2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) (2 page)

between the getting-harder walls.

Boys and girls have nothing

thoughts between them all the

time. You know. Just like us.

And there is slippery understanding

there, in the Between, and the Around, and
the

Just-where-you-can’t-quite-reach place.

And then I begin to know a you having

nothing to do with me. A you so

resolute and confined. A you still
opening

in tolerable nacre carrels, which harbor

your broad Everything.

No such skin for any of it. Spirals; or

words falling short from the way

it all could be. And then that's

good enough for a while.

I'm washing the dishes and

listening to a bit

of the evening

news on a Tuesday, I think.

PAY GRADE

I found a sealed manila
envelope addressed to SPC Nathalie Jones. SPC is an army rank that
means
specialist
.
I’ve never understood it. But there it is in the chain of command
between all the sorts of privates and sergeants. I opened the
envelope and found three pieces of paper. The first was a letter of
apology from the personnel section of my unit. Apparently I had
been awarded, but there was no time to acknowledge me personally.
So I was getting my award in the mail.

The second piece of paper was a bit thicker
and was embossed with the bright words, "Department of the Army
Certificate of Achievement." This decoration, although flattering,
had very much the same appearance as the ones that are given to
third graders after spelling bees or to the bad swimmers after a
year of unsuccessful but dutiful competition.

The last piece of paper, dated 4 October
1998, was the most interesting. It was a thin piece of vellum with
boxes, lines, numbers, and important people's signatures. This, DA
form 638, Nov 94, was the proof of my award intended for addition
to my permanent record. Most of it is bureaucratic nonsense so I
will spare you. But the last part is interesting. And if you don't
mind my bragging a bit I will recount what my superiors have
written in their recommendation for my award:

Part III -- Justification and Citation
Data (Use specific bullet examples of meritorious acts or
service)

Achievement #1

Soldier's knowledge and experience helped
maintain the high state of readiness during Operation Scout, even
against incredible odds for a potentially "Unsuccessful
Mission."

Achievement #2

Soldier's professionalism and sterling
personal example set the pace for the entire operation as
demonstrated during an unfortunate accident involving an M939,
5-ton truck rollover.

Achievement #3

The mission could easily have been scrubbed
if not for soldier's tireless efforts and dedication.

Achievement #4

Soldier received on-site verbal
communication by the 88th Regional Support Group BG [brigadier
general] Bauerle, for the most outstanding static display out of
nine displays.

Proposed Citation

For dedication during Operation Scout. Her
actions demonstrated high morale and characteristic courage to
drive on against incredible odds. Her devotion to duty is in the
finest tradition of the military and reflects great credit upon
her, this unit and the United States Army Reserves.

The commander did downgrade the
recommendation from the Army Accommodation Medal to a Certificate
of Achievement in spite of the whole brigadier general thing, but I
feel as though I have been recognized. The military has a long
tradition of glorifying those individuals who come nearest to
death, and I was plenty close enough. Still, it seems odd that I
have been honored for being in a vehicular accident and then going
back to work, which that day meant showing up at a recruiting tent
for the Boy Scout Jamboree. None of this is logical to me. Of
course I went back to work. I had nowhere else to go. But
regardless this award has given me much pride.

It certainly does make up for the fact that
they never did figure out the paperwork to reimburse me for the
medical bills. It was unnecessary but precautionary medical
treatment involving being picked up by a gorgeous beefy-armed
fireman, a ride through two counties in an ambulance, one
four-by-four-inch piece of gauze, a small packet of Betadine, and a
few good hours of eavesdropping on the guy next door who had fallen
out of his wheelchair during the Indy marathon and kept screaming
for his plastic surgeon.

GIVE HER WHAT SHE
WANTS

Foot Foot Foot Foot Foot Foot

Footfootfootfootfootfootfeotfeetfeetfeetfeetfe

"I want an emerald," she said. And he began
to run, the miner not the thief. Bare feet chasing the forest floor
and his blood running after him. One fist with his livelihood, the
other to protect his life. Feet of running and roving through
density, green and soft-soiled.

And here he is with a knife against my
throat and the blood comes dark red. It's too hot for this. The
insects are here already, swarming me. I'm covered in slag from the
mine and my feet are cut scars from the sharp chips of rock. He
stands above me, heaving. He's too fat to run so fast. Too fat to
mine himself. Not like me. I'm tiny and quick. But tired and
hungry. And sick of running.

I cannot swallow the blood at my throat. I
look up past him to the canopy of trees and wonder if there really
is a sun.

The worn leather bag falls easily from my
fatigue. And he snatches up its contents. Fourteen this time. Not
as many as I've had before. But plenty more than usual.

He knew it. He knew I did well in the mines
last night or he would have chased someone else.

I cannot breathe through the blood at my
throat and turn over to let it drain onto the forest floor.

And he leans over to watch me die. Maybe he
feels bad. But this isn't personal. This is business.

The business of adorning pretty, stupid
girls with their Walgreens hair and their thick asses and the
lines, with emeralds.

Emeralds are a dangerous business. I knew
that.

But, even though she is so very far away in
her southwest suburban household, I heard her, pouting, say to him
at Christmas, "I want an emerald." And so someone had to get it for
her.

breathbreathbreathbreath breath breath

breath breathbreath brea th

THE MOBILE

I woke up with the world folded in half and
wondered what to do. This could not have happened at a more
inopportune point in time. It was on that day that I was to receive
a visit from an extraordinary friend of mine. She lives in New
Zealand. I have been in love with her for quite some time now, I
suppose. Embarrassing as it is, I am quite attracted to the fact
that she spends the greater portion of her day with sheep.

I have not been able to
fully comprehend what it is that she does. She is something of a
mystery. It seems her work is half shepherd, half art. Well now, I
suppose the term
art
might be going a bit overboard, but just saying that she makes
things from fleece is an understatement. The last time she was here
she brought me a sphere of the stuff. It was rather hefty and upon
first receipt of it I could not in any way discern what it could
mean.

She was rather offended,
pointing out the striking—no, I believe she used the word
vivid
; yes, she
said
vivid
because
I remember thinking it stupid or maybe native to New Zealand to
say
vivid resemblance
where I most certainly would have employed the very
familiar
striking
resemblance
.

Now what was it I was saying?

Oh, yes. She was rather offended when I did
not immediately see the object for what it was: a model of the
moon. But okay, once she had indicated this I was rather amazed to
find it so accurate. Somehow she had taken the wool of sheep and
created the moon complete with darker fleece for the dark side and
the Sea of Tranquility. I suppose it was then I knew I was in
love.

But of course she had to return to New
Zealand almost immediately. Her art, in particular her beautiful
herd of sheep, could not survive outside New Zealand. She returned,
promising only that she would think of me often—never enough, you
know—and making me promise the moon's security.

Six months after, I received a sizable
package and noticed her address on the return label. For two weeks
the box sat under my Christmas tree (I always put up a Christmas
tree) even though it was well into January before that box ever
came. Before tending to my own affairs in the morning I would sit
there in that chair for a few minutes contemplating the box and its
contents. It made the winter seem to melt away from this Michigan
extremity.

I do not mind my job. I
have my own small shop. You may have seen it across from the
medical/dental pavilion with that rather slipshod awning. No, not
that one. Two doors down. I suppose you might miss it what with the
door somewhat recessed, but there it is. Yes, you're right. The one
with
Danny's
painted on the glass. So I do not mind my job. But it is
sometimes very hard to convince myself that the doors of my tiny
market will ever open against the snow.

So I rather cherished those mornings,
sitting with a cup of tea staring at the box. There was no doubt
that a work of art was enclosed, and even more absolute perhaps was
the fact that it contained wool. Hundreds of options ran through my
head. I thought it might be a three-dimensional map of her town or
my street or of any of the places we have visited together. And it
could have been a figure from the ballet. She has an affection for
ballet. She decorates her home (I have never visited but there is
no reason to doubt her) with trinkets from the ballet.

She says her father had a habit of keeping
her close to home. Of course there was the farm and the sheep, but
as a child she saw him as a tyrant for never letting her take
ballet.

In the end my curiosity conquered my
imagination, and I opened the box. It seemed to be filled with
beautiful ornamental balls for the tree. I was disappointed that I
had not opened it immediately since two days before I had decided
to take the tree down for fear of fire. Now here was this box
filled with ornaments that would have to wait another year. Such an
aggravation.

But as I began to pull one of the most
beautiful orbs I found there was great resistance and that the rest
of the balls were trying desperately to follow the lead of the
first.

There were silver wires connecting each in a
variety of ways one to another or another to the rest. As I worked
to untangle the imposing mass, I tried not to wish for the other
things I had imagined she had sent me. But there was little hope
that I would find pleasure in such an array of yuletide finery. I
felt rather ashamed of my ingratitude. It haunted me that I had
given up, labeling the box, "Xmas from Mary J." And just storing it
with the others in my cellar.

Two or three weeks later Mary called me. I
could hear the sun in her voice. I thought of the summer there and
her sheep grazing on verdant hills. Our conversation encompassed
several things but she had obviously called in reference to the
gift and I was agitated as to how I could express my feelings
without offending hers.

After a pause which was most likely very
expensive from her side of the world to mine, she said, “Well,
Danny? What did you think of your model?"

Since I was six virtually everyone I had
ever known called me Daniel. In fact I remember no terms of
endearment at all. Sometimes my mother would call me Daniel
Gustavo, but I believe this was only to hear together the two names
she had chosen for me. She seemed to need to reassure herself that
the unlikely combination of my first and middle names had not after
all been a mistake.

But Mary called me Danny. She has always
called me Danny. And she still does.

Without thinking or planning my next
sentence I heard my reply, "My what?"

"You didn't get my gift? And here I was so
angry with you for not thanking me. You didn't even get it. Mail is
so awkward at Christmas. I do hope it is not entirely lost. I
worked on it for almost a year. And I thought of it ages before
that."

Although it would have been rather simple at
that point to avoid telling her what I actually thought of the gift
I could not in good conscience do so. "No, Mary. I received it some
time ago. I kept it wrapped up for a period of weeks having some
fun in a guessing game. But it seems even with it open I have
guessed wrong. I had presumed you sent me a box of ornaments for my
tree."

Her laughter sounded more like a bleating
sheep than I had remembered. Maybe it was my momentary avarice.
"Not tree ornaments, love. That's the sky. Didn't you read the
card?"

I had not.

I carried the phone into the basement and
opened the box for a second, more informed inspection. She was
extraordinary. Mercury, Pluto, Jupiter, Mars. How could I have
mistaken Saturn's rings for an abstractly-rendered halo?

She must have guessed I had tangled them
terribly. "If you pull up gently on the sun the others will, or at
least they should, just drop into place."

I did this and held up a glorious mobile. So
many moons, and I had to ask how long it had taken her to string
the seemingly thousands of fuzzy bits depicting the asteroid belt.
I could not hide my incredulity and I believe it quite flattered
her. She hesitated at first, saying that I must think it awful
since I had not even recognized Earth. But after hearing my praise
she shared with me several very interesting pieces of trivia which
she had become aware of while researching the solar system and
which facts were all apparently represented in her masterpiece.