The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  “Trees can’t get married, dummy,” Zoey said disdainfully.

  “I’m not a dummy!”

  “No, she’s not. And you know the rule about name-calling,” Matt said. “Apologize, Zoey.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I forgive you.” Sophie’s face was sunny, as if the incident hadn’t occurred. “I’d love to go to a wedding.”

  “Maybe Daddy and Jillian will have one,” Zoey suggested.

  Matt shifted the shovel to his other hand. “Jillian is your aunt.”

  “Yeah, but she could marry you, and then she’d be our mother,” Zoey said. “I asked her.”

  Matt’s lips flattened. “This isn’t something you should be discussing with Jillian.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because . . .” He shifted the shovel again. “Marriage is between a man and a woman.”

  “It’s ’tween the kids, too,” Zoey insisted.

  “Well, it involves them, of course, but first, it’s a man-woman thing,” Matt looked as if he’d rather be discussing anything else. “You’ll understand when you get older.”

  “It has to do with kissing and stuff,” Sophie piped up.

  “Jillian kisses Daddy,” Zoey volunteered.

  I saw Matt’s ears redden. “Just as a greeting. It’s not the same.”

  “Hey—maybe Dad and Hope will kiss!” Sophie looked at me, her eyes wide and optimistic. “The forest man said anyone who kisses under the tree stays together!”

  My mouth felt incapable of moving, even if my mind could have formed words.

  I didn’t mean to look at Matt, but he caught my eye, and a bolt of heat shot between us. I felt my cheeks burn.

  “Sounds like you two have been watching too many Disney princess movies,” Matt said easily, stepping away from the arbor of the trees’ intertwined branches.

  “Well, I’ll kiss Hope.” Before I knew what was happening, Sophie grabbed my hand and kissed it. “There. Now you’ll have to stay in Wedding Tree forever.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Zoey sniffed.

  “You don’t know everything.” Sophie looked at me with such affection that my heart turned over.

  “Hey—that looks like a good place to plant a tree over there.” Matt gestured in the distance in an obvious bid to change the subject. “What do you think?”

  “Yes!” Sophie exclaimed.

  Matt led the way, and we all traipsed along. Zoey picked the exact site, and Matt drove his shovel into the dirt.

  I started digging, too, but my shovel only got in the way of his. The girls argued over which tree should be planted first, then what the tree should be named. “Belle” was finally settled into the soil, and Matt and I—okay, mostly Matt—scooped dirt back around it. Matt placed a hand on top of the tree. “Belle, I hereby beseech thee to live long and prosper.”

  The ritual was repeated eight more times, with the girls taking over each tree’s blessing. The words grew more and more mangled as we proceeded, like a game of telephone. The last tree’s solemn injunction, muttered by Sophie, sounded something like, “Jasmine, I hear ’bout bee’s itchy to live large and posture.”

  Matt and I grinned over their heads. Once again, I felt a zing of heat pass between us. The girls played tag on the way back, and Matt and I joined in. We were all laughing as we joined the other volunteers at the truck thirty minutes later.

  The forestry officer gathered up the shovels. “Great job! Thanks a million.”

  I waved good-bye to Matt and the girls, and piled back into the van with the women. “Husband and wife tree,” Jen said as we passed it. “That’s so beautiful—the thought of those two trees grafted and growing together.”

  “After a while they’re just holding each other up,” Clarabel said.

  “That’s beautiful, too,” said Jen.

  Everyone laughed, but we all murmured sounds of agreement. I twisted in my seat to gaze at the tree until it was no longer in sight.

  20

  adelaide

  I sneaked out to the backyard while Nadine the aide was in the bathroom. I thought that if I went outside, it might trigger something. I didn’t expect a memory, exactly—how could I remember something I hadn’t known in the first place?—but I figured that I might get some kind of notion where to look.

  The Meyer lemon tree against the far fence was in bloom. The scent was dizzyingly sweet. The tulips were still bursting with color, as dazzling and warm as new love. And the azaleas—oh, what colors! In the last few days they’d opened wide, their petals of fuchsia and pink blazing so brightly they practically burned my eyes. My fingers twitched, longing to connect with a camera button. It was one of my favorite times of the year, when God seemed to just burst through the leaves in a sudden, overflowing abundance of beauty. I felt sorry for people who rushed right by, never seeing the colors, never acknowledging the love the creator poured into making such an opulent display, just to gladden our hearts and assure us of his glory.

  But I needed to think about how the yard had looked back then. Goodness, that would have been sixty-some-odd years ago! The yard had changed a lot over time. It still has the big oaks, some magnolias, and a couple of birch trees, but a giant elm, some pines, and a pecan tree have since died or been toppled in a hurricane. The vegetable garden is still on the right side, but it’s much smaller than it was back then, and I didn’t have the flower beds encircling the trees. The only place I’m pretty sure I can rule out was the center of the lawn. Charlie couldn’t have buried anything there, or I would have seen it.

  Or would I? It had been fall, and the ground was covered with leaves. Maybe right out in plain sight would have been the best hiding place of all.

  I leaned heavily on my walker. The truth is, at the time, I hadn’t wanted to see anything. I’d even asked Charlie if I should skip planting vegetables or flowers that spring, and he’d replied, “No reason not to.” Still, I’d only planted a few tomatoes and peppers and squash plants, no root vegetables or anything deep, and I’d felt uneasy in the backyard all that summer, and most of the summer after. There’s a possibility, I suppose, that he actually left our property that night to bury that suitcase somewhere else, but the gate squeaked, and opening it wide made it bang against the house, and I think I would have heard it.

  Funny how you can fear something so much that you just can’t bear to think about it, but the more you push it to the back of your thoughts, the stronger the dread of it grows. All these years, this fear had been festering in its dark corner. Waiting. Lurking. Spreading in the dark, like a fungus.

  Now that I’m finally bringing it forward, it’s shocking, how much it tortures me. Shame is so corrosive. How could I have left it unaddressed for all these years? How had I lived with it? How had Charlie?

  Ah, well. What is done in secret will be brought into the light. That’s what it says in the good book, and I guess that’s the way it is.

  “Gran?”

  I turned to see Hope and the aide standing behind me.

  “What are you doing out here?” Hope asked.

  “Enjoying the azaleas.” The lie felt bitter on my tongue. Time for the truth, old girl. “And . . . trying to remember something.”

  “You shouldn’t be out of the house without someone,” the aide scolded.

  I smiled at her. “No offense, dearie, but now and then, I need some time alone. At my age, I think I’ve earned that right.”

  The aide put her hand on hip, as if she was about to give me a lecture, but Hope spoke first. “Of course you have. Be careful not to get too tired.”

  She motioned the aide back inside and followed her. I could feel Hope, though, watching me through the kitchen window.

  She was worried. And it was no wonder; the fact was, I was frail and old and feeble. Standing out here wasn’t helping anyway. I shuffled back to th
e kitchen, surprised and chagrined at how arduous a trek it was.

  “Would you like some tea?” Hope asked.

  “Yes, dear. Pour some for yourself as well, and then let’s take it into my bedroom and tell the aide not to disturb us.”

  I slowly scuffled into my room and settled in the rocking chair. Hope brought in two steaming mugs, set them both on coasters on my side table, and looked at me expectantly.

  “Look in the very back of the closet, on the left. There’s a black-and-white pin-striped dress.”

  She stepped into my closet and pulled it out. “This?”

  “Yes.”

  She brought it to me. It was rayon, had long sleeves, a patent belt, and a flared skirt, and it used to fit me within an inch of my life. I’d always felt so polished and professional when I wore it. I fingered the fabric. “Lay it on the bed, dear, and have a seat.”

  She picked up her mug and settled on the bed beside the dress.

  I leaned back in the rocker, closed my eyes, lapsed into storytelling mode. “Two days after I got back to New Orleans from my trip with Joe, I got a phone call from my mother. In those days, a long-distance phone call was a rare thing indeed.”

  1943

  I’d been in my room, composing a letter to Joe, when Lucille called me to the phone. I’d raced downstairs, hoping it was Joe, but that dream was squashed as soon as I dashed into the living room and saw Lucille’s cloth-curlered head pressed against the receiver, her forehead creased. “But I’m sure she said it was an uncle who died,” she was saying.

  Oh, dear Lord. As the kids say today, I was busted. I’d told Marge all about the trip and Joe’s proposal, of course, but not Lucille. She’d no doubt offered my mother condolences on Uncle Leo’s passing. My chest felt like a truck was parked on it as she extended the phone to me, her gaze reproachful. “It’s your mother.”

  I hesitantly took the receiver. “Hello, Mother. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes. But what was Lucille saying about you going to an uncle’s funeral last week?”

  “Uncle Leo? He’s a, uh, jazz musician. Everyone calls him that. He’s the uncle of a, uh, close friend.” For a person who never lied, I was spinning quite a spiel. I turned my back to Lucille, who was hovering nearby, obviously listening. I needed to change the topic, and fast. “I’ll tell you all about it in a letter—I don’t want you buying out the phone company. What are you calling about? Is everyone okay?”

  Fortunately, the news that had spurred the call was more urgent than Mother’s curiosity about my weekend. “We’re great. Charlie’s coming home on Friday!”

  My heart rolled in my chest like a ship in high waves.

  “You have to be here,” Mother said. “He specifically asked.”

  My heart lurched again. “But, Mother, I have to work.”

  “You can come afterward.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts, Adelaide. He specifically asked for you, and I’m not telling Virginia that you can’t make it.”

  “But, Mother—I—I’ve met someone else. In fact, I’m writing you a letter telling you about him, and . . .”

  “Stop right there, young lady. This isn’t the time for that kind of thing. You put that aside for now, you hear me?” Mother’s voice was as commanding as General Patton’s. “Put that aside, and come home Friday. And I expect you to be the girl you’ve always been with Charlie. He’s lost enough already.”

  My throat tightened. “What do you mean? Did he . . . did he lose his leg?”

  “No, but they had to amputate some of his toes.”

  Relief poured through me. Toes were so much better than an entire leg! And yet, it was still a loss. “Poor Charlie.”

  “Yes. His leg is very weak, but he still has it. He’s on crutches, but they expect him to be able to walk on his own eventually. Now I expect to see you Friday night. There’s a bus that leaves New Orleans at six thirty in the evening and gets here at nine thirty. See that you’re on it. The town is doing a big party in his honor Saturday, and you have to be here.”

  There was really no help for it. How could I not go to Charlie’s welcome home celebration? He was my childhood friend, my high school sweetheart, the only child of my mother’s dearest friend.

  I hung up the phone, despondent. I had no choice.

  Was life always going to be like this . . . a good thing happens, and then a bad one? At what point did everything start to be okay?

  Back then, I thought there was some golden moment I would arrive at, a turning point after which everything would be fine and dandy. During most of my youth, “after the war” had looked like that moment.

  It was naive and juvenile, I know now. It probably came from reading too many books and watching too many movies with happy endings. But when Joe left and Charlie came home, that was the first time I began to realize that maybe there was no such thing as a trouble-free ever after. Maybe life would always be a constant mingle of good and bad. Maybe no matter how perfectly I dreamed and planned, something would always be undone, missing, lacking, or askew. Maybe I would always think, “I’d be perfectly happy, if only . . .”

  At the time, of course, I didn’t know this. I spent most of the long bus ride thinking how I would let Charlie down gently. All my thoughts were focused on Joe and how marvelous our lives would be together.

  I’d expected to see my mother at the bus station—and possibly my father. The person I hadn’t expected to see was Charlie, standing right there where the bus unloaded, propped up on crutches. His parents stood on either side of him.

  “Adelaide,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

  He was pale and thin—so much thinner than I remembered. His eyes were sunken and ringed with shadows. My heart gave a sick little clutch, just like it had that time I’d found a bald baby bird with a broken neck under the oak tree. “Oh, Charlie.” I stepped toward him, and the next thing I knew, he’d dropped his crutches and grabbed me. He kissed me full on the mouth, so hard it hurt my teeth, smashing my nose against his, making it impossible to breathe. I pulled back, but he clung to me, burying his face against my neck and sobbing into my hair.

  All I could think was—God help me!—how much better Joe had felt; how much taller, sturdier, stronger, and manlier he’d been, how the press of his body against mine had unleashed a dizzying surge of desire, while Charlie’s frail, childlike frame filled me with pity. I flushed with shame at my thoughts. A ripple of revulsion rolled through me—not at Charlie’s touch, but at his naked devotion, at his beggarly need.

  “Charlie,” I murmured. “My parents. Your mother . . .”

  That seemed to bring him to his senses. My father cleared his throat. Charlie’s mother stooped and picked up his crutches, and his father steadied him as I drew back.

  “When did you get here?” I asked, smoothing my skirt and trying to hide my embarrassment under a show of normalcy.

  “At noon,” Charlie said.

  “The whole town turned out,” his father added. “The high school band played, and the mayor gave a speech.”

  “How wonderful.”

  His mother grew teary-eyed. “Yes. It was.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re exhausted,” I said. “I didn’t travel nearly as far as you, and I’m about to drop.”

  “Yes, we’d better get you both home,” my father said.

  “You two young people can catch up tomorrow,” my mother said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Charlie’s father echoed.

  I rode home with my parents. Mother talked the whole time, telling me how Charlie had taken shrapnel from a grenade, how brave he’d been, how they’d feared he would die, how his mother had been beside herself.

  “It’s just so wonderful to have you both back home! Didn’t I tell you Charlie was anxious to see you? As poorly as he felt, nothing would do but that
he come to the bus station to see you the moment you got here.”

  Words built inside me like steam in a kettle, until they fairly burst out of my mouth. “Mother—I tried to tell you on the phone. I met someone. A pilot. And . . . he’s asked me to marry him. And I said yes.”

  “What?” My parents spoke simultaneously. Mother twisted around the front car seat and stared at me, her jaw slack. “No!”

  “Yes. I’m engaged.”

  She looked at my hand, obviously noting the lack of a ring. “You are no such thing.” She whipped back around to face my father. “Tell her, Robert. This man hasn’t asked for her hand or even met us. She is not engaged.”

  My father glanced at my mother, then looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Adelaide, your mother’s right. He hasn’t done any of the things one does to make it official.”

  “There’s a war on, for heaven’s sake! He’s on his way to the Pacific. The rules can’t be followed to the letter during a war. He’s writing you, Daddy. He told me he was going to write you and ask for my hand.”

  “We haven’t received any such letter,” Mother said. Before I could tell her that there hadn’t been time, she demanded, “Where did you meet this man?”

  “At the USO.”

  “How long have you known him?” Father asked.

  I hated to say, because I knew how it would sound. “A while.”

  “How long a while?” Mother pressed.

  “Long enough to know I love him.”

  “How long is that in calendar terms?” my father queried.

  I drew in a steadying breath. “About two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! Did you hear that, Robert? Two weeks.” My mother leaned back in her seat, as if it were all settled. “You can’t possibly be telling us that you know this man well enough to want to marry him in that length of time.”

  “But I am telling you that. I love him.”

  “Love.” She said the word as if I were either too big of an idiot to know anything about it, or as if the very concept itself were ludicrous. “I refuse to listen to this nonsense. And I forbid you to say anything about this to anyone while you’re here.”