Solomon's Oak (12 page)

Immediately Cadillac went to work on the office ladies, offering his paw for high fives. The woman at the front desk fell for him instantly. “Oh, what a cute doggie! Any chance you’re going to breed her? My kids would love a puppy for Christmas. Do they come in smaller sizes? My daughter would adore a purse dog.”

The phrase raised Glory’s hackles. For some reason, people believed that tiny dogs were born housebroken and obedient, when the truth was they needed as much training as the hundred-pounders. She smiled. “Thanks. He’s neutered, actually. Have you thought about a shelter dog? Full grown? They’re so grateful. That’s where he came from.”

“Oh. That’s certainly an idea to consider.”

Glory smiled harder. “I’m here to pick up Juniper McGuire,” she said, looking around the office. Among the blond wood and tall, beige filing cabinets there she was, slouched in an orange chair just outside Principal Phelps’s office, staring into space. Glory wondered when she’d found the time to paint her nails purple, and furthermore, where she’d got the polish. Shoplifting, the other day at Target? There was plenty of opportunity to slip a small bottle like that in her pocket. But why? It only cost a couple of dollars. Glory would have bought it for her had she asked. And fighting on top of that? Like all teens, Juniper was quick-tempered, and Glory had to admit the girl was sarcastic beyond her years, but she was so gentle with the animals that Glory couldn’t picture her hitting anybody.

“Monica,” Glory said when Principal Phelps walked toward her. She was dressed in a blue pantsuit and silver scarf, the school’s colors. “So nice to see you, Monica. How’s your mom doing?”

“Good to see you, too. The hip replacement did wonders. Mom’s back out on the golf course three times a week.”

“That’s great. Say hello to her for me.”

The principal reached down to pet the dog. Her smile disappeared. “How are you holding up?”

Glory tightened her grasp on Cadillac’s leash. Despite that she’d never shed a single tear in public since Dan died, it felt as if everyone expected her imminent meltdown. “I’m keeping busy. So, you have some papers for me to sign?”

“Yes, here’s her official suspension,” Principal Phelps told Glory, who took the pen and looked at Juniper. The girl looked away, her face empty of emotion. Glory took a second set of papers, stapled together. “If Juniper returns to class, she’ll need to return both of these, signed and witnessed, preferably by me.”

“If?” Glory said. “Is she in that much trouble?”

Principal Phelps came closer and lowered her voice. Her reading glasses hung from a gold chain decorated with tiny Christmas ornaments. “Juniper is a smart girl, Glory. Of course we want her back, but until she can get herself under control, I’m not sure KC’s a good fit for her. Have you considered counseling?”

Was Glory supposed to admit that the girl was already in counseling? That apparently her problems ran so deep she should agree the girl was a societal misfit? For the first time ever, Glory felt ashamed, as if Juniper’s unacceptable behavior was her fault. “Monica, I appreciate your honesty. Give us a few days and I’m sure she’ll shape right up.”

“That’s the idea.” Monica patted Cadillac, who whimpered at being ignored by Juniper. “Take care, Glory.”

Juniper stood up and walked over to Glory, then knelt down to give the dog a hug. Cadillac took that as permission to erupt into a howling chorus of
I love you
s. The ladies at the desk swooned. “Did you hear that? It’s like the dog can talk.”

Juniper took his leash. “Can we get out of here?”

“In a minute,” Glory said. “Pull up your sleeves.”

“Why? You’re embarrassing me.”

Principal Phelps gave the girl a weary smile. “Juniper, last chance. Stand up for yourself and tell us your side of the story.”

Juniper looked at the principal, then back at Glory. “I don’t have anything to say, so would everyone please stop asking me?”

“It’s all right,” Glory said. “We’ll talk on the way home.”

The principal turned back to her office. A phone rang, then another. The admin staff returned to other tasks. Glory reached into her pocket for the keys to the truck, and Cadillac took hold of his leash, walking all of them toward the glass double doors adorned with the King City mascot, a galloping mustang next to a powder blue horseshoe. This is a blip, Glory thought as she passed secondhand cars kids like her foster sons had scrimped and saved for. A onetime incident. She’s getting settled is all. They left the sunny office that smelled faintly of whatever overcooked veggie the hot lunch offered. Broccoli, Brussels sprouts, or green beans rendered the texture of clay, a vegetable kids would use as ammunition because no one in her right mind would eat it.

As they seat-belted themselves into the truck, Glory cued Cadillac to “be sweet,” which was what she did when they visited Dan’s mom at the convalescent home. To Cadillac, that meant placing a paw on someone’s knee and waiting for further instructions. Let the old folks pet you. Give a kiss, but only if they ask. The elderly also enjoyed visits from Edsel, though his only trick was spinning in circles when Glory twirled her index finger. Caddy had a closetful, from the
I love you
howl to standing up on his hind legs and dancing backward. That move alone could evoke laughter from the most isolated patient.

But Glory’s favorite of Cadillac’s antics was “grin” on command, when he lifted his upper lip until his teeth showed in what appeared to be a smile. Dan had shown Glory a book that explained it as submissive behavior, but Cadillac learned the command in no time, and Glory chose to believe the collie smiled. She started the truck, and before they were out of the parking lot Cadillac pawed Juniper’s shoulder, whined softly, and, sensing she was amenable, threw himself at her, licking her face. “Eww, gross,” she said, holding up her hands.

“Border collies are such a popular breed that artists have painted them into Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
, Monet’s
Lilies
, and I forget the artist but that picture with the old people and the rake.”

“
American Gothic
,” Juniper said in a monotone.

“Right. Those ladies in the front office sure liked your dog. Your principal, Mrs. Phelps, is a cat person.”

“I feel sorry for the cat.”

Glory couldn’t help laughing. “She’s trying her best.”

“She looks at me like I’m trailer trash.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“No offense, but you’re blind if you can’t see that.” After five minutes of silence, Juniper added, “Aren’t you going to make me talk about what happened?”

“I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

Juniper had no idea that Glory was counting on the drive home to figure out what to do next. She had to figure it out correctly and effectively, if only to prove to Lorna and Halle that she could handle things. Until then, she maintained her composure. Just like Dan, she’d be firm and consistent, the authority figure—but kind and soothing, the kind of mom every kid wanted. Caddy spilled out of Juniper’s lap and pressed against her.

Juniper cried so softly Glory almost didn’t notice. Juniper turned her face away, but her raised shoulders, shaking ever so slightly, betrayed her calm demeanor. What had happened that would change the girl from acting like an ordinary freshman into physically assaulting someone she’d known for one day? Glory sighed. Life would be a lot simpler if everyone grew tails and began walking on all fours. She switched on the radio, tuned it to a classical station, and drove on autopilot. The miles passed in silence until Caddy recognized the turn for the farm and began squealing. As they pulled up to the house, Glory shut off the ignition and turned to Juniper.

“Go wash your face and change into some work clothes. There’s a box of old clothes in the barn.”

Juniper held Caddy close and hiccuped. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to clean out the chicken coop and it’s messy. Bring a bandanna to tie over your nose and mouth. There should be some in the top drawer of my dresser. After we finish the coop, we’re going to set mousetraps.”

“Mousetraps?”

“When you live rural, they come with the territory.”

“But mice carry the hantavirus. It’s contagious.”

“In New Mexico, maybe. This is California.”

“I’m not touching a dead mouse even if it’s in a trap.”

“I promise, all you have to do is set the traps.”

Juniper jumped down from the truck. “What do I do about Caddy?”

“Check his water bowl and put him in his kennel.”

“Isn’t that mean?”

“Not at all. It’s his safe place. Sometimes he goes in there voluntarily.”

Glory sat in the truck, watching Juniper walk into the house. Suddenly she remembered the wad of cash sitting on her dresser, and her pearls.

Part  II

J O S E P H  V I G I L

I didn’t want to tell the tree or weed what it was.
I wanted it to tell me something and through me
express its meaning in nature.

—W
YNN
B
ULLOCK

Welcome to the Butterfly Creek General Store!

Your one-stop shop for the comforts of home
away from home

Voted Best Darn Pizza in Central California since 1988
(& we deliver)

Official meeting place for The Butterfly Creek
Intellectual Society

Bicyclists and Bikers welcome

Open Monday–Thursday from eight A.M. to nine P.M.

Friday–Saturday until two A.M.

CLOSED on Sunday, no matter what!

Sundays are for visiting with the grandbabies.

Juan and Lorna Candelaria, owners

FOR SALE BY OWNER: Inquire Within

Chapter 4

DECEMBER 2003

T
HE FIRST TIME
Joseph walked across the parking lot to the Butterfly Creek General Store, he was impressed by the number of signs tacked up on every square inch of the building. It reminded him of the Sign Post Forest on the Alcan Highway. You could stand here and read signs all day.

The store was an oasis of icy cold Coca-Cola and penny candy, and then there was the pizza. You could have it delivered to you at your house, office, or campsite. If you were a hiker, biker, birder, climber, camper, lunatic, or a local, this was your meeting place to plan hikes, to unwind from rock climbing, or to recharge before the drive back to Los Angeles.
DECAF IS FOR SISSIES
declared a red-and-white enamel sign to the left of the doorway.
SEAT YOURSELF
read another. Busing your table was implied. According to Lorna, kids regularly stole the sign she and Juan had especially made by a local carpenter, Dan Solomon:

Today’s Special: the Swamp Juan pizza

Tomorrow’s Special: the Swamp Juan pizza

Looking for a great meal? Try our Swamp Juan pizza

Pilfering the sign had become a tradition with Cal Poly students. They’d take it for a week, hang it above their fraternity door, have a Swamp Juan party, then return it. A week later, another fraternity took it, and so on. Juan finally put it on hooks for easy removal.

The general store had a turning rack of picture postcards, toy fishing rods, hand-tied flies, bait, Seventh Generation diapers, playing cards, flip-flops, beach towels, coloring books and Crayolas, sacks of marbles, old-fashioned jacks with the red foam ball, pork rinds, five flavors of Doritos, red vine licorice, sunscreen from SPF 5 to 70, aloe vera gel, baby powder, toothbrushes, travel-size shampoos, and much more. The moment Joseph stepped onto the creaky wooden floorboards inside the store, he traveled back to when he was ten years old, here with his grandmother, buying a slab of bacon for breakfast.

The Butterfly Creek smelled like coffee, french fries, and pies just out of the oven. It had been his first stop after the long drive from Albuquerque to Lake Nacimiento. That day his back ached so badly that his left leg was dragging, and he worried whoever saw him might think he was drunk. The long drive was really too much without pain medicine, but he refused to drive while he was on it. He shuffled into the store to buy bread, cheese, eggs, and a quart of orange juice to tide him over until he was ready to face a chain market and shop. Lorna took one look at his road-raggled self and sat him down at the outdoor table with the Budweiser umbrella. She nuked him a homemade breakfast burrito and poured him a cup of coffee that had just about blistered the soles of his feet.

“On the house,” she said. “Now, tell me, who are you?”

“Joseph.”

“Where are you from?”

“New Mexico.”

“How long are you staying and what do you plan to do while you’re here?”

She would have made a great detective, Joseph thought.

On she went, leaving the questions hanging. “Juan and I have lived here all our lives. We know spots the tourists don’t. Caves you’ll never find on a map, fishing holes—” Right then Juan had yelled for Lorna, and she patted Joseph’s shoulder. “Better go see if he set the kitchen on fire again. You finish up that burrito and I’ll be back to check on you presently. Save room for pie; I baked a chocolate silk this morning. I top it with whip cream and chocolate bits.”

The warm pie reminded him of the pudding his grandmother used to cook on the woodstove in the cabin he was about to move into.

Lorna sat down with him while he ate it. She smoked a cigarette. “What are you doing out here in our little neck of nowhere? I don’t see a boat trailer on your car. You aren’t all gigged up in North Face clothing. I freely admit I’m a nosy old lady. Hearing other people’s stories is my only fun. Tell Lorna your secrets. I can keep them.”

Joseph laughed. “We’ve met before. You probably don’t remember me, but I bet you remember Penny Vigil.”

“I sure do. The green A-frame cabin on the Oak Shore of Dragon Lake.”

“My grandmother. She left it to me.”

“Lord Almighty, you’re Penny’s grandson! I can’t wait to tell Juan. Are you here to fix the roof? It’s in bad shape.”

Joseph was reluctant to answer. He wanted solitude, not dinner invitations, but he believed people were put on earth to be polite to each other. “I’m here for a few months. At the end of April the cabin will be torn down so the developers can finish the project. They’re building a ‘weekend retreat’ on the land. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but it involves giving me a lot of money.”

Lorna snorted. “Another six-thousand-square-foot ‘cabin’ in the woods. Explain to me why people need five bathrooms and granite countertops to ‘get away from it all’?”

“That’s a good question.”

Lorna wagged her order pad at him. “I suspect there’s more to this situation than what you’re telling me. That place has a woodstove, not central heat. You could have done everything by fax machine. Are you going to sit in the cabin until the bulldozers arrive and stage a protest? Write the great American novel? You look like you might be a writer type. Though you’d need to wear a black turtleneck sweater and one of those French berets if you really want to convince people.”

The choking feeling that accompanied a turtleneck drove Joseph crazy. “I’ve never been much good at writing. Give me a camera, different story.”

“Oh, that’s right—Penny was always taking pictures. Must have made a big impression on you to choose that for your career. So what do you take pictures of, if I might ask?”

Crime scenes and dead people? Wounds and bullet casings? Bloody palm prints on walls and tire treads in mud? “While I’m here, I plan to take pictures of trees.”

“Trees? Why trees?”

“California has giant redwoods.”

“But a tree just stands there. Why not take pictures of pretty girls?”

He smiled. “I find trees more interesting.”

“Someone broke your heart, didn’t they?”

More stories she didn’t need to hear about. “I’m just taking some time for myself. A vacation, I guess.”

Lorna got up to leave, picking up his empty plate. “I’m going to tell you something, Joseph. In between trees, I suggest you start doing some push-ups. Get that broken heart of yours back in fighting shape or you could miss out on something wonderful.”

“Sound advice. Thank you for the meal, senora.”

“Oh, call me Lorna. Everyone does.”

How could you not find comfort in a place like that? Creamsicle bars. Bottles of root beer so cold and slushy it hurt your teeth to drink. Return the empty, you’d get a nickel back. Also, a large-size Swamp Juan came with four Tootsie Pops. Even leftover, the pizza was good.

On Monday, December 1, Joseph got up at dawn, still not accustomed to the time difference. He looked out the cabin window and saw frost on his car windshield. The air steadily warmed up in what he’d come to think of as a California-style winter, much warmer than Albuquerque. He drank coffee and reviewed his photos of the pirate wedding. He photoshopped the red eyes on the bride back to brown. He cropped the sword-fight pictures to zero in on the groom’s steel and grimace, and occasionally he looked at the picture he’d shot of the frowning woman who was running the show, Glory Solomon. She was a good cook. But her expression—what did she have to be pissed off about? He’d saved her bacon with his camera. He could not imagine showing his face there again, but that’s where the white oak tree was, the only one like it in the entire state. He’d seen it once before, the summer he was ten.

That summer had been the second year in a row that the oak trees had failed to produce acorns. When squirrels and chipmunks began to raid trash cans and boldly challenge campers at the lake, the Forest Service investigated. That the oak trees might be dying out was one of the explanations. UFOs, pollution, secret government projects, the coming of another ice age … those were the explanations discussed at the Butterfly Creek. The predictions terrorized a ten-year-old boy’s heart, giving him his first taste of insomnia.

“What will the squirrels eat, Grandmother? Where will birds make nests? If there’s no shade, won’t the animals die?”

“Come with me,” Grandmother Penny said. She drove her pickup truck to Solomon’s Oak, chatted with the man who came to the door of the farmhouse, then she and Joseph walked over to the white oak, a tree with one strike against it already. This variety of tree wasn’t supposed to grow here.

“This tree is over two hundred years old,” she said. “Does it look sick to you?” she asked him, bending down to collect a few of the beautiful nine-lobed leaves.

Joseph remembered his heart racing as she placed the sturdy leaf in his fingers. “It could be sick deep inside. With something you can’t see.”

His grandmother held up a leaf so that the sun shone through it. “See those lines, Joseph? Those are the tree’s veins, just like the ones in your body. Blood flows through your veins. Sap flows through the tree’s veins.”

“But what about the missing acorns?”

She smiled and smoothed his hair. “Nature follows its own rules,
nieto
. We can say a prayer for the acorns if that will help you feel better.”

He couldn’t remember if they prayed or not. Probably. Grandmother Penny covered the bases. In case the acorn drought was the death knell, she made sure he saw Solomon’s Oak. Taking a safety pin from her purse, she pinned the biggest oak leaf on his shirt, over his heart, like a forest ranger’s badge. That summer he wore it until the leaf crumbled, leaving only the pin. This year, before driving to California, he read up on oak trees for his photography project. Among the many tree stories, he found this:
Pin an oak leaf next to your heart, and you will be protected from lies and deceit.

If he’d worn the leaf all these years, would it have saved his marriage to Isabel?

When your family stretched across the state from Crownpoint, New Mexico, to Dona Ana County in the southern part of the state, to the green-chile capital, Hatch, you went to weddings every month. A dozen bridesmaids and groomsmen was not unheard of. Formal dress was
necesario.

He thought about their wedding—his and Isabel’s—such a far cry from the pirate wedding he’d been to a few days before. Video, a full mass at Saint Francis Cathedral Basilica in Santa Fe, and tamales were three essentials Isabel insisted upon. She wore a handmade, lacy, white dress with a six-foot train. Joseph wore the tux he owned rather than rented, because every Vigil male owned one. Isabel placed the traditional bouquet of white roses at the feet of Blessed Mother’s statue. In front of 180 guests, maximum seating allowance for the sit-down, formal dinner reception to follow at La Fonda, they spoke their vows twice, first in Spanish, then in English.

A mariachi band led them and all their guests out of the cathedral onto San Francisco Street, playing music as they walked the short block to the hotel for the reception in La Terraza Sala and garden patio. From there they could see the basilica, the Plaza, and the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Isabel’s family was conservative. They served fruit punch instead of champagne. Alcohol was consumed clandestinely, in the restrooms and in the Bell Tower Bar. People stepped out for a bit of fresh air and returned ready to dance for hours with no one the wiser. For sure there were no crazy wooden barrels of grog. There had been no swords, either, though it struck Joseph as the perfect metaphor for his brief marriage.

Isabel could not get pregnant.

The tests showed nothing wrong with either of them. After mass every Sunday she asked the priest to bless her
útero. Nada
. Joseph was
mala suerte
, bad luck, her mother told her. Best to part now, before she grew too old to bear children. Isabel annulled their marriage on the grounds that as a practicing Catholic, Joseph had failed to “establish a community of life and love with another person.”

She married in the same church six months after their official divorce was final and gave birth to twin boys the following year.

Joseph’s cop friends and fellow crime-lab techs set him up with sisters or cousins, but he hadn’t clicked with anyone, and to be fair, he hadn’t really tried. After the shooting, he considered it divine intervention that he was alone at this time of his life because no woman deserved to go through this ordeal with him. Yes, it was a miracle that he could walk, that he was alive, but he was miles away from whole. That was part of why he was spending the winter here instead of in Albuquerque.

Not only was he was on permanent disability, but the lawsuit payout was so ridiculous that Joseph could comfortably live the rest of his life without working, if he chose to. He’d given himself six months to photograph those enormous trees. Maybe those two acorn-free summers had initially piqued his interest in trees, but he was also fascinated by the root systems they sank into the rockiest earth, and the way some could survive earthquakes, fires, and drought years, with so little water.

He organized the pirate-wedding photo thumbnails, culled, and ended up with five halfway decent shots for each segment of the wedding, and dozens of candid shots that captured the spirit of the party. The picture of the cake made him laugh. Vigil wedding cakes were about snowy white layers and silver-frosting bells and pale pink roses. The pirate ship cake had ambition. He pictured Glory Solomon with a library book on pirates in one hand and a spatula full of buttercream in the other, and still wearing that pissed-off look. He laughed again.