Solomon's Oak (29 page)

This mishmash of pontificators was what Lorna referred to as a meeting of the Butterfly Creek Intellectual Society. It wasn’t MENSA. Members included European hikers who upon emerging from the forest ordered and consumed five large Swamp Juan pizzas. And fly fishermen. The passionate fishing-rod discussions—bamboo versus graphite—would never be settled. Hikers argued long underwear—silk or Gore-Tex or Capilene? He saw the faces of the fed-up-to-here-with-family campers, pining for mindless television when a whole lake and family were right there in front of them. Every now and then a lonely old-timer who’d had been around so long he swore he remembered wagon trains sat down at Joseph’s table and started up a conversation about the state of the union, which sometimes implied Confederate.

As Joseph sipped his high-octane coffee, Lorna brought his sandwich and sat down at his table. She was wearing her fleece vest with the javelina print, and she swiped her bangs from her blue-shadowed eyes. “Joe Camera,” she said, sighing. “My engine’s running slow this morning. How is life treating my favorite shutterbug so far this new year? Come on, spill. I got eight more hours to my shift and Juan is boring me so bad I’m about ready to make myself a kite out of a cereal box.”

“Nothing new. Still taking tree pictures.”

“What is it with you and the saplings?”

He smiled. This was their prologue and he would miss it. “A tree stays rooted, which is more than I can say for most people.”

“The human race would die out if folks didn’t get restless. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Only two more months.”

“We’ll see about that.” Juan hollered for Lorna and she ignored him. “He doesn’t really mean it until the third or fourth time,” she said, and lit a cigarette.

Before Joseph could say a word, Lorna spoke. “Do not lecture me on my one enjoyable vice or I will put a wormy tomato in your sandwich.” Then she laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough. From their various conversations he’d learned that Lorna had survived breast cancer, had a son in prison, lost her dad to Alzheimer’s, and that she could trace her roots back to the Salinan Indians, one of many tribes decimated by the missionary era but which was making a comeback. She also had the misfortune not to have inherited a pile of money to retire on. Unless someone bought the Butterfly Creek, she and Juan would keep working until they dropped dead.

“Smoke two cigarettes at a time,” Joseph said. “Doesn’t matter if I approve.”

“Oh, honey”—she blew out a plume—“I stopped caring about what people thought of me when I was seven years old. Every September my mom bought a bolt of material and made me five identical school dresses out of it to wear all year. If I grew, she’d add an inch of material to the hem. I was one tough cookie before I hit eight.”

“That had to be painful.”

“Ancient history.” Lorna tapped a finger on Joseph’s camera. “We were talking about trees before you got all sidetracked on my cigarettes.”

He laughed. “Can I show you something?” He clicked his digital camera screen to
REVIEW
and showed Lorna the photos of Solomon’s Oak. Until the photo with Juniper in it, the tree was just a tree. Once the girl stood next to it, the tree struck up a conversation:
I’m enormous, I’ve survived against all odds, and my plan is to make the world rewrite the science books.
Then it added a postscript:
You have no idea the things I’ve seen.

Lorna tsked. “That girl’s poor face looks like she went through a windshield and a blind doctor put it back together with an office stapler. I knew you wouldn’t stay away from them.”

“Actually, I have. The last time I saw either of them was the day I took this picture.”

“Now that surprises me.”

“Why?”

She mussed his hair, which had grown out since November to the point where he needed to comb it. “Oh, Joseph. What are you? A mole rat? Get your nose out of the camera lens. Can’t you see that you’re first-class husband material?”

“How’s me taking a picture of a tree tell you that?”

Juan hollered again, this time in Spanish. Lorna set the camera down on the table and stood up. “I have exactly six puffs left before he blows a head gasket. Joe, you’re polite and a good tipper. You made a connection with that teenage
paquete de problemas
, the overflowing package of problems, and how many men would voluntarily step onto that minefield? I’d have to kiss you to find out if you’re any good at that, but since I’m old enough to be your grandmother, I’ll take your word for it.”

“That’s all a woman needs to know about who would make a good husband?”

She straightened her collar and took a last puff. “In my estimation, things boil down to that.”

“Is that how you chose Juan?”

“Juan? I felt sorry for the poor hombre, he was so clueless. He had such clodhoppers he couldn’t dance a lick. He didn’t have a nice car, or money to burn, or much else going for him, but he followed me around like a duckling and threatened to maim anyone who said a bad word about me. First chance I got I married him. Then I taught him how to scrub a floor, wash windows, make a sandwich, and count out correct change. Trained him pretty darn well, don’t you think?” She patted Joseph’s shoulder and leaned in close. “Tell me if I need to mind my own business, but the white pills I see you popping like Tic Tacs have me worried. Do I need to put you on my prayer list?”

“No, but I appreciate the concern. They’re prescription.”

Juan’s next holler was deeper in pitch. Lorna stamped out the cigarette, picked up the butt, and deposited it in the trash. She looked up at the dark clouds, clearing briefly before more moved in. “Hallelujah, a patch of blue sky.” She handed Joseph a UPS pen from her pocket. “Here, start off the new year with a new pen. Look at that darling truck inside. Tip it and it slides back and forth! Endorse your checks with this gem and it’ll bring you good luck. Remember, we got Riff Raff, that jazz band from down south, playing this weekend. Real good guys, and clean-cut music. You should invite the widow and the delinquent and come have a listen.”

When Lorna was gone, the biker conversation filled the void. “The shovelhead,” Bion said to his pack, “is so pretty it’s a shame to cover it up.” Joseph threw his bread to the chipmunks and bused his trash. He walked to his car. Lorna reminded him of his mother, who saw miraculous omens in crippled sparrows. She had no problem giving him a smack on the head. Lorna probably did have a wormy tomato behind the counter, and a lot of other things you were better off not knowing.

On the drive home, he stopped not far from the Butterfly Creek to take a photograph of yet another massive oak, its roots exposed and threading toward the creek bank like the gnarled foot of an old man. It looked as if the tree had decided to cross the water to join the oaks on the opposite side but had maybe waited too long, and that was why it was the only tree on this side of the creek. He wondered what pushed the roots upward like that, and what was under the tree. Given the history of the place, surely there were bones and potsherds and the remains of woven grass baskets. He thought of Glory training Cadillac to find things, and Casey’s remains still missing. Earth was its own museum, admission free of charge until you died. Then you became part of the exhibit.

At home he downloaded the pictures, culled the worst ones, and placed the keepers alongside his best shots, the ones that would go into his album. With the UPS pen, he made notes on what order he wanted the tree pictures in because it was time to print them. He enlarged the picture of Juniper standing by Solomon’s Oak and studied it. None of the other trees required people. Was the oak the picture that finished the series? Why did he feel as if it might be the beginning of something else?

He shut his eyes and dug down deep in his pocket for his afternoon pain pill. He looked out the window while he waited for the pill to work, trying to imagine a yellow bulldozer parked in the spot where his car was. There would be a Dumpster, too, and a demolition crew taking the cabin apart as quickly as they could. Time was money to the developers, but to Joseph, money bought time. Lots and lots of it.

As soon as the pill kicked in, he thought, damn that oak. All he wanted was a portfolio of California’s unique trees. His giant redwoods? Decent, but not spectacular. The silvery green eucalyptus of Santa Rosa? His composition brought the menthol scent to mind at once. Solomon’s Oak? He had to face facts. Every picture he’d taken of it, even the one with Juniper that showed its size, fell so far short of what the tree conveyed to him that Joseph could only conclude that ambition was at fault. The tree reminded him of Ship Rock up in the Four Corners, another lone natural wonder in the middle of nowhere. The Navajo nation considered it sacred. But every once in a while some dumbass rock climber tried to climb it and fell to his death. The disrespect shown to the rock formation met its punishment. Joseph wondered if his own hubris had offended the oak tree. Did he have to give up?

But the moment the thought came to mind, he knew he would pursue the tree until the day he got it right. He picked up his cell phone and called Glory Solomon’s number before he chickened out.

“Solomon’s Oak Wedding Chapel,” Juniper said. “Can I help you?”

“
May
I help you,” Joseph said. “How come you’re not in school? Don’t tell me more monkeyshines?”

“I kind of got suspended again.”

“You mean the suspension the night I came for dinner, right?”

“Nope. A different one.”

He whistled. “What happened?”

“It was a totally stupid thing.”

“Do I want to ask?”

“Not unless you promise not to yell at me after.”

“No can do. Your mom there?”

“Nope, she got called in to work at Tar-jay. I still have two hours before she gets home, so I’m cleaning the house. I think that’ll make her go easier on me.”

“Juniper, I don’t think that house could ever be made clean enough to work the kind of miracle you’re hoping for. How many times does this make you’ve been suspended?”

“Three.”

“Once more and you’re expelled permanently.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s the universal thing about high schools. Why do you sound so proud of getting suspended?”

Juniper snorted. “You want to know what my school day is like? First-period PE they make you run a
mile
because they don’t have enough money for gymnastics equipment. I hate getting all sweaty and tired, and whether I walk or run, I come in dead last every time. Second period, algebra! Numbers and characters and theorems mush together and I can’t get above a C on the pop quiz no matter how hard I study. Mrs. Solomon says I should join a study group! But how can I when I have no friends? Not even the geeks will talk to me. Third period, and I’m starving by this point but lunch is still one period away, I reek from PE, I want to cry about flunking math, it’s time for social science! Right now we’re studying pre-Columbian history. Bering land bridges, maize, and using fire as a tool. What am I ever going to do with pre-Columbian history besides forget it?”

“You’re right,” Joseph said.

“You agree with me?”

“Sure do. You’ll never use algebra serving fast food. And pre-Columbian history? Sheesh. You might as well quit school today. I wonder, though. Do you have to graduate high school to be the manager at the burger joint? For sure, whatever your position ends up being—change maker, salad chopper, fries fryer, you do get to wear a nifty visor. And minimum wage, everyone knows it’s easy to live on that.”

“Very funny, Copper. I thought you were my friend.”

She’d forgotten that the last time she saw him she’d said she hated him. A jay landed on the deck outside Joseph’s window and cocked its head toward him, looking for a handout. What was wrong with the seed in the birdfeeder? he wondered. “I’m a friend who doesn’t much care for watching you throw your life away.”

“It’s my life. Why are you calling Mrs. Solomon anyway?”

“Permission to take more pictures of the tree. My last batch didn’t capture what I was aiming for.”

“You’re friends now. You don’t have to ask permission.”

“Yes, I do. That’s called manners.”

“Manners. Give me a break. What were you trying to capture?”

“It’s hard to explain. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“That sounds like something out of a kung fu movie. I thought you were Navajo and Mexican. Isn’t there cooler wise sayings in Navajo?”

“
Aren’t
there. I’m mestizo, mutt, like that brown dog Dodge. The wisest things I know are common sense, and I’m sharing them with you. The question is, are you listening?”

Juniper was quiet for a minute. “I got your e-mail but I couldn’t write back since I was grounded from using the computer. When are you coming over to teach me how to take pictures for real? I really do want to learn. Polishing lightbulbs is boring.”

“Polishing lightbulbs is a good skill to master for the job you’re going to get without your degree. Practice turning off your mind when you’re flipping burgers and saying, ‘Have it your way.’ Ask Glory if I can come over tomorrow, or on the weekend.”