Wishtree(19)

“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.”

“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.”