Dale Gardner’s stomach is churning. His biggest client, a mining company, is under investigation for polluting the groundwater. His team is appealing and may have to fight it all the way to the Supreme Court. Although he is just a junior member of the team, the dirty work always flows downhill.
Dale tries to relax on the bus home from Manhattan, but it’s stop-and-go traffic amid a downpour, and his seat only reclines three inches. Then John Fogerty’s “Bad Moon Rising” rattles on his phone. It’s Agelina, his wife. They can’t flush the toilets. The sycamore roots have clogged their waste line again.
Finally home, Dale changes into jeans. If he can clear the drain with his snake, they’ll save $300. If not, it’ll be $600 tomorrow – unless he can reach Marty to roto-rooter it tonight. Marty, an unlicensed plumber, works for the town and does a few jobs on the side. Dale hedges his bet on the way to the basement and leaves a message: “Might need you. Call me if you’re around.”
Now on all fours, Dale lifts the access cover in the basement floor and reaches down with an adjustable wrench. At the last turn of the threads, a thick braid of roots and foul water push up. The roots are still growing and visibly moving. The gushing water creates a widening pool on the floor, and the roots quickly follow. Dale attempts to step toward the stairs, but a braided thatch has lashed itself around his ankle and is moving up his leg. He wants to recap the drain but it’s too late. “Angelina, get me a knife. Hurry!”
She rushes down the stairs with a meat cleaver and stops halfway. “What the hell?”
The spouting water is now ankle deep. Roots are crawling in every direction, sprouting a tangle of branches and budding leaves that cover the basement two-feet deep like a forest.
“Give me the damn knife.”
“Should I call Marty?”
Dale’s voice is shrill. “Can’t you see?” He glances at the electrical box…”Call 911!”
Their eight-year-old daughter, Chelsea, who was in her bedroom upstairs, races down to the living room to her mother. “Mom, come quick. The tree outside…A branch broke my window.”
Angelina gives her a hug.
“The branches are coming in, mommy.”
Angelina opens the front door. “Oh my God.” Sheets of rain pelt the front porch. Blue-green street lamps illuminate a tangle of branches that sway and dance, not just above her, but all around as each branch stretches out and touches the ground. Yet it is not just their house that is the problem.
Their street is lined with century-old sycamores, one for each home. At the time, the town planners thought the trees, with their broad palm-like leaves, would add character and help build the neighborhood. When mature, the sycamores would keep homes cool and create breezes so you could sip lemonade on the porch and chat with neighbors.
***
It had been a hectic day for Angelina. She was an office manager for an insurance agency, and her firm was finally at the end of settling claims from the horrendous storm last spring. Just before 5 p.m., a condo near Philadelphia, owned by one of their real-estate developer clients, collapsed. Thirteen people were known to be dead, and at least 49 others were seriously injured. The non-stop news gave her a headache.
Angelina had already called the babysitter that afternoon to let her know she’d be working ‘til 7 p.m. She was planning to go back to Tom Berenson’s place, the firm’s No. 2 producer, for drinks, which was their weekly ritual, on varying days. After three months, she was enchanted and falling deep. Tom, 10 years her senior, carried himself with an air of sophistication and stability. He was smart, single and charming — and quite the performer. She cherished their time together.
She had been unhappy with Dale for nearly two years. He worked late virtually every night, and with his long commute, he returned home after she and Chelsea had finished dinner. He would tell a story to Chelsea and tuck her in bed, but there was little “us time” anymore. Angelina felt herself growing apart a little more each day. Their arguments grew more frequent and intense. With Tom, she felt comfortable and alive from the start. The contrast between how she felt with Tom and her shriveling relationship with Dale soon widened to an abyss.
***
Chelsea had been dreaming about the sycamores for a long time. She could see herself running in the grass holding a string. The sun poked through the leaves speckling her eyes and the blue balloon above her head with flashes of sunlight. The five-pointed leaves were far bigger than her hands. She’d collect them after a storm and save a stack as floppy fans.
When she sold lemonade, she’d give a leaf fan to each customer for free. She knew there was something magical about the sycamore and considered this tree her friend. When the lemonade was gone, she’d hug the tree and thank him because she knew people stopped for the fan as much as the lemonade. She tried to reach around him. Even though he didn’t have arms, she could sense him hugging back.
One day, while Chelsea was sitting on her father’s lap on the porch swing, he told her the sycamore was not just older than her, but older than him and Mom, and even her grandparents. “Old trees are wise,” he said. “Respect them, and you will be blessed.”
***
It is easy to see why the town aldermen of the 1920s selected the stately shade tree to line the neighborhood streets. But now, a hundred years later, the homeowners resent the knobby roots that tilt sidewalks, the peeling bark that splotches trunks with white and gray, and the gangly boughs that start dropping leaves in May. And the leaves never turn colors in Fall, but only desiccate and brown.
***
The sycamore in front of Chelsea’s house, and all those that line her street, thirst for nutrients from the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. They survived despite numerous layers of stone and asphalt, the cement sidewalks, and the fumes and weight of cars. But its roots took hold quickly upon planting and reached deep, and then, after the paving, further outward toward homes.
The trees turn to God all day and pray for all who live under their expansive canopy. That included the many generations of robins and chickadees who nested and nurtured their offspring in her bows, and even the insects who tried to attack her wood, for they also fed the birds. Chelsea Gardner’s tree was wise in ways that no adult could really know. For it was not alone on this street, but connected through roots, soil, air and water, to the other sycamores that had imbibed the secrets of thriving. Yet even more, it had learned through the life-giving spirit that ran through it to connect to young children while their hearts still remained open.
***
As Chelsea stands next to her mother looking out on the storm, she can hear her father’s voice: “Hurry, Angelina! I’m up to my waist!”
Chelsea wonders why the tree would break her window. Was it because her parents were arguing so much lately? Their anger seemed to be getting worse. She knows they both love her, so why can’t they love each other? She just wants them all to be happy like before they moved to this place.
She looks up at her mother’s face and sees fear. Is she crying or is it the rain? She tugs her mother’s wrist until she looks down. “Mommy, mommy! You have to call 911!”
“It’s too late, Chelsea…too late…” Her voice trails off.
“No, mommy. It’s not.” She grabs the phone from her mother’s hand.
Her mother snatches it back and dials 911. After Angelina hangs up, she wonders how long it will take, and if the trucks will make it through the tangle of branches covering the street.
***
Chelsea closes her eyes and remembers the joy the sycamore has given her before this awful night. She holds out her palm to catch a raindrop, but the drop is warm. It is her mother’s teardrop, and it feels sad. She hears far away sirens crying into the night. In her mind, she is silently calling “Help me, Help me” to her tree, and all the sycamores who might hear. She intensifies her call as the sirens draw nearer.
When the first fire truck rounds the bottom of her street, Chelsea opens her eyes. The tangle of sycamore branches that had completely covered the street in both directions a minute ago are now slowly receding. But she looks at the truck: The wheels are spinning on the wet leaves and can proceed no further.
Chelsea tugs her mother’s hand. “Hurry Mom, do something!”
Angelina snaps to attention and grabs a flashlight inside. She rushes to the basement and sails down the stairs. She glances at the waist-deep water. “Oh my God! Dale!”
Dale is feverishly cutting the braid from his legs, still trying to free himself. “Hurry, Angelina, hurry!” She leaps into the water and starts the long struggle across the slippery branches. If she does not reach the electrical box on the far wall in time, they will both be electrocuted. But her thoughts are only of saving her husband. With every surge forward, dark water is splashing in every direction. As she nears the wall, waves are licking at the bottom of the fuse box. She extends her body. With an outstretched hand, she flips open the cover and cuts the power.
Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay
