a redwood in wartime
Joe De Quattro
The snow that had fallen on Mott Street throughout the course of the night must have allowed the redwood to arrive silently, without notice. It had been a thick, wet snow bringing with it a steady wind—Westlake had heard it howling at the windows—creating peaks twice that of the actual snowfall and valleys revealing bare ground which together managed to give the landscape an appearance not unlike the surface of the moon. The sky was bright the following morning and the wind had diminished. Westlake, from his fifth floor window, stared down into the street feeling torn over where to lay his interest: in the sudden return of Palz, who for the last few minutes had been sending a steady stream of cigarette smoke overhead, or the appearance of the enormous redwood tree against which Palz was now leaning. Actually it wasn’t an entire redwood but rather only part, a log, laid on its side down the middle of Mott and cut it seemed to custom fit their block, extending no further than Bleecker just to the south and Houston just to the north. Because a city ordinance six months earlier had ruled this particular stretch of Mott Street a permanent no parking zone there were no cars for the redwood to contend with. The uniform ledge of snow running alongside the length of the log looked now like an ocean wave frozen in mid-break.
“It snowed,” Fiona said, coming up alongside Westlake. Her voice was as bright and crisp as the day appeared beyond the window. Westlake remained quiet, allowing Fiona a moment to comment on the tree. But, to his surprise, she said nothing. Not a
A REDWOOD IN WARTIME
word. “Clearly she must see it,” Westlake thought, looking from his wife to the tree then back again.
“Who is that?” Fiona said referring to the young man down below.
“Palz,” Westlake said. But given the way Fiona had asked he felt momentarily unsure.
“Paul?” Fiona said, “Paul who?”
“Not Paul,” Westlake said impatiently, “Palz.”
“You mean that guy who went to Iraq?” Fiona asked.
“Afghanistan,” Westlake said, correcting her.
Fiona ignored this. “I don’t think that’s him. It looks nothing like him, at least from the back.”
Westlake remained silent. Then, still apparently intending to offer nothing about the redwood, Fiona kissed him goodbye and left for work.
Down on street level, as he wound a scarf around his neck in the doorway of his building, Westlake found it was impossible to see any part of Palz now (laying on its side the tree must have been over fifteen feet in circumference). In fact the tree, or, rather, the log, obfuscated the entire first floor of the building opposite, Palz’s building, which he, out of view, hopefully, Westlake thought, still faced.
Moving to his left, taking large, exaggerated steps through the snow out of both necessity and a little panic (the panic due partly to the mystery of the tree and partly to wanting to get to Palz before he went inside), Westlake once again located the smoke from the cigarette. He was glad for the windless morning which allowed the smoke to stall in the air as if guiding him.
As he reached the corner of Bleecker where the tree had been cut smoothly and cleanly, Westlake slowed his pace then stopped. The surface of the snow was crusted over but wet underneath and now it rubbered under his boots. Standing before the enormous
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cut round bottom of the redwood he had the sensation he was alongside a docked cruise ship. Dwarfed, Westlake calculated that at five foot ten it would take roughly at least one and a half of him head to foot to reach the top part of the tree’s diameter. He then noted the rings. There were many rings, more than he could have imagined, indicating it was an ancient tree, quite possibly going back centuries. Overhead to his left wafts of smoke from Palz’s cigarette scissored and somersaulted in the air. Westlake peered around the corner at Palz. All at once he appeared bigger yet thinner than Westlake remembered him. Someone who ate starch three times a day but continuously burned it off through extreme exertion and maybe horror.
“Quit your goddamned spying,” Palz said sharply.
Though of similar age, Westlake felt immediately that he, suddenly reduced to a child, was being admonished by an adult. It didn’t help, of course, that hearing Palz’s words caused him to pull back abruptly against the tree, holding his breath.
“What in the hell are you doing,” Palz said. His tone was more solicitous than annoyed now. Westlake, knowing that waiting a moment longer would only make the situation more awkward, at last stepped forward.
“Sorry,” he said and walked toward Palz. He’d been saying sorry a lot lately. Sorry, but not meaning it, or not sure for what. A bad habit.
“Do you have any idea what this is doing here,” Westlake asked referring to the tree. As he neared Palz, he reached out and patted the redwood, albeit hesitantly, as though he feared it would disappear the moment he touched it.
“Been here since I’ve been here,” Palz said.
“It’s big,” Westlake said. Palz nodded and drew on his cigarette. He seemed about to say something but when he opened his mouth all that issued forth were several irregularly shaped smoke
rings. It was quiet, snow-blanketed earth quiet. Even the usual din of traffic coming from Houston Street was softened, and overall the invariable constancy of Manhattan’s grinding note, people, machines, the current of that graph of mobility, was subdued. The snow crunched and squeaked under Westlake’s boots drawing Palz’s attention.
“How’ve you been?” Palz asked.
“Good,” Westlake said brightly, knowing it to be a lie. He hadn’t been good but knew instinctively that this particular moment wasn’t about him, but rather about Palz, this tree. Given what Palz had just been through Westlake knew that his marital woes paled by comparison.
For a few moments Westlake looked up and down the sidewalk following the tree as far as it went.
“It’s really strange,” Westlake said. “Don’t you think?”
Palz sent a long stream of smoke overhead. “It is,” he said. “Or isn’t.”
“Isn’t how?” Westlake said.
“Depends on what you find strange,” Palz said. He looked at Westlake. “To me it seems right.”
“Right?”
Palz nodded. “I can’t take normalcy right now. I’m glad for this.” Lightly, he bounced the back of his head off the redwood.
Given where Palz had been the last eight months Westlake allowed his silence to register his understanding. Then, Westlake said, “Has it been reported?”
“Reported?” Palz seemed to say this with a little too much force, almost covetously. “It’s not bothering anyone, is it? Can’t park on the block, anyway.”
“Well,” Westlake said, looking around, “no, it doesn’t seem to be bothering anyone. Not at the moment. But it is—well, it could be an inconvenience. Traffic obviously can’t get through.”
Palz rested his head against the tree. “They can go around,” he said. “I’m glad it’s here.”
A moment later Mrs. Ellison appeared behind the door of Palz’s building. Though Westlake had never been formally introduced, he knew Mrs. Ellison was considered a bit of a gossip. Westlake saw her pause in the vestibule and peer into the street. She had a look of wonder on her face.
“Now it’ll be,” Westlake said.
“Be what?”
“Reported. Look.”
Palz lifted his head and looked at Westlake. With his chin Westlake pointed to the door.
“Well, Howard,” Mrs. Ellison said, looking up at Palz and stepping carefully through the snow. “I thought I heard someone kicking around above me last night.” She reached up and took his hand which Palz was clearly reluctant to offer. “It’s so nice to have you back safely.” Palz smiled and nodded. “An awful mess, just awful,” she continued. She looked blankly for a moment at Westlake, then back at Palz. “They say it’s another Vietnam, you know,” Mrs. Ellison said discreetly. Here there was a hint of pride in her tone indicating the reference was one she used quite often and, moreover, successfully. Palz continued to smile and nod. “What it must have been like for you. Such a young man. So innocent.” Palz pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it. Mrs. Ellison watched him somewhat gravely. “I take it you picked that up over there?” Palz smiled and nodded. “Well,” Mrs. Ellison said, “I suppose there are worse things you could have picked up.” She looked at Westlake, again just as blankly, then back at Palz. “But it is good to see you home safe and sound. You look,” she paused here ever so slightly, enough to make it annoying, “you look well.”
When Mrs. Ellison had moved far enough down the sidewalk Westlake realized he’d never known Palz’s first name was Howard. In fact, referring to Palz as Palz was something he only did in his head. They’d never shared that level of intimacy which required names.
“That was odd,” Westlake said.
“What was,” Palz said, “the past tense? Eight months ago I was such a young—“
“No,” Westlake quietly interrupted. “She didn’t notice.”
Palz looked squarely at Westlake. “You mean the tree?”
“It’s kind of hard not to,” Westlake said.
With a wave of his hand Palz dismissed Mrs. Ellison. “If it can’t talk, fuck, or commit a crime, she doesn’t notice.”
Over the next fifteen minutes at least six people, most of whom were residents of Palz’s building, approached. Westlake stood idly by, listening and saying nothing. What he noticed they all shared was the awareness of Palz’s participation in the war and an apparent comprehensive lack of interest in the giant tree now presently occupying their block. Not a single person mentioned it. In fact, as far as Westlake could tell, not a single person appeared to visibly take notice of the tree. Westlake mostly watched Palz, who as he did with Mrs. Ellison, simply smoked, nodded at the comments and occasionally smiled. And while no one said anything that could be considered categorically offensive, Westlake could see how increasingly uncomfortable Palz was becoming. When a man Westlake only vaguely recognized said, “Thank you for helping our country,” a look of rage flickered through Palz’s eyes and Westlake feared he would strike the man. When this happened, when this look of pure anger entered into his eyes—and it happened in one way or another with nearly every person who approached him—Palz would simply lean his head back against the redwood and keep it there, his eyes closed, his face
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suddenly peaceful, as if he knew instinctively that contact with the tree would grant him indemnity from whatever, or whomever, he needed protection from. The gesture was, in Westlake’s opinion, rude. But no one seemed to take it that way. Most simply continued talking, saying what it was they had to say, even though Palz had clearly stopped listening.
“Do you hear this,” Palz said when he and Westlake were alone again. There was cynical laughter in his voice. “Did you see what I was doing?”
Westlake nodded. “They’re just glad you’re back, I guess.”
“They just want to hear themselves talk,” Palz said. “I mean, did it look like I was listening?”
“No,” Westlake said, “it didn’t. But—“
“But what,” Palz said. He lifted his head from the tree now and looked coldly at Westlake. For a moment Westlake worried that he would serve as the receptacle for whatever anger Palz was repressing.
“But what?” Palz said again. “They’re allowed, right? Sure, they’re allowed. They’re allowed to satisfy their vicarious patriotic duty by telling the marine how proud they are of him.”
“You’d rather no one said anything?”
“Hell yes I’d rather no one said anything,” Palz said. He raised his chin toward his building. “Eight months ago I never exchanged more than a hello with any of these people. I didn’t tell one, not one, that I’d enlisted. Never said goodbye to anybody. Why? Because I didn’t know them, they didn’t know me. Mrs. Ellison there, she never once even acknowledged me and I’ve lived above her for two years.”
“Word gets around,” Westlake said quietly. “Even in the city.”
“Sure,” Palz said. “I know. But—” he broke off.
“But what,” Westlake said. For the first time since Westlake had come down Palz stepped away from the tree.
“But this goddamned tree!” he practically shouted. “How can it be that not one of those people seemed to notice it? You said it yourself.”
“I don’t know,” Westlake said. “It’s odd.”
“You’d think they’d be inclined to talk about it, but I guess I’m the attraction for the day.” Palz looked up and down the length of the tree. “It’s incredible.” He bent his head into his cupped hands and lit a fresh cigarette. The first exhale of smoke rose up and stalled in the air. Palz emitted a great deal of smoke when he smoked, Westlake observed. He tried for a moment to determine the brand but couldn’t make out the name on the pack in Palz’s hand. Perhaps a foreign cigarette that generated a great deal of smoke. Westlake watched the cloud divide and separate near the top of the tree.
“Nobody knows me any more now than they did eight months ago,” Palz said still looking at the redwood. “But now they have an excuse to speak up, to approach me. It’s like it gives me a purpose.”
“What does,” Westlake said.
Palz turned quickly, looked at Westlake then back at the tree. “You know, the war,” he said. “The conflict. They all hate it, but in their eyes it gives me a purpose. Something to ask about. Like I’ve been away at school. And if that’s not bad enough, there’s a goddamned redwood tree taking up our block and not one person’s noticed it, for God’s sake!” Palz turned back to Westlake. “But you did, didn’t you?”
“Well,” Westlake started, “like I said it was hard not to notice.”
“No,” Palz said, “I mean why’d you come down in the first place?”
For a moment Westlake didn’t say anything. Palz took two steps towards him.
“Why,” Palz said. “For this? Or because you saw me?”
Westlake believed his answer was the right answer, but still he felt afraid nevertheless. “The truth?”
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Palz nodded.
“Because of the tree,” Westlake said, then added, “I’m sorry.”
Palz put his head back against the redwood and let out a long plume of smoke. “Sorry,” he said, mocking Westlake. “You say that a lot. Don’t be. I’m glad you came down for this and not for me. It gives me hope.”
“How so?”
“No one knows what I’ve seen,” Palz said. “What I’ve just been through. Hell, I don’t even know. Not yet. I really don’t. What this has done to me, I don’t think it’s been revealed. Don’t know when it will be. If it will be. But I do know that I saw very little hope. Eight months of very little hope. As I see it, any amount of time without it, without hope, is too long.” Palz took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Now I’m back and here’s this incredible thing. This tree. This wonder of fucking nature right under our noses and no one’s given it a thought. Except for me.” He looked at Westlake. “And you.”
“I think,” Westlake began carefully, “that those people were just trying to be nice.”
Palz nodded. “Sure, but it’s a fake nice. And when you don’t see real nice for a long time, maybe you don’t want any part of fake nice.” Palz dropped the end of his cigarette into the snow and lit another. A cloud of smoke engulfed his face, then separated. He turned back to the tree.
“Now this,” he said, “this is nice. This is real nice. It’s humbling. Don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Westlake said, “but it doesn’t sound like you need humility. From what you’ve said.”
“I haven’t really said anything, though,” Palz said. “Hey, ten fingers.”
Westlake narrowed his eyes. “What?”
Palz was considering the top of the tree as a child might consider obtaining the top bunk of a set of bunk beds. “Give me ten fingers. I want to get on top.”
Without protest Westlake walked over to Palz and laced his fingers together. Palz placed his hands flat on the bark of the redwood and slipped his right foot into Westlake’s interlocking palms. Lifting him, Westlake found Palz to be lighter than he looked. He watched him scramble, with some effort, to the top of the redwood and for a few moments Palz stood upright looking south on Mott Street.
“Yeah, it’s great,” he said, as though he’d been asked. He looked down at Westlake. “Want up?”
“That’s all right,” Westlake said. “I have to get to work.”
Palz sat down and crossed his legs. “This is here,” he said, nodding. “This is right.”
Westlake, blocking the sun from view, thought Palz looked content up on the tree.
“Didn’t you have a girlfriend?” Westlake asked. “Someone I saw you around with? Before, I mean.”
Palz lit a new cigarette though the one he’d been smoking was only half smoked. “Sent me a letter,” he said. “Couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t wait. Said she didn’t know what the war would do to me. That she’d heard how affected guys were after things like this.” Palz laughed. “That’s how she worded it too. After things like this. As if it happened every day.”
“I’m sorry,” Westlake said.
Palz made a face. “Don’t be,” he said. “Didn’t matter much. Took a month for the letter to get to me.” He paused to watch a cloud of smoke drifting before him. “When I got it, we’d just discovered the charred remains of a fourteen year old girl my company’d gotten to know, so the letter kind of had no impact. The girl’s family lived near where we were stationed. They were
just, you know, regular people. They brought some normalcy now and then to the chaos we brought. Wanted nothing to do with any of what was going on. But they, maybe we, weren’t careful enough. They were seen as collaborators, call it what you want. One night their house was torched while they were all sleeping. Burned up the parents right in their bed. The next day we found the girl, this fourteen year old girl whose only crime was being born in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her body, the way we found her, she was on all fours, burned to death. Frozen in that position.” Palz paused in thought. “When you’re burned to death you kind of get frozen. What is that?”
Westlake realized Palz wanted an answer. He cleared his throat. “Ironic?”
“Yeah,” Palz said, pointing with his cigarette at Westlake, “ironic. At first we thought it was the family dog. It was this charred figure on all fours. We all looked at it a while until we slowly realized it was this girl, Amira. We heard later that they’d raped her in that position, one after the other, then doused her with gas and lit a match. We thought it was a goddamned dog.” Palz looked down at Westlake again. “So yeah, I had a girl, but I can’t say I care that I don’t now.”
Westlake shifted his feet in the snow. The street had an eerie serenity to it. He thought of the immediacy of witnessing such a horror and assumed, for that’s all he could do, that the overall effect a thing like that must have on a person would far outstrip the initial impact. Still, he realized it was impossible to convey this sort of thing to himself fully. To feel it. Westlake had never seen anything like that. It was in this moment, no matter how impossible it was for him to relate to what Palz had just said, that he began to understand in a small way Palz’s reaction to the people they’d encountered that morning. Understood his inability to be nice, to even want to.
Sitting cross legged atop the tree Palz removed his hat and revealed his shaved head. This allowed Westlake to see more clearly, albeit superficially, what he’d endured. “You sure you don’t want up?” he said.
Westlake shook his head. “What will you do?” he asked.
Palz took in the surroundings. “Don’t know.” Absently he placed a cigarette between his lips. “Stay here, I think. For a while at least. It’s good up here, that’s all I know. Hey, do you think anyone will notice the tree now?”
“With you up there,” Westlake said, “they have to.” He watched the smoke from Palz’s cigarette rise and split apart.
“I’m just glad to be off the ground,” Palz said after a while. “When we were flying back I wasn’t happy to be out of Afghanistan. Sure, I was happy, if you could call it that. But it wasn’t being out of it, away from it, that made me happy. I was just glad to be off the fucking ground for a while. Off the earth, at last.”
“How long will you stay up there,” Westlake asked.
Palz shrugged, and for the first time seemed both relaxed and unsure of himself. “No idea. Maybe until I know for sure that I can have the feeling down there that I have up here.”
That night, after work, Westlake saw that Palz was still sitting atop the tree. He was smoking. Before he went into his building he wondered if Palz had gotten down at any point during the day to buy more cigarettes or if someone had gone for him. At the rate he was smoking he surely must have run out. Palz didn’t see Westlake. He had his back to him just as he had that morning. Now and then irregularly shaped rings of smoke would crown Palz’s head, rise further, then dissipate.
Upstairs Westlake immediately went to the window. The streetlights were on now, fully illuminating the tree. Someone who lived in Palz’s building was returning from their day, someone they hadn’t seen that morning. Westlake watched as the woman stopped, looked up at Palz and then said something, a smile on her face. Nice. This fascinated Westlake, the lack of concern or consternation on the woman’s face at finding Palz here, atop this enormous portion of the enormous tree. He’d never seen her before, but clearly from the casual ease around their exchange, Palz had. The ubiquitous cigarette, wedged now between the fingers of Palz’s left hand sent a steady stream of smoke overhead. The woman said something more and Palz nodded. As he did, he brought the cigarette to his lips for a moment. Then, with his free unoccupied hand, he reached out and placed his open palm flat upon the bark of the redwood, action that appeared at once perfunctory but also uncertain. To Westlake, it was if Palz were checking to make sure the redwood was still there. Or, perhaps, to be certain once more that he was. The hand touched the bark, moving around almost searchingly it seemed, until after a few moments it grew still, an insecure lover who, upon awakening in the morning to find their partner sleeping beside them, is overjoyed.
