by Joan Bauer
With his boot, he dug a little hole in the cold ground, put the acorn in it, covered it with dirt and snow.
He liked the idea of planting a new tree.
He thought about his grandpa’s new prosthetic leg, which was going to be coming soon. Mona Arnold said Grandpa was going to have to learn to walk a whole new way and it wasn’t going to be easy.
They’d gotten through Christmas.
Curtis and Larry were back at college.
It was January now.
And Tree still hated his mother’s house and the teeny rooms, he still hated the frozenness he felt sometimes as the fresh divorce kept coming at him in the strangest ways.
Like at night, when he would suddenly get a bad stomachache and feel scared for no reason.
Like at Eli’s house, when he felt so sad when Eli’s dad kissed Eli’s mother.
Like at school, when Sophie told him she’d call him as soon as she got home. She said home like it was permanent condition.
“Where are you this week?” she asked.
The every-other-week color-coded schedule had started again.
“My mom’s.”
“You’ve gotta stop saying it that way. You’ve got two houses. There are worse things.” Sophie mentioned living with six cats who all had their own kitty-litter beds.
“I think the stress is getting to Lassie. She’s not crawling on her branch as much. She used to go crazy when I’d play ‘The Ash Grove’ on my flute, but now it’s just another song. I’m getting worried.”
Bradley was getting slower, too.
Tree tried drawing pictures of happy dogs running and jumping, but Bradley just looked at the pictures, sighed, and took a nap.
He was napping a lot these days.
Then Bradley started pooping on the hall rug.
Tree would clean the mess up as best as he could. But Bradley kept having accidents.
“We’re going to have to do something about this, Tree,” his dad said. “Bradley’s getting old, too old maybe to have a decent, productive life.”
Tree’s whole body went cold. He remembered when Sully had his dog put down.
“I’m a good guy,” Dad added. “I try to give everybody a break, but Grandpa can’t get around the way he used to and you’re only here every other week.”
“I’ll teach him to do better, Dad, I swear.”
Tree was on his knees, patting the back half of Bradley. Patting as much life into him as he could.
Dad grabbed his pounding head. Went to the basement to do his laundry. He’d been recycling dirty socks all week.
Tree cleaned up the mess.
“Bradley, this is serious.”
Tree took paper, drew a rug with dog turds on it, put an X through it, held it up.
“This rug is a no-poop zone.”
Bradley listened intently.
“You poop outside.” Tree drew a porch with steps and the big evergreen in the front lawn with a pile of turds under it.
“Got it?”
Bradley cocked his head. He liked being talked to.
Tree wasn’t a great artist, but he could get an idea across.
Tree was in his ski jacket, sitting on the front steps with Bradley. He looked at his old dog—half sleeping, breathing deep.
A squirrel scurried by. Not so long ago, Bradley would have chased it.
“It would help if you chased something, especially when Dad’s watching.” Tree drew a so-so squirrel being chased by a dog. Held it up. “It looks like a mouse, but it’s a squirrel.”
He had showed Dr. Billings, the veterinarian, his method, but the vet said dogs don’t learn that way.
Dr. Billings was a good vet, but not too creative.
The front door opened.
Dad stood on the cold porch. “What I said about Bradley . . . I know that scared you. I’m sorry.”
A loud car honk sounded. Bradley didn’t move. He used to bark when those things happened.
“We just have to figure out what’s best for him.”
Tree nodded.
McAllister, Mrs. Clitter’s ugly cat, was slinking across the lawn.
Bradley opened one eye.
He didn’t like McAllister. No one did, except Mrs. Clitter.
McAllister crept closer.
Closer.
Too close.
The old dog barked, rose to his feet.
Tore after McAllister.
Bradley trotted back when McAllister was off the property. Lay back down on the porch.
Tree’s father shook his head, laughing.
“Yes!” Tree shouted.
There was life in that old dog yet.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Awright, Pit Bulls!” Coach Glummer shouted from the sidelines. “Let’s come alive out there!” He clapped his hands. “Let’s see some mad-dog hustle!”
But it’s hard to find energy and hustle when the scoreboard reads
VIKINGS 43
PIT BULLS 4
That score stood stark like a tree without leaves.
Halftime. Coach Glummer clinging to hope.
“Forget the first half. Forget that all but two of you played like sheep. The past is gone!”
The Pit Bulls weren’t sure what that meant.
“Think of yourselves as blank sheets of paper, and write on that paper a winner’s story!”
In the bleachers, Tree’s dad leaned forward.
“That huge kid’s a joke.” A father sitting a row back said it to another father. “All that height, not a clue how to use it.”
Furious, Tree’s dad stood up, applauding. “Let’s go out there!”
Back on the court. Tree tried to think of himself as a winner.
Not missing a shot.
Awesome in power.
I am a tree.
He stepped in front of an average-size Viking, held his huge arms out. Snarled briefly.
The Viking looked for a way to pass the ball, but this is hard to do when a tree is in front of you.
The ball dropped.
Tree grabbed it. Felt a sureness as he dribbled down the court.
Tree’s dad cheering him on.
Coach Glummer shrieked, “Give me the slam dunk of a winner!”
Tree aimed.
Missed.
Jeremy Liggins got the ball on a rebound.
Made the basket.
“Now, that kid’s got the moves,” the father a row back said.
Just one basket, Dad thought. Let him get one lousy basket.
Liggins made six more points before the game was over.
Tree never scored.
But somehow, Tree felt pretty good.
Almost like a winner.
But you know how it is with coaches.
They want the win, not the concept.
“I’m sick of most of you guys not trying,” Coach Glummer snarled in the locker room. Looked at Tree when he said it.
Tree got so angry at that.
Jeremy Liggins sauntered up to Tree: “You’re a joke out there.”
But something in Tree rose up.
“No, I’m not.” He squared his shoulders and looked down at Liggins, who looked away first.
February brought bad weather.
The temperature shot up and the rains came with a fury.
February brought more business travel for Tree’s mom. She had less time at home, which meant Tree only stayed with her a few days every other week.
He was glad to spend the extra time with Bradley and Grandpa.
He checked heymom.com every day, though.
Clicked on What We’re About to read reminiscences of him and his brothers growing up.
Clicked on The Road Ahead for at-a-glance thoughts on how divorced families heal and grow (Trust + Time = Tenderness).
He never clicked on Just Between Us or Hugs.
The computer can take you just so far with your mother.
But one kid’s snack is another kid’s dinner.
&nb
sp; He showed Sophie the website. She scrolled down the page, amazed.
“Your mother does all this for you? You don’t know how good you’ve got it.”
“You’re a genius.”
Bradley cocked his head as Grandpa looked at Fred the parrot, who looked back.
“You’re a genius. Say it, Fred. Come on.”
Grandpa had given up on Fred ever saying, “You’re certainly looking handsome today, Leo.” Tree’s dad suggested that Grandpa could call Mrs. Clitter, and she’d come over and say he was handsome.
He needed the bird’s respect.
“You’re a genius,” Grandpa tried again. “Say it, Fred. Make me glad you’re here.”
Fred ruffled his emerald feathers and squawked.
The rain kept coming.
Grandpa was looking toward May and the Memorial Day parade. His new leg was supposed to be delivered any day now, but it got held up because of the weather.
“Where’s my leg?” he kept asking Mona.
“It’s somewhere in Chicago, Leo.”
“What’s it doing there?”
“The plane it was on had to land because of the snow.”
“I’ve got to be marching strong by May.”
“Leo, I can’t promise you’ll be marching anywhere by May. It takes time to get this right.”
He held up his hand, didn’t want to hear it.
“I want you to push me hard, Mona.”
“I’m not going to push you any harder than makes sense.”
The next day:
“What’s my leg doing in Miami, Mona?”
Grandpa half shouted it on the phone.
“United Airlines put it on the wrong plane, Leo, and now they’re not sure where it is in the airport.”
“Maybe we should send in the paratroopers to get it back. I’m going to be a genius at this walking business, and my leg is seeing the country.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Leo,” said Mona Arnold, grinning, “meet your new leg.”
She handed him a flesh-colored leg cut off below the knee.
Grandpa held it. “Look at this miracle, will you?” He felt the weight. “It’s heavier than I expected.”
“Once you get used to it, it takes your weight and gives you a nice fluid movement.”
Grandpa studied it.
“If you just sit down over here, Bill will show you the next part.”
Bill, the leg man, brought out the stump sock, the liner sock, showed Grandpa how to put them on. He fitted the leg on the stump, showed how the mechanism clicked tight.
Tree and his father were there to meet the new member of the family.
Grandpa worked for two hours, practicing.
Standing on the leg.
Taking it off.
Walking so carefully a few steps, a few more.
Tiring, focused work.
Every step counts. Every step teaches something.
“Swing your leg out more, Leo. That gives you an even step.”
“Try to put equal weight on both legs now. This’ll take some time since the good one has been taking so much of the weight.”
“If you go too far too soon, you’re going to get redness and swelling. Easy does it. This isn’t a race.”
He sat down, took the leg off, held it in his lap.
“You can put it on the floor,” Mona said.
“No way. We’re bonding.”
“Vietnam wasn’t our war. That’s what the bigwigs in Washington told us.”
Grandpa had been thinking about that the last few days. Every so often he’d take the war apart to try to make sense of the experience.
He was sticking his leg on, practicing walking in the house with Tree.
A couple of faltering steps.
The first steps of the day are the hardest.
“There we were on the battlefield, getting shot at, dying, but it wasn’t our war. That was so confusing.” He looked at Tree. “You ever feel like that?”
Tree wasn’t sure. “Sometimes I feel I’m in the middle of Mom and Dad’s divorce. They’re fighting each other—not me—but I’m there.”
“You learn to duck. That’s what I did.”
Tree laughed. “I know about ducking.”
Three more steps.
Step, drag the leg. Step . . .
Grandpa gripped a chair for balance. “I ran for cover a lot, too. And I tried to remember the things I had control over so I wouldn’t feel like a grunt.”
“Like what?”
“Like how I responded to people. How I kept my weapon clean and ready. How I always wore my helmet. I protected my head come hell or high water. Guys would kid me about it.” He laughed. “Figures I’d get shot in the leg.”
Grandpa stood in front of the full-length mirror in the hall. Looking in mirrors helped him see if he was standing right.
He straightened up a little, smiled at Tree.
“I think you and I have a lot in common. We’re both learning to walk a different way, and we’re both going to be geniuses at it.”
More than anything, Tree wanted to be like his grandpa.
Grandpa shouted to Fred the parrot in the living room, “You’re a genius. Say it, bird.”
“Back off, Buster.”
Grandpa shook his head. “You think I can walk a few blocks in this thing next week? I’ve got something I need to do.”
“Put them down there.”
Grandpa handed Tree a new deck of playing cards in a plastic bag. Tree put it near a wreath of flowers and a baby picture that were soaked from the pouring rain.
Grandpa reached up to touch a name on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.
Private Elmo P. Hothrider.
Grandpa and Tree had driven here with the Trash King.
“Elmo was a fine card player. He got shot up bad outside Da Nang. His eyes were bandaged shut when I went to see him in the hospital. And you know what he wanted? He wanted to play cards. So I played for him and me. Elmo won three hands out of five, and he accused me of cheating.”
Grandpa touched the name again. “Rest well, friend. Don’t take any wild cards up there.”
He limped to another section of the wall that stretched long and black across the mall in Washington, D.C.—an hour’s drive from Ripley.
“That’s the place.”
Tree put a bottle of hot sauce near Sergeant Nick Marconi’s name.
Candles, flowers, family pictures, a big bottle of Hershey’s Syrup. Anything can hold a memory.
He placed a letter in a plastic bag and put it on the wet ground for Corporal Michael Diggins. Grandpa stood by Corporal Diggins’s name for a long time as the cold rain beat down.
“Diggins always said the jungle was crazy. You think you’re going the right way, but you’re really going back the way you came. It changes color with the sun and the clouds. You’re waiting to fight, and you start thinking the shadows are going to come get you. Then you realize that war is as much about your mind as anything else. Is what you’re seeing real, or is it made up?”
The Trash King reached up, touched Calvin Merker’s name. Merker dragged six injured people to safety before he was shot himself.
King stood there like he was waiting for something.
Tree had heard enough about the war to know that a big part of it was about waiting. Soldiers waiting for their marching orders, pilots waiting to fly their missions. Everyone waiting for it to be over.
“So many,” Grandpa said, limping from end to end as rain poured down.
Tree tried to imagine what some of these soldiers looked like; he never could. He didn’t know if they were tall or short, fat or thin. A name on a wall didn’t tell you that. But Tree knew that all the names here and the people who came to remember them were connected with a special kind of courage.
Grandpa alongside him now, struggling on that new leg. “Every friend I lost, I still carry in my heart. The paratroopers do it right. They put out an empty bo
ot when one of them dies—no one can fill that shoe.
“We hear about casualties on the news—114 dead. Two murdered. Over three thousand killed. Numbers don’t tell the story. You can’t measure the loss of a human life. It’s all the things a person was, all their dreams, all the people who loved them, all they hoped to be and could give back to the world. A million moments in a life cut short because of war.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tree wished there was a memorial wall for divorce.
If there was one, he knew what he’d leave in tribute.
The photo of his parents laughing on the beach.
He kept it in his sock drawer, but that didn’t cut it as a memorial.
“More rain expected today, folks.”
That’s what the weatherman said on TV. Tree was at his mom’s house.
“Thunderstorms continue throughout the week.” Weather laughter. “It’s not my fault, I swear.” The northeast section of the weather map showed storm clouds, lightning flashes, and blinking raindrops.
“They started sandbagging the levee in Burnstown.” Mom said it, sipping coffee. Burnstown was three towns away. “Don’t be late for the bus.”
Tree got his slicker, bent down so Mom could kiss him on the cheek.
“Stay safe out there, sweetie.”
Conan yipped.
And Tree headed out into the cold, wet world.
The bus was late again.
Tree stood waiting for it in his iridescent slicker, pummeled by wetness. He felt like some giant glow-in-the-dark road marker.
Other kids were waiting, too.
No one spoke.
Endless bad weather makes you not care much about anything.
Sully, who’d lost two raincoats last week, showed up completely covered by Hefty bags. He stood morosely next to Tree.
“Can you see?” Tree asked him.
“No.”
“You want me to make your eyeholes bigger?”
“No.”
The bus pulled up, splashed water on their legs, sloshed it in their shoes. Thunder boomed.
Tree helped Sully onto the bus.
From inside the Hefty bags, Sully spoke.
“Close the school. We’re too wet to learn.” He raised a bag-wrapped fist.
