Riding the Flume (11 page)

“The discovery of a tree that big is always of interest to the lumber company, Frances,” her father said. “Because of the depression, Connor isn't as solid as he'd like to be. The more wood he cuts, the more he'll sell, and the stronger the company will become. Any new stands are of help.” He patted her hand and then began folding up his napkin.

Francie stood up. “He can't cut that tree, Father.” She was surprised to find her voice almost steady. “That's Carrie's tree. She promised to protect it.”

Her father sighed. “Frances, I know you love the trees, and I know Carrie did. But we can't let our personal preference stand in the way of human progress. The decision to cut the tree will be made by Granger.”

“James, is there no possibility they'll leave it alone?” Francie's mother put her hand to her mouth, and Francie knew it was to hide the quivering of her lips. “If Carrie loved it . . .”

“Now don't you start, Mary.” Francie's father stood up. “It's enough to drive a man mad, all these softhearted women. What do you think, Charlie?”

Charlie looked at him and swallowed nervously. “I guess I just don't know, sir. It would be a great challenge to
bring it down in one piece, and I think we've got the manpower to do it.” Then his eyes met Francie's. “But it would be a shame, too, in a way. It's so old.”

“Think of how many years it's been growing, Papa.” Francie rushed around the table and grabbed his arm. “That stump had more than three thousand rings. This one is probably even older than that. Can't you stop them? Can't you do this for Carrie? So we have something to remember her by?”

Francie's father closed his eyes and his face looked suddenly gray and old. “I don't want to remember,” he mumbled. He tried to pull away, but Francie was holding onto his arm. He looked down, but instead of brushing her hand away as she'd expected, he covered it with his own. They stood there in silence for a moment. Then, gently, he lifted her hand, touched it to his cheek, and then let go and walked out of the room. Francie waited, looking at her mother's stricken face and Charlie's sad eyes. In a moment the front door opened and then closed again.

“He's going back to the hotel,” Francie's mother said. She sighed and began clearing away the dishes. She looked up at Francie. “Don't be angry with him. You don't understand how he feels.”

Francie shook her head. “You're right. I don't. I miss Carrie, too, but how can he just—”

Charlie stood up, interrupting her. “I've got to go, Francie. Walk me to the door?”

Francie looked at him and then at her mother, standing with bowed head and a pot in her hand. She bit her lip. “Of course,” she said.

When they were out in the hall, he turned to her. “Let it be, Francie. You can't change them. Only time will do that.”

“It's been six years!” Francie whispered, but it felt as if she were shouting. “How much longer will it take?” Tears that had been burning in her eyes since her father's announcement spilled over. “And now he won't even fight to save Carrie's tree.”

“We don't know if it's Carrie's tree,” Charlie murmured. He touched her shoulder. “And maybe Granger won't bother with it. There's plenty of logging still left to do on the east side.”

“It doesn't matter whether Carrie owns it.” Francie almost shouted, and Charlie put his finger on her lips. “It doesn't matter,” she began again more softly. “Why can't he fight anyway? For me! Why can't he fight for what I want?”

She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hands. “And you think Granger won't bother with that tree? Ha! The chances of that are about the same as me riding the flume. You said it yourself when we found it. You just wait, Charlie Spencer. Granger will want that tree. He'll be angling to cut it down as soon as possible. And then there won't be anything of Carrie left in the entire world.” She put her hands over her face and sobbed.

“Francie?” Charlie's voice was hesitant. She felt his hand on her shoulder tighten, and then he sighed. He put his arms around her, holding her as if she were made out of glass and might break at the least movement. “Just cry it out, cuz,” he said, stroking her hair. “It's okay.”

B
y the next afternoon, Connorsville was buzzing with the news. A giant sequoia—the biggest on earth—had been found just over the top of Connor's Pass. Francie was changing the sheets in room 30 when Charlie stuck his head around the doorjamb.

“Don't say a word about it,” she said quickly, taking in his raised eyebrows and sparkling eyes. She bent to tuck the ends of the bottom sheet neatly around the end of the feather bed. “I've heard more than I want to already. I think every single guest in the hotel ordered a box lunch to take up to Connor's Pass.”

Charlie came into the room, dusted off his pants, and sat down on the chair. “The photographer's shop is doing a whopping business. John's set up his camera by the tree and is charging seventy-five cents a photo.” He shook his head. “He's getting it, too. They all want a picture of
themselves beside the oldest living thing in the world.”

“Why aren't you working?” Francie spread the blanket over the sheets and plumped up the pillows.

“Got the day off.”

Francie gave him a sharp look, and he nodded, answering her unspoken question. “We're moving to the north end of the basin tomorrow. Gonna start logging around the big one, Granger says. Clear everything out around it, and then see if we can bring it down.”

Francie plopped down on the newly made bed. “You can't. It'll shatter. It's too big.”

Charlie stroked his chin and shrugged. “Some think that,” he agreed. “But Granger says it's worth the risk. If we can bring it down whole, think of how much lumber we'll have.” He closed his eyes. “Not quite a city's worth—but close. Think of it, Francie, an entire city built from one tree. It'll put California on the map for certain.” He stood up. “Nobody will be able to argue that we don't grow things bigger and better than anywhere else in the whole United States of America.”

Francie watched him, feeling numb. “Is that what you think?”

He looked at her. “Truth?”

She nodded.

He scratched his head. “Truth is . . .” He paused, took a breath, and began again. “Truth is, I don't know what to think. Think of a whole city built from one tree.” He
thumped his chest. “One I could help bring down. It's a chance in a lifetime. And it's only one tree. There are hundreds more.”

Francie sprang to her feet. “But such a tree!” she cried. “It isn't
only
one tree. There is
only
one tree as big or as old as that one. How can you even think to cut it down?”

“But trees grow back, Francie.”

Francie gave a short laugh. “Yes, they grow back. In three thousand years. I counted the rings on that stump, remember? And besides,” she said sadly, “Granger isn't cutting
only
this one tree. He's cutting all the trees.” She turned, but not before Charlie saw her tears.

“Okay,” he said. “It's too bad. But it's not your fault. It's not you cutting the tree.”

“But it is my fault.” She looked over at him. “If I hadn't found that note or the diary, if I hadn't been so sure we had to find this secret of Carrie's,” she kicked the bedstead hard enough to make her foot ache, “if I hadn't asked my father about it. Then nobody would even know about the tree. It would be safe.”

Charlie shook his head. “You're wrong. Maybe it would be safe for this year, but what about next year or the year after? Someday, Granger would have found that tree. Depend upon it.”

Francie didn't listen to him. “I had a thousand chances to stop. But I didn't. I had to keep on poking around until I found it. And then I had to ask my father.” She picked up
a pillow, punched it hard, and then put it back on the bed.

“You already did that,” Charlie said.

She turned on him, almost snarling. “Already did what?”

Charlie grinned. “You already plumped up that pillow.” He pointed to it.

“Oh.” Francie pulled on a corner of the pillow to straighten it. “Don't think you can make me laugh and forget about this because you can't.” She picked up the empty wicker basket she'd carried the clean sheets in. “I'm finished here. Are you coming?” And without looking to see if he was following her, she left the room.

The lobby was full of guests drinking tea and eating the vanilla shortbread her mother baked every Tuesday morning. The words “biggest tree in the world” and “oldest thing on earth” drifted in the air, and Francie walked through the crowd as fast as she could. She didn't want to hear anything more about Carrie's tree.

“You'd think with all those people so excited about that tree,” she grumbled, hanging the basket on its hook in the linen room, “that someone might think about whether or not it ought to be cut down!”

Charlie jumped out of her way as she swept out of the linen room and into the kitchen. “Maybe you should talk to them, try to get them to stop the lumber company.”

She turned around and stared at him. “Now that's the most sensible thing I've heard you say in a long time.”

“Francie . . .” Her mother, who was stirring something in an enormous kettle at the back of the stove, frowned at her. “I'm sure your father wouldn't appreciate you badgering the guests.”

“I won't badger them. I'll just talk to them.” She grabbed up an extra plate of vanilla shortbread, took a deep breath, and marched into the lobby.

“Good afternoon, Francie.” Old Mrs. Evans was perched on a straight-backed chair by the refreshment table.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans.” Francie picked up the half full plate of shortbread and placed her own full plate in its place. “Did you go out to see the big tree?”

Mrs. Evans gave a raspy chuckle and reached for a fresh piece of shortbread. “Not on these old legs,” she said, patting her lap. “I'm satisfied to walk from the lobby to my room each evening.” Mrs. Evans and her husband had been coming to the hotel each summer as long as Francie could remember. “I used to be able to ramble over the mountains,” she said, “but now I'm content to just breathe in the good mountain air.” She took a deep breath as if to prove her words true.

“Don't you think it's a shame the lumber company is planning to cut down that tree?” Francie said. “It's so old and all.” She looked at Mrs. Evans's wrinkled face and suddenly realized she might take offense. “I mean . . .” she began again, stuttering.

Mrs. Evans looked up at her; her faded blue eyes were amused and sad at the same time. “The old must give way to the new,” she said. “You young ones will build us an entirely new world.” She nodded and looked away. “It's the same with trees as it is with men.” She chewed a bite of shortbread. “You tell your ma she's the best shortbread baker in the state of California.” Her eyes twinkled and she took another bite.

“Yes, ma'am,” Francie answered. She sighed and turned away. If everyone agreed with Mrs. Evans, her plan was doomed to failure from the start.

Her father was standing in the middle of the room, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat. He was surrounded by a group of guests, and Mr. Mansfield was gesturing with the stem of his pipe. “You mark my words,” he was proclaiming, “Connor isn't going to let this depression beat him. He'll make thousands on that tree. It's the best thing that's happened to this area in a long time.” Mr. Mansfield always sounded as if he were speech making. Father said he was thinking of running for Congress.

“You don't have to convince me,” Father answered him.

Francie didn't stay to hear more. It was clear she wouldn't make any headway with that group. She scanned the room. Gloria Mansfield, wife of the would-be congressman, was ensconced on the medallion-back sofa Father had had shipped from New York two years ago. Its pale rose material nicely complemented Mrs. Mansfield's burgundy shirt-waist,
and Francie suspected she'd chosen the seat for that very reason. Three young and admiring women were sitting on chairs around her listening to her words as if she were a queen.

What did Mrs. Mansfield think, Francie wondered. She might be a powerful ally. She gripped the plate with both hands and walked over to the group. “More shortbread?” she asked, offering each woman in turn.

“Thank you, Francie.” Mrs. Mansfield took a small piece. “Could we have some more tea as well?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Francie left the shortbread on the small table beside the sofa, picked up the tray full of empty teacups, and returned to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Mansfield's group wants more tea,” she told her mother, who was pouring boiling water over the tea leaves in one of their large porcelain teapots. “Where's Charlie?”

“Went out the back door,” her mother answered. “He said something about work waiting.”

“Pooh,” Francie said. She filled the sink with dirty dishes and placed clean cups and their saucers on the tray. “He just doesn't want to make small talk in the lobby.” She leaned against the counter while she waited for the tea to steep.

“You're not talking about that tree, are you?” her mother asked. She bit her lip and looked at Francie. “Your father will be so distressed if you upset the guests.”

“Mama, nobody talks of anything
but
the tree,” Francie
said. “How big it is, if they'll be able to cut it down, how many houses it will build . . .” She sighed. “It's hopeless. I wish I'd never found it.”

The sad expression on Francie's mother's face told her that her mother wished it, as well. “This is ready, now,” was all she said as she placed the teapot in the exact middle of the tray among the teacups.