Juliet Was a Surprise (6 page)

What other explanation was there? Cake wasn't smart enough to be that good an actor; neither was Danny. And something in their boredom seemed to prove it all. So I'd just seen a guy use a wild power. One he maybe couldn't quite control. He just wasn't smart enough to do something bigger with it. To get a girl to see him as sexy. To make the world see things his way.

Danny didn't want his rum, so I kept drinking it, suffering the shudders that bring your shoulders to your ears. Though I didn't have it in words yet, I had learned a third unexplainable thing, which is that even if what we call magic is all around us, we'll never be able to prove it.

There they were, sitting in firelight, these two friends. Danny, twitching and distracted again already. Cake, pudgy, stupid and unreadable. But I saw now that—not even counting what Cake could do—these two were as rare as anyone. They were brave enough to steal cars and chickens, a route of wisdom I didn't have, and still don't. They took on sunsets.

Cake was mad because I kept staring. At one point my hair stood on end because of a sudden fancy—those weren't two cops at all. I'd been made to see cops. But I decided that was stupid—why make me see cops? Then, when I next looked at Cake, I saw a sort of bear-face instead of Cake, and at that point I just tried to forget the whole thing. And anyway it was time to eat the chicken.

We passed it around, all charred feathers and skin and the burned-off nubs of feet and head. Passing it, we got black
to the wrists with greasy char. These two guys in their red SuperSlice shirts. I learned by watching them eat, and when my turn came I pulled at the black until some flesh followed, pieces of chicken that I recognized as parts of breast or thigh. Turning the hunk to my face, I used teeth and tongue to pull away pieces of perfectly delicious meat.

Cake watched me. “
Chick
en chicken,” he said, smiling wisely, cheeks greasy black, eyes reflecting the idiot fire.

Any Forest Seen from Orbit

I
have been asked to “explain things.” Can I say simply that I'm an animal, with urges? It's the only explanation, truly.

I didn't plan anything. I didn't intend a massacre, as it were. But—as they say—when weapons exist, they will be et cetera. This time, a chainsaw. I'm glad more people weren't hurt.

Yes, her name was Juliet, hard as that is to believe. Though not overly pretty, she was as sexy as sexy gets, in my opinion, and I suggest in her opinion too, which of course added to the allure. There's something about a woman aware of her own pheromones—it's not unlike a queen watching you as she bathes in milk.

It wasn't her beauty but more her imperfections I found carnal—her smallish eyes hungry and her slightly bucking teeth pushing her lips a little apart, keeping everything
ready
, as it were. She seemed always on the green verge of ripeness. Her humour seemed part of it too, though I can't even begin to “explain” that. But what can we make of a sexy woman who meets an average-looking man standing filthy at her door with a shovel and, wide-eyed, singsongs, “And who have we here?”

Let me declare again how average I look. In the mixed
vegetation of humanity, I am a blade of grass in a scrubby field. In the war of looks—it's very much a war and you know it—I understand that I am fodder. It's hard to lose count of certain things, and I'll explain that exactly three times in my life I've been called a “twerp.” So I suppose I resemble a “twerp.” I'm small, my build is soft. My face deserves some sculpting and a thinner nose. Plus, I've come to realize there's fear in my eyes and I always glance away. But my looks are no excuse for how this went with Juliet. Nor will I use as an excuse the very basic fact that I have not had any other chances in life to plant my humble seed—I'll just hand you that earthy nugget on its twerpy platter, and leave it.

All I really need to say is: Juliet was a surprise.

There I stood at her door, with my shovel. Seeing her, I became aware of my jeans swollen with mud and grass clippings, my aroma of dog waste and chlorophyll. For protection I wore my work glasses, the big old aviator style, which these days possibly look demented. Good God, and they're tinted yellow. Nonetheless, after singing at me, Juliet held my eye,

fiercely, as she called upstairs, “Troy, the man's here.”

He got the singsong too. I was instantly jealous.

THE REAL EXPLANATION?
The roots of a beautiful seventy-foot deodara cedar grew for more than half a century until they breached the sewer line of the Prudhommes' house. The tree was there first, but it rarely has rights in these things.

I was excited by their call because they'd responded to
the “arborist” side of the ad I leave thumbtacked on message boards throughout the city, not the “lawn and garden care” side. Mostly, yes, I cut grass and rake leaves. Almost exclusively, in fact. Yardwork is fine; there is mulching to consider, and the tines of one's rake need thought. But it is to trees that I apply my art, and vision.

Because, a tree. In the presence of an unfamiliar, beautiful tree—and they are all beautiful—for some moments I am unable to speak while I make my examination. I know that what I do might look like fondling, but I need to hold and to stroke, to feel most of all the bark against my cheek and, yes, my throat. Texture is how a tree communicates! I know some find me odd, I know it costs me work. Anyway. That day, answering the Prudhommes' call, I was excited that they lived not in a wealthy part of town but on a street of modest bungalows. Rich people use arborists all the time, if only to be able to say, at the club, “My arborist says,” just like their caterer or their pool-boy says. So I was heartened that regular people had called an arborist. Perhaps it signalled a trend.

I was shown the problem tree. Juliet stood by while I circumambulated her deodara, then went in for my initial brush with fingertips, and inner wrists. Deo was abrasive but patient. I stepped back, I gazed up. Her trunk bent four times on its journey skyward, each time with the jauntiness of a cocked hip. This cedar expressed her female essence not unlike a geisha in traditional pose: hips tilted one way, head tilted another; face down, demure; arms at dramatic angles, holding fans. Exactly that, but with twelve arms and coniferous fans. A tree confident but quiet about her beauty.

Watching me, Juliet joked, “Now I know what a treehugger is.”

I couldn't look at her. “The plumber, he's sure it's this—? That damaged the—?”

“They stuck a camera down the toilet. It's too bad. It's my favourite tree.”

I took another step back, another gaze up. To me all trees are equal, but this tree's gestures were on the obvious side and I could see why someone might favour it. A breeze came up, and Deo looked pleased with her many small movements.

“Shame it has to come down,” said Juliet.

“Down?”
My hand, I saw, had grabbed a low branch. I regained composure, cleared my throat. I explained to her my plans, then I picked up my shovel.

WHEN JULIET TOLD ME
her husband taught English at a community college I was surprised. Troy Prudhomme had a habit of punchy speaking, not unPalinesque. He eventually did come outside and, watching me dig the hole, reached in to remove a loose stone that kept getting in the way of my shovel.

“Well lemme just grab that
outt
a there for ya.”

When I got near the choked and broken sewer line, as evidenced by a rising tang, he laughed and said, “Hey! Welcome to our shit!”

Prudhomme seemed wary of proper speech, and I wondered what he was afraid of. Perhaps being accused of liking poetry. He was de rigueur four days unshaven. The arms protruding from his T-shirt were thicker than needed to teach college English.

As I dug to Deo's rampaging roots, Troy answered his cell and with a friend discussed plans for the evening: “Well, we snag some beers and watch the 'Nucks lose. You pick the place.”

Hearing those words, Juliet, fanless but hip-cocked, caught my eye and nodded frantically, minutely. Her eyes had a soulmate's shine and depth as they yelled to me,
Tonight! At last! At last!
I'd been there all of twenty minutes. Less than that. I hadn't said a word to her. I am an average-looking man. Not even. Can I be blamed for anything?

In any case, I'd made a big hole. I'd reached the spot where root met pipe.

“Here we are,” I said softly, stepping back.

Troy inclined his head as if to peer over a rim but kept talking into his phone about the 'Nucks and which players might play. He glanced at me, appeared to recall why I was there and turned to go inside. Juliet followed but spun round at the door and mouthed, ferociously,
“Ten after seven.”

And then, good God, she
pointed
. Not at me. Not at the ground beneath her feet. No, she pointed at her
self.
Below the belt. She pointed at the prize, while announcing the time it could be claimed. I'd never seen a human do that. I understand now that it is something an animal might do, if it had fingers, and could tell time.

To explain: my Juliet was pure.

I'VE BEEN IN DEEP FOREST
and returned to the same spot after the trees were clear-cut. There is something, one thing, good about a clear-cut. It's there in the word. When all the trees are
down, suddenly there is clarity. Sky. I don't know why a sudden sky is a good thing; why a revelation of distance, of clear space, is better than the dark complexity of a forest. Standing in a clear-cut is sad but it also feels like
relief
of a sort. Maybe it's because a natural riot of plants is so difficult. It's all branches and tendrils and thirst and an urge that can and will break through concrete. Who can walk a wild forest and not feel the threat of an unfathomable presence that parades as stillness? Plus, plants ultimately don't care about us. In the end, basic rock and sky is simpler to deal with, if we need to get spiritual about this, which I think we do.

The point I'm trying to make is, what we automatically think of as bad—for instance, a clear-cut—might actually be good.

I suffered such thoughts when I got home and stood under the shower. To put it plainly, I'd never been bad. Never. Not in that way. Of course I'd harboured the fantasies of any man whose job takes him from house to house, some of which, even in these times, contain lonely women. But I'd never taken advantage. To tell the truth, I'd never had the chance.

Was it wrong to have the chance? If I were to visit Juliet at
ten after seven
, was it any more evil than a tree letting a breeze take its pollen? Were wild oats
sin
ful?

Let me come out with it: I might, technically, have been a virgin. (Oh, I know it's a comic cliché, the older virgin, but there are more of us than you might think. In this war of appearance, many never do prevail.) Of my sparse adolescent fumblings, one involved alcohol and a cousin and seed was spilled, but I'm not sure exactly where or if it counted. If Anyone's counting,
that is. And if no One's counting, can there be sin? It was a long and fundamental shower I was taking.

Juliet was beautiful beyond my dreams for myself, and such women are
naturally
out of bounds. I had decided not to go, yet I found myself showering purposefully, double-soaping crevices. I shaved a suspicious second time that day, then found myself eyeing my modest row of clean shirts, all tending to shades of brown.

I pitied my face in the mirror. More than once I've been called a hobbit, the attitude of the speaker being that I shouldn't be insulted by it. This was maybe my only chance. Can it even be right to never do wrong? Can light exist without dark?

It was time for my root to break pipe, as it were.

AT A QUARTER PAST SEVEN
I strode up the drive, taking note of the missing Troy-car. I feigned confidence by pretending to be here not for Juliet but for the offending deodara cedar. I positioned myself over the hole and, breathing shallowly, because it did smell of sewage, gazed in for a meditation on roots. There they were, exposed in all their bulbous, knuckled glory. In two places, root fist had crushed ceramic neck of sewer line, during a fight utterly dark and slow. A bigger root moved under the pipe, missing it. It could stay. But these two would have to go. The tree would be injured. Half of Deo might yellow and die, but she could be trimmed, shaped. I had told the Prudhommes my plan. A half tree can be lovely. One can mould its weakness not unlike a bonsai. Giant art. Hunchbacked, leaning, it would still be beautiful. How could it not?

I stood at the hole. The door opened and didn't close, and Juliet came up quietly.

“Troy,” she said, shyly pressing a shoulder into mine, “wants it taken down.”

“He wants it taken down,” I repeated, to make sure I'd heard right.

Here in this rainy, verdant city, the popular way with any problem was the chainsaw. No one wanted the care involved in nursing a tree back to health. Cut it down, dig out the hole, stick an expensive foreign sapling in.

“I'll—I'll do all the follow-up. The shaping. For free. Everything.”

“He wants it gone. He already phoned somebody. He didn't like you.”

“That's—nothing but a shame,” I said, meaning it, forgetting for a moment why I was here. “What do
you
think?”

“I think we should go inside. I mean, it smells
great
and everything, but …”

I find not unsexy those women who own up to their own dirt, as it were. Not throw it crassly in your face, but smile in admitting they do indeed poop. And the poop goes down that pipe and onward to the sea, there to fertilize languid seaweed that sways, unseen.

I DON'T KNOW IF JULIET
was like this only with me. Maybe she'd seen the way I touched Deo? And wanted some of that for herself? The thing is, she asked me to brush her hair. All of it, everywhere.