The Tree of Death

exclusive neighborhoods, but midway between the hills and the shore, in the closest thing we have to a barrio.

The neighbors’ kids were playing ball in the street, the way I’d played there years before. I pulled into my driveway, waved to them, and went up on the front porch. The house was a typical green stucco California bungalow. The thick palm tree in the front yard and the fuschia that ran wild over the porch did much to disguise it, but the fact remained that one of these days I was going to have to shell out for a new paint job. I took my mail from the box-three more bills-and went inside.

The day’s heat had built up in there. I opened the windows on the front and side of the living room, kicked off my shoes, and set the bills on my little desk. There was something I had to take care of. What? Oh, yes, the car re-registration. There it was, in the pigeonhole where I kept urgent papers. The pigeonhole was crammed full. I wrote a check to the Department of Motor Vehicles and sealed it in the envelope. Whatever else was urgent could wait until after the opening.

Then I went to the old-fashioned kitchen, got a glass of cool white wine, and came back to the living room. I sat down in a rocker by the side window, enjoying the breeze. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the polished hardwood floors, and the thin white curtains billowed. For the first time today I felt at peace.

This house was my haven, the place I felt most comfortable in all the world. It ought to be; I’d been born in this house, raised here, lived here all my life. Up until six years ago, when I’d finished college, my mother had lived here, too.

Then, the day after my graduation from UCSB, she’d announced she was going to sell.

Why? I’d asked her. Because both of her girls were through college and she was going to retire.

That was understandable. Mama had worked as a domestic for the city’s wealthiest families-including Isabel Cunningham-ever since my father died when I was only three. She’d managed to buy the house, put money away, and help both me and my older sister Carlota through college. For us, the tradition of machismo, so prevalent in most Mexican-American homes, had died with my father. The women in the Oliverez household had to be strong and independent, according to Mama. We made our way in the world, refusing to let anyone, male or female, put us down. And she was the strongest.

My mother had worked hard; it was natural she should want-and deserve-to retire. But why sell the house?

Well, Mama explained, there was this mobile home park up in Goleta, near the beach. They had a swimming pool and a recreation center and a crafts workshop. They organized trips to plays and the symphony, and every Saturday night there was a barbecue. A mobile home would be much easier to keep up than this house. And besides-this with a wicked gleam in her eye-most of the people were around her age. There would be widowers.

Mama! I had exclaimed.

What did I expect? she demanded. She’d been without a man long enough. Of course, it wasn’t anything she thought I would understand. I hadn’t been without once since I was old enough to flirt.

That stilled my objections, and made me think. All those years Mama had been alone. And Carlota and I had been running here and there-parties, summer vacations-without so much as a thank you or a thought for her loneliness. Of course she should have her mobile home. But I asked her not to put the house on the market just yet.

Then I called Carlota in Minneapolis, where she was an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Minnesota. We worked it out that she would buy the mobile home and I would make the rental payments on the space for it. In return, Mama would deed the house to us. I would maintain it and live there, and if I ever wanted to buy her out, Carlota would agree to it. Within a month Mama had moved, and two weeks after that, she had a boyfriend. I am definitely my mother’s daughter.

The nice thing about the mobile home park was that it had a laundry. And, since I couldn’t afford a washer and dryer yet, I paid the laundry frequent visits.

Now I finished my wine, went to my bedroom and collected my dirty clothes. On the way out I called my mother.

“It’s laundry night,” I said. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

“I could use some milk.”

“Anything else?”

“Dinner is chile verde. Nick is coming, but there’s plenty for you. I’m low on lettuce, though. And maybe some of those nice avocados they’re bringing up from Mexico? What do you think of a tomato and avocado salad? With some sweet onion. Yes, a couple of tomatoes and one onion, a large one. And-”

“Just a minute. I’ve got to get a pencil.” I wrote down those and several more requests, then set off for the shopping center. It was small price to pay for getting the laundry done and enjoying some good company.

three

As I came out of the Safeway pushing my cart, Isabel’s tan. Mercedes pulled up. I felt a stab of embarrassment. I had made myself sound so busy, but there I was at the store. I could have bought the sour cream. Isabel saw me and hurried up. Her gray-streaked hair straggled from its bun, and there was a brownish dirt smudge on her usually immaculate white tennis dress. My embarrassment turned to pity; after all the hours she toiled for the museum, we had scorned her gift.

“Isabel,” I said quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d have to stop at Safeway, but my mother needed some things. If I’d known, I would have bought the sour cream.”

She brushed the apology aside with a flick of her hand. “That’s all right. How is your mother, anyway?”

“She’s fine.”

“Good, good. Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. Don’t you think we should have sugar as well as sour cream for the guests to dip the strawberries in?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Both brown and powdered sugar.”‘

“Yes. Do we have any dishes to put it in, though?”

“I have some silver bowls at home. I’ll bring them.”

“You’re so good to us.”

Again, she flicked her hand. “De nada. I like my work for the museum. Unlike a few other charities I could name. I met with that restoration group this afternoon-you know, the one that’s trying to get the old Sanchez property. They have no idea what it takes in terms of organization…” She launched into a long, distracted account of the troubles she had encountered with the group, then began telling me about the impractical outlook of a church group that was assisting illegal aliens. I shifted from foot to foot, leaning on my grocery cart. Isabel didn’t seem to notice my impatience, and I didn’t have the heart to interrupt. The woman had obviously had a rough day, and it was in part my fault. When she finally ran down, I loaded my groceries in my car and drove to Goleta.

I parked in a visitor’s slot near the spacious lawn in front of the redwood and shingle recreation center of the mobile home park. Beyond the building were a pool and a putting green, and the trailers stood on U-shaped culs- de-sac around this central area. Each had its own little yard and shade tree.

The smell of chile verde-pork and beef chunks simmering with green chiles and spices-filled my mother’s trailer. She and her latest boyfriend, Nick Carrillo, sat in the living room drinking white wine. I got myself a glass and joined them.

“So what’s new with you, Miss Elena?” Nick asked. “You ready to take up running yet?” He was a tall, white- haired man of seventy-eight who jogged several miles a day. He was always trying to get me interested in running, but to no avail.

“I told you, I’m the sedentary type.”

“You were on the women’s swimming team in college.”

“That’s different. I’m good at swimming.”

“Then you’d be good at running.”

That was probably true. I had a very slow heartbeat and when I swam it slowed down even more and my