The Tree of Death

by Marcia Muller

  I glanced at the hook midway between the window and the patio door. Frank’s ring with the alarm system key and the key to the padlock on the patio gate hung there. He was so absentminded he had to hang his key ring up every morning or he might lose it in his wanderings through the premises. Of course, if he stayed at his desk and worked, that would be less of a danger.

  “Don’t worry.” Frank’s eyes had followed mine. “I won’t forget to reset it.”

  “Good.”

  “And Miss Oliverez…”

  “Yes?”

  “After the opening you’d better start looking for another place of employment.”

  He’d threatened to fire me before, so his words didn’t surprise me. “Sure, Frank.” I turned to go.

  “I’m serious. I’ve already talked to my Colombian about taking over your position.”

  Slowly I turned back. “Tony? You’ve got to be kidding;”

  He assumed an aggressive stance. “Tony is qualified. He has been education director for over six months now.”

  “And he knows nothing about Mexican art. He hasn’t done a thing as education director, and everybody knows it. You yourself generally call him your ‘stupid Colombian.” Besides, the board would never approve his appointment.“

  “The board approved his initial appointment.”

  “That was on your recommendation. They didn’t know him. Now they do, and they’ll never-”

  “That will be all, Miss Oliverez.”

  “You know what, Frank?”

  “I said, that will be all.”

  “I don’t regret what I said to you out on the loading dock. I don’t regret a word of it.” And before it could erupt into one of our full-scale arguments, I left the office. When I went to set the alarm, I was so angry that my hands shook and I could barely turn the key from the up to the down position. That done, I almost ran to my car. Home. I needed to go home.

  Of course, traffic was terrible. I sat behind the wheel of the Rabbit, fuming and muttering. Just let Frank try to put Tony in my job. All it would do was prove to the board that he was a certifiable lunatic. He ought to be stopped before he did irreparable damage to the museum. He ought to be…

  A horn honked behind me. I gestured angrily, tried to shift the Rabbit into gear too quickly, and stalled. By the time I got it started, the light had changed.

  Maybe I should look for another job. The problems at the museum were sapping my energy. I was there to care for our collections, dammit, not act as referee for a bunch of quarrelsome, petty…

  This time I was ready for the light. I shot through it, heading crosstown.

  Santa Barbara is a seaside city of around 75,000, stretching north along the coast to the University of California, my alma mater, and south to Montecito, where the rich people live. The shoreline curves along the Pacific, edged with beaches and parks. To the east, softly rounded hills form a protective bowl. The beauty of the natural setting is further enhanced by the graceful Spanish architecture, which reflects the town’s heritage. Santa Barbara has become one of the foremost vacation areas in California and is a haven for the wealthy and famous, many of whom are seeking to escape the cheap glitter of Hollywood to the south. My house was not in one of their exclusive neighborhoods, but midway between the hills and the shore, in the closest thing we have to a barrio.

  The neighbors’ kids were playing ball in the street, the way I’d played there years before. I pulled into my driveway, waved to them, and went up on the front porch. The house was a typical green stucco California bungalow. The thick palm tree in the front yard and the fuschia that ran wild over the porch did much to disguise it, but the fact remained that one of these days I was going to have to shell out for a new paint job. I took my mail from the box-three more bills-and went inside.

  The day’s heat had built up in there. I opened the windows on the front and side of the living room, kicked off my shoes, and set the bills on my little desk. There was something I had to take care of. What? Oh, yes, the car re-registration. There it was, in the pigeonhole where I kept urgent papers. The pigeonhole was crammed full. I wrote a check to the Department of Motor Vehicles and sealed it in the envelope. Whatever else was urgent could wait until after the opening.

  Then I went to the old-fashioned kitchen, got a glass of cool white wine, and came back to the living room. I sat down in a rocker by the side window, enjoying the breeze. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the polished hardwood floors, and the thin white curtains billowed. For the first time today I felt at peace.

  This house was my haven, the place I felt most comfortable in all the world. It ought to be; I’d been born in this house, raised here, lived here all my life. Up until six years ago, when I’d finished college, my mother had lived here, too.

  Then, the day after my graduation from UCSB, she’d announced she was going to sell.

  Why? I’d asked her. Because both of her girls were through college and she was going to retire.

  That was understandable. Mama had worked as a domestic for the city’s wealthiest families-including Isabel Cunningham-ever since my father died when I was only three. She’d managed to buy the house, put money away, and help both me and my older sister Carlota through college. For us, the tradition of machismo, so prevalent in most Mexican-American homes, had died with my father. The women in the Oliverez household had to be strong and independent, according to Mama. We made our way in the world, refusing to let anyone, male or female, put us down. And she was the strongest.

  My mother had worked hard; it was natural she should want-and deserve-to retire. But why sell the house?

  Well, Mama explained, there was this mobile home park up in Goleta, near the beach. They had a swimming pool and a recreation center and a crafts workshop. They organized trips to plays and the symphony, and every Saturday night there was a barbecue. A mobile home would be much easier to keep up than this house. And besides-this with a wicked gleam in her eye-most of the people were around her age. There would be widowers.

  Mama! I had exclaimed.

  What did I expect? she demanded. She’d been without a man long enough. Of course, it wasn’t anything she thought I would understand. I hadn’t been without once since I was old enough to flirt.

  That stilled my objections, and made me think. All those years Mama had been alone. And Carlota and I had been running here and there-parties, summer vacations-without so much as a thank you or a thought for her loneliness. Of course she should have her mobile home. But I asked her not to put the house on the market just yet.

  Then I called Carlota in Minneapolis, where she was an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Minnesota. We worked it out that she would buy the mobile home and I would make the rental payments on the space for it. In return, Mama would deed the house to us. I would maintain it and live there, and if I ever wanted to buy her out, Carlota would agree to it. Within a month Mama had moved, and two weeks after that, she had a boyfriend. I am definitely my mother’s daughter.

  The nice thing about the mobile home park was that it had a laundry. And, since I couldn’t afford a washer and dryer yet, I paid the laundry frequent visits.

  Now I finished my wine, went to my bedroom and collected my dirty clothes. On the way out I called my mother.

  “It’s laundry night,” I said. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

  “I could use some milk.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Dinner is chile verde. Nick is coming, but there’s plenty for you. I’m low on lettuce, though. And maybe some of those nice avocados they’re bringing up from Mexico? What do you think of a tomato and avocado salad? With some sweet onion. Yes, a couple of tomatoes and one onion, a large one. And-”

  “Just a minute. I’ve got to get a pencil.” I wrote down those and several more requests, then set off for the shopping center. It was small price to pay for getting the laundry done and enjoying some good company.

  three

  A
s I came out of the Safeway pushing my cart, Isabel’s tan. Mercedes pulled up. I felt a stab of embarrassment. I had made myself sound so busy, but there I was at the store. I could have bought the sour cream. Isabel saw me and hurried up. Her gray-streaked hair straggled from its bun, and there was a brownish dirt smudge on her usually immaculate white tennis dress. My embarrassment turned to pity; after all the hours she toiled for the museum, we had scorned her gift.

  “Isabel,” I said quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d have to stop at Safeway, but my mother needed some things. If I’d known, I would have bought the sour cream.”

  She brushed the apology aside with a flick of her hand. “That’s all right. How is your mother, anyway?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Good, good. Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. Don’t you think we should have sugar as well as sour cream for the guests to dip the strawberries in?”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Both brown and powdered sugar.”‘

  “Yes. Do we have any dishes to put it in, though?”

  “I have some silver bowls at home. I’ll bring them.”

  “You’re so good to us.”

  Again, she flicked her hand. “De nada. I like my work for the museum. Unlike a few other charities I could name. I met with that restoration group this afternoon-you know, the one that’s trying to get the old Sanchez property. They have no idea what it takes in terms of organization…” She launched into a long, distracted account of the troubles she had encountered with the group, then began telling me about the impractical outlook of a church group that was assisting illegal aliens. I shifted from foot to foot, leaning on my grocery cart. Isabel didn’t seem to notice my impatience, and I didn’t have the heart to interrupt. The woman had obviously had a rough day, and it was in part my fault. When she finally ran down, I loaded my groceries in my car and drove to Goleta.

  I parked in a visitor’s slot near the spacious lawn in front of the redwood and shingle recreation center of the mobile home park. Beyond the building were a pool and a putting green, and the trailers stood on U-shaped culs-de-sac around this central area. Each had its own little yard and shade tree.

  The smell of chile verde-pork and beef chunks simmering with green chiles and spices-filled my mother’s trailer. She and her latest boyfriend, Nick Carrillo, sat in the living room drinking white wine. I got myself a glass and joined them.

  “So what’s new with you, Miss Elena?” Nick asked. “You ready to take up running yet?” He was a tall, white-haired man of seventy-eight who jogged several miles a day. He was always trying to get me interested in running, but to no avail.

  “I told you, I’m the sedentary type.”

  “You were on the women’s swimming team in college.”

  “That’s different. I’m good at swimming.”

  “Then you’d be good at running.”

  That was probably true. I had a very slow heartbeat and when I swam it slowed down even more and my endurance grew. It would work the same if I ran. But I didn’t want to run. Besides, if I started running, Nick and I would have nothing to argue about.

  “Sorry, Nick.”

  “You ought to do something about exercise,” Mama said.

  “You’re a fine one to talk. You hate to exercise, and look at you-you’re as slim as I am.”‘ My mother was the youngest-looking woman of sixty-seven I’d ever seen. In fact, except for her hair being straight and gray instead of curly and dark brown, she and I looked a lot alike. We had the same regular features, and hers were almost as unlined as mine. Only her hands attested to her lifetime of hard work.

  “I’m talking about exercising for your health, not your figure,” Mama said. “You don’t look so good today.”

  “Now, Gabriela, leave the girl alone,” Nick cautioned.

  “I’m just tired.” I took a sip of wine. “The museum-”

  “You need food.” My mother stood up. “Go put your laundry in. Nick will help me with the salad.”

  I went to the laundry room in the recreation center and stuffed my clothes in the machine. When I got back to the trailer, the table was set and Mama was ladling out the chile verde and rice. “Sit and eat,” she said.

  Over dinner Nick asked,“ That Frank still giving you trouble?”

  “Always. Now he’s threatening to fire me and give my job to the Colombian.”

  “Isn’t the Colombian some kind of moron?”

  “Yes. Frank doesn’t mean it…I don’t think.”

  Mama frowned. “What did you do to Frank to make him threaten that?”

  “Why is it always my fault? Why do you think I did something to him?”

  “I know you.”

  “Mama, that’s not fair!”

  “Ladies, ladies,” Nick said.

  “All right, maybe you’re right. Maybe I did do something to Frank. But it was justified.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I… uh…I told him someone should kill him. And I called him a terrible name. In front of everybody.”

  Mama looked triumphantly at Nick. “See?”

  “Well,” Nick said in a conciliatory tone, “he must have done something to cause that.”

  “You bet he did!” I told them in gruesome detail about the tree of life.

  Mama sighed. “Isabel. She means well, poor thing.”

  “Poor thing!” I said. “She has millions.”

  “And nothing else.”

  “That’s true. She threw old Doug Cunningham out after he started playing around with that twenty-five-year-old model.”

  “Well, Douglas was no prize even before that. Isabel could have done far better. She was a Vallejo, you know.”

  During the three decades of Mexican rule in the 1800s, a landed gentry had emerged in Alta California. Spanish by birth, most often soldiers who had served loyally, the dons who founded such aristocratic lines as the Vallejos were granted huge tracts of pastureland by the government. On them they raised horses, cattle, and sheep and built elaborate haciendas. The elegant life-style of the ranchos has been romanticized in story and song and even now is recreated in yearly celebrations such as Santa Barbara’s Fiesta Days. Isabel had indeed descended from a privileged background.

  “No,” my mother said, “Isabel didn’t have to marry the likes of Douglas Cunningham.”‘

  I poured myself more wine. “What? You think she shouldn’t have married an Anglo?” Mama didn’t approve of mixed marriages, and she was ominously silent whenever I dated an Anglo.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You meant it.”

  “Ladies,” Nick said.

  “Maybe you think she should have married someone like Frank De Palma?” I smiled as I said it, picturing the immaculate Isabel trying to reform Frank.

  My mother’s face, however, was serious. “Certainly not. A marriage like that would have destroyed her.”‘

  “What do you mean?”‘

  “Look at Frank. If anyone ever lived the tradition of machismo, he is it. Frank demands complete obedience from his women. He would have broken the spirit of someone like Isabel.”

  “But Isabel was raised in that tradition, too. You should see the way she defers to Frank at the museum.”

  “That’s at the museum. I’m talking about in the home. A man like Frank would have driven Isabel mad. At least with an Anglo she could let her anger loose and divorce him.”

  “So why are you always hinting I should marry one of our own kind? You think someone like Frank wouldn’t drive me around the bend?”

  Mama sighed. “Not all of our men live and breathe machismo. Frank is an extreme. Look what he’s done to his wife.” Her eyes became faraway, remembering. “Rosa Rivera-as she was called then-was the loveliest girl. Why she married Frank I don’t know. He was the grubbiest little boy when we were growing up in the barrio. And he hasn’t improved much.”

  “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes.”

  She
looked sternly at me. “Your mother would certainly know that.”

  “My taste isn’t so bad!”

  “Oh? What about that Steve? The one with the motorcycle?”

  “Admittedly, he was a mistake.”

  “And Jim? All that hair.”

  “He wasn’t so bad!”

  “No?”

  “Well, he wasn’t.”

  “Yes,” she said darkly. “I know what you liked about him.”

  “Ladies.”

  “If you mean, was he good in-”

  “Ladies!”

  Both of us looked at Nick.

  “Enough.”

  Quietly we returned our attention to our plates.

  In a few minutes Nick got up and cleared the table for dessert. Fresh fruit. Mama liked sweets, but she didn’t dare serve them when the old health nut was around.

  Nick wolfed down some grapes and stood up. “I don’t mean to run out so fast,” he said, “but I’ve got a meeting at the rec center to plan for the marathon.”

  “Marathon?” I looked up from the apple I was cutting.

  “Yes.” His eyes sparkled. “A bunch of us old fogies are organizing a marathon race-show you young folks how to do it right.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What next?”

  “Next I get you out there. Thanks for dinner, Gabriela. Maybe I’D drop back later.”

  “Do that, Nick.”

  He went out, and Mama and I sat there in silence. Finally she said, “Is your job really in trouble, Elena?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel I should chuck it anyway. The pettiness is getting to me.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to move away. There’s not much available in my field in Santa Barbara. And I don’t want to do that.”

  “What, my little girl is not adventurous?”

  “Not really. I like it here. I like the house.” I looked around the cozy trailer. “I guess I have my mother’s nesting instinct.”

  She looked fondly at me. “Both you girls do. I don’t think Carlota would have moved away either, if there hadn’t been such a shortage of teaching jobs.”

  “Probably not. Have you heard from her?”