Why the Tree Loves the Axe. Jim Lewis

knew and believed. Have you found a job? she asked.

      I’m just about to start, I told her. I’m going to be changing bedsheets at an old-age home.

      Is it good? she said.

      I don’t know yet, I said.

      I’d like to do something like that, she said. Help out. Now I’m tending bar, but I’m not going to do it for the rest of my life. It’s O.K., but I’m going to get out.

      She was playing with a ring of keys, twisting them in and out of her fingers, humming very softly, not a song but sheer want of better work; she was quietly levitating just an inch or so above her seat. Do you want to conquer distant lands? Do you want to bring back spices, silk cloth, and silver? Do you want to be carried in through the gates of the city on an ivory chair? Someone dropped a glass in the kitchen and swore as it shattered. She took a sip from her soda and smiled. Soon as I pay my doctor, she said.

      We rose to leave and she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill; when I started to open my bag, she said, I’ve got this, let me, and she touched my wrist. No, come on, I said.—Just let me, she replied. So I put my money away; but as we were walking out the door I turned back for a moment and watched as the waitress put her hand over the banknote and transferred it into the pocket of her apron without looking at it.

      Out in the street, Bonnie seemed to burn a little bit, like an ember in the sun. A black dog lay sleeping on the sidewalk across the street. On a passing car radio a singer was crooning, Have you seen my baby? It was a consummate moment, everything seemed to fit into one faultless composition: calm, proportionate, meaningful. Bonnie was standing beside me; and I knew at once that I wanted her there all the time. Call it love at first sight, or sudden beatitude, or just one of those things, I don’t care. She drove me home and we traded phone numbers; we stood on the sidewalk and said a thousand last things quickly, as if a whole new conversation was trying to fit itself into the time we had left. Twice she took one step toward her car; twice she gave up and took the distance back. At last she laughed and said, Good-bye. Call me. So it was that she became the first best friend I’d had since I was in high school. I watched her taillights glowing madly as she braked at the corner, like some strange little spaceship trying to force its way into the traffic on the main road.

      At nine the following Monday morning I arrived at Eden View; by nine-thirty the administrator had started me on a tour, and for the next few hours she led me up and down the hallways. In all that time I never heard a sound louder than our heels on the floor: the residents roamed noiselessly through the place, shuffling in their bare feet, creeping along behind shiny steel walkers, wheeling inch by inch, drifting in and out of the rooms, through the foyers and down the halls, while the staff moved among them, more quickly but just as quietly. The atmosphere was at once exact and inane: each thing had its place, was named and counted and put away in a closet, each resident had a file in the office and a chart in the nurses’ station, and every event and activity was scheduled to the quarter hour. But none of it made any difference. I could see right away that the years had driven the old folks deeper and deeper into disorder; their lives were shaped like hourglasses, and as they neared the far end all the natural laws that had held them together were coming undone; right before my eyes, they were returning to the original chaos from which they’d fallen.

      Here we have the Nutritional Counseling Office, said the administrator. In a wheelchair outside the door sat a woman so aged that she looked like a wormwood tree. Hello, Mrs. Chapman. The woman raised her eyes and opened her mouth, but she said nothing, and we walked on.

      Cafeteria. Nurses’ station. Supply room. Staff lounge. In the residents’ recreation room we came upon a group of old men sitting around a round table playing cards, while a thin black man dressed all in yellow played aimlessly on an upright piano that sat a few feet away from the rear wall. Andre, snapped the administrator. Can you come here? He hit three more notes and left the rest of the song hanging. For a moment he stared at the air before his eyes, as if he were watching the music disappear; then he produced a final, silent flourish of his hands, quit his bench, and came across the room.

      Yes, ma’am? he said.

      This is Caroline Harrison, said the administrator.

      He reached out and shook my hand; his fingers were so long that they extended to my wrist. Welcome, he said.

      Caroline is our newest orderly. I’m giving her to you. Will you show her where to change and get her started?

      He nodded seriously and watched her back as she passed out the door. For a full thirty seconds he waited, one hand held up to quiet me, while I wondered if he was going to be good to me. At last he smiled. Come on, then, he said, and led me from the room.

      The sunlight on the windows was ancient and brittle, the hallway was dark, the air smelled of ammonia. This way, this way, said André, and he set off down the hall in the opposite direction from the administrator. Shhh, he said.—But as soon as we’d rounded the first corner, he began to prate. I’ve been here three years, he said. Almost four years. Every two weeks I get my paycheck and send half of it home, go down to Western Union. I’m still here, the big lady can yell at me, but I’m still here. She doesn’t like anyone but the doctors—ha!—but the doctors don’t like her. They have her for blood trouble, they yell at her and she goes in her room. I put my ear to the door and booo … booo, she’s crying. So I know. I know.—And he went on, and he never let up: for the next two hours I trailed him through the place and listened to his pitch: he gossiped, he joked and flirted, he ran down the nurses and mimicked the doctors. I caught no more than half of what he had to say—somewhere along the line it came out that he was from Kingston, and his accent was so strong that every other sentence was lost to me. He didn’t notice, he laughed and talked, he sang little verses of songs, he said, Right? Yes? Right? I nodded and laughed along with him, and followed him to the next station.

      The end of the day came earlier than I expected. So this was twenty-seven, I thought. These are my people, so soon; a sleep of snow and ashes. I was exhausted, I had too much to remember, and I wanted so badly for my masquerade to be successful. I wondered. In the women’s bathroom I changed back into my street clothes, and the face I saw in the mirror wore a determined expression. An orderly—yes—in an old-age home—yes—in Sugartown, Texas. It was a new life: I didn’t know what to expect, I really didn’t know. I had no idea.

      As I walked out the door, I found André waiting for me. A pair of men in dirty white uniforms passed between us with furtive looks on their faces. As soon as they were out of sight, André scowled. Custodians, he said, and clicked his tongue. Don’t bother with them. They have no names: they come to here, they sit around like stones, and as soon as they steal enough drugs, they leave.

      I nodded. O.K., I said. Well, O.K. Good night, and thank you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow. Last words, I started to leave, but he suddenly grabbed my hand, tugging it slightly to bring me closer. He bent his head, and for a second I saw the smell of his skin. Yes, but now you listen, he said. Everyone here is very nice. Except for Billy, you keep your eyes out for him.

      Who’s that? I asked. Billy?

      This old man, a bad man, you take my advice and watch out for him.

      I started to ask him more, but he shook his head; he had already warned me, and that was all he would say.

      

      I came home and found a message from Bonnie. Caroline? she said. Hi, it’s Bonnie, we met last Friday? Hi, I just wanted to say hello. I know you started work today and so, good luck and all that. I have to work tonight too—nights all this week. But look, if you have time, why don’t you come and visit me? It’s this place called Uncle Carl’s, on Route 36. You go out past the zoo about a mile, and it’s on the right. O.K.? So come out some night. O.K. Bye.

      As soon as I heard her voice I wanted to see her, but I didn’t have the time right away, I didn’t have the energy. We left messages for each other every few days: that was all I could manage, at the start. But I grew used to hearing her recorded voice on the phone, tentative and near, telling me, yes, she’d heard the last thing I’d said. She was