The Tree of Death

“Probably not. Have you heard from her?”

“On Sunday she called.”

“Anything new?”

“No.”

I went to switch my laundry to the dryer. On the way through the rec center I spotted Nick and his “old fogies” conferring in the lounge. There seemed to be some disagreement on how the marathon would be run, because they were all talking loudly at once. Nick waved cheerfully at me, though. I guess they enjoyed shouting.

Back at the trailer, I found Mama unfolding a couple of lounge chairs on the little spot of lawn. “Come and sit awhile,” she said.

I sat. For a few minutes we didn’t speak. Then she said, “Are you sure everything’s all right at the museum, Elena?”

She must really be worried. My job had always had its ups and downs, some more serious than today’s. “Everything’s not all right, but I don’t see why you’re so concerned.”

“I have a feeling.”

“Oh, your feelings!” Mama often laid claim to premonitions. When I scoffed at them, she would merely give me a dark look that said, There are things more terrible here than you can imagine. Unfortunately, her premonitions were usually right.

“So what do you think is going to happen?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

She sounded forlorn, and I tried to reassure her. “Okay, what’s the worst that can happen? I can lose my job. There are other jobs.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Okay, suppose the opening’s a bust. Or the volunteers forget the strawberries for the press preview. Or Maria elopes with Vic.”‘ I decided to joke her out of her mood.“ Or maybe Tony will run off with Isabel. A rich person might will us a whole bunch of arboles de la vida, uglier than what we’ve got now. Or Frank will get even fatter. Or I’ll elope with rotund Robert.” None of it was very funny, however, and Mama wasn’t having any cheering up.

“I just have got this feeling.”

“Mama, Mama, you’re depressing me.”

“I don’t mean to.”

I patted her work-worn hand. “I know.”

We sat there in the silence, listening to the crickets and occasional conversations of people passing by. Around ten o’clock Nick reappeared, and I took it as my signal to leave. Collecting my clothes from the dryer, I waved good-bye to the remnants of the group of “old fogies” and went to my car.

I wasn’t sleepy. In spite of a straight week of lying awake nights, I wasn’t tired at all. I sat in the dark, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, then started the car and drove toward the museum. All was dark, except for the floodlights on the lawn. For a moment I debated going in, checking the collections once more, but decided against it. I was getting obsessive about my work, and I didn’t like that. Finally I drove to the palm-dotted park on Cabrillo Street along the waterfront and sat in my car, watching the lovers on the grass.

I didn’t have a male friend right now. Jim-the one who was good in bed-had gone out of my life she months ago, and since then the museum had taken all my time. That wasn’t right. I should be getting out, going to parties, meeting people.

But why? Somehow the old game didn’t interest me anymore. I would much rather sit in my house reading art journals and novels than go out partying. Maybe I was going to be alone all my life. Maybe I would never find anybody to be comfortable with. Mama never said anything, but I knew she worried about grandchildren. What if she’d raised Carlota and me to be too independent?

Children. Did I want them? I didn’t know. Children were such an unknown quantity when the man who would father them was faceless.

A husband? Did I really want anyone on a permanent basis? I didn’t know that either.

Angrily I shook myself. “You’re too damn introspective these days, Elena,” I said aloud. “No wonder you don’t sleep at night.”

The words echoed in the little car. Then the sound died, and I felt more alone than ever. Mama had a feeling. Her feelings were usually right. But what did it mean?

I sat there for a long time, until the moon disappeared behind a giant palm tree and the lovers were gone from the grass.

four

My outlook, like Jesse’s camaleones, changed the next morning. I felt optimistic, positive. The press preview would be a success, the opening even better. The problems at the museum were not insoluble. Once things quieted down, I would deal with them. And, if they proved more than I could handle, well- there were other jobs, weren’t there?

I parked in front of the stately adobe and crossed the grass. The alarm, I noted approvingly, was on, although the lock was in the up position, which meant that Frank had left by another door. The fact remained that he had remembered my warning to reset the alarm. It was a good omen.

I went into the central courtyard and turned on the fountain. The water gurgled and sputtered for a moment, then began tinkling happily. Another good omen.

The folding tables for the buffet were stored in the corridor outside Frank’s office. I went in there, put away my purse, and started hauling tables to the courtyard. Passing Frank’s door, I looked in and spied his keys hanging on the hook. So he was here early. With luck, he’d be reasonably presentable and in a mood to greet the reporters. Deciding to avoid him for now, I moved the folding tables by myself.

By the time Isabel and her other volunteers had arrived, I had covered each table with a white cloth and set out napkins and glasses. The volunteers unveiled huge cut glass bowls of spring strawberries, and I helped Isabel fill the smaller silver bowls with sugar. Vic arrived and began to mix the champagne and orange juice punch. Naturally Frank didn’t come out to lend a hand.

By nine-thirty Tony hadn’t yet put in an appearance. That didn’t bother me; he was often late, and if he didn’t show up at all he wouldn’t be able to say stupid things to the reporters. What did bother me was Maria’s absence. We could have used another pair of hands. And, come to think of it, where was Jesse? He’d promised to be here as a representative of the local artistic community. Maybe the two of them were off having a tryst. Honestly, couldn’t I count on anyone?

The hands of my watch showed quarter to ten when we finished laying out the buffet and stood back to admire it. I turned to Vic. “Go in and call Maria. Tell her she’s got to hurry. And try Jesse.”

He nodded and went into the office wing. A moment later he returned. “Guess they’re on the way. No answer at Jesse’s, and the line’s busy at Frank’s.”

“Probably one of the gordicitos tying up the phone,”‘ I said. “I’m going to check the galleries, and then I’ll get Frank.” I’d been holding off on the galleries, having decided that controlling my obsessive behavior was a good place for the new, optimistic me to start.

I crossed the courtyard and started through the galleries. They looked good. I flicked at the same imaginary specks of dust as yesterday. Everything shone. Our collections had never looked better. Even that damned arbol de la vida might look okay this morning. I reserved judgment; if it didn’t, the folk art gallery would be off limits to the press.

I rounded the corner to the gallery, bracing myself for the tree’s spectacular ugliness. Then I stopped. The tree was gone.

On the platform where it had stood was a gaping emptiness. The tree was gone. The tree was… on the floor Smashed into hundreds of garish fragments. Shattered. And under it…

I put my hand to my mouth, stifling a scream. It came out a strangled grunt.

Under the remains of the tree lay Frank. He was on his face, his arms and legs splayed out. There were dark,