The Tree of Death

by Marcia Muller

  Isabel’s triumphant look became questioning. “It’s a surprise, for the opening,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  We all remained speechless.

  “Pablo Gomez made it,” she added. “It’s one of a kind, especially for this museum. There’ll never be another like it.”

  So I had been right; Pablo was her favorite protégé‘t an old man who turned out these monstrosities the way a fry cook turns out burgers.

  Frank recovered first. “It’s splendid, Isabel. Just splendid. ”‘ He turned to me. “Isn’t it splendid?”’ His scowl said I’d better come up with something good; the museum depended on Isabel’s contributions.

  “It’s lovely, Isabel. Such an excellent example of the arbol de la vida. And so large. It’s so much larger than anything in our collections.” I turned to Jesse.

  “Yes,” he said quickly, “it certainly is large. It must have cost a fortune.”

  “Price was no object.” Isabel waved a hand airily, her uncertainty banished.

  “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this, Isabel,” Frank said. He turned to Tony this time.

  Tony gave his lounge-lizard smirk. “I will take oh-so-many pictures and make new materials for the education.”

  Now what did that mean? I frowned at him.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Maria?” Frank said.

  Maria gave him a sulky look, then smiled brilliantly at Jesse.

  Now it was Frank’s turn to frown.

  Isabel beamed at us. “Yes, price was no object. Nothing is too good for our opening in our new quarters.”

  A horrible suspicion crept over me. Did Isabel expect this… creation to be in place for the Cinco de Mayo party?

  “And, of course, the press preview,” she added.

  “I-” Panicky, I glanced at Frank. He looked blankly at me. “I-” I cleared my throat. “Isabel, I don’t think we can get it in place by then. The preview’s tomorrow morning at ten. The other exhibits will have to be shifted to prepare a space large enough…”

  Isabel frowned. Although charming, she could be difficult when crossed.

  “Frank,” I said, “I don’t think-”

  “Do it,” Frank said.

  “What?”

  “Shift the exhibits and get the tree in place.”

  “But-”

  “The folk art gallery is plenty large enough. We can use a plywood base. Get that painter-what’s his name-Pedro over here. He can paint the wood in colors to highlight those purple and green flowers.”‘ Frank gestured at the tree. “We can flank it with those two smaller arboles from the permanent collection.”

  “Frank!” It would take all day to shift the exhibits. The painter probably would not be available. And who was going to build this plywood base? Besides, the damned thing was ugly!

  Frank, however, had made up his mind. “Tony, take Isabel into the gallery and help her pick a spot for it.”

  Tony nodded and slouched over to the truck. He helped Isabel down and ushered her into the museum.

  “Frank!”

  Frank stepped up to me, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Now, listen, you, and listen careful. That tree is going to be in there in time for the preview.”

  “Frank, it is gross, it is ugly, it is too damned big!”

  “You’re prejudiced. I know you hate the things.”

  It was true. I was perfectly willing to admit prejudice. But it was a prejudice founded on solid artistic principles. Since the invention of acrylic paints, the trees had become more and more garish, their branches laden with objects that had little to do with the combined Indian and Christian beliefs. I would gladly have displayed one of the older trees, but not this thing. It was on a par with a pinata from Tijuana. “That particular tree,” I said, “would prejudice anyone.”

  “It is going to be displayed whether you like it or not.”

  “You may be director here, but I’m responsible for the collections. I am responsible for what people see and don’t see. I am responsible for what they think of Mexican art.”

  “And you will be responsible for setting that”-he waved wildly at the arbol-“up!”

  “I will not be responsible for that monstrosity. It’s hideous.”

  “Do it!”

  “No, dammit!”

  Frank came closer until his nose was a scant six inches from mine. This was the tactic he always used in our frequent arguments. “Yes, dammit,” he said softly. “You will do it. That woman in there is worth several million dollars, even now that she’s divorced. That woman in there devotes herself to this museum. That woman in there is not to be crossed.”

  “Money! Is that all you can think of-money?”

  “Money is what keeps us going.”

  “What about artistic integrity?”

  “That is a side issue.”

  “Not to me, it’s not.”

  “Go in there and get ready to set up that tree.”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “Nonsense. Vic can build the base for it. He’s good with a hammer.” Vic jerked in surprise. “If we can’t get Pedro, Jesse can paint. After all, he’s an artist.” Jesse opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “The driver can help us haul the tree into place.”

  “My orders are only as far as the loading dock,”‘ the driver said.

  Frank ignored him. He looked back at the tree, his eyes calculating. “We’ll set it up, flanked by those two little arboles. Stick in some of the fertility symbols and… I’ve got it! We’ll put that little terra-cotta tree of death on a pedestal.”

  “The tree of death!” I said.

  “Yes. The tree of death.”

  “You can’t do that! It’s unaesthetic. It’s not done. It’s sacrilege!”

  “Do it!”

  I felt my rage rising. Take it easy, Elena, I told myself. Watch that temper.

  “Is that clear?”‘ Frank added.

  I clenched my fists. I gritted my teeth.

  “Is it, Miss Oliverez?” He stood there before me, smug and self-satisfied.

  “You son of a bitch!” I said. “You hijo de puta! What the hell right do you have to mess with my collections?”

  Frank took a step back.

  “You wander around here for weeks, doing nothing but fiddling with the plants. You sit and brag while everybody else does the work. And now, when the collections are all set and we’re ready to go, you decide to switch everything around.” I felt Jesse’s restraining hand on my arm, but it was too late for caution.

  “And for what?” I demanded, now advancing on Frank. “For what, eh? For that?” I motioned wildly at the arbol. “It’s all the stereotypes about junky Mexican art rolled into one. It’ll make the museum look like a cheap souvenir shop. We might as well hang up a pinata or two and some of those bullfighter pictures painted on velvet. Shall we do that, Frank? Do you want to make us a laughingstock?”

  Frank took another step back, but then stood firm. “I said, Miss Oliverez, do it!”

  “Hijo deputa! Somebody ought to kill you!” I whirled and ran up the steps to the loading dock.

  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 wo
uldn’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.