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About 94,000 words First Serial Rights 1990 Lewis W. Heniford
 
 

February, 1945
 
 

Carla’s birthday near the end of February fell on a Saturday. She had elected not to tell her library supervisor and to work the assigned hours on the reference desk. She thrived on her new job and served the staff and the public well. Dependability, she esteemed, would go to a long way toward success.

Waiting for her to finish, West sought the agglomeration of newspapers. He hungered for news of the war. January and February stories of note included the American landing on Luzon; the Russian capture of Warsaw; the Hungarian Provisional Government armistice; the liberation of Memel, a territory of Lithuania; the Roosevelt-Churchill meeting at Malta; the American conquest of Manila; the Roosevelt-Churchill-Stalin conference at Yalta; and the Marines’ win on Iwo Jima. That so much had been happening so fast on the international scene amazed him. Keeping current with events had taken a back seat since his return from Christmas because he had concentrated on his schoolwork.

When Carla’s relief arrived, she signed out. Arm in arm, brother and sister headed toward Harry’s, where others were warming a table to celebrate her twenty-first, her coming of age. En route, West delivered his decision to declare an English major.

“What about Spanish?” she asked.

“No, I’ve changed my mind. My advisor—this was the fifth meeting we’ve had since New Year’s—showed me my grade pattern. Except for that F under Drang in Shakespeare, my best grades are in English. And I took some preference and aptitude tests that back that up.”

“If you want English, welcome aboard.”

“All I have to do is keep up what I’m doing. I showed him my midterms. If I keep up like this, he’ll ask the University to take me off academic probation.”

“It’s easier on the studies, being a brother than being a pledge?”

“You bet your sweet patoot.”
 
 

Some of the PiKA brothers joined the celebration. The whole fraternity had met Carla and liked her. At other tables ranged her disparate civilian and service friends. Already her work at the library reference desk had expanded her circle of acquaintances. This gathering showed her popularity in Chapel Hill. West’s old buddies from Interim now saw her as frequently as they saw him.

“How’s Dammit?” Robert Reston, a buddy from Interim days, still liked to tease.

“Great!” West had taken under his care a tiny mutt that one of the brothers had brought into the house early in January. He had grown so attentive toward the mutt that a few of the guys had tagged him with the name of \E’Mother’. He had not minded, and his care had brought the dog from puppy to young pooch, now six weeks old. When Yarborough had heard West exasperatedly call to the dog, “Come here, come here, . . . c’m’ere, damn it!” the event made house news, and the words became the name. Mother and Dammit had become quite a pair.

Carla’s birthday party succeeded hugely. West advanced beyond tolerating the taste of beer; he began liking it. This term, the PiKAs were supplying a keg every Saturday to keep up the spirits of anyone helping to maintain the house. Each brother remained honor bound to work enough to earn his salubrious brews. The plan was prospering sufficiently well to sustain regular housekeeping. Even an abnormal snowstorm had not stopped their tapping the keg and getting on with the cleaning, flushing, wiping, mopping, sponging, scouring, dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, laundering, and even painting. Perhaps beer would win the war. At any rate, in Carla’s honor, he would have another right now.
 
 

He crossed through the crowd. There, at the bar, sat an old buddy. It had been ages since they had encountered each other. As he grabbed the other’s arm, steely biceps flexed.

“You wouldn’t cold-cock me right here and now, would you? It’s West.”

Chuck turned toward him. “Hey, it’s been a while. Let me get a good look at you.” He gave a series of lightning but gentle jabs.

West jumped to Chuck’s back and locked his arms around him. “Come on, knock that stuff off. I survived Hell Week, but I don’t know if I could take you on.”

Chuck relaxed. “Did you say hello to Cranberry?”

West had not recognized her. First, he had concentrated on Chuck; second, she had cut her hair really short. “Well, hello!”

“West, honey, great to see you!” She reached over and stroked his chest. “The old body still looks in fine shape. Of course, I have to rely on memory, now that you’ve got your clothes on.”

“How’s ‘Phelia?” West asked.

“Probably waiting for a telephone call that’s never going to come if you don’t get your cute butt in gear.”

The full memory of skin and water and anxiety came back. West felt blood surge throughout his body. “Yeah, well, I meant to thank her. Say, what’s doing with you nowadays?”

“Why, honey, I’m getting married.”

“To Chuck?”

“Oh, not me, she’s not marrying me. She’s marrying my reader.”

Cranberry explained, “We’re out celebrating. Want to join us?”

“Where is he?” West asked.

“Who?”

“Your intended.”

“Oh, he’ll be back tomorrow. Went home to tell his folks. Chuckie and I are tying up loose ends. You know, one last mad time, that sort of thing.”

Chuck leaned closed and stage-whispered, “It’s perfectly innocent.”

“When were you ever innocent?” responded West.

“Well, now I have to be. Politics must be above it all.”

“Don’t I know it! How come someone told me your name is on the jailhouse wall?”

“My salad days. Wild oats. All behind me.”

Cranberry put her hand over to massage the nape of Chuck’s neck. “Honey, you’re above suspicion. And what they don’t suspect won’t hurt them, and it certainly won’t hurt you.”

Chuck deftly gave her a quick kiss then turned to West. “What are you up to?”

“Not too much. Switched my major to English.”

“That’s a good background for law. You could add a few government courses—”

“Never!”

“Well, settle on something productive. Don’t fuck around.”

Cranberry continued the massage. “You let him do what he wants to do, and we’ll do what I want to do.”

“I can see I’m a spare wheel here. Well, congratulations, do I get to kiss the bride?

“That’s my job, young buddy. Bug off.”

Nevertheless, West got a quick kiss, then bought his beer, and returned to Carla’s party.
 
 

Later, settled into bed, he thought at length about the party. His mind ranged far until he grew sleepy. He was thinking of home as he dozed off. That night he dreamed deeply.
 
 

Palo Alto lived on a slight rise in the forest. From that rise, it could see all around. It could shelter and feed the birds and climbing creatures and ground animals. It could even spread its branches and protect the bushes and vines and shorter trees. Taking care of those dear to it was its job.

It loved all living things. It even loved those who hurt one another. It often said, “That’s their way. But I wish they would be kind to one another.”

The living things low and high knew that it protected them. When birds weighed it down with nests, they said, “We’re sorry, but we must have a place to live.” When squirrels stole all its seed, they said, “We’re sorry, but we must have food to eat.” When wild pigs tore at its roots, they said, “We’re sorry, but we must keep looking if we’re going to find anything.”

One summer, Palo Alto had grown weak protecting the living things around it. Its long branches had grown tired from helping the birds. Its tall trunk had lost its bark to hungry squirrels. Its wide roots had given way to curious wild pigs.

That winter, the storms blew worse than ever before. A strong wicked wind tossed Palo Alto, first this way, then that. It tried so hard to hold up its branches. It suffered the wind throwing things against its trunk. It could only hold tight with its tap root, as the surface roots loosened more and more.

Luckily, its strength lasted until the storm left the forest. The wicked wind wanted to stay and uproot it, but the storm moved on and took the wind along. When the forest was still, the birds thanked it by gathering to sing on its tired branches. The squirrels thanked it by scampering on its shredded bark. The wild pigs thanked it by dancing on its weakened roots.

Palo Alto said to itself, “I might have survived the storm, but I might not survive their thanks. In fact, I have lived long enough to know that I will not last forever. I cannot protect these living things forever. I must prepare for the future.”

As winter became spring, Palo Alto looked about it and thought. It loved all that it saw. It loved life itself. Yet it must prepare for the future.

One day, when it was most worried, it saw three cones on its topmost branch. Never had it had cones there before. Always it had had them on lower branches. There the squirrels and birds found the cones and tugged at the tasty seeds tucked inside. Sometimes, their tugging at the hidden seeds loosened the cones, which fell to the ground. There the wild pigs chewed the cones to get the rest of the tasty seeds.

“They eat every cone every year. I can never save seeds for the future,” it said. “When I am gone, who will protect these living things?”

It thought and thought until it had a plan. “I must not let them know about the three cones on my topmost branch. I shall keep them busy with the lower cones.”

That summer, it bragged about its large lower cones filled with tasty seeds. It let the birds and squirrels and wild pigs feast on them. They thanked it for being so generous. They said that it was the best tall tree in the world and asked what would they do without it.

That summer, too, they kept on straining its branches and tearing its bark and loosening its roots. Palo Alto had lived long enough to know that it would never survive another winter storm.

One day in fall, cooling breezes hinted that winter would come soon. On that very same day, the birds and squirrels and wild pigs found the last three cones. The birds and squirrels hurried to the last feast of the year. The wild pigs below waited for whatever might fall to them.

“Oh, please,” said Palo Alto. “Please, do not eat these seeds. I have been saving them to plant in the spring. I have never asked you to leave my seeds alone before, but now I need them.

“You do not need seeds. Trees have no use for seeds except to have them fall into the earth to grow into new trees. But we don’t need new tall trees. You have always protected us, and you always will.”

“How little they know,” Palo Alto said to itself. There was nothing it could do to stop their feast. It watched the birds and squirrels tear apart its dear last cones. First one, then another fell to the joyous wild pigs. It watched sadly as the last cone fell, too.

“Thank you,” said the birds and squirrels and wild pigs. And they went their separate ways. The birds flew to a warmer forest to stay until spring, when they would come back and build their nests. The squirrels entered their holes to sleep and eat stored seeds. The wild pigs searched afar to find food untouched by winter.

Alone, Palo Alto faced the returning cold wind. The wind had waited to grow stronger than ever, until the first storm of winter had invited it along. The storm moved into Palo Alto’s forest. The strong wicked wind struck Palo Alto with all its might. In that mighty blast, Palo Alto felt its branches break, its bark peel away, and its roots give way. A gust it could have survived. A blast was too much.

Palo Alto had just enough strength to guide its fall into an open place. It did not want to hurt its living things.

Again, the storm moved from the forest, taking along the winning wind.

The tree, no longer tall, lay slowly dying on the forest floor. The birds and squirrels and wild pigs came back in the spring. They found it. It was too weak to tell them good-bye. As it said nothing, they thought it was already dead.

“What shall we do?” they asked. “Palo Alto always protected us. It fed us. What shall we do?” They stayed near and grew fearful and hungry.

“What can I do?” the dying tree thought. “They have come to depend on me. They could take care of themselves, but I let them depend too much on me. Now they will die, too. I can only pray for them.”

Then it saw a miracle. In its crashing to the ground, one of its broken branches had opened the ground. Into that opening, the single seed not eaten by the birds and squirrels and wild pigs had fallen. The dew—or was it tears?—from the tree’s branches settled on the soil around the single seed. The wet soil slid a bit, and then slid more. It slid over the single seed.

The old tree thought, “The birds and squirrels and wild pigs may find this seed and eat it. The soil over it is enough to make it live, but not enough to keep it safe.”

Although old Palo Alto lay dying, it had a little strength left. It was too weak to say good-bye and to ask that its seed be left alone. But it could leave them a greater gift than a single seed. It could leave them a gift they truly need.

“This seed can become a tall tree if I save it,” old Palo Alto thought. “It can grow here on the rise in the forest. It can take my place. It can protect the living things I love.”

With its last strength, it sighed and rolled just enough to place a broken branch over the single seed. Covered there, it could start to grow.

Over the years, the birds and squirrels and wild pigs missed Palo Alto. But they found other ways to stay alive and raise their families. Their families watched the growing tree that the fallen tree had given them. In time, this young tree grew tall, taller than any tree this forest had ever seen. In winters, it outlasted storm and wicked wind. All through the years, this tall tree, like Palo Alto, looked around and loved all that it saw. And it protected living things. In its own way.
 
 

When West arose in the morning, he felt fully rested and could but vaguely remember having dreamed. He recalled bits about trees and animals and such nonsense.
 
 

Page mounted October 1, 2000, by the Webmaster.