The Christmas Tree Keeper: A Novel

by Tamara Passey

  As Caroline got ready for bed, Angela cleaned up the front room. She tied the star to the top of the tree. Before she pulled the plug on the tree lights, she stopped and looked at it.

  Well, are you a miracle tree?

  She found Caroline sitting on the twin mattress on the floor beside her larger bed, waiting.

  “Where did you put the nativity set?” Caroline asked.

  “I left it out. You can arrange it however you like—tomorrow.” Angela motioned toward the pillow.

  Caroline plopped her head down.

  “What kind of a miracle do you think we’ll have?” she asked.

  Angela shook her head, but before she could answer, Caroline continued. “We need more rent money, but I have another idea.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Angela braced herself for whatever new miracle Caroline had imagined.

  “Wouldn’t it be great if we spent Christmas with Grandma, and had, like, a big family celebration with food and presents and ...”

  Angela kept a straight face, but winced internally at the mention of her mother. Presents and dinner she could possibly pull off, but not her mother.

  “Let’s get some rest, Caroline.” Angela turned away.

  “So were you good at playing the piano?” Caroline asked, still with too much eager wakefulness in her voice.

  “I practiced a lot.”

  “Why don’t you play anymore?”

  “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but our apartment is barely big enough for the two of us. Where would we fit a piano?” she said playfully. “Now good night.” She turned off the light and heard one more timid question.

  “Didn’t my dad like music too?”

  Angela squeezed her eyes shut.

  Please, not more questions about Todd. Not tonight.

  “Yes, he liked music, but you knew that.”

  “And didn’t he like music more than us? Didn’t he leave us to go sing in a band?”

  Breathe. Yes, to sing in a band with a certain backup singer.

  This wasn’t a new conversation. Caroline had been asking variations of the same question for as many years as she had been old enough to understand that her father was gone and living in Florida. Postcards and once-a-year visits were the most she knew of him. Angela had given her answers. Caroline still asked why.

  Will she always think he doesn’t like her?

  Angela sat down on the edge of the mattress.

  “Look, sometimes people want a better life. And they think they know what will make them happy. They miss all the good people they have around them while they’re chasing something else.” She pulled the covers tight around her daughter and hoped the answer would be enough.

  “Do you still like music, Mom? I mean, if you had a piano, would you play it?”

  “Of course. Music is a beautiful part of life.” Some musicians, on the other hand, I could do without.

  “Do you think he misses us?”

  “I have no idea what he thinks. But I’m not missing you. I’m right here.” Angela smoothed Caroline’s hair. “I’m glad we put up our tree tonight. And how much do I love you?”

  “This much,” Caroline stretched her arms out wide and Angela leaned in for a hug.

  Angela didn’t have any trouble waking her daughter on Saturday mornings. Caroline loved going to Mrs. Shaw’s while Angela cleaned apartments. They bundled up for the walk to the building next to theirs. Angela reviewed the same list of manners for Caroline to observe.

  “It’s easy to be polite at Mrs. Shaw’s place. She’s never cross, like you, Mum.” Caroline grinned.

  “Don’t mock her, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I’m not. I love the way she says things. Even when she’s mad, it never sounds like it because of her voice,” Caroline said.

  “You mean her English accent.”

  “Yep, whatever it is. Don’t worry. I’ll behave.”

  “Good morning, girls,” Mrs. Shaw said as she stood on her doorstep. “There’s a chill today, isn’t there?”

  Angela smiled to herself. She loved listening to Mrs. Shaw too.

  “We put up our tree last night. You have to see it!” Caroline squealed.

  “Come on in now. How about you stay and have some breakfast, Angela?”

  “Thank you, but I—”

  Mrs. Shaw ushered her through the door, despite her protest. “You don’t have to stay, but at least take a roll.”

  The apartment smelled of sweet citrus. “Are these orange rolls?” Angela asked. Unable to resist the warmth, she sat at Mrs. Shaw’s kitchen table and ate with Caroline for a few minutes. She admired several of the handmade quilts displayed in Mrs. Shaw’s living room, including a holiday-themed one she hadn’t seen before.

  “So you have your tree. I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Shaw said as she moved about her kitchen.

  “We decorated it and it’s beautiful. Guess what else,” Caroline said.

  Angela narrowed her eyes at her daughter and shook her head. Maybe Mrs. Shaw picked up on the silent direction and took it as a cue to carry the conversation.

  “My, it’s so fun to decorate a tree. That reminds me of the year we had the ugliest tree in all of England. My sister demanded we carry it to our house through the back alley so no one would see it.” Mrs. Shaw refilled the hot chocolate in Caroline’s mug. “What a time we had trying to make that tree pretty. We used all of Mother’s ribbon to reattach a broken branch and covered it with, oh, what was that called … angel hair.” She laughed softly. “That’s been a long time ago now.”

  “Do you miss living there?” Caroline asked as she licked her fingers.

  “Sutton has some things that remind me of home—that’s why I’ve stayed here for two decades. But everything in this country is so big, so wide. When I’m in England, I feel like I’m in a lovely cocoon,” Mrs. Shaw said wistfully. “Every four or five years, I try to go back so I can feel like myself again. Of course, retired seamstresses don’t have tons of money and now my daughter lives in Oregon, so my craft money takes me across this country instead.”

  “I’d better get going,” Angela said. “Thank you for your help with Caroline today, and for that delicious roll. I should only be two hours today.”

  “So short? Only one apartment?” Mrs. Shaw asked.

  Angela hesitated. “Well, Vivian told me she’s hiring her granddaughter and Mrs. Kramer said she’ll call me in the spring. Mr. Kramer started another round of treatment.”

  “Oh, you can’t be getting by with only one apartment. Do you want me to talk to a few friends? It’s no trouble, dear.”

  “No, thank you. We should be okay.” Angela said quickly as she left. But it wasn’t true. They weren’t getting by, and they wouldn’t be okay—unless she found more work.

  Angela walked back home, grabbed her supplies, and headed out to Henry and Veronica’s place. She hadn’t advertised for cleaning work in the first place—she had offered to clean Mrs. Shaw’s apartment in exchange for babysitting hours. Within a few months, she received calls from other residents who were friends of Mrs. Shaw’s. They had heard what a fabulous job she did. Not likely—growing up, she hadn’t cleaned more than her own room. But apparently Mrs. Shaw had a persuasive way about her.

  She wondered each week if Veronica had cleaned before she arrived. She and her husband sat at their kitchen table and made small talk until Angela finished washing spotless windows and placed all of four plates in the dishwasher. This week they paid her a little extra. “For Caroline’s Christmas,” they explained.

  Angela loaded the supplies in her truck and sat behind the wheel. Instead of eating lunch, she counted the day’s wages. Holding her forehead, she strained to remember what she’d saved at home, willing the numbers to multiply to her advantage. No use. If her math was right, she was still three hundred dollars short for the rent due on the first of December, not to mention the other half of November’s rent she still owed.

  A partial payment will have
to be enough.

  Frustrated, Angela unloaded the cleaning supplies into the small utility closet adjacent to her apartment. She headed over to Mrs. Shaw’s place to pick up Caroline. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she saw the apartment manager walking with the maintenance man. She dug her hands into her pockets and tried to bury her chin into her coat collar, as if a bowed head might make her invisible. It didn’t.

  The manager sort of called her by name.

  “Angie. Angie Donovan.”

  She hated that. Her ex-husband called her Angie.

  She pivoted, pulled her chin up, and waited. He finished his conversation with the maintenance man and turned his attention to Angela, greeting her with a politician’s smile.

  “How are you, Angie? Say, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You’re harder to track down than a ... a single mom. Wait, that’s right. You are a single mom.” He laughed.

  Angela stared.

  “So anyway, rent is due on the first,” he continued. “No surprise there. But I need to tell you, the owners won’t accept another partial payment. You can understand why, I’m sure.” He rubbed his hands together. “You’ll need to pay the full amount for December and what you owe for November, or I—I mean, they—will make me start proceedings.” He scanned the empty courtyard with a pained look on his face as if he were the one facing eviction.

  Don’t they send letters for this kind of thing?

  “Angie” echoed in her mind, triggering her sarcasm. How awful that would be for you, poor Mr. Buckley. So much paperwork before the holiday.

  Only she didn’t say it. Her faced remained motionless and she gave him a sideways glance. She wouldn’t reveal her embarrassment or hostility.

  “I’m working on it,” she said.

  He reached up to put an arm on her shoulder, and she quickly moved out of range. He lifted his hand without missing a beat and scratched the back of his head instead. “I’ve heard about the cleaning work you’ve drummed up.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Shaw helped me. I wasn’t advertising.”

  “The office could use a deep cleaning, a going-over.”

  Angela’s stomach turned. “Could we talk about it some other time? I’ve got to go. I’m late to pick up Caroline.”

  Chapter 4

  Mark stood near the first line of trees on the back lot an hour before sunrise, waiting. A small wind rustled through the trees. It wasn’t like Papa to be late. Even on mornings when Mark arrived early, Papa was there before him. Mark paced to generate some heat and glanced at his watch.

  Something’s wrong.

  Papa lived in the two-bedroom cabin about a quarter of a mile east of the main farmhouse. It had been built by Papa’s grandfather and the family had updated the wiring and plumbing to make it livable, although no one attempted to make it their home until Nana Shafer passed away. Papa packed his suitcase the night after she died and made the cabin his new home.

  Walking up the path leading to the cabin’s front door, Mark startled at a noise behind him.

  “Looking for someone?” Papa asked.

  “Geez, Papa, how’d you get there?”

  “With my legs. How else?”

  “I mean, I didn’t see you.”

  “I’m moving slow this morning is all. Well, are we going to stand here and look at each other, or are we going to walk the lot?”

  “I’ll follow your lead,” Mark said, relieved. They rounded the corner to the back lot and Mark slowed to Papa’s pace. They exchanged a word here or there, but their silent walk among the trees had its own message. Mark didn’t like to admit it, but he could tell Papa spent his time sensing the trees. Any conversation on his part would be an interruption to the important one Papa was already having.

  Mark joined Papa in this tacit ritual a few weeks after his parents died, a month before his eleventh birthday. Mark hadn’t expected to walk the lot until he was older—and with his father, not Papa. On those first walks, Mark felt oddly grown up, like the shoes he wore were a few sizes too big.

  For all Papa’s talk about the miracle trees, Mark never asked Papa what he did to understand the trees. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. The quiet time suited him fine that way. The trees were as much a mystery to him now as they were when he was a grieving boy.

  They walked off the back lot, through the front sales lot, and straightened the rows of pre-cut trees. They arrived at the farmhouse at the same time as Donna. She gave them a hearty wave and slipped in the front door. Papa stopped and held on to the wooden rail by the pathway to the farmhouse.

  “The trees know there’s a change coming,” Papa said.

  Mark didn’t respond.

  “I say there’s a change coming. Do you know what it is?”

  “I have no idea,” Mark said.

  “The trees are ready for a new keeper. Are you ready?”

  “What do you mean?” How do the trees know anything? How does Papa know what the trees know? Listen to me, now I’m not making any sense.

  “I’m asking if you’re ready to run the farm. I’m not going to live forever. I’ve been waiting for you to get settled.” Papa stood straighter, turned away from Mark, and held the rail with both hands. “When you met that Natalie, I waited for you to settle down some, but you’ve gotten more restless.”

  He thinks Natalie has done that?

  Through a few breaks in the clouds, the first rays of morning sunlight spread out over the farm. Mark surveyed the farmhouse and trees while kicking some of the cold gravel with his feet.

  Did he forget our argument, or is he ignoring it? What can I say? I’m ready to sell the farm, not run it.

  “It looks like you need some time to think,” Papa said.

  Donna called from the back door, “Come on in before this breakfast gets cold.”

  A few hours later, Donna followed Mark as he breezed through to the back office. “You have two messages.” She pointed to the paper by the phone. “This one is from some reporter from WCGB, Channel 6. He needs a comment from you. What’s that about? And I don’t know why I’m giving you this message from John Jackson, except for you to call him back and tell him there isn’t a for sale sign in our yard.”

  “Thanks, Donna,” Mark said. He avoided eye contact, and after she left, he closed the door. He called John Jackson first.

  “John here.”

  Mark cleared his throat and introduced himself. Their conversation didn’t last more than five minutes before Mark agreed to meet for lunch, no matter that it was almost twelve thirty.

  He called the TV station and wondered what Papa had done to get their attention. The reporter explained he was working on a story about Sutton and their family-owned tree farm, and wanted a comment about the kind of trees they sold.

  “Sure. We grow Fraser Fir and Douglas Pine.”

  “No, not the variety. I mean, what sets your trees apart from other trees?”

  Mark wondered what Papa might have told him.

  Was the reporter implying anything? Had he talked to Papa?

  “We have pride in our Shafer trees, and we take good care of them. That’s all.” Mark ended the call and shook his head.

  We take good care of our trees? What kind of a statement is that?

  The conversation with the reporter might have bothered him all the way to the restaurant, but he had other things to worry about—namely why John Jackson asked to meet with him in person.

  What does he think I can do?

  He reviewed his conversation with Papa during their morning walk. Papa didn’t say the farm needed a new owner—he said the trees needed a new keeper.

  Can I do what Papa does? He and I are different. Dad knew what it meant to take care of the trees. Could I take ownership and then sell? Who am I kidding? There’s no way to keep that from Papa.

  Mark arrived at the restaurant and was seated at the table where John Jackson was waiting.

  “Glad you made it,” John said after they shook hands.

 
“Do you live here in Sutton?” Mark asked. The town wasn’t as small as it used to be—almost six thousand residents now. It was harder to spot the out-of-towners.

  “I live in Quincy,” John said.

  “Do you usually do business around here?”

  “I do business wherever my client needs land.”

  “And who is your client?” Mark asked.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I figure it doesn’t matter if I have a client who’s willing to buy if someone isn’t willing to sell. I get the impression from your grandfather that he plans to stay in the tree business forever.”

  “Pretty much,” Mark said.

  John continued, “Is that how you feel?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I could be wrong about this, but I’m not usually wrong. You want more than the farm life. Isn’t that right?” John asked.

  The waitress arrived with their order and set the plates down in front of them, giving Mark a chance to pause. John ignored his food.

  “You could say that. The farm takes work all year round.” Mark’s throat went dry. He reached for his drink. He came to accept an offer, but now he felt defensive, and talking about the farm made it hard not to think about Papa and meeting John Jackson behind his back.

  “So if you didn’t have the farm to take all your time, what would you do?”

  “I’d produce music.”

  “Music—that takes time. You can’t do that when you’re chopping down pine trees all day. Man that must be torture.”

  Mark winced, work on the farm was tough but he wouldn’t call it torture.

  “Here’s what I can do for you,” John began. Mark listened to his renewed offer, this time with an added incentive for Mark. “Sutton will be a perfect place for my client’s auto dealership once they finish the construction of Route 146. Your grandfather doesn’t see it that way, but you have to have your eye on the future. That would create how many jobs? Anyway, like I was saying, I’m offering you something for your help with your grandfather.” John spelled out what he was willing to pay.

  “You realize I don’t own the farm,” Mark said. “And convincing my grandfather to sell it isn’t something I’m even sure I can do.”