, he was sick, I think. He lost his parents when he was young, and never recovered.”

  “Come on, Liza. Isn’t that lame?” Niall said. “I mean, if my parents died, I’d be freaked, but I’
d recover. Why are we supposed to feel sorry for these people? They don’t do anything to help themselves.”

  For a second, I want to agree with Niall. If it was Richard’s fault that he was the way he was, I wouldn’t have to feel bad about the way he died.

  But I surprise myself. I say something I’d never thought through before: “Maybe that was the best Richard could do.”

  Niall considers this. “Okay. Maybe,” he says. “But, come on. How could he live like that?”

  “I wonder about that too,” I say. “But I don’t know what went on in his head. Maybe he was thinking about cool things, having beautiful daydreams. He was serene.”

  “Passive.”

  “So what? Do we always have to be doing, making, taking, shopping?” I ask. “Look at my friend, Olive. Her family decided not to buy anything for a whole year.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “It’s good for the environment. And they say it’s kind of spiritual. There was a lot of stuff they thought they needed, but really, they only wanted it.”

  “But that’s not as humiliating as living on the street,” Niall says. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with wanting something, Liza. Needs are basic: food, shelter. But what’s life without friendship”— he looks at me—“or, say, art?”

  “Richard walked with a really light footprint,” I point out.

  “That wasn’t what he was trying to do. He suffered too much,” Niall says. “He was bent over, wrinkled up and worn out. He was not thriving. And what did he give anyone else? Nothing!”

  “Well, he wasn’t hurting anyone,” I sputter. “People say that he made them slow down and count their blessings.”

  “He didn’t mean to. Those were accidental benefits,” Niall says. “He was lazy.”

  “He was supremely gentle,” I say.

  “Stupefied.”

  “He wasn’t totally healthy,” I say.“Or he was shut out. There was nothing for him to do.”

  “I guess,” Niall considers.

  “Richard may not have intended to make a difference by living the way he did, but the fact is, he did make a difference,” I say. “He certainly never meant harm. Which is a lot more than you can say for others—like oil companies.”

  Niall smiles. “I never thought it through before. You’re smart, Liza.”

  I feel warm. Then I feel too warm. My heart pounds and my face burns, and possibly my hair stands on end.

  “You too,” I mumble.

  Luckily, Niall shifts gears. “Let’s print these off.” We argue over the best font and then send the petition to the printer.

  A couple of days later, Niall and I meet in the library to tally up our signatures. Between the two of us, we have collected 246 names. Some of the kindergartners signed in crayon.

  “That’s ninety-two percent of the student body,” Niall gloats as we staple the pages together.

  “I’d photocopy those if I were you,” says Mme. Falette, our school librarian. She gives us a knowing look and says something about despots and destruction of records.

  Ten minutes later, we slide the thick petition into Mrs. Reynolds’s mailbox.

  “She can’t possibly say no,” Niall says, turning to me. “What do you think?”

  I’d been thinking that I had to get a little braver on the girl-likes-boy-who-maybe-likes-girl-back front. “I think we make a good team,” I say, putting out my fist. He taps it with his.

  “I’m down with that,” he says and grins.

  I feel my hair rise again. When Niall looks back as he hops on his bike, he probably thinks I’ve been electrocuted.

  From: LittleLizaJane@whoohoo.com

  To: listserve, GRRR!

  Subject: Don’t tell Olive!

  Hi Everyone!

  I’m hosting a surprise clothing and book exchange in honor of Olive’s family’s crazy/amazing year-long commitment to live with what they have.

  Come to my house on Saturday at 1:00 pm with books you’ve already read and clothes you’re tired of.

  We’ll spread everything out. Everyone gets a number, and we take turns choosing two items from the pile. We keep going until no one wants anything.

  I’ll make sure there’s a change room, mirrors and snacks.

  We’ll probably have clothes and books left over. Could someone volunteer to take them to the Women in Need thrift shop after the party?

  Hope to see you there! Don’t tell Olive!

  Liza

  Chapter Ten

  Leland is howling. Silas is perched on a branch, bawling. Imogen stands between them, looking helpless in spite of the chain saw in her hands. Today, her T-shirt says Weeds are flowers too. —Eeyore.

  “Hey, Leland,” Mom soothes. “Robert bought a lathe today. He’s going to make soup bowls from the wood.” Robert is Mom’s boyfriend. He’s a bit of a jerk, but I can handle him.

  “He could make you a spinning top too,” I coo.

  Leland scowls.

  “The tree isn’t happy,” Mom says. “She’s dying.”

  Leland’s features soften. He takes a few sob-shuddered breaths. “Could I plant a seed from one of the apples?” he asks. “And grow another tree just like it?”

  “Sure,” Imogen says. “You could grow a tree exactly like it, if you want. But not from a seed. If you want a tree that’s genetically the same as this one, you need to graft parts of this tree to the trunk of another apple tree.”

  “Graft?” Silas says. “You stick them together, right? And they grow into one tree.”

  “Black electrician’s tape does the trick,” Imogen says.” But I’ve got to cut them just right, and it’s got to be done in spring.”

  Leland sniffs and looks at Mom. “Can we?”

  “That’s a great idea,” Mom smiles.

  “I’ll cut a few scions—those are small branches,” Imogen explains. “We’ll keep them somewhere dark and cool until grafting time.”

  “Under my bed?” Leland suggests.

  Imogen laughs. “Let’s bury them in your yard. In a plastic bag. The earth is nice and cool.”

  “We can mark the spot with rocks!” Silas cries.

  “Like a gravestone,” Leland says grimly.

  “No,” Silas says. “Like buried treasure!”

  Imogen pulls a penknife from her pocket. “Okay, everyone?”

  “I’ll get some ziplock bags,” Mom says.

  After we bury the scions, Mom packs the boys off to the playground so they don’t have to witness the destruction.

  We picked the last apples a few days ago. Now we dismantle the tree house. We pry out nails and pull down board after board.

  After that, Imogen fires up the chain saw. It whines and gripes, tearing up the afternoon air with its noise. It growls through branch after branch. The limbs crash to the ground and stay where they fall. I half-imagined they’d get up and walk away, as if freed. But no. This is the end.

  Imogen chooses a few thick pieces for Robert to turn on his lathe. The rest she bucks into firewood, which I stack under the porch.

  As we work, Imogen tells me she grew up in the North, in the forest. Her parents were “back-to-the-landers.” They lived off the land as much as possible. They hunted deer, gathered berries, raised sheep for wool. From the age of six, Imogen was chopping wood for the woodstove.

  “Apple wood burns long and hotter than most woods. It smells supersweet,” Imogen says dreamily as she pours tea from her thermos. “You guys will have a cozy winter.”

  She is perched on the stump of our old tree. The yard looks bald and exposed. The gentle drifts of sawdust belie the savagery.

  “It’s always sad to see an apple tree go,” Imogen says. “The people of Vancouver Island used to grow most of their food. Now, we get food from a truck or barge or container ship. And you can bet it wasn’t grown on a family farm. Chances are the food you eat traveled more than five hundred miles to get to your belly. It’s crazy. Windfall I got a blackberry Popsicle this summer that was made i
n Florida! It came from the opposite corner of the continent in a refrigerated truck!”

  “That’s a lot of gasoline,” I said.

  “You know what’s in a blackberry Popsicle? Blackberries and water. Blackberries grow like weeds around here, and water—well, it falls on us half the year.” Sure enough, a light rain had begun to fall.

  “My neighbors grow food in their backyard,” I say, thinking of Olive’s family.

  “Oh, yeah. People are starting to farm again—in the city too. The mayor recently planted tomatoes and kale at city hall. My friend Valerie gathers her own salt. She boils ocean water on the stove until the water steams off. She follows the 100-Mile Diet. She doesn’t eat anything grown more than a hundred miles away. I’m working on a ten-meter diet. This past spring, my landlord let me put a vegetable garden in the back of the apartment building. I’d been guerrilla gardening back there for years anyway.”

  “Guerrilla gardening?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I grew tomatoes and peas in an area behind the garage without him knowing. Guerrilla gardeners do this all over the world. They take over land that isn’t being used—or that’s being badly used—and grow food. Some grow wildflowers to add beauty to a derelict area. There’s a group that drops seed bombs from airplanes. They make ‘bombs’ of dirt and compost crammed with wildflower seeds. On International Sunflower Guerilla Gardening Day, May 1, thousands of people around the world plant sunflower seeds in public places. Imagine: sunflowers sprout up in parking lots, outside of banks, along highways and bike paths.

  “People have gardened like this for hundreds of years. There are apple trees along the banks of the canals in northern Utah that were planted one hundred and fifty years ago by the people who dug the canals. They buried apple cores from their lunches in the freshly turned soil, knowing they’d be back one day to collect the apples. In South Africa, the very poor who live in slums plant vegetables on any spare bit of land. It brings them together as a community.”