Wishtree(23)

“Ouch!” muttered HotButteredPopcorn.

“Your tail is in my mouth!” cried one of the Yous.

“You smell like skunk!” someone complained.

“I am a skunk,” came the reply.

“Mom?” asked Harold. “Should I be afraid of a cat?”

“As a rule, yes,” said Agnes. “But this is a special circumstance.”

It took some effort, but eventually the entire group settled in together above the highest wishes. They gazed down calmly at the fascinated crowd below.

One of the tree cutters took off his helmet and scratched his head. “This just don’t happen,” he said to Dave. “Those animals oughta be eating each other.”

“It’s some kinda crazy critter miracle,” said another worker. He pulled out his smartphone. “This is going on Facebook.”

Lots of other people seemed to have the same idea. Cameras clicked away. Ignoring the barricades, the reporters dashed over, microphones extended, as if they were hoping to interview the animals.

Bongo, always a bit of a ham, was happy to comply. “Chip, please,” she said to the microphone waving beneath her.



Dave gestured helplessly at Francesca. “What is up with the menagerie, lady? How are we supposed to cut this tree down?”

Francesca, wiping away tears, stood. She put her arms around Stephen and Samar. Slowly, they made their way across the muddy grass.

When she reached me, she pulled a bookmark from Maeve’s journal before handing the book to Stephen. It was a strip of cloth made of blue-striped fabric, frayed and faded.

Maeve’s wish.

Carefully, Francesca tied it to my lowest branch, already crowded with wishes. She stared, long and hard, at the animals. Lewis and Clark purred happily.

The crowd quieted. The only sound was the rustling of my leaves.

Finally Francesca spoke. “Look. I don’t do speeches. That’s not my way.” She patted my trunk. “But here’s the thing. Until today, I’d almost forgotten how important this old tree is to my family story. And from the look of it”—she pointed to my residents—“it’s important to a few other families as well.”

Many people smiled. A few laughed.

“I hate this word,” Francesca continued, running her hand over my carved bark. “Hate it. My great-great-grandmother Maeve would have hated it just as much. Here in this neighborhood, we’re better than this.” She looked over at Samar’s parents. “We don’t threaten people here. We welcome them.”

Francesca reached for Samar’s hand. “This tree is staying put. And I hope your family will, too.”





50


That night, many hours after the crowd had scattered, Samar slipped out the front door of the little blue house. Stephen, who’d been watching from his bedroom window, joined her moments later. They sat, silent, beneath my wish-laden boughs.

The slightest breath of wind sent the index cards fluttering like huge moths. Moonlight was everywhere, it seemed: on the wishes, on my branches, on the downy-headed owlets, in the upturned gazes of Stephen and Samar. How beautiful we all were, bathed by the soft and silver light.

“Do you think your family will stay here?” Stephen asked. “After everything that’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Samar. “I hope so.”

The breeze kicked up. Cards chattered. Ribbons danced. A scrap of notebook paper, loosely tied with red yarn to my lowest branch, broke free.

Samar snatched it as it swooped past. She squinted at the scribbled writing. Then she stood, carefully tying the paper back onto my branch.

“What was the wish for?” Stephen asked.

“An invisible robot that does homework.”

“Seems unlikely.”

“True.” Samar leaned against my trunk and smiled. “But then, so does a talking tree.”





51


If this were a fairy tale, I’d tell you there was something magical about that Wishing Day. That the world changed and we all lived happily ever after.

But this is real life.

And real life, like a good garden, is messy.

Some things have changed. Some things haven’t. Still, optimist that I am, I’m feeling hopeful about the future.

Samar’s parents decided not to move, at least not for a while.

Stephen and Samar have become good friends. Sometimes they do their homework at the base of my trunk.

Their parents still don’t talk to one another.

I’m not sure they ever will.

The police never found the boy who carved “LEAVE” into my trunk. But a couple of weeks ago, I saw him sauntering by. I pointed him out to Bongo.

Let’s just say she made a very large deposit that day.

All my residents are back where they belong, safe in their hollows.

They still argue sometimes. But they haven’t yet eaten one another.

Francesca applied to the city to make me a “heritage tree.” That means I’m protected forever.

She’s also on a first-name basis with a local plumber, who’s learning to deal with my pushy roots.

Lewis and Clark still haven’t figured out how to walk on leashes.

Bongo’s made a new friend. His name is HarleyDavidson. I suspect we may have some crow newbies in our future.