“It’s a limited edition,” Jess said.
“I don’t collect propaganda,” he told her.
“How is the word
“I don’t object to breathing. I object to being told to breathe.”
“There is no agenda here,” she said.
“This is Save the Trees warning me that without redwoods I won’t breathe much longer. Therefore I should support the cause. I hope this is recycled paper, by the way.”
“Of course it is.”
“No posters anywhere near my store,” said George. “This is a poster- and leaflet-free zone.”
“Okay, okay,” she said.
“I’ll have to add that to my questionnaire:
“Save the Trees is a registered nonprofit,” said Jess.
“Oh, that’s all right then,” said George. “Yorick’s is a nonprofit too.”
“And ‘Breathe’ is actually the title of a poem.”
“Sorry.” George handed her the rolled-up poster. “No.”
“You don’t like new poetry?” said Jess.
“I don’t like bad poetry,” said George, and then with some horror, “You didn’t write that, did you?”
She shook her head.
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“I used to write poetry when I was younger,” Jess said. She had kept a notebook by her bed, in case some line or image came to her in her dreams, but she had always been a sound sleeper, and no Xanadus or nightingales woke her. She read Coleridge or Keats and felt that they had covered the great subjects so well that she had nothing to add about beauty, or immortality of the soul. “Now I just read.”
She spoke cheerfully, without a hint of wistfulness. She was indignant sometimes, but never wistful. Opinionated, but still hopeful in her opinions. Oh, Jess, George thought, no one has hurt you yet.
7
Jess saw that George detested Noah, but she thought nothing of it. George disliked Noah because he disapproved of Noah’s cause, and George hated causes, unless they were his own. He seemed to think that other people’s efforts to change the world were doomed.
Whenever the tree movement got bad press, George cut out the article for Jess. He was a regular clipping service, convinced that Save the Trees had ties to extremists who spiked redwoods with steel rods. He had no hard evidence, of course, but the news was full of loggers spooked and occasionally injured by some radical’s idea of altruism. “I suggest,” he told Jess on her last day before Thanksgiving break, “that you look at this discussion of possible links between Save the Trees and the incident in Humboldt County.”
“No one at Save the Trees would support spiking,” Jess exclaimed, as she glanced at the article from the
“How about people in favor of bankrupting and maiming loggers?”
“The loggers are exploited by Pacific Lumber,” Jess said. “They’re being used.”
“So are you.”
Someone else would have taken offense, but Jess wondered how George had become so sour. She reasoned that it had to do with being rich, that George had accrued so much that his life became one long struggle to conserve his property. How strange to live that way, like a snail, inside your own wealth.
And yet she had a little money now and liked it. She owned one hundred shares of Veritech, the hottest stock ever. Jess often checked Veritech’s progress on her computer, where she loved to watch the stock price bob and float on the buoyant market. At first, watching made her feel guilty, but she quickly rationalized. The windfall wasn’t for herself, or her paltry bank account, or paying bills. She would give her stock to a great cause, or perhaps, if its value rose even higher, to several: the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and Greenpeace, as well as Save the Trees.
“Three months,” George said as he was locking up. “I didn’t realize Save the Trees had been around that long.”
“Are you, like, a neo-con?” Jess asked him.
“No!” George shot back, surprised.
“You’re so cynical,” said Jess.
George considered this as they stood outside the door. “I’ve been around the block.”
“You’re very disapproving,” she chided gently. “It’s not like I’ve done anything to you. It’s not like I’ve done anything you mentioned on your questionnaire.”
“Not yet.”
Six o’clock. A light rain fell, and a pile of blankets stirred in the doorway across the street. As the shops began to close, new salespeople emerged.
Jess didn’t seem to notice. “Good night,” she said, and tugged the bottom of her jacket.
George wanted to zip her up himself. “Where’s your bike?”
“It’s in the shop,” Jess said. “I’m getting a tune-up.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” he offered.
“No, that’s okay, I’m just going to catch the bus …”
“The
“It’s hardly even dark,” she protested as George took her arm and steered her across the street to the garage where he parked his Mercedes.
“You drive this big car all by yourself?” Jess asked, as he unlocked the door for her.
“Yes,” George said. “I drive unassisted. Where are we going?”
“Derby Street,” she said.
That surprised him. He hadn’t pictured her there. Then he realized that she was going to Noah’s place.
“A bunch of people live there.”
Ah, the Save the Trees Co-op. George glanced at her quickly. He wanted to ask, Do you have any idea who owns this property? Have you checked the nonprofit status of this organization? Have you considered that Save the Trees could be a shell for something else? But she was a grown woman, apparently.
He drove to Derby Street with its big old houses and tall fences and brambly gardens. “Thanks for the ride.” Jess dragged her backpack after her. “See you later.”
George considered the brown shingled co-op on the corner. A great shambling Californian manse, probably as old as his, maybe even a Maybeck with its picturesque peaked roof and diamond-paned windows. There was a garden too, possibly a double lot. Now he was a little jealous. He saw a cottage peeking out above the slatted fence. Jess turned and waved. She seemed to be waving him away, but he stayed until the door opened.
Jess had never been invited to a party at the Tree House before. Quickly she closed the door behind her. She didn’t want to introduce herself with a Mercedes idling in the background.
“Hi. I’m early,” Jess apologized to the tiny woman who stood before her.
