The April Tree

by Judith Arnold

  When they’d left Wheatley two hours ago, Elyse made some noises about Mark sitting in the back with her, which he’d fortunately ignored. He had more leg room in the front seat, and besides, Becky didn’t want to sit all alone in the front like a chauffeur. Elyse had pouted a little about the seating arrangement, but she was so pleased that Mark had agreed to accompany them that she couldn’t stay grumpy for long.

  He didn’t seem to know why he was there. “Florie isn’t my friend,” he’d pointed out as they’d merged onto the Mass Pike. “I met her once. She’s not going to listen to me.”

  “We need you with us,” Becky had explained. “You’re part of this.”

  “We like your company,” Elyse had added, stretching her seatbelt so she could lean forward and clamp a hand over his shoulder.

  “Why am I part of this?” he’d asked. “I don’t even know what this is. Florie went to school with you. She didn’t go to school with me.”

  “She was there when April died,” Becky had said bluntly.

  “She was the one who threw the ball into the road,” Elyse had muttered.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Becky had argued. “I was the one who said we should walk home.”

  “I was the one whose bitch mother forgot to pick us up.”

  “I was the one who hit her,” Mark had murmured, then turned and gazed out the door window, refusing to look at either Becky or Elyse.

  Becky had given him a moment to brood, then said, “I’m convinced that this whole shtick of hers—this slavish devotion to God and the church—is because of what happened to April.”

  “Lots of people are slavishly devoted to God,” Elyse had pointed out. “Did I tell you Katie has decided she doesn’t want to be a nun anymore? She wants to be a Hare Krishna. Talk about slavish devotion.”

  “Katie is weird,” Becky had said.

  “It’s the marriage thing that gets me,” Elyse had continued. “Florie’s marriage, I mean. She doesn’t sound like a woman in love. I thought she might ask me to be one of her bridesmaids. Instead, she hung up on me.”

  “Which was odd,” Becky had said. “One thing Florie doesn’t do is hang up on people.” Especially Elyse and Becky. She always seemed thrilled when they talked to her, hungry for their friendship and attention. That Elyse had phoned her should have elated her. Why had she ended Elyse’s call so abruptly?

  Clearly, they weren’t going to find out by hanging around outside Florie’s locked dorm. The residence halls had apparently emptied out for the winter break. Probably one dorm was left open for students who planned to stay on campus over the holiday, all the kids from Mumbai and Seoul who couldn’t go home and didn’t care one way or the other about Christian holidays, anyway, but the one open dorm wasn’t Florie’s. This was the only address Becky had for Florie. Where was she staying?

  With her fiancé?

  Living in sin? The thought caused a chuckle to rise into Becky’s mouth, but she forced it back down. “Let’s phone her,” she said, digging her cell phone from the pocket of her parka. “She’s got to be somewhere nearby. Amherst isn’t that big a town.”

  She clicked to connect to Florie’s phone and listened to the rhythmic purr of it ringing on Florie’s end.

  “Hello?”

  “Florie? It’s Becky. We’re in Amherst. Where are you?”

  A pause, then: “You’re in Amherst?”

  “Elyse and Mark and me. We came to see you.”

  “And meet your fiancé,” Elyse called from the backseat.

  Becky ignored her. “We’re parked in front of your dorm right now, but it’s locked. Where are you?”

  More silence.

  “Are you even in Amherst?” Becky asked, not bothering to filter the impatience from her voice. Behind her, Elyse snorted.

  “Of course I’m in Amherst,” Florie said. “It’s just that I’m working.”

  “So we’ll come visit you where you’re working,” Becky said. “Where might that be?”

  “Why did you bring Mark?” Florie asked. “He killed her.”

  “Part of God’s plan,” Becky said, not because she believed that but because she believed Florie believed it. “We all do what God intends for us to do.” Liking this argument, she added, “God wanted us to see you, so he sent us to Amherst.”

  “I’m in town,” Florie said, sounding oddly defeated. “In front of Antonio’s Pizza on North Pleasant Street.”

  “We’re on our way,” Becky said, then clicked off her phone before Florie could tell her not to come. “North Pleasant Street,” she said to Elyse and Mark. “Isn’t that the road we came in on?”

  A GPS would have been as anachronistic in Becky’s mother’s car as a new car would have been in front of her house. Mark unfolded the campus map Becky had printed off her computer before they’d left Wheatley, squinted at the tiny letters, and said, “Go back to that campus drive we took to enter the campus and hang a right.”

  Downtown Amherst was slightly less vacant than the university had been. A few pedestrians moseyed along, vivid in brightly colored scarves and knit caps, and cars rolled calmly down the street, obeying the speed limit. Becky imagined the street would have been much busier a few days ago, the stores and boutiques bustling with holiday shoppers. But the day after Christmas, everyone was shopped out. They were all probably at home, listening to their new iPods, watching football on their new TVs, texting their friends about their new suede boots, or pretending to bowl or golf or play musical instruments with their new computer games. They were snacking on leftover turkey and ham and butter cookies topped with red and green sprinkles. They were viewing A Christmas Story for the forty-second time, reciting the dialog because they’d memorized the script.

  So Florie was easy to spot, sitting on a folding chair beside a folding table on the sidewalk in front of a modest pizza place with “Antonio’s” printed on the sign above the door. Becky pulled into a parking space along the curb, and they climbed out of the car.

  Florie looked ghastly. Dressed in her puffy down coat, she resembled the Michelin Tire mascot, all lumps and swells. Her complexion was waxy, her hair bunched into a lopsided ponytail beneath a nubby wool hat. Arrayed on the table before her were the ugliest angel dolls Becky had ever seen. Standing about three inches tall, the porcelain angel figurines wore draping gowns with wings sprouting from their shoulders and tinselly halos hovering above their heads. They’d all emerged from the same mold; although some had pink faces, some tan, some brown, they all had the same snub noses, puckered lips, and cheeks as round as grapes.

  If they represented what being an angel was like, Becky would gladly choose hell.

  Taped to the table was a sign: “Jubilee Angels, $5.” The “$5” was crossed off and “$4” was penned above it.

  Becky tried to ignore the hideous little angels. Although she wasn’t a huggy person, she extended her arms to Florie, who rose from her chair and sank into Becky’s embrace, nearly knocking her over. “Merry Christmas,” Becky said, mostly because she figured Florie would appreciate that sentiment.

  “Merry Christmas,” Florie murmured, the words falling warm and moist on Becky’s neck. Florie’s hat made Becky’s cheek itch.

  She gently pushed Florie away.

  Caught up in the spirit, Florie wrapped her arms around Elyse, who shot Becky a look of sublime distaste, although she gave Florie’s back a friendly pat, her hand sinking into the downy puff of Florie’s jacket. Florie released Elyse and eyed Mark, but decided not to hug him. He had backed up a step when Florie turned to him, and he looked relieved when her smile grew bashful and she settled back in her chair.

  “Would you guys like to buy an angel?” she asked.

  Before Becky could respond, Elyse said, “They’re hideous.”

  Florie bristled. “People love them. At least,
they loved them before Christmas. They make perfect stocking stuffers. Or even ornaments on a tree. You can thread a wire through them and hang them from a branch. They’re not heavy. See?” She hefted one in her palm.

  “Where’s your husband?” Elyse asked.

  “We’re not married yet.”

  “Oh, good,” Elyse muttered, loud enough for only Becky to hear her. “There’s still a chance we can be bridesmaids.”

  “He just drove the truck back to Jubilee House to pick up some more angels. I don’t know why. They aren’t selling very well today. You should have seen me before Christmas, though. They were selling really well then. And they should be selling now, too. People need angels all year long, not just at Christmas.”

  Just as Florie’s hat had made Becky’s cheek itch, her entire situation made Becky’s brain itch. That the angels were grotesque was the least of it. “Why are you selling angels on a street corner?” she asked.

  Florie looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  A couple of pimply teenage boys shuffled past them and swung into Antonio’s. When they opened the eatery’s door, a waft of pizza perfume, oil and oregano and yeasty crust, drifted out. Becky thought she, Elyse, Florie, and Mark should join those boys in Antonio’s, where it was warm, and eat some pizza while they discussed the absurdity of Florie selling ceramic dolls from a bridge table on the sidewalk.

  Somehow, though, Becky knew Florie would never abandon her post, not even for pizza. Not even if Becky was treating. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, waving toward the angels. “This isn’t a job. It’s something the high school cheerleaders might do to raise money for new pompoms. You’re a college-educated woman. Practically a graduate. Why on earth are you doing this?”

  “I’m not a college graduate,” Florie said, her voice a strange mixture of defiance and sorrow. “I’m doing this because this is one of the ways Jubilee is raising money to build a chapel. We need the money. We need a chapel. Father Joe finds work for us, and we do it. A lot of us sell angels. I’m lucky I can sell them right here in Amherst. Other people have to travel all the way to Northampton or Belchertown to sell their angels. But he lets me sell them right here in town.”

  “He lets you?” Elyse scowled. “Who the fuck is he, to tell you where you can sell this crap?”

  Florie practically crackled with indignation. “Father Joe is the spiritual leader of Jubilee House. He explains the ways of God to us. He found me Steven—that’s the man I’m going to marry—and he’ll perform the ceremony himself. We’re getting married New Year’s Eve, which I think is very romantic. Father Joe says there are tax benefits to getting married before the new year, but I don’t know. We don’t earn enough money to pay taxes. Whatever we earn here—” she lifted a different angel, a dark-skinned one in a pale blue gown, its eyes wide and popping and its halo trembling “—goes to Jubilee House.”

  “So you’re doing this, and you’re not even getting paid?” Becky shook her head.

  “I live at Jubilee House for free. I get my food for free. Anything I need, God will provide. God and Father Joe.”

  “I don’t suppose they’re interchangeable, are they?” Elyse grunted.

  “Florie.” Becky drew in a deep breath. The pizzeria’s door was closed, and all she smelled was the cold, dry air of winter, laced faintly with auto fumes. “It sounds like a cult.”

  “It’s not a cult! Jubilee House is a Christian community. Lots of people live there. We work there. We share. We’re a family.”

  “Especially when you get married and save on taxes,” Elyse said. “And your—whatever, your Christian community saves on rooms. You and your husband can share a room.”

  “How long have you known Steven?” Becky asked. “You didn’t mention him at Thanksgiving.”

  “I knew him then,” Florie said, her tone edged with fight. “We weren’t betrothed yet, but I knew him.”

  “You didn’t say a word about him.”

  “I didn’t know we were going to get married.”

  “When did you find out?” Elyse asked.

  “It’s none of your business,” Florie snapped, her gaze slicing across Elyse, blade-sharp.

  “Did this Father Joe dude tell you you had to marry Steve? Did he arrange the whole thing?” Becky asked. Florie seemed less hostile toward her than toward Elyse.

  “He introduced us,” Florie said. “He said he thought we’d be good together. And we will be. We’re . . . we’re suited.”

  “Suited!” Elyse guffawed.

  Becky glanced at Mark. “Feel free to share your opinion,” she invited him.

  He held up his hands, palm out, defensive. “I’m staying out of this,” he said.

  Becky turned back to Florie. “Did Father Joe tell you not to come home for Christmas? Did he tell you not to see your parents? And your friends? You’re one big happy family here, but what about your family in Wheatley?”

  “This is my family,” Florie said, and for a moment Becky thought she was referring to the icky little angels. “My parents don’t understand. They’re false Christians. They go to church to see and be seen, to gossip and show off. And my friends? I mean, I love you two, but Becky, if I go home, you’ll want me to do that silly stuff at the tree, and it’s not Christian. It’s pagan. I won’t do it anymore.”

  To her surprise, Becky felt a flare of anger at Florie’s accusation. She saw nothing wrong with paganism; she certainly wasn’t insulted by the term. But she was hurt that Florie could dismiss the rituals that had kept Becky sane after April’s death. They weren’t much. They weren’t demanding. They didn’t involve selling kitsch angel dolls and handing over her earnings to some guy named Father Joe. But they had sustained Becky. They weren’t silly.

  Apra apra dida may.

  She felt a warmth at the small of her back, Mark touching her there. He understood. He respected her tree rituals. A formerly suicidal drunk, a driver who’d killed Becky’s best friend, a loser clawing his way out of an abyss, one crag and foothold at a time. He understood.

  His touch steeled Becky. She straightened and shook off her hurt. “So, I’m the anti-Christ now?” she asked, smiling to spin some humor into the question.

  “I didn’t say that.” Florie fussed with the angels, lining them up as precisely as the Rockettes performing a dance routine. She batted her eyes, which seemed suddenly glassy with tears. “This is my home now. I feel safe here.”

  “Safe? On a street corner in the cold?” Elyse rubbed her hands together as if to emphasize how chilly it was.

  “Yes, safe. I know what to do here. I know what’s expected of me. I work, I pray, I love God. I’ll be a good wife.”

  “What about school?”

  “No time for that now,” Florie said, giving her chapped, red fingers a dismissive wave. “I don’t need school. I know what I need to know. If I have questions, they’re answered. So—I mean, I don’t really have questions anymore. Which is good. It’s the way I want things to be.”

  “Questions are hard,” Becky agreed, suddenly sympathetic to her lost, fussing friend in her scratchy wool hat. “Unanswered questions are even harder.”

  “I don’t have to wonder why April died anymore,” Florie said quietly. “She’s with God. That’s why. She died so she could be with God. And that’s good. It’s wonderful.”

  Becky’s sympathy vanished. “You’re an idiot,” she said, then spun away and stalked to the decrepit Volvo sitting at the curb.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “MY HEAD IS killing me,” Becky said. “Who wants to drive?”

  She’d already navigated them out of Amherst and down Route 9 into Belchertown. On the drive to Amherst a couple of hours ago, Becky and Elyse had made snide jokes about Belchertown—“People must drink a lot of soda here!” and “I bet there’s plenty of natural gas i
n this place!”—but the return trip had been relatively quiet so far. They’d cruised past a denuded Christmas tree farm, a few roadside taverns, some modest shingled ranch houses, dark, shaggy pine forests, and snow-dusted fields.

  Mark had never seen her so upset before. He’d seen her annoyed—at him, mostly. He’d seen her stern. He’d seen her amused. Engrossed when she described some arcane characteristic of integers or a minor glitch in her computer game. Intense when she’d stood under the tree on Baker’s Hill Road. The April tree, she called it. When she stood beneath the leafless boughs and chanted rhymes, her face lit from below by a single flickering candle, he’d seen her entranced.

  But distraught like this? Never.

  “Is it really killing you?” Elyse asked from the backseat. “Like, are we talking about a brain tumor?”

  “A tension headache,” Becky said. She pulled onto the shoulder of Route 9 and yanked the parking-brake lever, although she left the engine idling. “I’m just . . . tired. You want to drive us home?”

  “I don’t know how to drive a five-speed,” Elyse said, pointing to the gear stick between the two front seats.

  Becky turned to Mark. He knew how to drive a manual transmission. Or at least he used to know. He hadn’t driven any car, manual or automatic, in five and a half years, and he wasn’t sure today was the day to start again.

  The entire outing had been bizarre. He’d felt like an interloper traveling to UMass with Becky and Elyse, but they’d insisted. Throughout the drive west, he’d been aware of Elyse’s flirting, even though she’d sat behind him and he hadn’t been able to see her. She’d kept leaning forward and touching him, brushing her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, squeezing his shoulder. When she’d spoken, her voice had taken on a purring quality. He’d sensed her gaze on him, her body sending waves of desirability in his direction.