“Meantime, you keep us posted if anything else happens,” Sandy advised.
Francesca headed across the lawn, holding the kittens close. “‘LEAVE,’” she murmured. “What a world. What a world we live in.”
16
When you’re a tree, a phrase like “cut it down” is bound to get your attention.
Francesca had hinted at such things before, but always in jest, after a long October afternoon raking my newly shed leaves into crisp hills. Or after a particularly messy Wishing Day. Or after stepping on my acorns in bare feet.
I felt bad about the walkways. It’s an occupational hazard. To stay alive, I need a vast network of roots. And roots can be surprisingly strong.
“Did you hear that?” Bongo asked, watching Francesca enter her house. “She sounded serious this time.”
“I’ve heard it all before,” I said.
“Unfortunately, the newbies heard her, too,” Bongo said.
Bongo calls every fresh crop of babies “newbies.” She pretends to be annoyed by their antics, but I know better.
“Listen,” Bongo urged.
Sure enough, I could hear the baby skunks wailing from their hidden nest under the porch. “But we love Red, Mama!” one of them cried.
“Hush,” their mother, FreshBakedBread, scolded. “It’s the middle of the day. You’re supposed to be asleep. You’re crepuscular.”
Crepuscular creatures, like fireflies, bats, and deer, are especially active at dusk and dawn.
“Will Red be all right, Mama?” another baby, whose voice I recognized as RosePetal, asked.
All skunks name themselves after pleasant scents. I am not sure if this is because they’re a bit defensive about their reputation, or if they just have a sly sense of humor.
“Of course,” said her mother. “Red is indestructible.”
Bongo looked at me. “See what I mean?”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “By tonight they’ll all have heard. The opossums, the raccoons, the owls … Little Harold will be beside himself.”
Harold was the smallest barn owl nestling, and a great worrier.
Barn owls give themselves sensible, no-fuss names.
“I’ll talk to everyone,” Bongo said. “Calm them down. Tell them not to worry.”
“I’m sure things will be fine,” I said. “I’ve seen a lot in my years. The things I’ve fretted about that have never come to pass! I could write a book.” I paused. “In fact, I could be a book.” I paused again. “Because, you know … paper is made of trees.”
Bongo gave a screechy crow-laugh. She didn’t even scold me for my lame joke.
That’s when I started to worry.
17
As much as I was concerned about the babies’ reaction to Francesca’s words, I was more worried about Samar. What would happen when she returned from school and saw the word carved into me? Would she think it was meant for her, and for her family, as Francesca and the police seemed to assume?
She came home alone. Ahead of her by a few yards was Stephen.
A reporter from the neighborhood newspaper was waiting on the sidewalk, interviewing people as they walked by. Word travels fast in our parts. Especially when there’s yellow police tape involved.
Had they seen what had happened? the reporter kept asking. Had they ever made wishes on Wishing Day? What did they think the word “LEAVE” meant?
The reporter approached Stephen. Did he know why someone would carve “LEAVE” into the beloved local wishtree?
Stephen stared at the reporter. Then he glanced behind at Samar, sending her the shadow of a sad smile. Without answering the reporter, he headed toward his house.
Samar’s eyes darted from Stephen to the reporter to me. She ran closer, saw the word, and gasped. She reached a hand toward me, but the police tape put me out of reach.
“Are you a resident?” the reporter asked. “Would you like to comment on the incident?”
Samar didn’t say a word. She turned and walked up the sagging steps to the little blue house, her head held high. Standing tall, reaching deep.
18
Around six that evening, Sandy and Max returned. When the police knocked on the door of the green house, Stephen’s parents opened it and answered questions. They shook their heads. They shrugged. Then they shut their door and closed the curtains.
When the police knocked on the door of the blue house, Samar’s parents opened it and answered questions. They rubbed their eyes. They sighed. Then they, too, shut their door and closed the curtains.
As Sandy and Max headed back to their cruiser, Sandy paused beneath me. “I wonder if we should make a wish,” she said. “Might be our last chance.”
“I’ll tell you what I wish for,” Max said. “I wish I didn’t have to investigate things like this.”
Sandy patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.”
As for me, I spent the evening hours reassuring the parents and offspring who called me their home. They weren’t just worried about where they would have to move, of course. They were worried about me.
I was worried about me, too. I didn’t want to leave the world I loved so much. I wanted to meet next spring’s owl nestlings. I wanted to praise the new maple sapling across the street when it blushed red as sunset. I wanted my roots to journey farther, my branches to reach higher.
But that is how it is when you love life. And I could accept that if my time had come, it had come. After a life as fine as mine, who was I to complain?
I was worried about the babies, though, about their parents scrambling to find new, safe places to line their nests, dig their burrows, hide their winter stashes of acorns.
Most of all, I was worried about Samar.
I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because she reminded me so much of another little girl from another time long ago. A little girl I’d managed to shelter successfully.
Francesca’s great-grandmother.
Like I said. We go way back.
19
Long after midnight, Samar came to visit me. She wore a blue robe. Her dark curly hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her eyes held moonlight in them.
She sat at the base of my trunk on her blanket. She didn’t look at the carved word, or the splinter of moon, or the blue and green houses. She just sat quietly and waited.
It always took a while. But it always happened.
One by one, the babies ventured out to see her.
Harold was first, flapping awkwardly down to the ground. The raccoon babies, You, You, and You, were next. (Raccoon mothers are notoriously forgetful, so they don’t bother with traditional names.) The opossums. The skunks. They all came.
Samar sat perfectly still. The babies circled her. Together they sat in the shimmer of moonlight and listened to my leaves rustle.
Bongo settled on Samar’s shoulder. “Hello,” she said, in her crow version of Samar’s voice.
“Hello,” Samar said, echoing the echo.
Bongo squawked and Samar jumped a bit. Even Bongo’s quietest caw is a bit on the harsh side. Bongo flew up to my smallest hollow and poked her head inside, her tail feathers still visible. With something shiny in her beak, she returned to the ground in front of Samar. Gently she placed a tiny silver key attached to a long, faded red ribbon in Samar’s open hand.
“It’s beautiful,” Samar whispered. “Thank you.”
Bongo bent forward, wings spread, in a sort of bow. It was, in crow circles, a sign of great affection.
I’d seen that key before. Bongo had “inherited” it from her mother. Crows live in extended families, and they pass information across generations. It didn’t surprise me that Bongo still had the key, or that she’d decided to give it to Samar.
In the sweet calm, surrounded by everything I loved—moonlight, air, grass, animals, earth, people—I wondered, with a pang, how much longer I would be able to savor such moments.
I wondered, too, if I’d done enough for the world I loved. I
t was something I’d asked myself before. But impending death has a way of focusing your attention.
Sure, I’d provided plenty of shade. Made oceans of oxygen for people to breathe. Been a home to an endless parade of animals and insects.
I’d done my job. A tree is, after all, just a tree. Like I’d told Bongo: “We grow as we must grow, as our seeds decided long ago.”
And yet.
Two hundred and sixteen rings. Eight hundred and sixty-four seasons. And still something was missing.
My life had been so … safe.
Upstairs, a curtain in the green house moved. Behind it, Stephen was just visible, watching us.
I knew what he was thinking. One of the advantages of being a good listener is that you learn a great deal about how the world works.
In Stephen’s eyes, in the way he’d looked at Samar that afternoon, I saw something I’d seen many times before.
A wish.
20
After Samar left, I felt restless.
Restlessness is not a useful quality in a tree.
We move in tiny bits, cell by cell, roots inching farther, buds nudged into the sunlight. Or we move because someone transplants us to a new location.
When you’re a red oak, there’s no point in feeling fidgety.
Trees, as I said, are meant to listen, to observe, to endure. And yet, just once, before I said good-bye to the world, what would it be like to be something other than passive? To be an actor in the stories unfolding around me? Maybe even to make things a little bit better?
“Bongo,” I said softly. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” she grumbled.
“I have a question.”
“I’ll get back to you first thing in the morning.”
“How does friendship happen?”
Bongo responded by snoring.
I could tell it was a fake snore. Her real snores are so loud they scare the baby opossums.
“I’m serious,” I said.
Bongo groaned. “I dunno. It just happens.”
“But how does it happen?”
“Friends have things in common,” Bongo said. “And there you go. Your answer in five words. See you in the a.m., pal.”
I thought about her reply. “But what do you and I really have in common, when you get right down to it?”
With a loud exhale, Bongo flew to the ground. “Okay. I’m thoroughly awake now, thank you very much. What’s this all about?”
“Just an idea.”
“Here’s an idea for you: Ideas are a bad idea,” said Bongo. “Especially if someone is in busybody mode. I’m lookin’ at you, Red.”
“Back to my question. Why are we friends?”
“Okay, fine. Let me think on it for a minute.”
Bongo walked in a slow circle around my trunk, considering.
I love the way birds move, so unlike trees. We bend with the wind. We’re graceful and unhurried. Birds, on the other hand, move in flits and twitches. Their heads whip from side to side, as if they’ve just heard astonishing news.
Bongo paused. “Well, to begin with, you’re my home. And I’m your tenant.”
“But that’s not really a reason for us to be friends. I’ve had residents I wasn’t particularly fond of.”
“That squirrel? What was his name? Squinch? The one with bad breath?”
“It’s not important.”
“Knew it was Squinch.”
“Bongo,” I said. “Please focus.”
Bongo gazed up at me. “We’re friends because we’re friends, Red. Isn’t that enough?” Her voice was small and sweet—not her usual get-to-the-point crow tone.
“You’re right,” I said. “But suppose two people needed to be friends. How would you make that happen?”
“Maybe … get them together, doing something. They yak, share a laugh. Voilà. Friendship. Am I right?”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t like it when you hmm. Hmm-ing leads to ideas.”
“You can go back to sleep, Bongo. Thanks for talking. You’re a good friend.”
“Likewise.” Bongo flew back up to her nest. “Hey, be sure to let me sleep in.”
“Bongo?”
“Now what?”
“One more thing. Why do you think people can be so cruel to each other?”
“It’s not like the rest of us are exactly angels. Last night I saw Agnes eat a whole lizard in one bite.”
Agnes, the barn owl who lived with her nestlings in my highest hollow, flapped her wings in annoyance. “Hey, a girl’s gotta eat. And you’re a fine one to talk, Bongo,” she said. “Is there anything crows won’t eat?”
“My point,” Bongo continued, “is that the world’s a tough place. Doesn’t matter if you’re a bunny or a lizard or a kid.”
With that, Bongo started snoring—for real this time—but I was still wide awake.
“Ma, what’s the horrible noise?” came the startled voice of a baby opossum.
“That’s just Bongo sleeping,” her mother replied.
Bongo had been right. I was hatching an idea.
She’d always said I was a busybody, not to mention an optimist.
An optimistic buttinsky.
Well, there were worse things.
Trees are the strong, silent type.
Unless we’re not.
21
“Bongo,” I said early that morning as the last stars faded like weary fireflies, “there’s something I need you to do.”
“Does it involve potato chips?” Bongo mumbled.
“No.”
“Then I’d rather sleep.”
“It’s about Samar.”
“You promised you’d let me sleep in.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“You implied.”
“I want to grant Samar’s wish.”
This roused Bongo. She fluttered down to her favorite branch, the one she’d nicknamed Home Plate. (Bongo likes to watch the kids play softball at the elementary school.)
“Uh, Red, you don’t make wishes happen. You’re the place where wishes go. You’re like a … like a leafy garbage can. In a good way.”
“For two hundred and sixteen rings, I’ve sat on my roots and listened to people hope for things. And a lot of times, those wishes never happened, I’m guessing.”
Bongo tucked a feather into place. “Sometimes that’s for the best. Remember that kindergartner who wanted a bulldozer?”
“I’m passive. I just sit here watching the world.”
“You’re a tree, Red. That’s kind of the job description.”
“This is a good wish. And it’s a wish I can make happen.” I paused. “Well, we can make happen.”
“Yeah, I had a feeling that’s where this was going.” Bongo glided to the ground. “Look, I heard Samar’s wish. How exactly are you going to find her a friend?”
“You’ll see,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
“Red.” Bongo paced back and forth. With each step, her head bobbed forward. “We’ve got more serious issues, pal. Francesca’s talking about turning you into toothpicks. And your residents are frantic about where they’re going to move if that happens.” She came close and nudged me fondly. “Of course, they’re worried about you, too.”
“I know that.”
FreshBakedBread poked her head out from under the porch. It was barely dawn, and only the white stripe running the length of her face was clearly visible.
“I’ve offered to take in one of the tree families temporarily,” she announced. “Preferably the opossums. They’re better behaved than the Yous.”
“That’s very generous of you, Fresh,” I said, but I was interrupted by BigYou, the mother of the three raccoon babies. She was in my large hollow, grumbling under her breath.
“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed. “You, You, and You have excellent manners!”
“They’re too … inquisitive,” said FreshBakedBread. “Always poking their noses whe
re they shouldn’t be. Grabbing things with those little paws of theirs.”
“Well, at least they don’t stink!” BigYou cried. “And your children have paws, last time I checked.”
HairySpiders, the mother opossum, peeked out cautiously from her own hollow.
Opossums name themselves after things they fear.
“Stink is in the nose of the beholder,” said HairySpiders. “And while I personally think your children have a delightful odor, Fresh, I’ve already got dibs on the woodpile two doors down. Should anything happen to dear Red.” She patted me. “No offense, love. Just thinking ahead, you know.”
“No offense taken,” I assured her.
“I saw that pile first!” BigYou cried.
“Share the skunk den,” HairySpiders said.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that place!” BigYou exclaimed. “Not now. Now that I know my ‘inquisitive’ children aren’t wanted.”
“Well, they are a bit boisterous,” said HairySpiders.
“At least my children have spunk,” said BigYou. “Your kids faint when they see their own shadows.”
“Playing possum is a useful adaptation,” said HairySpiders, her pink nose twitching. “The world is a dangerous place. And in any case, we can’t control it. It just happens.”
“If I may interrupt,” came a cool voice from my highest branches. It was Agnes. “There’s a nice-looking linden tree two blocks away, just vacated by a gray squirrel family. We’re looking at it as a possibility. But there’s a tomcat that runs loose there. Collar, no bell, so that’s an issue. Also a big, slobbery dog.”
“In fairness, all dogs are slobbery,” Bongo observed.
“I really think you should all calm down,” I interrupted. “Let’s not buy trouble. One day at a time, my friends. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?”
The mothers glared at me. I heard a great deal of sighing.
“Too much Wise Old Tree?” I asked.