<<Can you hear me? Over.>>
<<Awesome! Over.>>
<<Cool! I hear you too! Over.>>
<<The arborist just got here. Over.>>
<<I’ll be right there. Over and out.>>
The “lovers’ phone” works! I made it with two tin cans and some fishing line. Now, that’s technology! I hammered a hole through the bottom of each can, poked the line through and knotted it. If we hold the line taut and it doesn’t touch anything, the vibrations of our voices travel down the string. They enter the can on the other end and swirl into our ears. When I want to talk, I just yank on the string. Olive hears her end clang against her windowsill and “answers” her tin.
Making stuff helps me relax. I mend the broken, rescue the forgotten and invent what’s needed. I’ve turned T-shirts into pillows, stitched juice Tetra Paks into wallets, and made a self-watering plant pot from a pop bottle. It’s called DIY— Do It Yourself.
Imogen, the arborist, leaps down from her battered pickup truck. She is wearing faded jeans and work boots. I guess she’s in her twenties. Her long reddish hair looks alive. Her T-shirt proclaims God is just an abbreviation for Goddess.
Imogen goes straight to our tree and climbs it with ease. Olive, the boys and I perch along the top of the fence and watch her poke at the bark and cut off a few twigs.
“You guys are sure glum,” she says after a while.
“I’ve been climbing that tree since before I could walk,” Silas says. “I even talk to it.”
“Me too,” Leland admits. “I lie on the ground and look up through its branches at the sky.”
“Trees make great friends,” Imogen says. “They’re wise.”
“They’re not just quiet,” Leland says. “They know how to be quiet.”
“Yeah.” Imogen stops for a moment. “Imagine how loud the world would be if there were no trees.”
“Mom says it was part of an orchard, like, a century ago,” I say.
“That’s for sure,” Imogen says. “If you climb high up and look into your neighbors’ yards, you’ll see other trees from the orchard.”
“Can we really still climb it?” Silas asks.
“Just don’t go under the tree house. And avoid this area.” Imogen points to a split in the trunk. “You should be all right if you climb that side. But your tree is likely infected with Armillaria, or honey fungus. It’s a root disease that spreads to other trees. I’m sorry, kids, but it looks as though your friend will have to come down.”
My throat burns. Silas looks to the sky, trying to keep his tears from falling. They trickle toward his ears. Olive knits her eyebrows as if she can think herself out of this situation. And Leland? He slides down from the fence and stretches his arms around our tree’s rough trunk. “It’s okay,” we hear him whisper. “It will be all right.”
After Imogen leaves, Olive and I step branch to branch, climbing up, up, up. When we get as high as we can, we look across the neighborhood.
“There!” Olive cries out, pointing. Sure enough, there’s an apple tree in the backyard of the house two doors down. “There too!” she says excitedly. We see tree after tree. The neighborhood unfolds before us. The trees may be separated by fences, but they’re in a pattern.
“Wow,” Olive breathes. “We live in an orchard!”
It is amazing. All these years, these trees have been quietly growing apples and sleeping through winter. They are uncomplaining and patient—like Richard.