But only God can make a tree

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. I was scraping my toast over the sink when I heard the thunderclap, swearing as I fumbled it into the piled up dirty dishes. I rushed outside imagining that something terrible had happened to the house. Instead, I found myself standing there on the back porch, dumbfounded. Flames had settled on the branches of our Beech tree like a flock of brightly colored birds. If my eyes refused to believe, the warm, husky smell of charred wood assured me it was real.

“God, mom, what happened?”

I turned to see Melanie – that girl of mine – stood in the back doorway in a sweater and pajama bottoms.

“A lightning strike,” I said, embarrassed that I had not been able to somehow prevent it.

Melanie leaned out the back door and looked up into the brisk September morning sky. Nothing but a feathering of Cirrus clouds.

“How is that even possible mom?”

I didn’t respond because I knew where that conversation was going to go.

“Are we just going to stand here and watch our tree burn?”

She was right. Aside from the tree itself, I could see the flickering embers floating off the branches, tripping over in the air. If a breeze picked up they could be carried towards the house or, worse, over into the Martinez’s.

For a moment I had that awful feeling when I realize I’m proving useless in front of my daughter. But, spotting the garden hose on its rusty hook, I saw my solution. The rubber was grimy from years of neglect, but it seemed serviceable.

“Turn on the tap,” I ordered Melanie as I approached the tree, beginning to feel a little of the warmth coming off.

“It’s stuck. I can’t undo it,” she called back.

“It just hasn’t been used in a while”

“It hurts my hand.”

Cursing, I dropped the hose and ran back to open the tap myself. My hands are strong, stronger certainly than Melanie’s. Not that you’d imagine it unless I told you all the kinds of jobs I’ve done. There haven’t been any other hands around to do the things that sometimes need doing. So if it needs doing, these are the hands that are going to have to do it.

I tried, but that tap felt like a solid piece of metal protruding from the back end of our house. After several attempts I had to let go, and collapsed back into the dusty remains of what had once been a flowerbed.

“Face it mom. This house is cursed,” said Melanie. “Take the hint. Milk curdles the moment you bring it in the supermarket. The boiler breaks down every winter. The pipes wake me up the night before exams. Half of our mail vanishes. And I bet we have dry rot.” I’d heard it all before. But this was unusually apposite circumstances for it.

Picking myself up, and went back into the kitchen. Were I an organized person, I would have had full confidence that I’d find what I needed. Instead I was just lucky. It took all my reserves of self control not to wave the wrench in her face when I emerged back out into the yard – look, we are not completely forsaken.

“Owning this house is the only reason we can still survive in this town,” I told her. “And I don’t know what my father would say if he learned we’d abandoned it.”

I carefully fitted the stubby little tap handle into the jaws of the wrench. This time, as I applied my full weight against the handle, I had the satisfaction of feeling the tap give way, choking, gurgling, and then the sound of water spewing forth. The hose began to twitch.

Rushing back I found a growing patch of wet mud at the other end of the hose.

“Mom, this hose has a leak,” Melanie called after me

There was no nozzle but I was able to squeeze the end to produce a fine jet that I could direct high into the branches. It was all over in seconds and for a moment I almost regretted it. At least there had been something incredible in seeing the branches aflame. Now it looked sad. Melanie shut off the tap when I was done.

We both sat there, staring at our stricken tree. It had been a wonderful tree. While the flowers had died long ago, the grass reduced to patchy tufts, and the patio was the domain of a persistent ant colony, that tree had remained, commanding our devotion. That it should have been smitten down like this suggested something dark about the cosmic order. Neither of us said anything for a while. Until Alvin stepped outside.

As I turned I saw him how I Melanie must be seeing him; a short, barrel chested man with thinning hair. I could only hope that she would recognize his soft, disarming demeanor. He loped out past us, off the patio and onto the grass, barefoot, in just his jeans and a plaid shirt. Mercifully, he had taken the time to do up at least two of his shirt buttons.

“Good morning,” said Melanie, accusingly.

Alvin turned around, looked Melanie in the eye with a coy, sideways smile. “You must be Melanie then.”

It seems like a low bar to clear, to remember my daughter’s name. But, when he said it, I was reminded of every other reason I’d convinced myself that he might succeed where so many others had fallen short.

“Yeah,” said Melanie “so who are you?”

“I’m Alvin, and I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said, turning back to the tree. “Looks like you had some real excitement back here.”

“Did you hear the thunderclap?”

“I guess that must have been what woke me up.”

“Well, maybe you’ll make up for us having lost our tree,” said Melanie.

Alvin approached and laid a hand on the trunk.

“This tree ain’t a goner yet,” he said. “Look. The strike didn’t split the trunk. It just ran down the side.” He was right. I could see the charred rivulet in the bark.

“You some kind of tree expert then?” said Melanie.

“I used to help out doing tree surgery. We probably need to prune back some of the burned branches, and put a paste on the wound...” he trailed off in thought.

“The tree is going to be OK?” I heard in Melanie’s voice the kind of sincerity you couldn’t drag out of her if you tried. For a moment she seemed to realize that the curse on this place – that rendered futile everything I tried to do for her, me, us – might be lifted.

Alvin patted the trunk.

“Oh, I think we’ll survive.”