Tatjana Soli - The Forgetting Tree

In her preoccupation with her illness, it surprised Claire that the farm functioned just fine without her. The workers had their own version of the farm, one as separate, yet real, as Claire’s own.

“You would like some iced tea?” Octavio asked as he fished for a bottle in the cooler.

“Gracias.” Claire sat and sipped while he did paperwork.

“De nada.”

“Es dificil…”

Octavio nodded — his face a cross-hatching of deep creases from the constant sun — polite but wary, wanting to be of service but not to be too deeply involved. A carefully calibrated distance they had maintained over the years since the attack. Octavio made sure his sense of obligation stayed limited to the running of the farm.

“Problema del cáncer.”

Relieved, Octavio stood up. “You want for me to get the girl?”

Claire shook her head.

“You like this girl?” he asked, clearly indicating he did not.

“She’s very smart.” Claire knew firsthand the animosity between Minna and Paz. “She’s a city girl. Just not used to us country people.”

Octavio shook his head and wiped at his mouth. “The workers see her in the orchard late at night. With Señor Richards.”

Claire paused, but not so long as to appear that the news was entirely unexpected. “She’s young, spirited.”

“When you do not watch, she walks the farm like she is the owner. Orders workers to stop what they do to get her water. Orders one to hold an umbrella over her against the sun for hours. She calls them names.”

Claire was shocked but did not want to appear so. In all her years with him, she knew Octavio always to be honest, and so she could not doubt the truth of what he said now. Her dilemma lay in what to do about it.

A diplomat, Octavio changed the topic to spraying schedules for the orange crop.

“Why was the last crop so small?” she asked. They staggered plantings and harvesting so that they had crops of oranges, lemons, grapefruit, avocados, or strawberries going out all year long.

“Minna, she said you ordered not to spray. She told me to wait another two weeks to pick. Many of the naranja, they go bad.”

“It was an experiment,” Claire said, furious and trying to hide it.

“I talk to Mr. Forster,” he said, shrewdly guessing the truth of the situation.

“You will not.”

“If you make me listen to this girl, I farm badly.”

“Let me take care of things,” Claire said.

* * *

Hours passed. She liked being out in the open air and had no desire to confront Minna just yet. Despite her anger, the drugs made Claire woozy, and she fell asleep. The workers stopped by on their way home, Octavio acting as adviser and informal bank, giving small cash loans as needed out of his pocket, writing everything down in a small spiral notebook he kept in his shirt pocket.

“You used to not write anything down,” Claire said, when they were alone.

“Many years have passed.” He winked and tapped his head. “Viejo.”

“I’m sorry about my words earlier. I’m not myself lately. Things are going wrong, but I will fix them, I promise you.”

“Maybe it is time for us all to retire? Both of us go live with our familias .”

“I’ve been selfish. Do you want to leave?”

Before he could answer, they both saw Minna slam the front door of the house and walk toward them, calling out Claire’s name. She wanted to intercept her, but felt too weak to move from the chair.

“She is here, Señorita Minna,” Octavio called out. His face was stony.

A group of workers whispered as they watched Minna approach. Claire heard, “La negrita.”

Minna looked at Claire with irritation. “You should tell me where you’ve gone.”

“She visited with me,” Octavio said, but Minna didn’t look at him, or even register that she’d heard his words.

“Help me take her back to the house.” Minna directed her words to the group in general, to the air, instead of to Octavio.

“I’m not a child,” Claire said, struggling up.

“Help her!” Minna repeated, louder and more emphatic.

No doubt that she would slap him if Claire didn’t do something. “Did you pass on my request to delay picking the Valencias?”

Minna stopped short. “Yes.”

“And to not spray?”

Minna nodded, not daring to look at her.

“Well, it didn’t work out so well. So we’re going back to the old schedule.”

Claire was standing, perspiring from the effort despite the coolness of the afternoon air. Octavio and Minna stood, rooted, at a standoff while Claire swayed back and forth like a pendulum between them. “Please, Minna, take my hand,” she ordered, and almost collapsed into her arms. “I need to lie down.”

Minna almost lifted her off her feet, her arm around Claire’s waist. “Luego!” she hissed behind her.

They staggered back to the house, Minna seething.

“Put me down now,” Claire said at the door. It took her a minute to catch her breath. “You will never give an order again having to do with the running of this farm. Do you understand?”

“But—”

Claire raised her hand. “I don’t want to hear about it. I covered for you this one time only, but you aren’t making any friends. You better start.”

“They hate me.”

“Stop giving them something to hate. Change your behavior. I don’t want to ever hear about you abusing the workers again, do you hear? Don’t think I won’t fire you if I have to.”

* * *

One of the mysteries in life was how one took for granted its joys — health, love, and happiness — until they disappeared, and then one was consumed in mourning their passing. There had been happiness in Claire’s life, but it passed too quickly, overwhelmed by the drudgery of work, bills, and tending to family. There had even been rare moments of grace after Josh’s passing.

Claire remembered one particularly bad day afterward when she had walked out alone to the lemon tree where he had been found. What had she been looking for? Grief and sorrow weighed her down, and she lay on the ground beneath the tree. Without a sound, Gwen came up behind her. Had she been following her? For how long? And why? Side by side they lay on the ground till they both fell asleep, so many hours that nature forgot about them in its midst. Claire woke and felt she was in an enchanted garden — dragonflies flew above her face, one bumped into her motionless knee, while Gwen slept the slumber of an enchanted princess, small twigs scattered in her beautiful long hair.

Claire lost herself in the blue of the sky, the white clouds emptying her mind. A hummingbird balanced in the air above her, in the silence his whirring the engine of the world. Would it be too crushing a burden to carry on one’s life filled with the knowledge of one’s luck, the richness of the gifts bestowed on one?

* * *

After the first month of treatment, Claire’s hair had begun falling out, but one morning, she rose to find a majority of her hair had stayed behind on the pillow — a last, blond nest. She sat stranded in the bed. Claire did not consider herself as formerly possessing a beauty that was now lost. Her hair had always been too fine and thin, never growing past her shoulders. Rather it was simply that she had the eerie premonition she was losing parts of herself — as if an arm had come off here, a leg there — what would ultimately be left? Sans hair, sans breasts, sans pillowcases, checking accounts, orange trees, daughters, dishes, husband, son. How many parts equaled the sum total that formed the essence of each person? Certainly not hair — hair must be the least of the markers of one’s being — yet there she was, stranded, hysterical, in mourning for her hair.