Death of a Dogwood

Calley despised housework, especially dusting the rows of books adorned with trees, flowers, and shrubs. The Well Tended Garden, Boxwood for Borders, and Time to Prune the Roses crowded the end of the bookshelf in her father's study. She sighed and brushed the covers with pink feathers. She thought of her father---the University man---the father she did not know but from pictures in an album. He left to work in a factory to support his young wife and was soon joined by Calley, their only child. He never returned to finish his studies. His fascination with the garden came later with the sunset of his wife's death.

Down from her step ladder, Calley decided to make herself scarce this afternoon. It was late, but luckily, her father was a capable cook and often left her to her own repast. A nagging desire plucked at her. For some time, she had been obsessed with dead animals. Her latest find, a bloated cat by the bike trail, begged for further inspection, and her hope was to find it intact. She threw off her apron and whisked out the back door. Her father, completely submerged in a hedge save for his boots, called a quick hello.

"I'll be back in an hour," she shouted. The hedge shivered and answered a faint affirmation.

Down the street, she happened upon Taylor Hamilton, a small boy with a cherub face and large, oval spectacles that emphasized its roundness. Taylor shared her father's love of growing things and kept a tidy vegetable garden in his backyard. Despite these faults, Calley liked the good-natured boy and enjoyed the way his nose wrinkled when a thought passed his mind. She whistled in his direction.

He was struggling with a large grocery bag, passing its weight from hand to hand. Walking over, he nearly toppled. "Sugar, milk, bread, and some stuff in a humongous can for Granny. She's staying with us while Mom's in the hospital," he answered.

"Drop them inside and then come with me. I have something to show you," Cally nodded in the direction of the soccer fields.

Taylor gave a conspiratorial nod and hobbled to his house. Disappearing inside, he returned in a moment, pulling a black and gold ball cap on his head.

"I bet it's another bird, right? Am I right??" It was more a statement than a question.

Calley refused to answer, but instead headed toward the bike trail. It was a well trodden path that wound like a snake around town. They passed the orange and yellow dots of small children scattered about the soccer field. Parents rested comfortably in folding chairs along the edge and took brief notice of the two children. From some distance away, the smell of Calley's treasure assaulted their noses sending Taylor's into a deep wrinkle. At a sharp, wooded turn they came upon a grotesque mass surrounded by green flies. "There!" Calley whispered. Taylor stopped in his tracks.

"Well, come on," she said, waving her arm.

Taylor stood transfixed, his head tilted upward. "It is dying."

"What do you mean dying? It is already dead!" She felt her excitement arrested by the strange, solemn expression on his face. His eyes were lifted toward the sky.

"The tree...the tree is dying." He pointed and walked at the same time. To the right of the squirming pile stood a graying tree with a few shoots of sickly blossoms.

"It's the blight." When he reached the spindly arbor, he cradled a puny flower as if it were made of delicate lace. His hands looked pale in the afternoon light.

"Who cares, Taylor? There are plenty of trees around...look, look at this!" She bent over the maggot-swarmed cat.

"But it is a Dogwood." His voice was slow and quiet. "How sad to die now that it is Spring. You see the tiny markings?" His eyes brightened. "Not so much on this tree, but they are there all the same."

"Taylor, come on."

"The wounds of Christ," he said.

Calley glanced at the little boy. Her brow knitted in puzzlement. "Are you okay?"

After a moment, he snapped back and said quickly, "I better go now. Granny's making biscuits for Dad and me. Do you want to have supper with us?"

Calley gave a hesitant nod and then followed the white reflection of Taylor's sneakers as he hurried home. When they arrived at his driveway, she said, "I must tell Father."

The look on Taylor's face haunted her as she made her way among the hedges in search of Mr. West. He was found, not in the side garden, but in the front yard, leaning rather hard on a large shovel. Another man, whom she recognized as Taylor's father, was talking with him in hushed tones. She could see her father's head lowered, occasionally nodding in agreement. Most striking was Mr. Hamilton's demeanor. He moved his head from side to side, lifting a shaking hand at intervals to wipe his face. Finally, they both felt her presence and turned toward her. She could see red streaks crossing their eyes. Taylor's father forced a weak smile.

"Miss Calley! What are you and that little rascal of a son up to now?" Mr. Hamilton had Taylor's warm, jovial nature. He looked at Calley's dad. "Jim, I better go. You know how Agnes is about supper. Bless her, despite her little quirks, she has been a Godsend."

"Peter, you know, I understand. If there is anything I can do, please ..." Calley stifled an embarrassed sigh when she saw the two men reach forward in a quick hug. Mr. Hamilton patted her head as he passed by her. She watched him briefly then turned with a questioning look to her father.

"Hey Calley, come here!" He waved her over and took her hand. "Did I ever tell you about the special tree your mother and I planted when we first bought this place?"

Calley shook her head. She wanted to ask, but did not have the courage.

"Well." He pointed to a thin-branch laden with brilliant white blossoms. They reminded Calley of something she had seen before. "Look," he said, and plucked a healthy, four-cornered bloom. He placed the flower in her palm. Against her skin lit by the descending sun, the four pink-tinged markings turned a deep shade of red. He watched her for a moment and then spoke in a low, soft voice.

"Calley," he said. "Taylor's mom is very ill. You are a good friend to him, so be extra kind. This Spring may be very hard for him."

Calley looked from the blossom to her father. She remembered Taylor's face on the bike path.

"The wounds of Christ," she said.

A sad smile crept across her father's face. He knelt beside her and enveloped her in his arms. The earthy smell of him comforted and disturbed her. She felt her face growing warmer and realized she was crying.

"That's my girl," her father said and pulled her close.