What I Came to Tell You (28 page)

Grover worked till about ten o’clock that night, and when Sudie yawned a couple of times, he told her to go inside.

She shook her head, yawning again.

Seeing that his sister could barely keep her eyes open, Grover looked at the weaving. Amazingly, it was nearly done. He could easily finish it tomorrow.

“Let’s both go in,” he said, cutting off his flashlights and gathering up his tools.

Sunday morning, Grover was up early. Sudie had told him to wake her, but when he tried, she moaned and turned over, so
he left her. She’d worked so hard last night he knew she needed the extra sleep. As he walked out to his workshop in the early morning cold, he realized he needed a little alone time with the Bamboo Forest. As he began to work, he became aware that ever since his encounter with Matthew yesterday he’d felt a little better, as if a weight he hadn’t even known he carried had been, if not removed, at least lightened.

Grover’d been working about an hour when he heard someone crash through the bamboo. Probably Sudie. She’d be mad that he hadn’t woken her, but he’d let her do some of the last limbs and she’d calm down. Sam appeared at the edge of his workshop. He couldn’t remember the last time Sam had come by.

“That’s a huge one, Grover,” Sam said, gently placing his hand on the weaving. “My dad told me that they’re cutting this place down tomorrow.”

Grover shrugged and turned back to his work. “I should’ve outgrown it by now.”

Sam sat on the stump for a while, not talking, just watching Grover work. Finally he said, “I’d forgot how much I like this place.” He watched Grover work a while longer, then said he’d see him tomorrow at school. It wasn’t long after he left that Sudie came out. She was mad he hadn’t woken her, but he let her weave the last couple of limbs and she calmed down. Then suddenly, the weaving was finished.

The two of them sat on the stump, looking at it.

After a while Grover turned to his sister. “Will you pray for the Bamboo Forest?”

“I already have,” she said. “You should pray too.”

“The only reason I’d be praying is because I’m desperate.”

“God likes desperate people to pray,” she said.

“How come?”

“Because they mean it.”

G
rover had finished the math test ahead of everybody else and was sketching weavings in his notebook, checking the clock on the wall. Last night Jessie had called and told his father that the man he’d run into in the Bamboo Forest had called and said that he and his crew were cutting it down after lunch.

“But we have school,” Grover’d said after his father had hung up with Jessie.

“That’s just as well,” his father said.

“I want to be there,” Grover said.

“Me too,” Sudie said.

Missing school was a big deal to his father. So Grover was surprised when he said he’d come get them out of school at noon tomorrow and bring them home in time to watch. That night Grover’d dreamed an army of bulldozers rumbled into the Bamboo Forest, flattened it and then gouged out the ground, tearing the bamboo up by its rhizomes.

He woke very early, dressed and arrived in the Bamboo Forest at the first purplish hint of dawn. He walked along the hallway touching the weavings, stopping in front of the big weaving Sudie had helped him finish last night. He sat on the stump in the middle of his workshop and listened to the wind rattle the bamboo. He’d been coming here since he was barely old enough to walk. He’d probably spent more time in the Bamboo Forest than he’d spent in his own house. At one point he smelled sandalwood, and after a while he heard his father call for him.

“Coming!” he called. Then he placed his hand flat on the stump and said, “Good-bye, old friend.” And as he did, the breeze blew and the bamboo gave a long soft rattle, almost like a sigh.

When Grover’s father appeared in his classroom doorway with Sudie, Grover felt a pit open in his stomach, like when the nurse at his doctor’s office came into the waiting room and announced his name. Grover went back to the cloakroom for his knapsack and his coat. As he was walking out, Mrs. Caswell came over, put her hand on his shoulder and said, “We’re with you.”

When they got home, they walked up the street to where a couple of big trucks loaded with chain saws and other cutting tools were parked in front of the Bamboo Forest. They’d left Biscuit shut up in the house. The men, who were all Mexican Americans and who wore orange vests, hadn’t started. They sat on the curb eating sandwiches and drinking from their thermoses and talking in Spanish. Jessie was there with them, talking to the man who Grover guessed was the boss. He was a big man with huge shoulders and a big belly too. He wasn’t Mexican.

“Harold Sluder,” Jessie said, “this is Walter Johnston and his daughter, Sudie, and his son, Grover.”

“Pleased to meet y’all,” the man said, shaking their father’s hand. He had kind eyes and a gentle smile. “Sorry about this.” He nodded toward the Bamboo Forest. “Looks like you’ve spent a whole lot of time down there, making it your own.”

“A job is a job,” their father said. Maybe he was thinking of his own job and whether he would keep it much longer.

Jessie checked his watch and looked toward the street. “Y’all want to walk through one more time?” He turned to the big man. “Mind if they walk through?”

“Go ahead,” the man said. “We’ve waited this long. We can wait a few more minutes. The boys won’t argue about a little longer lunch break.”

Grover, Sudie and their father had started into the Bamboo Forest when there was a screech out on the street and the slam of a car door.

“Lunsford,” their father said under his breath.

“What’s going on, Sluder?” Mr. Lunsford said, walking up to the big man. “I said I wanted that bamboo down first thing this morning.”

“We didn’t finish up the job at your house till midday,” he said. “And the boys had to have lunch.”

“What are you doing here, Johnston?” Mr. Lunsford said, turning to Grover and Sudie. “We’ve already been through this.”

“The kids wanted to say good-bye,” their father said.

“Oh, good grief,” said Mr. Lunsford. “The way y’all act
you’d think I’m cutting down the rain forest. It’s a scrubby old patch of bamboo like a million other patches of bamboo around this town.”

“Kids have been playing here for generations,” Jessie said.

Mr. Lunsford turned to Mr. Sluder. “Well, what’re you waiting for?”

Mr. Sluder nodded to the men, who got up slowly, putting away their lunch pails.

A chain saw started up and then a couple more. The men headed toward the Bamboo Forest. Jessie kept glancing at his watch and back toward the road. Sudie buried her head in her father’s arms. Grover made himself watch as the bamboo fell away from the saw blades like the men were cutting through butter. The bamboo fell around them as they moved deeper into the cane. Grover watched as one of the men discovered the entrance to the hallway of tapestries. The man disappeared down the hallway and his chain saw went silent. The man called out in Spanish to the other workers and waved them over. They all disappeared down the hallway. Grover heard their excited voices but could understand only a few words.

“¡Increíble!”

“¡Milagroso!”

“¡Es muy bonita!”

“What’s going on, Sluder?” Mr. Lunsford said. “Why have they stopped?”

Mr. Sluder disappeared into the Bamboo Forest. Grover heard him talking to them in Spanish. Finally, Mr. Sluder ambled
back up. “They like what all the boy’s done down in there. They’re saying it reminds them of some of the weaving from back home. They say he’s the real thing.”

“Sluder,” Lunsford said.

Mr. Sluder nodded curtly. “Yes, sir.” He disappeared back into the Bamboo Forest. After a little while Mr. Sluder led the men out of the bamboo, and one by one they started up their chain saws. They cut slower than before, like their hearts weren’t in it. Still they were doing it, cutting down the Bamboo Forest, foot by foot, yard by yard. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be cutting away the tapestries. They’d cut about twelve feet into the grove when Grover felt the ground rumble beneath him. He turned around expecting to see bulldozers. A long line of school buses pulled up along the road. The buses all said
Isaac Claxton Elementary School
on the sides.

Children streamed off the buses and headed toward the Bamboo Forest.

Mr. Sluder shouted something to the men in Spanish, and the men all turned off their saws as the children poured past them and disappeared into the Bamboo Forest.

“Hold on there,” Mr. Lunsford said, standing in front of the children, holding his arm out like a traffic cop. But the kids just flowed past him like a river around a rock.

“We thought it was time for a field trip, Commissioner Lunsford,” Mrs. Caswell said, as she and several teachers stepped past Mr. Lunsford. As soon as the children entered the hallway of tapestries, they quieted, like they’d walked into a church. Sudie
joined her class, showing them down the hallway like a tour guide. The kids walked along the hallway, gaping at the weavings.

“Whoa!”

“It’s like … like art or something!”

“Looks like it’s part of the bamboo.”

“The bamboo grew some art!”

“Who did all these?”

“Sudie’s brother.”

“Grover did all these?”

“They look kind of like that
Starry Night
guy.”

“Van Gogh.”

“Vincent van Gogh.”

“Vincent van
Grover
!”

Laughter.

“Vincent van Grover!”

“Vincent van Grover!

The Bamboo Forest rang with children’s voices chanting “Vincent van Grover, Vincent van Grover, Vincent van Grover.” The workers were all standing off to the side, watching and talking among themselves in Spanish.

Hearing Mr. Lunsford speaking angrily, Grover had walked back to where his father and Jessie stood facing the commissioner. “You planned this,” Mr. Lunsford said, “didn’t you, Johnston? Well, none of it makes a bit of difference. It’s still my land and as soon as those kids are out of there …”

Grover heard the slam of more car doors. He looked up to see Byron from Reader’s Corner getting out of a car, and Little
Bit with several of the Wolfe house tour guides getting out of another. Neighbors from the neighborhood walked from down the street. Grover noticed several store owners from the Grove Arcade and other downtown stores.

“So, Grover, on such an important occasion as your opening, why aren’t you wearing your new coat?” It was Mr. Berkowitz. “Impress the girls and give me a little advertising.” Grover noticed a glimmer of yellow at the back of the old man’s neck. He was wearing his measuring tape underneath his coat.

“Where did all these people come from?” Grover looked at his father, who was looking at Jessie.

“I do a lot of yards,” Jessie said, looking a little sheepish. “Oh, look who’s here.”

Mira’s mother, the mayor of Asheville, was walking down the path.

“Oh, good,” Mr. Lunsford said, turning to their father. “She can see firsthand the mischief you and your buddy have been up to.”

“Mayor, you’re just in time,” Mr. Lunsford said, taking her by the elbow.

Mira, who’d been down in the Bamboo Forest, ran up to her mother. “Mama, you need to come see what Grover’s done down here.”

“I’ve heard, I’ve heard,” the mayor said.

“So then you know that Johnston’s kids have been—” Lunsford began.

“Good to see you, Walt.” The mayor shook their father’s
hand. “I hear the Wolfe house has been revived thanks to the Thomas Wolfe Christmas.”

“But, Mayor,” Mr. Lunsford interrupted.

“Commissioner Lunsford,” the mayor said, taking Mr. Lunsford’s hand. “I wanted to come down and personally thank you for your generosity. I just learned of your plans to donate this land to the city.”

“Donate?”

“Is that not accurate?” the mayor asked. “I was told—”

“Look!” Daniel Pevoe called out. “Channel Thirteen is here!”

A dressed-up news anchor and a man carrying a camera got out of a van that said
News 13
along the side. They came down the path toward them.

“Hello, Mayor and Commissioner Lunsford, you’re just the people I was hoping to see,” the newswoman said. “We’re here about the land the commissioner is donating for a children’s park.”

“Children’s park?!” Mr. Lunsford said.

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” the woman said.

The cameraman had turned his bright lights on Mr. Lunsford. A crowd of kids and adults gathered to watch. The newswoman turned toward the camera and said, “We’re here on Edgemont Road, where a group of children and teachers from Isaac Claxton Elementary as well as people from across Asheville have gathered to celebrate Commissioner Lunsford’s donation of his property for a new children’s park.” She turned to Mr. Lunsford, whose face had gone pale. “Commissioner, why did you decide to donate this valuable piece of property to the city?”

Mr. Lunsford looked at the camera and smiled a weak smile.

“The commissioner is too modest to say it,” Jessie said, stepping into the camera light and putting his hand on Commissioner Lunsford’s shoulder, “but this whole thing is his idea.”

“And who are you, sir?” The woman tilted the microphone in Jessie’s direction.

“Jessie Cole,” he said. “A fan of Commissioner Lunsford.”

A fan?
Grover mouthed to his father.

“In his capacity as commissioner Mr. Lunsford had noticed that development was swallowing up empty lots where children once played. So he decided to set an example, and instead of selling this lot, he decided to donate this valuable piece of property as a Christmas gift to the children of the neighborhood.”

Different expressions flitted across the commissioner’s face—puzzlement then anger then astonishment then resignation.

“A Christmas gift to the city,” the newswoman repeated. “We also have on hand Mayor Hodges.” The woman motioned for the mayor to step up to the microphone. “Mayor, I have to assume you’re excited about the commissioner’s donation.” The woman held up the microphone to Mira’s mother.