双语畅销书·怦然心动 Chapter 04 无花果树
Chapter 04
无花果树
我喜欢看爸爸画画。或者说，我其实是喜欢听他一边画画一边和我聊天。当他描画出层层风景时，那些话语总是变得温柔，似乎还有些沉重，那并不是悲伤。也许带着几分疲倦，但却充满平静。
爸爸没有画室，车库又总是被一堆以为有用却从来没有派上过用场的东西塞得满满的，所以，他在户外作画。
室外能看到最好的风景，但我家附近却没有什么风景可言。因此，爸爸习惯在卡车里放上一架照相机。作为泥瓦匠，他有很多机会去不同的地方，经常留心去寻找一片美丽的日出或夕阳，也许只是一处牛羊成群的田野，之后他从照片当中挑出一幅，夹在画框上，开始作画。
那些画还不错，但我总有点为他感到难过，不得不在模样欠佳的后院里画出美丽的景色。院子里从来就没什么好风景，自从我开始养鸡以来，就更糟了。
不过，爸爸画画的时候，似乎从来不会注意到院子本身，或是那些鸡。他看到的也不仅仅是照片和画布，而是更为庞大的东西。他的目光中流露出的神情，就像是已经超越了我家院子和邻居家，也超越了整个世界。当那双长茧子的大手握住小小的画笔扫过画布的时候，他就像被某种灵动、飘逸的东西附身了。
在我小时候，爸爸在门廊上画画的时候喜欢让我坐在他身边，只要我乖乖地不出声。保持安静对我来说有点难，不过我发现，只要五到十分钟不去看他，爸爸自己就会开始说话了。
我就是这样了解了爸爸的很多事情。他给我讲过各种故事，比如他在我这个年纪都做些什么，还有其他的——比如他怎样得到了第一份运送干草的工作，还有他多渴望能上完大学。
等我长大一点儿，他仍然给我讲他的故事，以及他的童年，但也开始问我一些问题。我在学校学了什么？最近在读什么书？还有我对各种事物的看法。
有一天，他出乎意料地问起了布莱斯的事。问我为什么对布莱斯这样着迷。
我给爸爸讲了他的眼睛、他的头发、他脸红的样子，但我觉得自己根本没有解释清楚，因为爸爸听我说完之后摇了摇头，语重心长地对我说，我需要抬头看看整个世界了。
我没太明白他的意思，却忍不住想反驳他。他怎么可能会理解布莱斯呢？爸爸根本就不认识他！
不过我们没有真的吵起来。在屋子里我们也许会吵架，但在院子里不会。
长时间的沉默之后，他亲了亲我的额头，然后说：“合适的光线就是一切，朱莉安娜。”
合适的光线？这是什么意思？我坐在那里想了又想，但不敢开口问他，生怕一开口就证明了自己还没有成熟到足以理解他的意思，虽然某种程度上这是明摆着的。他真以为我能理解吗？
从此以后，他不再多谈他做过的事情。等我长大一点儿，他似乎变得更加具有哲学气息。我不知道是他真的变了，还是他认为我已经超过十岁，能够听懂这些东西了。
大部分时间，他的话都被我当成了浮云，但我偶尔也能完全听懂他到底在说什么。“一幅画要大于构成它的那些笔画之和。”他这样说道，然后解释说为什么一头牛只是一头牛，一片草地只是一些花和草，太阳照射着树木只是一束光线，而把它们放在一起就有了一种魔力。
我明白他在说什么，但在我爬上无花果树的那天之前，我从未真切地感受过这句话的魅力。
这棵无花果树一直矗立在小山丘的最顶端。那儿有一大片空地，春天它为小鸟提供一个筑巢的空间，夏天它投出一片阴凉。它也是我们的天然滑梯。树干向上盘曲伸展，几乎长成一个完美的螺旋形，从上面滑下来真是乐趣无穷。妈妈告诉我，这棵树小时候遭受过损害，却生存下来了，一直屹立到百年后的今天，她认为这是她见过的最大的一棵树。她管它叫“坚毅的象征”。
我经常在树上玩，但是直到五年级，我去取一只挂在树杈上的风筝时，才真的爱上了爬树。我先是看着风筝自由地从天上滑落，然后眼看它一头栽到小山坡上无花果树的附近。
多年放风筝的经验告诉我——有的时候它们一去不复返，有的时候它们就等在你去拯救它们的路上。有些风筝很幸运，有的也很难搞。两种我都遇到过，一只幸运的风筝才值得你去追寻它。
这只风筝看来就很幸运。它的样子并不出奇，只是个传统的带蓝黄条纹的菱形风筝。但它用一种友善的方式跌跌撞撞地飞了一阵，当它掉落的时候，也是以某种疲倦的姿态栽下来，与那些态度恶劣的风筝截然相反。难搞的风筝们总是恶意地向着地面俯冲轰炸。它们从不疲倦，因为根本没有在天上待够那么长的时间。它们一般飞了十米左右就冲你坏笑一番，然后坠落，只是为了好玩而已。
“冠军”和我跑向克里尔街，在路上找了一会儿，“冠军”开始朝着无花果树的方向吠叫。我向上看去，也发现了枝杈间闪烁的蓝色和黄色。
看上去要爬很长一段距离，但我决定试试运气。我攀上树干，在树弯上寻找捷径，开始向上爬。“冠军”密切注视着我，一路吠叫，我很快便爬到了从未达到的高度。但是风筝却还在遥不可及的树梢上。
我向下看去，发现布莱斯正走过街角，正在穿过空地。从他向上窥探的方式，我能看出那是他的风筝。
原来这个风筝是这么、这么地幸运！
“你能爬到那么高吗？”他朝树上喊道。
“没问题！”我喊回去。我要向上、向上、再向上！
树枝很粗壮，并且提供了足够的交叉点，让攀爬变得容易起来。爬得越高，我就对上面的景色越惊讶。我从来没有见过这样的风景！就像是在飞机上俯瞰所有的屋顶、所有的树木。我在全世界最高的地方！
然后我向下望去，看到树下的布莱斯。忽然间我觉得有点头晕，膝盖也软了。我离地面有好几英里呢！布莱斯喊道：“你能够到它吗？”
我喘了口气，努力喊回去：“没问题！”然后强迫自己把注意力集中在头上的蓝黄条纹，在攀爬的过程中只盯着它。我终于摸到了，一把抓住它，那风筝现在就在我手里！
可是，风筝线缠在了头顶的树枝上，我没法把它拽出来。布莱斯对我喊：“把线扯掉！”我尽量照他的话去做了。
终于摘下了风筝，在下树之前我必须休息一下。我不再把目光投向地面，而是抱紧树干向外看去，朝着屋顶的方向。
忽然间，因为爬得太高而产生的恐惧感不见了，取而代之的则是一种“我正在飞翔”的神奇感觉，就像翱翔在大地之上，航行于云朵之间。
我突然发现，原来微风的味道是那么好闻。它闻起来就像……阳光。像阳光、野草、石榴和雨滴！我不由自主地大口呼吸着，我的肺被这种最甜蜜的味道一次又一次地充满。
布莱斯向上喊道：“你被卡住了吗？”我这才清醒过来。小心地向下退去，手里抓着那只珍贵的条纹风筝，我在下树的过程中看到布莱斯正绕着大树一直看着我，以确保我的安全。
当我爬到树弯处，爬树时那种让人飘飘然的感觉已经变成了一个让人飘飘然的现实：布莱斯和我正单独待在一起。
单独待在一起！
把风筝拿给他的时候，我的心脏狂跳不止。还没等他接住风筝，“冠军”就在背后轻推着我，我能感觉到它那又湿又凉的鼻子蹭在我的皮肤上。
蹭在我的皮肤上？
我向身后摸去，才发现牛仔裤的屁股后面撕了一个大口子。
布莱斯紧张地笑了笑，我知道他已经看到了，一瞬间，我的脸上火烧火燎。他拿着风筝跑开了，把我留在那里检查裤子的破洞。
我最后还是把裤子带来的尴尬抛在了脑后，却一直无法忘记树上的风景。我不断地想起坐在高高的树枝上的那种体验。
我还想再去看，再去体验。一次又一次地体验。
没过多久，我就不再害怕爬到高处，并且找到了一个只属于我的地方。我在那里一坐就是几个小时，什么都不做，只是向外眺望整个世界。夕阳美不胜收，有时候是紫色夹杂着粉色，有时候是烈焰般的橙色，把地平线附近的云彩都点着了。
就这样，某一天我忽然顿悟了爸爸所说的“整体大于局部之和”的道理。无花果树上的风景，已经超越了那些屋顶和云朵本身。
它有一种魔力。
而我开始惊讶于自己竟然同时体验到了卑微与宏大。这怎么可能呢？我的内心为何充满了平静，同时又充满了惊叹？简简单单的一棵树，怎么会让我体验到如此复杂的感情？它让我感觉到自己的存在。
一有机会，我就爬到树上。初中的时候几乎每天都爬，因为克里尔街有个校车站，正好在无花果树下。
一开始，我只想看看在校车到站之前能爬多高，没过多久，我就早早地出门，只为了爬到我独享的位置，欣赏日出，看小鸟振翅，看其他的孩子聚在路边。
我曾经试图劝其他等车的孩子跟我一起爬上来，哪怕只爬一点点高，但是他们全都不想把衣服弄脏。因为怕脏而拒绝一个感受奇迹的机会？我简直不敢相信。
我从来不敢把爬树的事告诉妈妈。她是个特别敏感的大人，一定会说爬树太危险。我的哥哥们，作为兄弟，他们才不管我呢。
还有爸爸，我知道他会理解我。不过，我还是不敢告诉他，他会告诉妈妈，然后他们很快就会禁止我再爬树。所以我保留了这个秘密，继续爬树，在俯瞰世界的时候感受着一份孤独的快乐。
几个月以前，我发现自己开始跟树说话了。一段完整的对话，只有我和树。从树上下来的时候，我有点想哭。为什么没有一个人愿意和我说话呢？为什么我不像其他人一样有个最好的朋友在身边？我当然认识学校里别的孩子，可他们中间没有一个人和我算得上亲密。他们对爬树不感兴趣，也一点儿都不关心阳光的味道。
那天晚饭之后，爸爸到户外去画画。寒冷的夜晚，在门廊刺眼的灯光下，他准备给一幅还未完工的日落风景添上最后几笔。
我穿上外套，来到屋子外面，在他身边坐下，安静得像一只小耗子。
过了一会儿，他说：“你在想什么，亲爱的？”
以前我们在一起的时候，爸爸从来没有问过这个问题。我看着他，却说不出话来。
他把两种不同色调的橙色混在一起，然后非常轻柔地说：“跟我说说吧。”
我重重地叹了口气，把自己都吓了一跳：“我理解你为什么到这里来了，爸爸。”
他故意逗弄我：“那你可以帮我跟妈妈解释一下咯？”
“我没有开玩笑，爸爸。现在我明白你说的‘整体大于部分之和’的意义了。”
他停止调色：“是吗？怎么回事？说说看。”
于是，我给他讲了无花果树的事。那里的风景、声音、色彩、风，还有爬到高处时飞翔般的感觉。如同一种魔力。
他一次都没有打断我，当我把憋在心里的话都说完，我看着他，低声说：“你能和我一起爬上去吗？”
他思考了很长时间，然后露出了笑容：“我很久不爬树了，朱莉安娜，但是我愿意试一试，真的。你看这个周末怎么样？白天我们有很长时间可以用来爬树。”
“太棒了！”
我带着激动的心情上床去睡觉，我想整晚我睡着的时间不会超过五分钟。星期六眼看就要到啦。我已经等不及了！
第二天早上，我起了个大早冲向校车站，爬到树上。正赶上太阳冲破云层，把火焰般的光束洒向世界的每一个角落。我在心里默默地列出一个清单，写满了要给爸爸看的东西，忽然听到树下一片嘈杂。
我朝下面望去，两辆卡车就停在树下，都是巨型卡车。其中一辆拖着长长的空拖车，另一辆装着一架车载式吊车——就是用来修理输电线和电线杆的那种。
四个男人站在那里聊着天，端着热水瓶喝水，我差一点儿就想对他们大喊：“对不起，这里不能停车……”
我的后半句话“这里是校车站”还没说出口，其中一个人就开始从卡车上卸下工具。手套、绳子、防滑链、耳罩，最后是链锯，三把链锯。
我还是没反应过来。我朝四周看去，想找到他们来这里到底想砍什么。这时，一个坐校车的学生走过来，和他们交谈起来，一会儿他伸手指了指树上的我。
其中一个人喊道：“嘿！你最好快点下来，我们就要砍树了。”
我紧紧地抱住树枝，忽然之间我觉得自己快要掉下去了。压抑住快要窒息的感觉，我问：“砍树？”
“对，现在赶紧下来吧。”
“可是，谁让你们来砍树的？”
“树的主人！”他喊道。
“为什么？”
即使在十几米的高空，我都能看到他的眉头皱了起来。他说：“因为他想建一座房子，这棵树挡了他的路。快点下来，姑娘，我们要工作了！”
大部分学生已经在车站等车了。没有人跟我说一句话，他们只是看着我，不时交头接耳。这时，布莱斯出现了，我知道校车就快到了。我越过房顶搜索了片刻，确定校车离这里已经不到四条街了。
我又惊又怕，心脏狂跳。我不知道该怎么办！不能眼睁睁地离开让他们砍了这棵树！我尖叫道：“你们不许砍树！就是不许！”
一个工人摇了摇头：“你再不下来，我就要叫警察了。你这是擅自妨碍我们工作。你是下来，还是想跟树一起被我们砍倒？”
校车离这里还有三条街。除了请病假，我从来没有因为任何原因逃过学，不过潜意识里我知道今天一定会错过这趟校车了。“你连我一起砍倒吧！”我喊道。忽然我想出一个主意。如果我们所有人都爬到树上，他们一定不敢再砍了！“嘿，伙伴们！”我招呼同学们，“上来陪我吧！如果我们都在树上，他们是不敢动手的！玛西亚！托尼！布莱斯！来呀，朋友，不能让他们砍树！”
学生们只是站在那里，盯着我看。
我看到校车了，就在一条街以外：“上来吧，伙伴们！不用爬这么高，一点点就够！快来吧！”
校车晃晃悠悠地开过来，停靠在路边，就停在卡车前面，车门一开，所有同学一个接一个地上车了。
之后发生了什么事情，在我的记忆里有点模糊不清。我记得邻居们聚在一起，警察拿着扩音器。我记得搭起了消防云梯，有个人跳出来说这棵倒霉的树是属于他的，我最好赶紧从树上下来。
妈妈被人叫来了。一改往日的理性形象，她又喊又叫，求我从树上下来，可我就是不动地方。我不会下去的。
后来，爸爸也赶了过来。他从卡车里跳下来，跟妈妈交谈了一会儿，然后请吊车司机把他升到我所在的地方。这时我只有缴械投降的份儿了。我哭了，我试着让他俯瞰房顶上面的景色，但他不肯。
他说没有什么风景比他小女儿的安全来得更重要。
爸爸把我从树上接下来，然后送我回家，但我根本待不下去。我受不了远处传来的链锯声音。
于是，他只好带着我去工作，在他砌墙的时候，我坐在卡车里哭泣。
我至少哭了整整两个星期。当然，我又去上学了，努力做出最好的表现，但再也不坐校车了。我改骑自行车上学，虽然要骑很长一段路，但不必每天到克里尔街等车了，也不用面对一堆木屑，它们曾经是全世界最美的无花果树。
一天晚上，当我回到自己的房间，爸爸走进来，拿着一件用毛巾盖住的东西。我看出那是一张画，因为每当在公园做展览的时候，他总是这样运输他的重要作品。他坐下来，把画放在面前的地板上。“我一直很喜欢你的树，”他说，“甚至在你告诉我之前，我就喜欢上它了。”
“哦，爸爸，没关系。已经都过去了。”
“不，朱莉安娜。你不会忘记它的。”
我哭了：“只是一棵树……”
“我不希望你这样说服自己。我们都知道，这不仅仅是一棵树的问题。”
“但是爸爸……”
“听我说完，好吗？”他深吸了一口气，“我希望这棵树的灵魂可以一直陪在你身边。我希望你记住爬到树上的感觉，”他犹豫了一下，把画递给我，“所以，我给你画了这幅画。”
我掀开毛巾，看到了我的树。我美丽、庄严的无花果树。他在枝条中间添上了火焰般的阳光，而我似乎能感觉到微风吹拂着树叶。树顶上，一个小女孩正在向远处眺望，她的脸蛋红红的，染红它的是风，是欢乐，是魔力。
“别哭了，朱莉安娜。我想帮助你，不是想惹你伤心。”我擦去脸上的泪痕，轻轻地抽着鼻子。“谢谢你，爸爸，”我抽泣着说，“谢谢你。”
我把画挂在床对面的墙上。它是我每天早上睁眼之后看到的第一样东西，也是晚上闭眼之前看到的最后一样东西。现在我见到它不会再掉眼泪了，在我眼里，它已经不仅仅是一棵树，我理解了树上的时光对我来说意味着什么。从那一天起，我对待周遭事物的看法开始改变了。
Chapter 04
The Sycamore Tree
JULIANNA
I love to watch my father paint. Or really, I love to hear him talk while he paints. The words always come out soft and somehow heavy when he's brushing on the layers of a landscape. Not sad. Weary, maybe, but peaceful.
My father doesn't have a studio or anything, and since the garage is stuffed with things that everyone thinks they need but no one ever uses, he paints outside.
Outside is where the best landscapes are, only they're nowhere near our house. So what he does is keep a camera in his truck. His job as a mason takes him to lots of different locations, and he's always on the lookout for a great sunrise or sunset, or even just a nice field with sheep or cows. Then he picks out one of the snapshots, clips it to his easel, and paints.
The paintings come out fine, but I've always felt a little sorry for him, having to paint beautiful scenes in our backyard, which is not exactly picturesque. It never was much of a yard, but after I started raising chickens, things didn't exactly improve.
Dad doesn't seem to see the backyard or the chickens when he's painting, though. It's not just the snapshot or the canvas he sees either. It's something much bigger. He gets this look in his eye like he's transcended the yard, the neighborhood, the world. And as his big, callused hands sweep a tiny brush against the canvas, it's almost like his body has been possessed by some graceful spiritual being.
When I was little, my dad would let me sit beside him on the porch while he painted, as long as I'd be quiet. I don't do quiet easily, but I discovered that after five or ten minutes without a peep, he'd start talking.
I've learned a lot about my dad that way. He told me all sorts of stories about what he'd done when he was my age, and other things, too — like how he got his first job delivering hay, and how he wished he'd finished college.
When I got a little older, he still talked about himself and his childhood, but he also started asking questions about me. What were we learning at school? What book was I currently reading? What did I think about this or that.
Then one time he surprised me and asked me about Bryce. Why was I so crazy about Bryce?
I told him about his eyes and his hair and the way his cheeks blush, but I don't think I explained it very well because when I was done Dad shook his head and told me in soft, heavy words that I needed to start looking at the whole landscape.
I didn't really know what he meant by that, but it made me want to argue with him. How could he possibly understand about Bryce? He didn't know him!
But this was not an arguing spot. Those were scattered throughout the house, but not out here.
We were both quiet for a record-breaking amount of time before he kissed me on the forehead and said, "Proper lighting is everything, Julianna."
Proper lighting? What was that supposed to mean? I sat there wondering, but I was afraid that by asking I'd be admitting that I wasn't mature enough to understand, and for some reason it felt obvious. Like I should understand.
After that he didn't talk so much about events as he did about ideas. And the older I got, the more philosophical he seemed to get. I don't know if he really got more philosophical or if he just thought I could handle it now that I was in the double digits.
Mostly the things he talked about floated around me, but once in a while something would happen and I would understand exactly what he had meant. "A painting is more than the sum of its parts," he would tell me, and then go on to explain how the cow by itself is just a cow, and the meadow by itself is just grass and flowers, and the sun peeking through the trees is just a beam of light, but put them all together and you've got magic.
I understood what he was saying, but I never felt what he was saying until one day when I was up in the sycamore tree.
The sycamore tree had been at the top of the hill forever. It was on a big vacant lot, giving shade in the summer and a place for birds to nest in the spring. It had a built-in slide for us, too. Its trunk bent up and around in almost a complete spiral, and it was so much fun to ride down. My mom told me she thought the tree must have been damaged as a sapling but survived, and now, maybe a hundred years later, it was still there, the biggest tree she'd ever seen. "A testimony to endurance" is what she called it.
I had always played in the tree, but I didn't become a serious climber until the fifth grade, when I went up to rescue a kite that was stuck in its branches. I'd first spotted the kite floating free through the air and then saw it dive-bomb somewhere up the hill by the sycamore tree.
I've flown kites before and I know — sometimes they're gone forever, and sometimes they're just waiting in the middle of the road for you to rescue them. Kites can be lucky or they can be ornery. I've had both kinds, and a lucky kite is definitely worth chasing after.
This kite looked lucky to me. It wasn't anything fancy, just an old-fashioned diamond with blue and yellow stripes. But it stuttered along in a friendly way, and when it dive-bombed, it seemed to do so from exhaustion as opposed to spite. Ornery kites dive-bomb out of spite. They never get exhausted because they won't stay up long enough to poop out. Thirty feet up they just sort of smirk at you and crash for the fun of it.
So Champ and I ran up to Collier Street, and after scouting out the road, Champ started barking at the sycamore tree. I looked up and spotted it, too, flashing blue and yellow through the branches.
It was a long ways up, but I thought I'd give it a shot. I shinnied up the trunk, took a shortcut across the slide, and started climbing. Champ kept a good eye on me, barking me along, and soon I was higher than I'd ever been. But still the kite seemed forever away.
Then below me I noticed Bryce coming around the corner and through the vacant lot. And I could tell from the way he was looking up that this was his kite.
What a lucky, lucky kite this was turning out to be!
Can you climb that high? he called up to me.
Sure! I called back. And up, up, up I went!
The branches were strong, with just the right amount of intersections to make climbing easy. And the higher I got, the more amazed I was by the view. I'd never seen a view like that! It was like being in an airplane above all the rooftops, above the other trees. Above the world!
Then I looked down. Down at Bryce. And suddenly I got dizzy and weak in the knees. I was miles off the ground! Bryce shouted, "Can you reach it?"
I caught my breath and managed to call down, "No problem!"then forced myself to concentrate on those blue and yellow stripes, to focus on them and only them as I shinnied up, up, up. Finally I touched it; I grasped it; I had the kite in my hand!
But the string was tangled in the branches above and I couldn't seem to pull it free. Bryce called, "Break the string!" and somehow I managed to do just that.
When I had the kite free, I needed a minute to rest. To recover before starting down. So instead of looking at the ground below me, I held on tight and looked out. Out across the rooftops.
That's when the fear of being up so high began to lift, and in its place came the most amazing feeling that I was flying. Just soaring above the earth, sailing among the clouds.
Then I began to notice how wonderful the breeze smelled. It smelled like ... sunshine. Like sunshine and wild grass and pomegranates and rain! I couldn't stop breathing it in, filling my lungs again and again with the sweetest smell I'd ever known.
Bryce called up, "Are you stuck?" which brought me down to earth. Carefully I backed up, prized stripes in hand, and as I worked my way down, I could see Bryce circling the tree, watching me to make sure I was okay.
By the time I hit the slide, the heady feeling I'd had in the tree was changing into the heady realization that Bryce and I were alone.
Alone!
My heart was positively racing as I held the kite out to him. But before he could take it, Champ nudged me from behind and I could feel his cold, wet nose against my skin.
Against my skin? !
I grabbed my jeans in back, and that's when I realized the seat of my pants was ripped wide open.
Bryce laughed a little nervous laugh, so I could tell he knew, and for once mine were the cheeks that were beet red. He took his kite and ran off, leaving me to inspect the damage.
I did eventually get over the embarrassment of my jeans, but I never got over the view. I kept thinking of what it felt like to be up so high in that tree. I wanted to see it, to feel it, again. And again.
It wasn't long before I wasn't afraid of being up so high and found the spot that became my spot. I could sit there for hours, just looking out at the world. Sunsets were amazing. Some days they'd be purple and pink, some days they'd be a blazing orange, setting fire to clouds across the horizon.
It was on a day like that when my father's notion of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts moved from my head to my heart. The view from my sycamore was more than rooftops and clouds and wind and colors combined.
It was magic.
And I started marveling at how I was feeling both humble and majestic. How was that possible? How could I be so full of peace and full of wonder? How could this simple tree make me feel so complex? So alive.
I went up the tree every chance I got. And in junior high that became almost every day because the bus to our school picks up on Collier Street, right in front of the sycamore tree.
At first I just wanted to see how high I could get before the bus pulled up, but before long I was leaving the house early so I could get clear up to my spot to see the sun rise, or the birds flutter about, or just the other kids converge on the curb.
I tried to convince the kids at the bus stop to climb up with me, even a little ways, but all of them said they didn't want to get dirty. Turn down a chance to feel magic for fear of a little dirt? I couldn't believe it.
I'd never told my mother about climbing the tree. Being the truly sensible adult that she is, she would have told me it was too dangerous. My brothers, being brothers, wouldn't have cared.
That left my father. The one person I knew would understand. Still, I was afraid to tell him. He'd tell my mother and pretty soon they'd insist that I stop. So I kept quiet, kept climbing, and felt a somewhat lonely joy as I looked out over the world.
Then a few months ago I found myself talking to the tree. An entire conversation, just me and a tree. And on the climb down I felt like crying. Why didn't I have someone real to talk to? Why didn't I have a best friend like everyone else seemed to? Sure, there were kids I knew at school, but none of them were close friends. They'd have no interest in climbing the tree. In smelling the sunshine.
That night after dinner my father went outside to paint. In the cold of the night, under the glare of the porch light, he went out to put the finishing touches on a sunrise he'd been working on.
I got my jacket and went out to sit beside him, quiet as a mouse.
After a few minutes he said, "What's on your mind, sweetheart?"
In all the times I'd sat out there with him, he'd never asked me that. I looked at him but couldn't seem to speak.
He mixed two hues of orange together, and very softly he said, "Talk to me."
I sighed so heavily it surprised even me. "I understand why you come out here, Dad."
He tried kidding me. "Would you mind explaining it to your mother?"
Really, Dad. I understand now about the whole being greater than the sum of the parts.
He stopped mixing. "You do? What happened? Tell me about it!"
So I told him about the sycamore tree. About the view and the sounds and the colors and the wind, and how being up so high felt like flying. Felt like magic.
He didn't interrupt me once, and when my confession was through, I looked at him and whispered, "Would you climb up there with me?"
He thought about this a long time, then smiled and said, "I'm not much of a climber anymore, Julianna, but I'll give it a shot, sure. How about this weekend, when we've got lots of daylight to work with?"
Great!
I went to bed so excited that I don't think I slept more than five minutes the whole night. Saturday was right around the corner. I couldn't wait!
The next morning I raced to the bus stop extra early and climbed the tree. I caught the sun rising through the clouds, sending streaks of fire from one end of the world to the other. And I was in the middle of making a mental list of all the things I was going to show my father when I heard a noise below.
I looked down, and parked right beneath me were two trucks. Big trucks. One of them was towing a long, empty trailer, and the other had a cherry picker on it — the kind they use to work on overhead power lines and telephone poles.
There were four men standing around talking, drinking from thermoses, and I almost called down to them, "I'm sorry, but you can't park there... That's a bus stop!" But before I could, one of the men reached into the back of a truck and started unloading tools. Gloves. Ropes. A chain. Earmuffs. And then chain saws. Three chain saws.
And still I didn't get it. I kept looking around for what it was they could possibly be there to cut down. Then one of the kids who rides the bus showed up and started talking to them, and pretty soon he was pointing up at me.
One of the men called, "Hey! You better come down from there. We gotta take this thing down."
I held on to the branch tight, because suddenly it felt as though I might fall. I managed to choke out, "The tree?"
Yeah, now come on down.
But who told you to cut it down?
The owner! he called back.
But why?
Even from forty feet up I could see him scowl. "Because he's gonna build himself a house, and he can't very well do that with this tree in the way. Now come on, girl, we've got work to do!"
By that time most of the kids had gathered for the bus. They weren't saying anything to me, just looking up at me and turning from time to time to talk to each other. Then Bryce appeared, so I knew the bus was about to arrive. I searched across the rooftops and sure enough, there it was, less than four blocks away.
My heart was crazy with panic. I didn't know what to do! I couldn't leave and let them cut down the tree! I cried, "You can't cut it down! You just can't!"
One of the men shook his head and said, "I am this close to calling the police. You are trespassing and obstructing progress on a contracted job. Now are you going to come down or are we going to cut you down?"
The bus was three blocks away. I'd never missed school for any reason other than legitimate illness, but I knew in my heart that I was going to miss my ride. "You're going to have to cut me down!" I yelled. Then I had an idea. They'd never cut it down if all of us were in the tree. They'd have to listen! "Hey, guys!" I called to my classmates. "Get up here with me! They can't cut it down if we're all up here! Marcia! Tony! Bryce! C'mon, you guys, don't let them do this!"
They just stood there, staring up at me.
I could see the bus, one block away. "Come on, you guys! You don't have to come up this high. Just a little ways. Please!"
The bus blasted up and pulled to the curb in front of the trucks, and when the doors folded open, one by one my classmates climbed on board.
What happened after that is a bit of a blur. I remember the neighbors gathering, and the police with megaphones. I remember the fire brigade, and some guy saying it was his blasted tree and I'd darn well better get out of it.
Somebody tracked down my mother, who cried and pleaded and acted not at all the way a sensible mother should, but I was not coming down. I was not coming down.
Then my father came racing up. He jumped out of his pickup truck, and after talking with my mother for a few minutes, he got the guy in the cherry picker to give him a lift up to where I was. After that it was all over. I started crying and tried to get him to look out over the rooftops, but he wouldn't. He said that no view was worth his little girl's safety.
He got me down and he took me home, only I couldn't stay there. I couldn't stand the sound of chain saws in the distance.
So Dad took me with him to work, and while he put up a block wall, I sat in his truck and cried.
I must've cried for two weeks straight. Oh, sure, I went to school and I functioned the best I could, but I didn't go there on the bus. I started riding my bike instead, taking the long way so I wouldn't have to go up to Collier Street. Up to a pile of sawdust that used to be the earth's most magni ficent sycamore tree.
Then one evening when I was locked up in my room, my father came in with something under a towel. I could tell it was a painting because that's how he transports the important ones when he shows them in the park. He sat down, resting the painting on the floor in front of him. "I always liked that tree of yours," he said. "Even before you told me about it."
Oh, Dad, it's okay. I'll get over it.
No, Julianna. No, you won't.
I started crying. "It was just a tree..."
I never want you to convince yourself of that. You and I both know it isn't true.
But Dad...
Bear with me a minute, would you? He took a deep breath. "I want the spirit of that tree to be with you always. I want you to remember how you felt when you were up there." He hesitated a moment, then handed me the painting. "So I made this for you."
I pulled off the towel, and there was my tree. My beautiful, majestic sycamore tree. Through the branche she'd painted the fire of sunrise, and it seemed to me I could feel the wind. And way up in the tree was a tiny girl looking off into the distance, her cheeks flushed with wind. With joy. With magic.
Don't cry, Julianna. I want it to help you, not hurt you.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks and gave a mighty sniff. "Thank you, Daddy," I choked out. "Thank you."
I hung the painting across the room from my bed. It's the first thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night. And now that I can look at it without crying, I see more than the tree and what being up in its branches meant to me.
I see the day that my view of things around me started changing.
