The Tree of Death

“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 wouldn’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