The April Tree

by Judith Arnold

  “Would you like a little brandy?” her father asked.

  If life were normal, she would have flinched. Her parents were as open-minded and left-wing as one would expect of professors at an elite liberal-arts New England college, but other than a small glass of wine at their annual mixed-marriage pseudo-Seder, they never permitted Becky to drink liquor. She was a high school sophomore, after all, an age when her parents were supposed to obsess about keeping her away from demon alcohol.

  She’d never tasted brandy, but having some sounded like a fine idea. Only she couldn’t bear the thought of drinking it in front of her parents. Any benefit the booze might bring would be nullified by their moonbeam grins.

  She wanted to say, “No, thank you, may I be excused now?” like a good little girl bored by the company of tedious adults. Instead, she sank deeper into the chair, her thighs pressed hard into her chest, her chin resting on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. Becky Origami: the shape of grief.

  The knocker clicked against the front door. Becky had repeatedly asked her parents to install a doorbell, but they wouldn’t, because it would undermine the historical integrity of the house. Visitors had to announce their arrival by using the brass knocker, which was audible on the first floor but not upstairs. Becky closed her eyes and turned her head so her cheek rested on her knees and she faced away from the door. If it was that cop, Officer Romano, she didn’t want to talk to him anymore. If it was more neighbors dropping by to exchange concerned whispers with her mother—“Is Becky all right? The poor thing, is there anything I can do?”—she didn’t want to have to acknowledge them.

  All she wanted was to be away from here, away from people, someplace where solitude might allow her the chance to figure out how she was going to survive the rest of her life in a world stupid enough to have let April die. All she wanted was to go back in time about three hours and grab April before she bolted into the road after Florie’s tennis ball.

  Her father straightened up and crossed to the door. Its hinges creaked with antique authenticity as he opened it. “Stuart,” he said.

  Becky winked one eye open.

  “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” Stuart Fabiano said.

  Becky opened her other eye and weighed the possibility of shifting her head so she could see if he had Elyse with him.

  “But Elyse was, well . . . And I just . . . ”

  Elyse’s father often had difficulty completing sentences. According to Elyse, he had difficulty completing thoughts. Becky wondered whether he’d started to think he ought to bring Elyse over here, and then forgot to finish the thought. He could have left her behind. He could be standing on the Zinn porch because Elyse was, well . . .

  Then she heard Elyse’s voice gliding through the open door: “Becky?” She sounded choked, as if the muscles in her throat were spasming.

  Becky unfolded herself and stood. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. Her parents wouldn’t stop her now. If she went to her bedroom with Elyse, they wouldn’t have to worry about her being all alone.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Elyse’s father was saying. “But it was just . . . the thing is . . . ”

  “Can she sleep over?” Becky asked her mother, whose smile changed slightly. It was still large and lunatic, but she’d turned down the wattage, perhaps in an effort not to blind Mr. Fabiano.

  “She didn’t bring anything with her,” he said. “Pajamas, or a toothbrush—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Becky insisted. “She can use my stuff. Please, Mom?” I need this, she implored silently.

  “Of course she can sleep over,” Becky’s mother conceded. “It isn’t a problem, Stuart, is it?”

  Becky didn’t stick around to listen to Elyse’s father try to string together enough words to form an answer. She made a break for the stairs, content to hear Elyse’s footsteps behind her. Not until they were safely inside Becky’s bedroom, with the door shut and locked, did Becky turn to look at her friend.

  Elyse had been crying. She was still crying. She wore a V-neck T-shirt and jeans, her dark hair resplendent, her hands adorned with several silver rings apiece, and wept. Just wept, without sound or movement.

  Becky opened her arms. Elyse stepped into them. They hugged each other, clung, and Becky felt Elyse’s tears on her cheek and neck. Since she couldn’t seem to cry on her own, she accepted Elyse’s tears as a gift. Elyse had enough for both of them.

  “I can’t stand it,” Elyse groaned. “I can’t stop crying, and I want to kill my mother, and I just couldn’t stay home anymore. You don’t mind, do you? I just couldn’t be with them.”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve saved my life,” Becky said automatically, then realized that under the circumstances that was a horrible thing to say. A bitter taste coated her tongue and pain pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let me get you some Kleenex.”

  She eased out of Elyse’s embrace and dove across her bed to the box on the night table. It was just a box, unlike the pink crocheted tissue-box cover April had in her bedroom. April’s entire room was pink. Too pink, April had believed, and Becky had pretty much agreed, but still, at least there was a theme to April’s room, a unifying hue. Becky’s room was thrown together—everything neat, because she liked order, but nothing matching. Her mother had insisted it was a “look,” although she wasn’t sure what look it was. The Goodwill Look, Becky thought. The Homeless Shelter Look, minus the stench.

  “I couldn’t stay home another minute. My mother and I . . . ” Elyse plucked a tissue from the box and wiped her face with it, then sank onto the edge of Becky’s bed and stared at the tissue, as if amazed that it could be so wet. “She’s such a bitch. I hate her. Shit. If April was here—” she blew her nose, then yanked another tissue from the box “—she’d tell me not to say mean things about my mother. Without April, I might just kill my mother or something.”

  “No.” Becky sank onto the bed and put an arm around Elyse. “You won’t kill your mother.”

  “I might,” Elyse addressed the sodden wad of tissues in her hand.

  “In April’s honor, you won’t.”

  Elyse mulled that over and nodded. “I miss April. I can’t believe this happened. It just seems so unreal.”

  “I know.” Becky thought about how many times that afternoon she’d started to call April to complain about being depressed. How many times Becky had reached for the phone. How many times she’d heard April saying: “Don’t be bummed, Becky. Life sucks, but, you know, it could be worse.”

  That was the thing: it couldn’t be worse. Nothing could be worse than this.

  “I’m glad I came here,” Elyse murmured, dabbing at her nose with her tissue. “I can’t stop crying.” As if to prove the point, she burst into fresh tears. “How do you keep from crying?”

  Becky shrugged. She envied Elyse’s ability to cry so easily. Everything was locked tight inside her, unable to drain. “I must be blocked or something.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know everything, Becky. Think of something we can do to make this better.”

  “Nothing will make it better.”

  “Think of something anyway. Please.” The final word dissolved into a sob.

  Becky thought. A few ideas presented themselves. She decided to introduce the toughest one first. “I think we should call Florie and tell her to come over.”

  “No.” Elyse protested. “I don’t want her here.”

  Becky sympathized. She didn’t want Florie there, either—but, then, Becky didn’t want any of this.

  Florie had become a part of their little group because of April. She hadn’t liked Florie any better than Elyse and Becky did, but April had felt sorry for Florie. Becky felt sorry for Florie, too, but April was the sort of person who would actual
ly take steps to help someone she felt sorry for. “We should let Florie join us sometimes,” April used to say. “I feel so bad for her. She doesn’t have any friends here.”

  “You want us to include her out of pity?” Elyse had asked, her nostrils pinching as if the word pity smelled foul.

  “Well, yeah,” April had said. “I mean, we’ve got so much. We’ve got each other. What does she have? We ought to be nice to her.”

  It was April who was nice, April who thought about other people’s feelings and was generous, openhearted, so considerate that just thinking about her engulfed Becky in white-hot anger. It was the first anger she’d felt since the accident. Not at the driver whose car had struck April, not at Florie for dropping her stupid tennis ball, not even at herself for having suggested that they walk home when Elyse’s mother failed to pick them up. She was angry at the universe, at fate, at the inexplicable injustice of it all. The planet was teeming with assholes. Why had April been killed? Why one of the good people? The world had so few good people to begin with; it couldn’t afford to lose one.

  “Florie was with us this afternoon,” Becky explained. “She’s a part of this.”

  “I don’t want her to be a part of this.” Elyse’s words wobbled, as if stumbling over an obstruction in her throat. “She’s such a dork.”

  “She was there.” Becky got up to fetch the garbage pail for Elyse, who by now had four or five soggy tissues clutched in her hand. Becky also got up so she could be standing. She thought a height advantage would force Elyse to listen. “Florie feels as horrible as we do.”

  “She should feel horrible. If she didn’t feel horrible—”

  “And April would want her here.”

  Elyse peered up. Even when she was crying, her eyes were pretty. Her eyelashes looked like wet black feathers. She let out a long, resigned breath. “Okay, fuck it. Call Florie.”

  Becky didn’t feel triumphant. She didn’t really want Florie with her and Elyse tonight—but she didn’t feel right without Florie. Florie belonged here. They were all in this together.

  Becky circled her bed to the night table, lifted her cell, and punched in Florie’s home number. After two rings, Florie’s mother answered. “Hello?” She sounded as if she had strips of felt stuffed up her nose.

  “Is Florie there?” Becky asked.

  “She can’t come to the phone right now.” Florie’s mother pronounced it cahn’t. Becky didn’t know why Mrs. Closter sounded so affected. The family had moved to Wheatley from New York City, but she sounded as if she’d taken years of elocution lessons to remove all traces of New York from her speech. The lessons hadn’t entirely succeeded. She now sounded like a New Yorker trying not to sound like a New Yorker.

  “This is Becky Zinn.”

  “Oh. Oh, Becky.” A tremor of tenderness vibrated in Mrs. Closter’s voice, which dropped to a near whisper. She sighed deeply, then said, “Of course you can talk to Florie. I’ll go get her.”

  Ten minutes later, Florie was in Becky’s bedroom. Unlike Elyse, Florie had come prepared, bringing with her a sleeping bag, a pillow with eyelet trim on the linen pillowcase, and a zippered tote bag crammed to capacity. Becky didn’t know what could possibly be inside the bag, and she didn’t ask. As ambivalent as she felt about Florie, Becky’s room seemed more complete now that all three of them were here.

  The room seemed smaller, too. Florie was big. Not fat, but tall and solid. Her legs were as dense as Tootsie Rolls, thick and chewy looking. Her hair was big, too, heavy and shapeless.

  Florie took up space. Becky always felt crowded by Florie, but Becky envied Florie’s mass, too. There wasn’t enough of Becky. There was too much of Florie. Elyse was exactly the right size. April had been the mortar holding three different-shaped bricks together. She’d expanded to seal all the cracks.

  It didn’t seem right to Becky that the bricks should come apart just because they’d lost their mortar. Her gaze traveled from Florie, seated on the floor with her long legs protruding into the middle of the room, to Elyse, who was still on the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I’ve got something,” Becky said, resorting to one of the other ideas she’d had when Elyse had ordered Becky to come up with some. A better idea than inviting Florie over, although Becky knew in her heart that that had been the right thing to do.

  She opened her closet door, rose on tiptoe, and hauled down a shoe box from the top shelf. She lifted an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s from it and showed it to Florie and Elyse.

  Elyse’s eyes stopped overflowing. “Where’d you get that?” she whispered.

  Becky shoved the shoe box back up onto the shelf. “My cousin Gary gave it to me,” she said. “Actually, he asked if I would hide it for him, since he wasn’t supposed to have it, either. I don’t know where he got it, but I’ve been hiding it since December.” She gave the top a sharp twist, tearing the seal.

  “I don’t think we should drink that,” Florie said warily.

  “Then don’t drink it,” Elyse snapped. “I want some.”

  Becky took the first sip and exerted herself not to gag at its sour, fiery taste. She bet brandy would have tasted better—but it would have tasted wretched if she’d had to drink it with her father beaming at her.

  Elyse took a delicate sip. She did everything delicately. Even her wince when she swallowed was delicate.

  Florie looked uncertainly at the bottle. Elyse wiggled it in front of Florie’s eyes, taunting. Florie took it.

  “Sip it,” Becky warned, to keep Florie from doing something Florie-esque, like taking a huge slug and then spitting it up.

  She sipped slowly. Her throat fluttered as she choked on it, but she got it down. “That’s disgusting!” she sputtered.

  “Shh. Don’t let my parents hear.” Becky took the bottle from Florie, drank a bit more, and settled into her desk chair.

  “Do you think April would be drinking that if she was here?” Florie asked.

  Elyse said yes the same instant Becky said no.

  “I keep trying to picture her in heaven,” Florie said. “My mother said God loved April so much he decided he wanted her in heaven with him.”

  “If your mother’s right, God is a selfish fuckhead,” Elyse retorted. “Big deal, he wanted her with him. He could have waited. What kind of turd would kill someone because he wanted her with him?”

  “Well, I’m just saying.” Florie shrugged helplessly. Becky could see Florie sucking herself in. As far as Becky was concerned, Florie’s biggest problem was that she was too eager for people’s approval. She would never fight for what she believed, unless she thought fighting for it would make people like her.

  “What bothers me,” Elyse continued, reaching for the bottle, “is that April never even got to kiss Tommy Crawford.” Her eyes erupted with a new spate of tears. She handed the bottle back to Becky and reached for the tissues. Becky passed the bottle to Florie, who obediently took another sip. “I mean,” Elyse elaborated, her voice breaking, “she died a virgin. I can’t think of anything worse.”

  “I can,” Becky said. She was sure there were lots of worse things, none of which were relevant right now, but she’d spoken mostly so Florie would see that it was all right to disagree with Elyse sometimes.

  “Well, I’m going to say it right now. I swear I will not die a virgin.”

  “What if you died tomorrow?” Florie asked.

  Elyse gave Florie a withering look. “I’m not going to die tomorrow,” she promised.

  “You think you’re going to lose your virginity tomorrow?” Becky asked.

  Instead of looking contemptuous, Elyse smiled, even though she was still weeping. “Maybe I should. Let’s figure out who with.”

  “Not Tommy Crawford,” Becky said.

  “He’s cute,” Elyse said, “but he’s not as cut
e as Matt diNucci.”

  “Yuck.” Becky had never understood Elyse’s fixation with Matt. Matt had nice hair, but his eyes always seemed to be searching for a mirror, and his smile had a smirky edge to it.

  “I bet he’d be willing to help me out,” Elyse said.

  “I bet the whole school would be willing to help you out. That’s beside the point.”

  “Well, who would you do it with?”

  Becky thought a few boys were kind of interesting, but she didn’t want to lose her virginity yet. It just didn’t seem like something she wanted to complicate her life with right now. “I’d take Tommy over Matt, any day. Not that I’d ever even look at Tommy.”

  “I don’t know,” Elyse said. “Do you think it would be like dancing on April’s grave?”

  “April isn’t having a grave,” Florie piped up. “My mother said they’re harvesting her organs for transplant, and then she’s going to be cremated.”

  “Jesus!” Elyse snapped. Becky couldn’t blame her. Florie was as inept in conversation as she was in action. Why did she have to say that? Why couldn’t they have stuck with the safe subject of boys?

  It wasn’t as if Becky was squeamish. She thought funerals were grotesque and organ donors were noble. She liked to imagine other people getting to live full lives thanks to April. Becky also liked to think of flowers growing out of April’s ashes, more life emerging out of her death.

  But Becky couldn’t bear to think of April as only a body a surgeon might pick through like an auto mechanic, looking for salvageable parts. She was April, not a collection of organs.

  It was too late for Florie to take back what she’d said. She bravely, tactlessly went on. “My mother told me they’re planning a memorial service at April’s church next week.”