A Deciduous Decision

by Anthony Block

Anne and Hans Ruger, second floor, left for work before it began, as did Adam Warren on the third.  Because Beth Warren spent the early part of the morning in the kitchen at the rear of the apartment, she knew nothing about it.  A vague awareness of the jackhammer failed to pique her curiosity.  Mr. Parrott, from the vantage of his English basement, must have noticed, but if so, did not feel it was worthy of passing the word.  So Miss Peggy Cowen was the least likely to break the news.  Her first floor rear apartment in Mr. Parrott’s 89 Horton Street brownstone had windows overlooking only the back yard.
 
“Isn’t it exciting?”  Miss Cowen greeted Beth coming down the stairs.  “Since the day I moved in I’ve been hoping for this.”
 
“For what?”
​
“A tree.  They’re planting a tree next door.  Come see.”
 
A square of pavement in front of number 91 had already been removed and shoveled out, with the dirt piled around it.  In the bed of a small Parks Department truck stood a spindly tree denuded of leaves in conformance with the season, its roots balled in burlap.  The women watched in silent approval for several moments before noticing the house’s owner sitting on the stoop.
 
“What a glorious day, Carl,” Miss Cowen said.  “We’re so excited.  What kind is it?”
           
“A London plane, like the others.  Now if the rest of the owners would join in, we could have a completely tree-lined block.”
 
“It’s always disappointed us that they ended at 87,” Beth said.  “The ad for our apartment said it was a tree-lined street, but neglected to mention that they stopped before reaching our place.”
 
“Harold knows that trees are an enticement,” Carl said.  “He just exercised a little poetic license.  I’ll have to do the same.  “’Tree in front of house’ sounds too much like that place in Brooklyn.”
 
“How do you convert poetic license into reality?” said Beth.  “Is there a lot of red tape?”
“All it takes is a call to the Parks Department.  They inspect the site, give a choice of trees and issue a permit.  Send a check and bingo.  The whole process took less than a month.”
 
“How big a check?” Miss Cowen said.
 
“Depends on the tree.  This one was one fifty.  The planes are in the cheapest group.”
 
“And that’s it?”
 
“Plus I’m responsible for taking care of it; feeding, watering and whatever else.”
 
“What about flowers?”
 
“Flowers?”
 
“Can you plant them around the base?  I’m partial to flowers.”
 
“I don’t see why you couldn’t.  Y’know, your interest inspires me.  I think I’ll talk to Harold.”
 
Miss Cowen and Beth exchanged glances in a classic demonstration of successful silent communication.  “Until you’ve had the experience,” said Miss Cowen, “ you realize that you don’t talk to Harold.  You talk around him.  No disrespect, but I think dealing with him would be best left to us.”
 
Beth nodded.  “Mr. Parrott has to be approached with a great deal of circumspection.”
           
Which became the subject of her conversation with Adam that evening.  “It’s always bothered us,” she said, “and we have the perfect opening.”
 
“There are no perfect openings with Mr. Parrott.  The man’s a grandmaster.  There isn’t a gambit he doesn’t know.”
 
“But this is so obvious.  Before, the trees just ended.  But now there’s a gap and 89 Horton is it.  He has to be thinking about it already, and that’ll make him receptive.”
 
“You’ve made my point.  If he’s thinking about it his defense is primed.”
 
“You’re assuming he doesn’t want to do it.  Miss Cowen and I think he just needs a well directed nudge.”
 
“And you’ll get a nudge right back.”  Adam shook his head.  “It’s a change, it’s money, and I can’t begin to imagine all the other reasons.”
 
“You have to be more positive.”
“I am.  Positively realistic.  Can’t you and Miss Cowen do what you want and leave me out of it?”
 
“We’re going to, but we want everyone’s support.  She’s talking to the Rugers.”
 
“That’s a mob.”
 
“We wouldn’t think of ganging up on him.  We just want him to know that we’re all for it.  This isn’t a tenants’ revolution.”
 
Adam gazed at his wife, as sweet and innocent as the simple peasant Jeanne and, like her, soon to be in the vanguard of the attack.  “No,” he said, “more like a plebiscite.  But okay.  I’m with you.”
 
“Good.  Miss Cowen will be inviting everyone to a Saturday afternoon tree.”
 
“Afternoon tree?  Is that an example of your approach?”
 
“Just be there.  Leaf the rest to us.”
 
Everyone was seated around Miss Cowen’s table when Mr. Parrott arrived. He stood in the doorway, frowning, taking in the scene.  “This has the look of something more than cake and coffee,” he said.
“Don’t stand there, Harold,” said Miss Cowen.  “Come in and join the first annual social of The Rapscallions’ Environment Enhancement Society.”
 
The furrows in Mr. Parrott’s forehead deepened, intensifying the sparkle of his pale blue eyes.  A minute lift at the corners of his mouth hinted at a mood for jousting.  “Rapscallions?  And I’m to be included?”
 
“We’ve already voted you in,” Beth said.  “All you have to do is accept the invitation.”
 
“I don’t know if I like admitting to being a rapscallion.  A rogue, maybe.  A rake or a roué.”
 
“Rapscallion is better suited for a mixed group,” said Miss Cowen.  “Have some cake.  It’s special courtesy of the Rugers.”
 
“I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
 
“It’s baumkuchen from the German bakery.” Anne said.
 
“You see,” said Hans, “dough, around a cylinder is put und baked one layer at a time until into the shape of a trunk it is building up.  When it is cut, then, the slices have rings like it is a real tree.  Baumkuchen, you see, it means tree cake.  It is made only
in my country where …”
 
“Try some, Harold.  It’s delicious,” Miss Cowen said.
 
“… a tradition it is …”
 
“Better than delicious,” Beth said.  “Scrumptious.”
 
“… to serve at …”
 
“Arbor Day,” said Mr. Parrott.
           
“Harbor Day?  Nein, nein.  At Christmas we serve it.  Anne, what is this Harbor Day?”
 
“Arbor, dear.  There’s no aitch.  It’s a day we celebrate by planting trees.”
 
“Aha.  Arbor Day.  A very good guess, Harold.  You are a smart one.”
 
“So we have here a group called – let me take a wild guess that the name forms an acronym – TREES, serving something called tree cake.  That would appear to be more than a coincidence.”
 
“Harold, I think you have your tongue into your cheek.  It obvious must be to you that …”
 
“That everyone in your house is having a friendly Saturday afternoon get-together over coffee and cake,” said Miss Cowen.
 
“Uh huh,” said Mr. Parrott, chewing such a large piece that it puffed out his left cheek.
 
“You see?  His tongue does that.”
 
“Hans,” said Anne, handing him her cup, “will you please get me a refill.  And
maybe you could slice some more cake.  You cut it so evenly.”
 
All talk suspended as they appreciated the concentration required for the delicate carving.  Only after the last downward stroke of the knife would the silence be broken.
 
“I thought I heard your dogs barking up a storm about an hour ago, Harold,” said Miss Cowen.
           
“Some kids banged on the garbage cans as they went by.  They and the dogs converse with each other that way.”
 
“Bark.  Now there’s an interesting word.”  Beth paused to sip her coffee.  “It’s the voice of a dog or the covering of a tree or a ship.  Don’t you think the English language is fascinating? ”
 
A slight twitch at the corner of Mr. Parrott’s mouth presaged a response.  Adam leaned forward.  But the reply came from behind him.  “I never heard a ship with such a name.  Anne, is it true?”
 
“Yes dear, we’ll look it up later.”
 
“And there’s barking your shins,” said Mr. Parrott.
 
Adam could not resist.  “And with your shins you can shinny up a tree.”
 
“What is it he talks about?”
 
“Trees,” Mr. Parrott said.  “We’re all talking about trees.”
 
“It’s a way of climbing by wrapping your arms and legs around the trunk,” Anne said.
 
“But why skinny?”
 
“S-h-i-n-n-y.  I’ll explain later.”
 
“And then there’s root,” an inspired Adam said.  “For the home team, for truffles…”  He shrugged.
 
“Und highway!”  The triumphant voice exploded in exultation.
 
“It’s spelled differently, dear.  I’ll explain upstairs.”
 
“I am confusion.”
 
“Maybe we could just branch off to another subject,” said Miss Cowen.
 
“Wouldn’t that just leaf us out on a limb?” said Mr. Parrott.  He drank a bit of coffee while peering at Beth and Miss Cowen, who had begun exchanging glances.  Adam sat back, crossing his legs.
 
“Anne, when is it we are asking him?”
 
Anne cleared her throat.  “I think right now.  Harold, I know this is a most surprising revelation, but we were wondering if you would be willing to put a tree in front of the house.”
 
“And I was wondering what was taking you so long to ask.”
 
“Asking is so crass,” said Miss Cowen.  “We hoped that our strategy would be so clever and subtle that the idea would just pop into your head.  Like subliminal advertising.”
 
“Cleverness and subtlety notwithstanding, you can think of yourselves as successful, for I have considered it.”
 
“And your considered conclusion?”
 
Turning to Hans and winking, Adam said, “Here it comes.”
 
“It’ll be here three weeks from Tuesday.”
 
Miss Cowen threw back her head, the guffaws bouncing her stomach.  “Then we don’t have to tell you who to call and how much it’ll cost.”
 
“Parks Department.  One fifty and up.”
 
“And we can have flowers around it?”
 
“I’m counting on it.”
 
Beth clapped and Anne planted a resounding buss on Mr. Parrott’s cheek, causing him, for the first time, to lose control of his regulated expressions.  He beamed.  Hans tapped  Adam on the shoulder.  “Why so long do they wait?  Und so much the word games.”
 
“Maneuvering.  Wasted maneuvering.  I’m surprised you didn’t know how they were going to go about it.”
 
“What Anne said, it did not make sense.  To me, direct approaching is the way to discuss.”
 
“And most of the time you’d be right.  But in this case …”  With reluctant admiration, he observed the landlord in the midst of his gleeful tenants.  “Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
 
Hans shook his head.  “I am not understanding.”
 
“Sorry.  I’m still in the swing of things.  But don’t feel badly.  I don’t think anybody really understands.  However it happened, we’ll have a tree in a month.”
 
And on that Tuesday, Beth, instead of sleeping later, arose with Adam.  “It’s too bad you have to go to work and miss it,” she said.
 
“I like it that way.  When I leave there’ll be nothing.  When I return, there it’ll be.  Magic.”
 
“Do you want me to call you when it’s in?”
 
 
“No.  I don’t have to know that.  I’ll get my enjoyment first hand.”
 
With that anticipation, he turned the corner that evening into Horton Street and began the two block walk past the late autumn skeletons of the London planes.  Nearing number 89, he moved close to the building line for a better viewing angle.  The detail of the newest tree began to emerge and he squinted to compensate for the fading light.  As expected, it stood shorter and sparer than all except its far neighbor, but the thrust of its adolescent branches puzzled him.  Rather than providing promise of rounded symmetry, they formed a narrow angular silhouette.  Standing in front of it, he could see, even in the deepening dusk, a bark not at all like the others.  It was a different tree; the only one like it on the street.
 
Turning in time to catch a slight movement of the curtains at one of the windows of the English basement, he considered for a moment the direct approach advocated by Hans.  Instead, he trudged up to the third floor.
 
“It’s a ginkgo,” Beth said.  “I just love them, don’t you?”
 
“I’m not that much of a tree hugger.”
 
“They’re so much more interesting than the London planes.  Ginkgoes have those fascinating fan-shaped leaves that turn absolutely golden in the fall.  And they have edible fruit.  Some Asians consider them a delicacy.”
 
“And all those wonderful reasons are why he selected it?”
 
“He saw a picture of one in the paper and then he asked if he could borrow our encyclopedia.”
           
“When?”
 
“The morning after the party.  He liked the sound and that it’s different.  So he changed the order.”
 
Adam shook his head.  “Another Parrott paradox. But then we’ve always known he’s eccentric.”
 
“Sweet.”
 
“Odd?”
 
“Quaint.”
 
“In the spirit of the moment, we’re at loggerheads.”
 
Laughing, she flung her arms around his neck. “Oh Adam.  Don’t you just love living here?”
 
He peered into her eyes and kissed the tip of her nose.  “Now that our landlord’s arboreal integrity has been restored, yes.”  With a theatrical flourish, he stepped back and bent at the waist.  “And to you, architect of clever and subtle strategy, I tender my deepest respects and pledge of eternal service with this, my most sincere and adoring
bough.”
 
As they hugged with giddiness, three floors below, the inhabitant of the English basement again parted his curtains for one last look into the darkening night.  He glanced down at the open Volume Ga-Hy which began, “A living fossil from ancient times …” Satisfaction wreathed his face.  “Ginkgo,” he said, extending the syllables, the end fading.  “Ginkgo,” he exhaled, pleased by the whispered sound.