The Tree of Death

two

STRANGELY enough, my outburst moved everyone to pitch in and help. Maybe it was the satisfaction of hearing me tell Frank off; maybe it was fear that the opening would be spoiled. Probably it was both. But suddenly everyone- except Frank, of course-plunged into activity.

Vic and Jesse cornered me in my office and calmed me with words and a beer from the corner store. Isabel announced she had found just the place in the folk art gallery for the arbol and went off to buy paint. Even Tony managed to restrain his smirk as he set off to get plywood, a hammer, and some nails. Maria used the time to cast sultry looks at Jesse.

Frank wandered through the office wing twice, pointedly ignoring me but frowning at my beer. Finally he closeted himself in his own office. I suspected he had gone into the courtyard to play with his plants, and was relieved not to have to deal with him.

When they were sure I wouldn’t succumb to any homicidal urges, Jesse and Vic went to the folk art gallery to help Tony build the platforms. Isabel returned with the paint and began supervising, much to the others’ annoyance. I sent Maria to the store for more beer and then went to the loading dock to take another look at the tree of life.

It was still there, all right-big and ugly as could be. The truck driver lounged in the cab, listening to country music, his feet extending through one window. He didn’t seem to mind the delay. It was, I assumed, one of his more interesting deliveries. I gave the arbol a final disgusted glance and went inside to help. If we were to display the horror, it might as well be displayed right.

The platforms had been assembled. I went to the ladies’ room and changed to the work clothes I kept there, then found a paintbrush and set to work. Thoughtfully, Isabel had bought a quick-drying latex.

As I worked side by side with Jesse, Vic, and Maria-Tony had been banished on grounds of sloppiness and Isabel had had an appointment with another of her numerous charities-most of my tension dissipated. The afternoon grew hot, and we took frequent beer breaks. Jesse joked and told ribald stories from his seemingly unending repertoire. Maria giggled and, at Jesse’s urging, sang us some Mexican folk songs. I was surprised by the fine quality of her voice-another talent wasted while in bondage to Don Francisco. Vic was quiet, but smiled. His happy times, I assumed, were few; he would probably treasure the memory of this easy, companionable afternoon.

By four the paint was dry. Isabel returned to supervise the placement of the arbol. The truck driver forgot his orders- once Isabel slipped him a twenty dollar bill-and good-naturedly helped move it in. He probably wanted to see if there would be more fireworks. When it was in place we all stepped back and viewed it. For a moment there was silence.

Then Isabel sighed. “Perfect.”

The rest of us said nothing.

“Isn’t it?” She turned a worried look on me.

“It’s… perfect.”

Jesse cleared his throat. “The purple and green of the platforms really pick up the colors of those flowers.”

Isabel nodded, any doubt stilled once and for all. Jesse was an artist; he knew about things like color.

“I suppose we should get Frank in here to see it,” Isabel said. “I’ll call him.” She started for the door, then stopped. “No, wait. What about the little trees of life?”

“Right.” Jesse snapped his fingers. “I’ll get them.”

“And the tree of death.”

“Isabel,” I said, “I really have to draw the line at that.”

“But, Elena, we’ve built a platform for it. It will spoil the whole arrangement if we don’t use it, and Frank…”

I closed my eyes, feeling a headache begin to throb. “Okay. Okay. Come on, Jesse. I’ll help you.”

We left the gallery, crossing the large central courtyard and office wing to the dark hallway that led to our cellar storeroom. There, in the coolness, Jesse stopped me, hand on my arm. “Look, Elena, I know how you feel about this display. But for the good of the museum, we’ve got to pull together.”

“You think that display’s going to do the museum good?”

“It won’t do that much harm. You know how openings are. People are more interested in the food and booze than in the art. All you have to do is steer the press clear of the folk art gallery tomorrow and we won’t have anything to worry about.”

“But what about your camaleones? They won’t get any press coverage if I do that.”

“I don’t need publicity that bad.”

“And what do we do about that monstrosity afterward, when people come to look seriously?”

Jesse grinned. “Maybe the arbol will get broken.”

“What are you saying, Senor Herrera?”

He spread his hands wide. “Who knows what the future holds, mi amiga?”

I grinned, too. “You know, you’re right. You are so right.”

We went down the hall to the cellar door and descended cold stone steps into the blackness. Jesse fumbled for the light switch, and a dim orange bulb came on. The cellar resembled a fun house maze, with a jumble of packing cases stretching away into the shadows at the far end. Some crates were empty, some were not; in the rush to prepare for the opening, I hadn’t had time to unpack what we weren’t going to use.

“My first priority once things quiet down,” I said, “is this cellar.”

Jesse looked around. “As a storage area, it’s not bad, though. It keeps cool so you don’t have to worry about temperature control, and there’s plenty of room. Needs better lighting, of course.”

The one bulb was the only real light source. There were little high windows, but they opened onto bricked-in pits just below ground level. The pits were topped with iron gratings that didn’t permit much direct light to pass through. “Fluorescents,” I said. “Fluorescents as soon as possible. And eventually with ultraviolet shields. If the board can approve Frank buying all those plants, they can’t quibble over a few light fixtures. Come on. I think I remember where the arboles are.

Jesse and I wrestled with the packing cases and found the arboles. The two little trees of life were more tasteful than Isabel’s gift but still too garish for my taste-which was why they weren’t on display. The tree of death was bland by comparison, two feet tall and of unpainted terra-cotta. Its red-brown branches held a few leaves and no flowers. In the center a grim skeleton sat, surrounded by five skulls. It was not a cheerful sight, but somehow a less unsettling one than the riot of color up in the folk art gallery. We lugged all three trees upstairs, where we found the others, including Frank and Tony, waiting in front of the offending arbol. Frank once again avoided my eyes, talking in low tones to Vic until the trees were in place. Then he stepped back, surveyed the scene, and nodded complacently.

“Wonderful, Isabel,” he announced. “Just wonderful. Such a generous gift. Such a magnificent beginning in our new quarter. And I’d like to thank you-Tony, Jesse, Vic, and Maria-for doing such a splendid job.” Then he turned and marched from the room.

Isabel looked at me and shrugged sympathetically. Jesse patted me on the shoulder. Tony smirked, but his heart wasn’t in it. Maria gave her uncle’s back a contemptuous glance. I looked at Vic and was surprised at what I saw. He was watching Frank leave, his large fists balled at his sides, his homely face twisted in anger. It was an expression I’d never seen Vic wear, an emotion I hadn’t supposed he possessed. Quickly I turned my eyes back to the garish display.

It was nearly five. The others said their good-byes and began leaving. The truck driver, now twenty dollars richer, accepted a couple of beers and drove off. Only Isabel lingered.

“Is everything set for the buffet tomorrow, Elena?” she asked. She seemed unsure again, and I felt sorry for her. Her gift had been well meant and had brought nothing but trouble.

“Almost. We have the orange juice and champagne. The strawberries are being prepared by a couple of your volunteers. We’ve got coffee and cheese and bread and… oh, damn!”

“What?”

“The sour cream. I was afraid it would spoil, so I was going to pick it up tonight. And I’ve still got to do my laundry and pay some bills before they come take me away…”

Isabel brightened. She had always been one of those women who need to be needed, and the trait had become more pronounced since her divorce a year ago. “I’ll take care of the sour cream.”

“Are you sure you want to? You’ve done so much already.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded firmly. “And now I think I’ll go have a few words with Frank. Where do you suppose he went?”

“His office or the courtyard outside it. The plants, you know.”

Isabel looked grim. “Yes, the plants, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

Isabel left, and I turned back to the arbol. “You just might get broken,” I whispered. “Yes, you might.” Then, relishing the quiet that had descended, I made a quick check of the other galleries. Everything was in place; everything looked right. I made an adjustment here, flicked at some dust there. I knew I’d check the galleries once more tomorrow morning and still find nothing wrong. But I couldn’t help it. This was the first opportunity I’d had to show what I could do. When the press entered my museum it had to look right.

My museum! How Frank would sneer at that. But it was mine, by virtue of the sweat and love I’d invested here. And no fat, lazy Tio Taco was going to ruin it.

Unfortunately, I should check with Frank before leaving, to see if he wanted me to set the alarms. We had no security staff, and our collections’ sole protection was the barred windows and a simple household alarm system on the doors. Still, it was an improvement over our previous quarters, where we’d had no alarms at all. I was proud of the new system; I’d fought hard to get an adequate one installed when we’d moved here. Now I could rest better at night, knowing our collections were safe.

I went through the offices, stopped at Frank’s, and knocked softly. There was no answer. The office was empty, but in the courtyard his stocky form leaned over the plant closest to the little barred window. He was alone; Isabel’s few words with him must have been few indeed.

Frank straightened, wiping dirt from his palms onto his dark blue pants. He stopped, studying the plants, then nodded. When he came in, he didn’t notice me.

I cleared my throat.

Frank whirled. His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“Are you leaving soon?”

“Is that any business of yours?”

I sighed. “All I want to know is whether I should set the alarm or if you want to do it.”

“You lock up.” He turned away.

“Then you’re leaving right away?”

“No. I plan to work late, on the budget, and I don’t want someone walking in here when I’m not looking.”

He could have locked up himself. All he had to do was throw the alarm’s inside toggle switch on the wall beside the courtyard door. But, no, I would have to get out my keys and turn on the alarm beside the front entrance. And then, he’d probably forget to reset it when he left. That had happened before.

“Well?” Frank said.

I glanced at the hook midway between the window and the patio door. Frank’s ring with the alarm system key and the key to the padlock on the patio gate hung there. He was so absentminded he had to hang his key ring up every morning or he might lose it in his wanderings through the premises. Of course, if he stayed at his desk and worked, that would be less of a danger.

“Don’t worry.” Frank’s eyes had followed mine. “I won’t forget to reset it.”

“Good.”

“And Miss Oliverez…”

“Yes?”

“After the opening you’d better start looking for another place of employment.”

He’d threatened to fire me before, so his words didn’t surprise me. “Sure, Frank.” I turned to go.

“I’m serious. I’ve already talked to my Colombian about taking over your position.”

Slowly I turned back. “Tony? You’ve got to be kidding;”

He assumed an aggressive stance. “Tony is qualified. He has been education director for over six months now.”

“And he knows nothing about Mexican art. He hasn’t done a thing as education director, and everybody knows it. You yourself generally call him your ‘stupid Colombian.” Besides, the board would never approve his appointment.“

“The board approved his initial appointment.”

“That was on your recommendation. They didn’t know him. Now they do, and they’ll never-”

“That will be all, Miss Oliverez.”

“You know what, Frank?”

“I said, that will be all.”

“I don’t regret what I said to you out on the loading dock. I don’t regret a word of it.” And before it could erupt into one of our full-scale arguments, I left the office. When I went to set the alarm, I was so angry that my hands shook and I could barely turn the key from the up to the down position. That done, I almost ran to my car. Home. I needed to go home.

Of course, traffic was terrible. I sat behind the wheel of the Rabbit, fuming and muttering. Just let Frank try to put Tony in my job. All it would do was prove to the board that he was a certifiable lunatic. He ought to be stopped before he did irreparable damage to the museum. He ought to be…

A horn honked behind me. I gestured angrily, tried to shift the Rabbit into gear too quickly, and stalled. By the time I got it started, the light had changed.

Maybe I should look for another job. The problems at the museum were sapping my energy. I was there to care for our collections, dammit, not act as referee for a bunch of quarrelsome, petty…

This time I was ready for the light. I shot through it, heading crosstown.

Santa Barbara is a seaside city of around 75,000, stretching north along the coast to the University of California, my alma mater, and south to Montecito, where the rich people live. The shoreline curves along the Pacific, edged with beaches and parks. To the east, softly rounded hills form a protective bowl. The beauty of the natural setting is further enhanced by the graceful Spanish architecture, which reflects the town’s heritage. Santa Barbara has become one of the foremost vacation areas in California and is a haven for the wealthy and famous, many of whom are seeking to escape the cheap glitter of Hollywood to the south. My house was not in one of their exclusive neighborhoods, but midway between the hills and the shore, in the closest thing we have to a barrio.

The neighbors’ kids were playing ball in the street, the way I’d played there years before. I pulled into my driveway, waved to them, and went up on the front porch. The house was a typical green stucco California bungalow. The thick palm tree in the front yard and the fuschia that ran wild over the porch did much to disguise it, but the fact remained that one of these days I was going to have to shell out for a new paint job. I took my mail from the box-three more bills-and went inside.

The day’s heat had built up in there. I opened the windows on the front and side of the living room, kicked off my shoes, and set the bills on my little desk. There was something I had to take care of. What? Oh, yes, the car re-registration. There it was, in the pigeonhole where I kept urgent papers. The pigeonhole was crammed full. I wrote a check to the Department of Motor Vehicles and sealed it in the envelope. Whatever else was urgent could wait until after the opening.

Then I went to the old-fashioned kitchen, got a glass of cool white wine, and came back to the living room. I sat down in a rocker by the side window, enjoying the breeze. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the polished hardwood floors, and the thin white curtains billowed. For the first time today I felt at peace.

This house was my haven, the place I felt most comfortable in all the world. It ought to be; I’d been born in this house, raised here, lived here all my life. Up until six years ago, when I’d finished college, my mother had lived here, too.

Then, the day after my graduation from UCSB, she’d announced she was going to sell.

Why? I’d asked her. Because both of her girls were through college and she was going to retire.

That was understandable. Mama had worked as a domestic for the city’s wealthiest families-including Isabel Cunningham-ever since my father died when I was only three. She’d managed to buy the house, put money away, and help both me and my older sister Carlota through college. For us, the tradition of machismo, so prevalent in most Mexican-American homes, had died with my father. The women in the Oliverez household had to be strong and independent, according to Mama. We made our way in the world, refusing to let anyone, male or female, put us down. And she was the strongest.

My mother had worked hard; it was natural she should want-and deserve-to retire. But why sell the house?

Well, Mama explained, there was this mobile home park up in Goleta, near the beach. They had a swimming pool and a recreation center and a crafts workshop. They organized trips to plays and the symphony, and every Saturday night there was a barbecue. A mobile home would be much easier to keep up than this house. And besides-this with a wicked gleam in her eye-most of the people were around her age. There would be widowers.

Mama! I had exclaimed.

What did I expect? she demanded. She’d been without a man long enough. Of course, it wasn’t anything she thought I would understand. I hadn’t been without once since I was old enough to flirt.

That stilled my objections, and made me think. All those years Mama had been alone. And Carlota and I had been running here and there-parties, summer vacations-without so much as a thank you or a thought for her loneliness. Of course she should have her mobile home. But I asked her not to put the house on the market just yet.

Then I called Carlota in Minneapolis, where she was an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Minnesota. We worked it out that she would buy the mobile home and I would make the rental payments on the space for it. In return, Mama would deed the house to us. I would maintain it and live there, and if I ever wanted to buy her out, Carlota would agree to it. Within a month Mama had moved, and two weeks after that, she had a boyfriend. I am definitely my mother’s daughter.

The nice thing about the mobile home park was that it had a laundry. And, since I couldn’t afford a washer and dryer yet, I paid the laundry frequent visits.

Now I finished my wine, went to my bedroom and collected my dirty clothes. On the way out I called my mother.

“It’s laundry night,” I said. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

“I could use some milk.”

“Anything else?”

“Dinner is chile verde. Nick is coming, but there’s plenty for you. I’m low on lettuce, though. And maybe some of those nice avocados they’re bringing up from Mexico? What do you think of a tomato and avocado salad? With some sweet onion. Yes, a couple of tomatoes and one onion, a large one. And-”

“Just a minute. I’ve got to get a pencil.” I wrote down those and several more requests, then set off for the shopping center. It was small price to pay for getting the laundry done and enjoying some good company.