Seventeen
Craig
Following my injury the accident dream became normal, expected.
It was horrible and I woke up achy, drenched in sweat, but it was always there.
It was a really bad house guest that wouldn’t leave but also got up from the couch.
It was dependably bad. There were days when I dreamed of Rilee that I didn’t want to wake up.
And while each night was the same–the same place, the same crazy cow, the same smiling Rilee–it was different enough that each dream dazzled me, but left a lingering fear that the dream wouldn’t return.
What wasn’t dazzling was Ulrich’s opinion of my drawings. They were as good as anything I’d done earlier in my life, but not what he’d expected. It wasn’t like he’d given me much direction, though. Picking up a load at point A and delivering it to point B was how the world was supposed to work.
“Th’ees is a bonsai, not a tree.” Ulrich tapped at the straight trunked potted trees I’d drawn. They were trees. “I asked for trees not plants in pots.” He continued throwing his consonants at me.
Thudding his finger repeatedly against the fourth drawing, the tree on the cliff, he said, “This is the only useful one. And you draw. This is not a sketch, it is a drawing, with fore, middle and background. And movement in the lines.” I stared at the stationary tip of his index finger wagging as he wagged his hand at me.
This guy did everything in the most backward way.
Stalking over to the pallet he asked, “Where is this tree?”
Momentarily I panicked, wondering if the bush had been sold since Monday but I found it near one of the plants I’d envision as future redwoods. “This one here.” I picked up the one-gallon plant. “This is another one I drew,” I added, keeping a hand on both pots.
Ulrich dismissed me with a wave of his hand, “Just the one. Let me see it.”
Lifting the pot up to eye level he stared into the shape of the bush, rotating back and forth. The movement was exactly like the jeweler from whom I’d purchased Veronica’s diamond engagement ring inspecting a diamond. Searching for flaws, or cut, or, any of those other “C”s I couldn’t recall.
Finally, Ulrich conceded, “Okay. I see this tree. There may be another tree here as well, but I see your tree.” Shoving the pot into my arms he stalked toward the bonsai greenhouse. “Now we free the tree. Come on.”
He’d brought a box full of pots, and after unlocking the greenhouse he slid the box inside. “Bring it,” he motioned. “You discovered the tree, you must free it now. It won’t happen on its own.”
Setting out a roll of wire, a pair of hand pruners, some nipper-like clippers, and a small wooden stick the German gardener motioned me to the bench.
“Remove the tree from the pot and reveal its surface roots. Then clean out the dead growth. It is a tree so prune it like a tree, anything growing inward comes off.” With those instructions he left me at the bench.
I slipped off the mass-produced black ABS plastic pot and used the small dowel to clean off the top soil.
The roots of aged trees bulge up from the soil, hanging on even when the weather has battered their foundations.
Finding the angle I’d liked before I took the pruners and began cleaning out the dead growth.
As a tree grows some of its branches successfully find the light, others don’t.
Those that don’t either wither and die, collecting debris, fallen leaves, animal nests, attracting disease, or they grow into tangles and clog up the middle of the tree, stealing energy from the healthy exterior, and weigh down the healthy branches in an almost cancer-like way.
In both cases cleaning up the interior branches allows the tree to focus on healthy mature growth.
In the case of the juniper, trimming out this old failed growth revealed the shape of the tree.
A few of the major branches were in the way of the wind battered plant so I clipped those away as well, allowing the trunk to show its height and strength.
Then I focused on the downward facing growth.
Leaves were a tree’s life, and it focused them on the sun.
Trees understood that innately, subtly rotating over the course of a day to catch as much light as possible.
It’s only people that get lost in our own gloom, allowing ourselves to be so focused on our tangled interior we can’t get enough sun.
Sweeping everything I’d clipped away into the compost bin I wondered what it would feel like to be trimmed, having the dead and tangled growth snipped off.
Would it hurt? Would I recognize what was happening?
“I see a tree,” Ulrich shouted from behind my ear.
“Now use the wire. This tree requires both shape and structure. It is a daring design. Very pleasing but only achieved with an outside force. You must be the wind it does not have. That requires the wire, or you can blow on it yourself for five years. Your choice.” Then with a fading chuckle he vanished again.
Anchoring the wire into the root ball I shaped the main trunk and then each branch, bending it into place.
Two were not quite supple enough to make it all the way around.
Fearing they would break I used an extra measure of wire and only moved them as far as I dared.
The tree looked a little battered but did not fully resemble the plant I’d seen on that cliff side.
“It is not correct.” Ulrich said, holding my drawing next to my work.
Defending my decision I said, “Too much work all at once will ruin it. It couldn’t handle that much.” Running my finger along one of the branches, I continued, “There is a lot of tension here. Any more and we would lose the limb.”
Grunting Ulrich responded, “Maybe. Sometimes it has to grow into its shape.” Poking at the clump of roots and dirt Ulrich seemed almost satisfied.
Satisfaction was a mood I hadn’t seen from Ulrich before, it was a taste of sunshine.
It couldn’t last. “The tree is root as much as branch. Clean up the roots now before choosing a pot. Just like last time.”
While I shook the soil from the root ball, separated the roots, and gave them a haircut, Ulrich rummaged in the nearby box of pots.
Setting a wide and low edged rectangular pot beside me he began securing a mesh weed cloth in the bottom with the wire.
Then he poured in a measure of soil and waved me away from the tree.
Ulrich ignored the grating sound of the shears in my hand as I clenched them. He’d just carelessly grabbed a pot. This one was smooth glazed in a gray with ripples of black. I’d expected something rougher and rocky. And I wasn’t done trimming.
Interlacing his fingers with the roots Ulrich cradled the plant and settled it into the soil. “Center? Or to the side?” He asked me. The question about the plant’s orientation in the pot snapped me out of my funk.
“Side,” I said instinctively, “And turned the other way.” Balance required the tree to lean and spread out over the pot, the bare side of the trunk facing the open expanse of the cliff.
“Just so,” Ulrich agreed. Threading wire up from the bottom of the pot he secured the plant to the pot.
“In nature its roots would curl into the earth, but here we are nature, so we must secure the tree because the tree cannot on its own.” He tucked the wires out of sight and then filled the rest of the pot with soil.
Across the top he laid a thin covering of moist moss and rough stones.
It wasn’t perfect, but the juniper was no longer a bush.
The shape of unfelt wind worked on its branches, directing the path of its growth.
The mossy ground cover hinted at a wet hillside.
Looking from the tree to the drawing, I saw the pot.
The color and shape of the glaze were the steel gray waves of the ocean.
“I think that will do,” Ulrich said, arms crossed.
“It needs time, and adjustment in late spring. This one should stay in the greenhouse. It is not ready to be displayed.” Ulrich tidied up the work station before setting the juniper on the back shelf with the bare branched deciduous bonsai that hadn’t begun to bud this year.
Handing me back all of my drawings he said, “It is a good tree. I’ll see you next week.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned to another juniper and began humming as he set to work. Ulrich’s change of focus was so abrupt it felt like I’d been stung in the face by a branch.
“Okay,” I murmured. I had somewhere else to be anyway. And now I had time to clean the dirt from under my nails before I went to Jackie’s game.
The squeak of shoes on the court was the groan we couldn’t utter.
As exciting and captivating as Jackie’s last two games, this one was pensive.
The other team was good, really good. They were undefeated for a reason.
It was the last home game for the year and after the nail‐biting victories from the last two the bleachers were packed.
It was a bit ridiculous for a JV game. Students and parents crowded in, even the pep band had a place.
Darren and Lukas both came and we all sat down near the front because we didn’t expect such a crowd.
It was a valiant effort, and while not entirely one sided the Wolfpack couldn’t keep up.
Even the misdirection plays weren’t enough.
We scored points but not consistently. The other team was just a touch faster, had a bit more reach, and were a bit more polished.
It looked like our JV was playing their Varsity.
Jackie and her teammates played hard, they left nothing on the bench but it wasn’t enough.
The team fought hard for rebounds, made fast cuts, weaving passes, and took challenging layups, but just couldn’t approach the other team’s lead.
What the game had was class. The fouls from both sides were tactical and the other team wasn’t taking it easy, they were playing hard too, but cleanly. The clashing intensity of the contest, coupled with the grace each team exhibited, was a work of art.
“We are going to lose,” Kathy observed as we lost a rebound.
“I’ve lost a lot,” I murmured watching both teams set up, “and this is something else. Loss without pain, or a loss without guilt. I don’t know.”
“It’s so frustrating,” Kathy grunted. “I want to be angry, yell about a bad call or a cheap shot, or even an error our team makes. But none of it is there and we are still losing.”
Lukas clapped nervously, “It’s just a good game. Can’t win them all.”
One of our girls made a cut and her sneakers squealed, sending a shiver through my spine. I shivered again when I recognized the pitch, a sharp cutting ‘tink.’ The same sound as snapping chain-link. My entire body ached.
“I’ve got to walk around,” I said. “I’ll be back.”
A bit wobbly due to some numbness in my toes, I limped out of the gym to the school hallway. Near the door a white-haired black man in coveralls leaned against the wall.
“Getting old’s a bitch isn’t it,” he smiled with a soft grimace.
“It eats you up if you don’t watch out,” I agreed, though at thirty-four I’m not old. I just move like I’m ninety.
“I’d like to think that they can still pull out a win, but I’m not so sure,” the old man said, arms crossed.
Pacing a bit to get the blood moving again I nodded. “They’re just getting out played. My niece tries her best but her passes keep getting picked.”
“Your niece, huh. Which one is she?”
Pointing to the half court line I spotted Jackie, “The guard with the curly hair, there.”
“Oh, Jackie Mace, she is a real spitfire. I heard she missed varsity by one slot.”
That was more detail than I’d heard before. I’m sure that Kathy would have said something, and if Jackie had known Kathy would know. “She’ll probably make it next year,” I said before sticking my hand out. “Craig Green.”
“Roger Lambert. I’m on staff here. Twenty-three years. I think I saw you Saturday, at the CPR training.”
Now that he mentioned it, he did look familiar, though I couldn’t identify him in particular. The way he slid the comment in made me uneasy. “Yea I was there,” I admitted.
Watching the game Roger Lambert nodded slightly while still leaning against the gym wall. “I suppose that’s how you know Coach Horner. Through Jackie I mean, since you don’t work here and that was a school district class.”
I could say we were dating, but we weren’t.
I could say I met Rilee somewhere else, just full-on lie.
It would be even easier to just agree, and claim Jackie introduced us, but that would be an even more complicated lie, because Jackie had no idea Rilee and I knew each other.
Or I could say the truth and admit to a total stranger that I was a gimp.
The whole truth was more complicated than believable.
“I’m in voc rehab and got sent to fill an empty seat.
I needed the class to apply for a job and I recognized Coach Rilee from Jackie’s games. ”
Mr. Lambert turned to look at me. And looked at me, up and down.
“We’ll I’m glad you passed then Craig. It’s a hard thing being out of work.
I got hit by a truck in the service and tore up my knee some.
The disability rating helped me land this gig when I got out.
Probably the best thing that ever happened to me,” he snorted in a momentary laugh.
“Though it took me a decade to figure that out.”
A buzzer sounded the end of the game and Mr. Lambert pushed off the wall. “Well time to get to work. Nice talking with you Craig. Good luck, she can be a tough nut to crack.”
We lost. Darren chattered away while we accompanied Jackie out to the car. “You played well,” I told her.
“Nothing we did worked,” Jackie groaned.
Thinking of Mr. Lambert I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not enough. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. You played well.”
“Thanks,” Jackied sighed into her disappointment.
As Darren and Cami noisily poked at each other in the third row behind me, I replayed the night.
There had to be something that would have turned the game around, something I could point out to Jackie who sat slumped quietly beside me.
Replaying everything, my fingers grew numb thinking about Mr. Lambert.
Had he meant my job search was a hard nut to crack, or had he meant some other she?
Looking over at my niece ending her season on a down note, a cold realization settled in my bones.
Who was I kidding, Mr. Lambert meant Rilee.