“What a nice surprise,” BigYou said between slurps.
“This is not nice,” Bongo said. “This is people at their worst.”
“Still,” said HairySpiders, licking her paws, “it’d be a shame to let perfectly good egg goo go to waste. One creature’s nastiness is another creature’s nibble.”
BigYou gave a satisfied burp, and the animals scampered back to their homes.
The door to Stephen’s house opened. He walked over to me, saw the eggshells scattered like puzzle pieces, and scowled.
Samar was next, a backpack slung over her shoulder and books clutched to her chest. She leapt over a muddy puddle and joined Stephen.
“Jerks,” he muttered, gesturing toward the egg remains. “Sorry, Samar—”
But Samar held up her hand. “Stephen,” she said in a low voice. “Last night.”
Stephen nodded ever so slightly, his eyes locked on me.
“Last night,” he repeated, as if they were speaking in code.
“The tree.”
“The tree.”
“You heard what I heard?” Samar asked.
“I did.”
Samar looked right at Stephen. “You heard … the tree?”
“I heard the tree.”
Samar gave a little nod. “So it was, maybe, a trick? Somebody playing a joke on us?”
“Or maybe we were both sleepwalking at the same moment,” Stephen suggested. He nodded, as if trying to convince himself. “Yeah. Sleepwalking.”
“Have you ever sleepwalked before?”
“No, but there’s a first time for everything.”
They stood there, looking at me expectantly. Willing me to speak. At least that’s how it felt.
I stayed silent. I’d said my piece, and I regretted it.
“Stephen,” Samar said softly, “whatever happens, we can’t tell a soul about this. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Ever.”
“Ever.”
Samar sighed. “People would say we were crazy.”
“And they’d probably be right,” said Stephen.
Samar jutted her chin at me. “Tree? Do you have anything to add?”
I didn’t say a word.
Samar and Stephen shared a smile. “Figured it was worth a shot,” she said.
They headed off to school together.
Stephen’s father came out onto the porch. He was holding a cup of coffee. He caught sight of Stephen and Samar and frowned.
A moment later, Samar’s mother stepped out of the blue house, her keys jangling, a briefcase over her shoulder. She followed her neighbor’s gaze.
Both parents watched in silence until Stephen and Samar, walking side by side, disappeared from view.
42
I didn’t have much time to mull over my mistake. We had a steady stream of visitors as the hours passed.
Early wishmakers came throughout the day. A little girl who wanted twenty hamsters. The grocer down the street, hoping for a summer of sweet peaches. The usual.
The local reporter returned. She peeked at some of the new wishes hanging from my boughs and took a photo of the broken eggshells on my trunk.
Sandy and Max came to remove the police tape surrounding me. Francesca joined them. Today she had Lewis and Clark on thin leather leashes. Each cat was wearing an embarrassingly sparkly harness.
Francesca discussed the broken eggs with Sandy and Max, while Lewis and Clark wove around her legs. “I’ve got a tree cutter coming out later to give me an estimate,” Francesca said.
“So you’re definitely cutting it down?” Sandy asked, in what I liked to think was a disappointed voice.
“Yep. No question. See that muck? All the water in the yard?” Francesca pointed at the soggy lawn. “Plumber told me this dang tree is plugging up some of the pipes. Least bit of rain and the yard turns into a giant mud puddle.”
“Still, people are going to be sorry to see it go,” Max said. He reached for Clark’s leash and tried to unwrap Francesca.
“I know. It’s a good old tree. But sentiment doesn’t pay the plumber.”
Sandy grabbed Lewis while Francesca attempted to unknot herself from the leashes. “What about the animals and birds that live in the tree?” she asked.
“Ah, that’s where I’m using the old noggin,” Francesca said. “Every year, the opossums and owls and such vacate the premises on Wishing Day. Strangest thing. It’s like they know what’s coming.” She hopped over the web of leashes. “S’pose they don’t like being disturbed. In any case, I’m hoping the cutters will come late tomorrow afternoon. Most of the wishing will be done by then.”
“What will you do with all the wishes?” Sandy asked.
“Put ’em in the trash when no one’s looking. That’s what I do every year. Whole thing’s nonsense anyway.”
Max and Sandy looked at me sympathetically.
“I know. I know. I don’t have a sentimental bone in my body.” Francesca paused to address the cats, who were yanking her in opposite directions. “If dogs can do this, why is it such a challenge for you two?”
She turned her attention back to the police. “But it’s time. More than time.”
“Well, we’re going to swing by tomorrow, keep an eye on things. No lead on the person who carved that word. But with the eggs, and people just generally riled, and the cut-down…” Sandy shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to have us keep an eye on things.”
“Thanks,” Francesca said. “Not necessary, but I appreciate it.”
Lewis and Clark caught a glimpse of Bongo, and lunged for my trunk. “Whoa, you crazy felines!” Francesca cried, reining them in.
They hissed at Bongo. She spread her wings menacingly and let out her most ferocious caw.
Lewis and Clark retreated for the safety of Francesca’s arms. Once again she was a tangled knot of leashes and cats.
Sandy smiled. “Maybe leave the cats home tomorrow, Francesca.”
43
That afternoon, I met my executioners.
Not having teeth, I’ve never really understood the fear people seem to have of dentists. (I’ve overheard conversations where the words “root canal” and “cavity” were used, but in tree world, those have different meanings.)
After seeing the tree cutters and their equipment, I understood.
When a truck carrying powerful chainsaws, along with something ominously called a stump grinder, shows up, well, you know you’re in trouble.
Mind you, an arborist is a great friend to trees. We need our limbs trimmed just the way you need to cut your fingernails and hair, although for us it’s only once or twice a year, and it’s called pruning.
I always feel especially elegant after a good pruning.
But pruning is usually done with special shears that look like giant scissors or with a small saw on a long pole. Stump grinders are generally not part of the plan.
It didn’t help when three men wearing orange hard hats went to Francesca’s door and announced they were from Timber Terminators Tree Service.
“I’m going to make a deposit on those silly hats,” Bongo muttered.
“No, Bongo,” I said, although the idea was tempting. “Let’s wait and see what’s what. Maybe they’re just here for some pruning.”
“You really are an optimist.”
Francesca walked the men over—this time, without Lewis and Clark—and they discussed costs and timing.
That’s right. They talked about cutting me down, even as they enjoyed the shade from my lovely limbs.
Talk about insensitive.
One of the men—he introduced himself as Dave—climbed a ladder to inspect my hollows. Agnes, HairySpiders, and BigYou eyed him warily, ready to defend their babies.
“You’ve got some critters here, ma’am,” he reported.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Francesca said. “Every year like clockwork.”
Bongo flew up to a spot near Agnes. “Just one deposit,” she said under her breath. “That’s all I’m saying.”
r />
“Situation like this, we’d generally advise cutting in late fall. Less likely to disturb any nests.”
“I’ve got that covered.” Francesca nodded, hands on hips. “Animals and birds hightail it outta here every May first. Wishing Day, you know.”
Dave scratched his stubbly chin. “Wishing Day?”
“People make wishes, put ’em on the tree. Animals and birds don’t like all the noise. If you could do this tomorrow afternoon, the timing would be perfect. You work on Saturdays?”
“Sure do.” Dave shook his head. “Wishing Day,” he murmured. “Now I’ve heard everything.”
Francesca nodded. She patted my trunk. “Yeah. Craziness. Can’t believe I’ve put up with it as long as I have.”
44
Early that evening, Francesca stopped by the blue and green houses.
My houses.
One with a black door. One with a brown door.
One with a yellow mailbox. One with a red mailbox.
She knocked on each door. She explained her plans for me.
Both sets of parents said they understood. They would be sorry to see me go. But it would be a relief to see an end to Wishing Day, wouldn’t it? And my absence would mean more sunlight in their living rooms and fewer acorns underfoot.
“Okay. At least let me make a deposit on the parents,” Bongo grumbled. “More sunlight! The nerve! How about less oxygen, people? Less beauty?”
“Thank you for defending me, Bongo,” I said. “But no depositing.”
Samar and Stephen were not so understanding.
They ran after Francesca as she crossed the lawn. Samar pulled on her sweater. “You have to listen to us,” Samar said. “You can’t cut down the tree.”
“I can’t?” Francesca inquired. “And why is that, dear?”
“Because,” Stephen said, panting, “it’s alive.”
“I’m quite aware of that,” Francesca said. “It’s a common trait of trees.”
She paused, peering down at the ribbon around Samar’s neck. “Why, I know that key,” she said. “I recognize the ribbon.”
“A crow gave it to me.”
“No kidding? Smart birds, crows.”
Samar slipped the ribbon over her head and handed the key to Francesca.
“Oh, I don’t want that old thing,” she said, giving it back. “You can keep it. It just made me remember … It’s not important. It opens a diary. My great-great-grandmother Maeve kept a journal after she moved here.”
“So that’s what it’s for,” Samar said.
“Where is it?” Stephen. “The journal?”
“Attic, maybe. Or, no. It’s probably in the shed behind Samar’s house. Got a lot of old family stuff stashed away in there.” She gave a wry smile. “Unless it all floated away. Backyard’s pretty wet right now. Which, by the way, is one of the reasons it’s time for this tree to say good-bye.”
Samar wiped away tears. “You don’t understand. This tree … It’s almost like it’s human.”
“That’s sweet.” Francesca patted Samar’s head. “But honey, it’s just a tree.” She squared her shoulders. “Now, I must go feed Lewis and Clark. I can hear them complaining from all the way over here. And I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”
As she moved to leave, Stephen stepped in front of her. “Before you go,” he said, his voice firm, “just listen.”
He turned to me. “Say something,” he instructed.
“Please, tree,” Samar pleaded.
I kept silent.
What more was there to say?
Francesca looked from Stephen to Samar and back again. “Children,” she said, “perhaps those video games you like to play have addled your brains.”
“Talk, tree,” Stephen said.
Silence.
“It can talk,” Samar told Francesca. “Real words. It told us a story about Maeve.”
Francesca, for just a moment, hesitated. She looked at me. “You mean metaphorically, of course. The tree seemed to talk to you. The leaves whispered and so on.”
“It told us about the hollow. And the baby.”
Francesca blinked. “The baby.”
“Yes,” Samar said. “The abandoned baby.”
Again Francesca paused. “Of course, I’ve told that family story before. You probably heard it from a neighbor.”
Stephen shook his head. “We heard it from the tree.”
“Oh, my,” said Francesca. She waved a hand in front of her face. “You’re wearing me out, you two. I am so very glad my parenting days are behind me. Listen here. You get a good night’s sleep. Understand? Or maybe some counseling.”
As quickly as she could, Francesca made her way across the lawn, her shoes caked with mud.
“Francesca?” Stephen called.
“It’s just a tree, dears. Repeat after me: It’s just a tree.”
“I was wondering if we could look for that diary.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Maeve’s journal? Be my guest. If it’s not underwater by now.” She held up her palms. “Just … no more tree craziness. You hear?”
When Francesca was back in her house, Stephen and Samar looked at me accusingly. “Why didn’t you talk?” Samar demanded.
Because it was foolish.
Because I wasn’t supposed to.
Because.
Looking defeated, Stephen and Samar trudged away. They hadn’t gone far when Samar paused and turned to Stephen.
“Something happened today,” she said. “People at school were being … weird. Talking about me, whispering. Passing notes, even.” She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About what happened last night?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I wonder what was going on.”
“You’re probably imagining things.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m used to people talking about me. Being mean. But this was different.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem.” Stephen smiled sympathetically. “Come on. Let’s go check out that shed.”
I watched the two of them head toward Samar’s backyard. They were talking. Laughing. Becoming friends, perhaps.
Maybe I hadn’t been so foolish, after all.
45
Trees don’t sleep, not like people do, or animals.
But we do rest.
Unfortunately, that night rest eluded me.
I was filled with questions about the coming day, of course.
But most of all, I didn’t want to miss a moment of what little life I had left.
I wanted to drink in the stars.
I wanted to feel the fuzzy wings of the owlets.
I wanted to stretch my roots just a tiny bit farther before the night was through.
I wanted to indulge in some quiet contemplation about life and love and what it all meant.
I wanted to philosophize.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said to Bongo. “There’s no point in my worrying about tomorrow. It will come soon enough.”
“Red,” Bongo said.
“Too much Wise Old Tree?”
Bongo paused. She looked at me for a long time.
“Never,” she said. “Never, ever too much Wise Old Tree.”
Bongo settled onto Home Plate. The world was quiet and calm.
“Want to hear a tree joke?” I asked.
“Is it funny?”
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“Then probably no.”
“What’s a tree’s least favorite month?”
“I dunno. What month?”
“Sep-timber.” I paused. “Because, you see—”
“Red,” Bongo interrupted. “As always, no need to explain.”
We didn’t speak much after that. Turned out I didn’t need to talk about life and love and what it all meant.
It was enough to watch the sky freckled with stars, to smell the sweet wet earth, to listen to the beating hearts of the little ones I could kee
p safe, at least for one more night.
46
Saturday morning dawned clean and cool. Even before the sun made itself known, the animals and owls departed the safety of my limbs.
Each family had found a new home, all in nearby trees on the same block. The skunks were going to remain under their porch. It made me happy to know that everyone would be staying in the neighborhood.
One by one, they nuzzled me, whispering their good-byes. The babies sniffled, especially Harold and RosePetal and Flashlight. The parents tried to put on brave faces, but their trembling voices gave them away.
It was awful. But I was glad to get it over with.
I’ve always hated good-byes.
Bongo, for her part, insisted on staying with me to the bitter end.
I knew better than to argue with her.
By six in the morning, Stephen and Samar were sitting together on Samar’s porch.
By seven, Sandy and Max had arrived. They parked across the street and sat in their cruiser, sipping coffee and eating doughnuts.
By eight, three local reporters had arrived, armed with microphones and fancy equipment. They took video of the word “LEAVE.” They talked about its meaning, about how it had changed the feel of a neighborhood.
They also talked about me, the doomed wishtree.
I didn’t like the word “doomed.”
But I had to admit it was accurate reporting.
Francesca came at eight thirty, carrying a cup of tea and dragging a small wooden ladder, the one she put out every year for the wishmakers. She went back home and promptly returned with Lewis and Clark on their kitty leashes.
They were not cooperative.
And then the wishes began.
A toddler on her dad’s shoulders, reaching high.
An old woman, aided by two young girls.
Neighbor after neighbor, many of whom I’d seen pass by over the years.
Wish after wish after wish.
Some on scraps of colorful fabric.
Many on paper, tied with a ribbon or a string.
A few socks.
Two t-shirts.
And one pair of underwear.
At first, people came in small groups, or one by one. But then something changed. The trickle of people became a deluge.
Many of them were kids from the elementary school. But there were parents and teachers, too.