2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) Page 2

  Six months after, I received a sizable package and noticed her address on the return label. For two weeks the box sat under my Christmas tree (I always put up a Christmas tree) even though it was well into January before that box ever came. Before tending to my own affairs in the morning I would sit there in that chair for a few minutes contemplating the box and its contents. It made the winter seem to melt away from this Michigan extremity.

  I do not mind my job. I have my own small shop. You may have seen it across from the medical/dental pavilion with that rather slipshod awning. No, not that one. Two doors down. I suppose you might miss it what with the door somewhat recessed, but there it is. Yes, you're right. The one with Danny's painted on the glass. So I do not mind my job. But it is sometimes very hard to convince myself that the doors of my tiny market will ever open against the snow.

  So I rather cherished those mornings, sitting with a cup of tea staring at the box. There was no doubt that a work of art was enclosed, and even more absolute perhaps was the fact that it contained wool. Hundreds of options ran through my head. I thought it might be a three-dimensional map of her town or my street or of any of the places we have visited together. And it could have been a figure from the ballet. She has an affection for ballet. She decorates her home (I have never visited but there is no reason to doubt her) with trinkets from the ballet.

  She says her father had a habit of keeping her close to home. Of course there was the farm and the sheep, but as a child she saw him as a tyrant for never letting her take ballet.

  In the end my curiosity conquered my imagination, and I opened the box. It seemed to be filled with beautiful ornamental balls for the tree. I was disappointed that I had not opened it immediately since two days before I had decided to take the tree down for fear of fire. Now here was this box filled with ornaments that would have to wait another year. Such an aggravation.

  But as I began to pull one of the most beautiful orbs I found there was great resistance and that the rest of the balls were trying desperately to follow the lead of the first.

  There were silver wires connecting each in a variety of ways one to another or another to the rest. As I worked to untangle the imposing mass, I tried not to wish for the other things I had imagined she had sent me. But there was little hope that I would find pleasure in such an array of yuletide finery. I felt rather ashamed of my ingratitude. It haunted me that I had given up, labeling the box, "Xmas from Mary J." And just storing it with the others in my cellar.

  Two or three weeks later Mary called me. I could hear the sun in her voice. I thought of the summer there and her sheep grazing on verdant hills. Our conversation encompassed several things but she had obviously called in reference to the gift and I was agitated as to how I could express my feelings without offending hers.

  After a pause which was most likely very expensive from her side of the world to mine, she said, “Well, Danny? What did you think of your model?"

  Since I was six virtually everyone I had ever known called me Daniel. In fact I remember no terms of endearment at all. Sometimes my mother would call me Daniel Gustavo, but I believe this was only to hear together the two names she had chosen for me. She seemed to need to reassure herself that the unlikely combination of my first and middle names had not after all been a mistake.

  But Mary called me Danny. She has always called me Danny. And she still does.

  Without thinking or planning my next sentence I heard my reply, "My what?"

  "You didn't get my gift? And here I was so angry with you for not thanking me. You didn't even get it. Mail is so awkward at Christmas. I do hope it is not entirely lost. I worked on it for almost a year. And I thought of it ages before that."

  Although it would have been rather simple at that point to avoid telling her what I actually thought of the gift I could not in good conscience do so. "No, Mary. I received it some time ago. I kept it wrapped up for a period of weeks having some fun in a guessing game. But it seems even with it open I have guessed wrong. I had presumed you sent me a box of ornaments for my tree."

  Her laughter sounded more like a bleating sheep than I had remembered. Maybe it was my momentary avarice. "Not tree ornaments, love. That's the sky. Didn't you read the card?"

  I had not.

  I carried the phone into the basement and opened the box for a second, more informed inspection. She was extraordinary. Mercury, Pluto, Jupiter, Mars. How could I have mistaken Saturn's rings for an abstractly-rendered halo?

  She must have guessed I had tangled them terribly. "If you pull up gently on the sun the others will, or at least they should, just drop into place."

  I did this and held up a glorious mobile. So many moons, and I had to ask how long it had taken her to string the seemingly thousands of fuzzy bits depicting the asteroid belt. I could not hide my incredulity and I believe it quite flattered her. She hesitated at first, saying that I must think it awful since I had not even recognized Earth. But after hearing my praise she shared with me several very interesting pieces of trivia which she had become aware of while researching the solar system and which facts were all apparently represented in her masterpiece.

  With some instruction I had no trouble seeing any of them.

  We talked every few weeks after that and wrote as often. She realized I couldn't very well lock the doors to my little shop and go to New Zealand just for a personal visit. But in due time she found a friend who was willing to take care of the farm for a few weeks in exchange for what seemed to me to be an excessive demand of mutton and fleece. I was horrified to think of three baby lambs being slaughtered for my benefit, however indirect. But Mary seemed happy with the trade and informed me she would be coming in October.

  I made arrangements for her as best I could. The carpet cleaners came, and I enlisted the high school boy from across the hall to fix my shower. I bought a few clothes. At first I had chosen four new shirts, but realizing that she would immediately see my efforts to impress her I limited my purchases to one white shirt with double button sleeves and one without. I spoke with a sales representative in the necktie department but could not quite find something I liked, assuming she was opposed to yellow dots which I expected she was since I was so surprised to find that I myself had liked them.

  For three weeks before she was to come all I did was sit very cautiously in my apartment trying very carefully not to get anything dirty. And I suppose just to shock me with some superstitious meaning, only days before her arrival the Earth fell from its silver strand. It landed where the dog could find it and I heard him from the other room rasping and choking with intermittent whines. He solicited my pity and I stroked him gently as he coughed against whatever it was he had found. But when I finally looked into his mouth I found it was full of wool.

  I ran into the next room and found the Earth on the floor, wet and drawn. “Shit. And she's coming so soon." After the thing dried I sat with glue and rearranged a bit of the South American continent, mimicking its geography to the best of my recollection. It was certainly not the same, and there was no doubt in my mind she would notice but I hung the Earth again with several pieces of fishing line and hurried off to meet her plane.

  FOR THE MAN WHO BOUGHT ME COFFEE AND WAS SHOT IN THE HEAD SOON AFTER

  I have seen your

  smile often tonight

  lying on the freezer floor.

  Did you know it would

  happen when you pulled

  up a chair and called me

  beautiful?

  Did you put a prayer

  in my little white cup?

  Were you talking to strangers

  (funny to think me strange)

  to avoid your thoughts?

  You knew they were

  coming, didn't you?

  But you didn't know when.

  So much like the rest of us

  but sooner.

  Was I safe to you

  or did I look naive and happy?

  Were you just glad someone w
ould

  go on?

  And the thought of you—

  who flattered me with no reserve,

  wanted absolutely nothing,

  and felt so good—

  kneeling down with a couple of

  friends in the freezer

  (one on either side, I'll bet)

  hands tied behind your back

  looking at the door.

  Hoping someone would come for you.

  Wishing they hadn't.

  And why did they come?

  I suppose it's rude to ask.

  Scared. Were you scared?

  How long did you kneel there

  with their words over you?

  I'm glad it was cold.

  I hope you were numb for your

  execution.

  I certainly hope you were.

  I don't know why I didn't hear you

  cry out. Voice submerged

  by always-on-top-flattery,

  beautiful faces, French,

  and laughing cigarettes.

  But I do remember your leaning

  closer than I might have expected.

  and I do remember your looking into

  my eyes, hiding something

  precious in me.

  Anyway,

  Thank you for the coffee

  and for stabbing your smile

  deep enough.

  HOLLACE AND SOME GIRL

  Black shoes need shining at the airport and grab a newspaper too. Hollace Dupree sat behind his paper not so much reading it as thanking it for dividing him from the throngs of travelers and from the shoeshiner. At page fourteen, he thought slowly whether he should have a glass of orange juice or a nice cup of coffee before his flight. Both would cost way too much, but he was above taking a thermos to the airport and actually hadn't thought of that until just now. He hated flying coach. The complimentary beverages on the plane could not be trusted unless carbonated. Airplane coffee was mealy and the orange juice often had a metallic taste or worse, had to be consumed from a miniscule plastic tub.

  After nodding, smiling, and tipping the burly shoeshiner in a grand act of escape, Mr. Dupree strode across the wide corridor breaking through streams of early-morning travelers without much notice to family integrity, shopping bags bearing the visages of cartoon characters, or the momentum of gaggles of flight attendants with their wheeled carry-ons. All the various looks of disgust were lost on Hollace Dupree who moved through life from one destination to another head down and inattentive to others. Coffee. Small. Black. Thank you.

  Once seated on the plane after a suitable wait at the gate and the usual boarding of the vessel by rows starting from the rear, Hollace Dupree watched the airport staff from his window without interest. He kept an eye on the conveyor belt half hoping to catch sight of his own bags being loaded onto the plane. He was uneasy and thought that if his bags were on the plane then he was certainly going to the right place.

  As interesting as the search for his luggage was, it was the men who were working under the plane that eventually held his attention. The gloves and the uniforms and the grease were all such glorious accessories to the fuel lines, baggage carts, meal trucks, and so on which were teeming around the huge jet. A man holding fluorescent flashlights stood back from the crowd adjusting his knee pads. His brown curls set themselves free of a cap and then disappeared again, sweating. As the jet engines began to roar several of the workers, pulling off gloves and turning their faces toward the cold morning sun, laughed together over something easily understood while wearing ear protection.

  Upon witnessing their laughter Hollace felt himself the intruder. He looked away quickly not having meant any harm. He concentrated instead on the crease in his pants, pinching it together at various points and assuring its crisp respectability. Then he turned to the safety card for a minute and focused thoughts about a water landing. It seemed an impossibility that his seat could in any way become a flotation device. Some child had left a drawing in the seat pocket. It was a bawdy array of ogres and what might have passed for either a princess or a rather sick-making pile of fruit. Hollace reviewed the sheet from several perspectives and replaced it gingerly behind the onboard catalog. He ran his finger across the bendable wire that would close the bag which Mr. Dupree had always thought suited popcorn more than human emesis. His eyes avoided the window. But he decided that once the plane was on the runway it would be okay to watch during takeoff. For now he just waited.

  It was a business flight in 1999. Virtually every passenger had some combination of the following items: power suit, laptop computer, Wall Street Journal, important-looking data sheets, stapled piles of something or other to review, and coffee. Hollace Dupree was not an exception. Hollace Dupree was never an exception. He wore a gray suit and a white shirt. His tie was interesting but conservative and most likely was purchased in a department store. He had not traveled beyond what his business required, and this morning he was returning home from somewhere else. He did not have gifts to take home for anyone and would not consider finding anyone for whom to take gifts home. Hollace unknowingly defined himself through his career. He attended charity functions with clients, played golf and tennis with clients, went to an Episcopal church to meet new clients, and sent sympathy cards when his clients passed away. He was an accountant.

  Without another thing to look at in order to pass the time, Hollace wondered whether it were worth soliciting some amenity from the airline woman who was near enough to be asked. But as he tried to decide between creamer which he didn't need for the coffee or a pillow which would take up too much of his tiny allotment of space, the flight attendant’s attention was drawn toward the front of the plane.

  Hollace looked to see what could possibly have preempted his needs.

  Never had he witnessed such an abomination. There, on the rubber mat outside the cockpit, stood a girl. Not so unremarkable even on a 6:07 a.m. business flight, but this girl was wearing a hot pink gown with hoop skirts.

  The skirt must have been made with at least fifteen yards of material and there was bulk and fluff added by several layers of crinolines and other undergarments. The skirt was accompanied by an extremely tight bodice. There were times when women had ribs removed to fit themselves into such bodices, and one wondered whether this girl had required such an operation. Several vertical shafts seemed to run through the bodice. And a panel of white muslin was brought together in an even more restraining manner by a network of ribbons. The supposed concept of this invention was that it allowed her bosom to sit so precariously that it might at any time happen to fall into plain view.

  She boarded the plane at 6:05 a.m. in a fit of rage. Her arms were flying around her, at one moment wiping away tears, at another tugging at the skirt that would not fit into the aisle. And those same arms seemed to reflect utter despair which required much attention. She snapped at the flight attendant. "What—? Do you have a problem? You could help me, you know, you and your polyester-perfect polka dot bow tie. What is up with that bow tie? How do you get that ridiculous ribbon so tangled around your neck and make it look intentional? Huh? And that manicure too. Red. You have all those same red nails. Do you think I want to stare at your red nails and your gold rings and your hair-sprayed French twists when I'm flying to Toronto? Do you?"

  This was long enough before 9/11 that members of the flight crew had not fully relinquished their servile roles in favor of a more enforceable intimidation. And too bad, really; much might have been different. But as it was, the flight attendant ran her tongue over her teeth and swallowed twice before she replied in a pleasant but firmly kind voice, "I'm afraid we are not destined for Toronto this morning, ma'am. Do you require assistance finding another gate? We would like to push back as soon as possible."

  The girl dropped her arms to her sides and stared into the flight attendant with black eyes. "There are a thousand small trolls like you rushing into life this morning in high heels. And do you know what? Color contacts are made
with the rotting placentas of rabbits."

  The flight attendant receded somehow, coughing back tears with her hand unconsciously patting her upswept hair.

  The woman in the pink dress succumbed to the rage and began a public fit of sobbing tears.

  "My lord." Hollace whispered to himself with incredulity, awe, and embarrassment.

  The girl was a disgrace. Her hair was disheveled but looked a recent bouncing mane of banana curls. She wore gloves and lace and ribbons and bows. Gaudy pewter and glass jewelry seemed an awful burden but sporadically flashed rainbows around the cabin as she thrashed against the lavatory door. On top of all this she was wearing a dark green backpack covered with embroidery, strange patches, and small activist pins. But the ensign of her absolute displacement from the nineteenth century was that she had a tattoo of small roses that wrapped around her biceps. She kept sobbing with such overt pain that women found themselves disgusted by the trails of her mascara, and men watched her heaving chest with high hopes.

  Several minutes passed. No one wanted to take control of the situation. The flight attendants certainly would not and the pilots did their best to busy themselves with knobs and gauges. The other passengers furtively looked past their papers hoping to catch a quip or anecdote from the girl. Each was planning a witty icebreaker to explain his or her late arrival. An apple-cheeked maniac escaping the throes of antebellum society and flinging obscenities is certainly a better story than the usual broken fuel lines and fog delays.

  Finally realizing that the aisle could not possibly be negotiated in all her finery, the girl began to tug wildly at the skirts. And she left behind her a pile of crinoline, hot pink taffeta, and at least three bone hoops which the flight attendant nearest to her heaped into a storage bin generally reserved for strollers.

  The girl stood in bloomers looking for a seat. She scratched her leg with the opposite foot. She was wearing black stockings and black boots with laces that crisscrossed themselves halfway up to her knee. There were uncomfortable laughs, shakes of voyeurs’ papers, and the tsks and gasps which are generally heard at such times.