The Crazy Things Girls Do for Love

Clemens and Waneeda have spent the morning, as they have spent most weekend mornings for the last couple of months, trudging up and down the streets, roads, crescents, drives and dead ends of Clifton Springs with their petition to save the old-growth oaks from being turned into firewood. Clemens has his jacket open so his Trees Don’t Grow on Money T-shirt is visible. Waneeda’s jacket is also open to reveal the T-shirt Clemens made for her (a picture of a tree being felled and the caption Chainsaw Massacre). Her hair, in keeping with the arboreal theme of the afternoon, surrounds Waneeda’s head like a bush.

They stop in front of a blue ranch house whose front window is filled with china rabbits.

“Rabbits is a good sign,” Waneeda decides. “It means they like animals. At least that’s a start.”

“Or maybe all it means is that they like buying figurines,” says Clemens. Maya isn’t the only one who’s had a long morning. He slips a coin from his pocket. “Your call. Heads or tails?”

“Heads you do the spiel,” says Waneeda. “Tails I do it.”

In the world of petitioning (as in most worlds) some days are better than others. This one has been a fairly demoralizing one. The people who eagerly snatch the pen from their hands have been very few and very far between. Although many of the good folk of Clifton Springs have been courteous and even polite, if only vaguely interested, it would be misleading to suggest that Waneeda and Clemens have been universally greeted with warmth and support. Very often, curtains have twitched, but no one has answered their ring. Just as often, someone has answered their ring and then shut the door in their faces. Dogs have run after them. Small children have jeered at them. Adults have been unpleasant and rude.

“Heads, damn it.” Clemens ruefully shakes his head. “I swear you have to be psychic.”

“Just lucky.” Waneeda tugs on a strand of hair. “Anyway, you’re better at talking than I am.”

Clemens pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Yeah, but people like you more.” He sighs. “Everybody thinks I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird.” She gives him an encouraging smile. Today, Clemens is wearing an old black beret and one of his grandmother’s many knitting projects, a scarf patterned with pine trees. “You’re just different.”

This time, the door is opened by a middle-aged man who listens patiently to Clemens’ plea, but when he’s finished says, “You don’t think maybe the town needs a new sports centre more than it needs a couple of trees? We’ve got plenty of trees, you know, but we don’t have plenty of sports centres.”

“But these aren’t just any trees,” argues Clemens. “Sports centres can be built anywhere, but these trees can never be replaced. They were here way before the white man. They’re the living past and have witnessed hundreds of years of history. They’ve seen whole peoples come and go and the sky black with passenger pigeons. If these trees could talk they—”

“Yeah, but they can’t talk, can they?” interrupts the man. “They’re just trees.” He grins in an I’m-laughing- at-you-not-with-you way. “And do you know what another name for trees is? Do you know what else they’re called?”

Clemens and Waneeda glance at each other, but neither answers.

“Wood!” shouts the man. “That’s the other name for trees! Wood!”

They can still hear him laughing after he’s shut the door.

“I think it’s time to take up our post at the village square for a while.” Clemens slips his clipboard into his backpack. “This neighbourhood’s got some kind of juju curse on it.”

“At least that last guy was original,” says Waneeda as they head back to town. “That’s the first time we’ve heard that one. I think that should go on the list. Which makes … what? Five or six for today?”

Truly great reasons not to save the trees is the game Clemens invented to keep them from getting too depressed.

“Well, let’s see.” He frowns, thinking. “The first three were: I can’t find the ferret, It’s too early and I once fell out of a tree and broke my leg. So that guy who said, Son, you just don’t get it, do you? The thing about trees is they grow back was number four.”

Waneeda laughs. “You know what would happen if we didn’t chop down trees? We wouldn’t be able to get our cars out of the garages was five.”

“Well, what about the lady in the tracksuit and the shower cap? What was it she said?”

“Trees cause pollution.”

Clemens looks as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “And even when I said that they only cause pollution when you cut them down, she still wouldn’t sign the petition.”

They turn into the historic town of Clifton Springs.

“Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute.” Waneeda pulls on Clemens’ arm as if she’s literally trying to slow him down. “What about that man with the funny-looking dog? The one who said that if I had to rake up the leaves I wouldn’t be so eager not to cut down trees? He’s number seven.”

Clemens takes her elbow and guides her across the road to the square. “And how about Mr Where-would- we-be-if-the-pioneers-had-felt-like-that?”

“And you said that we wouldn’t be shopping in Wal-Mart, that was for sure,” gasps Waneeda. “And he slammed the door in your face. Just like the woman with the Yorkshire terrier that time. Remember her?”

“Remember her? Even if she hadn’t had that dumb dog up her sleeve, I’d never forget her,” says Clemens. “She shut that door so hard she would’ve broken my foot if I hadn’t been wearing my steel-toed boots.”

“Well, at least you know that if you don’t become some kind of environmentalist, you can always get a job as a door-to-door salesman,” says Waneeda. “You’re pretty good with that sticking-your-foot-in-the-door routine.”

Clemens leans against the old cast-iron railings that surround the churchyard, solemnly shaking his head. “I couldn’t take the constant rejection. It’s soul destroying.”

“We haven’t had total rejection, though,” argues Waneeda. “We’ve got at least twenty signatures so far today. That’s not so bad.”

Clemens sighs. “Except that I bet we would’ve made a lot more than twenty sales if we were Avon ladies selling make-up and not just students trying to save the environment.”

“I doubt it,” says Waneeda. “I think that the sight of you in drag would make them slam their doors even harder.”

They are still laughing when Waneeda, who is facing the church, grabs his arm. “I think I must be hallucinating, Clemens – I could swear I see Sicilee Kewe coming out of the thrift store. With bags.”

Clemens turns around. “Well, shuck my corn.” He gives a low whistle. “It’s either her or her twin sister.”

“Hey! Clemens! Waneeda!” Sicilee comes hurrying towards them. “Look at all this cool stuff I got for, like, absolutely nothing.” She starts pulling things from one of the bags. “Can you believe it? They’ve hardly even been worn!”

On the other side of the road, Mr Huddlesfield, on his way to the hardware store for a washer to fix the leaking faucet in the bathroom (an environmental act inspired by his daughter, who taped a note on the bathroom mirror stating exactly how many gallons of water are dripping away every week), happens to glance over and see that very same daughter standing in front of the village square with Clemens Reis and a girl who definitely isn’t Joy Marie Lutz. Mr Huddlesfield rarely sees his only child out of the house or from any distance, and for a few seconds he doesn’t recognize her. This is partly because he still isn’t used to seeing her with her hair down and partly because she is animated and smiling (which is another way her father rarely sees her), talking and laughing with her friends. Mr Huddlesfield changes direction and goes over to see what’s going on.

“Well, maybe you’d like to sign our petition.” Clemens thrusts his clipboard into Mr Huddlesfield’s hands.

“You can’t fight city hall, you know,” says Mr Huddlesfield as he takes hold of the pen.

“That’s number nine,” says Waneeda.

Chapter Thirty-Seven Shop and drop