Wishtree(7)

“Oh, but people love the wishtree,” said Sandy. She looked me up and down. “Although I imagine it’s a lot of work for you.”

“Every year, the day after Wishing Day, I swear I’m going to cut that thing down,” Francesca said.

It was true. But I knew Francesca didn’t mean it. She and I went way back.

“The cleanup isn’t the worst of it,” Francesca continued. “The things people wish for! The craziness! Last year someone wrote I wish for chocolate spaghetti. In permanent marker. On a pair of underwear. Tossed it way up high.”

“Chocolate spaghetti,” Sandy said. “I could get behind that.”

“Craziness, I tell you.” Francesca stared at me. “It’s just a tree, after all. Just a tree.”

“Just a tree” seemed a tad unfair. But Francesca looked tired and angry, so I tried not to take it personally.

Sandy closed her notebook. “People believe what they wanna believe. About trees.” She stared at the newly carved word. “About people, too.”

“What now?” Francesca asked.

“Dunno,” Sandy said. “The tree belongs to you, not the new family, and you’ve been here forever.”

Francesca smiled sadly. “S’pose it could be me they’re hoping will leave.”

They watched Max place a circle of yellow crime scene tape near my trunk, using metal stakes. “Don’t think so, Francesca,” Sandy said.

Max joined them. He stroked the kittens, who purred loudly. “One problem, in terms of prosecuting anyone,” he said, “is the history of this tree. It’s almost May, when people leave their … wishes or whatever. Hard to say for sure this isn’t part of the whole, you know, tradition thing.” He shrugged. “That’s assuming we figure out who did this, mind you.”

“People are supposed to make their wishes on a rag or piece of paper, not carve it into the trunk,” Francesca said. “That’s why, back in Ireland, they called these ‘raggy trees.’ Nowadays, a lot of people just tie a tag around a branch and write their nutty wishes.” She shrugged. “In any case, ‘LEAVE’ is not a wish. It’s a threat.”

“It certainly is,” Max agreed.

Francesca nodded at the cracked and buckled walkways leading to both houses. “Tell you one thing. Wishtree or not, this oak is destroying the walkways. Messing with the plumbing, too. Roots go on forever.” She shook her head. “Maybe it really is time to cut it down. No more leaves to rake. No more Wishing Day mess. No more of this … unkindness.”

Lewis leapt from Francesca’s grasp and dashed for my trunk. Sandy tackled him just in time.



“We’ll finish up our investigation in a day or two, be out of your hair,” Max said. “Then you’ll be free to do whatever you want with the tree.”

“You know,” Francesca said, taking Lewis from Sandy, “my father almost cut this tree down years ago. My mother wasn’t having it. Family lore or some such thing. Soft-hearted nonsense.” She sighed. “Guess it’s up to me.”

“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.