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The Remembering TreeA short story byChristopher C. BellandSeptember 27 - October 3, 2013 • www.conchcolor.comCorrectioon: Our apologies, last week we published only a portion of the story without explanation. Here is the story in it’s entirety.The unexpected rap on the door startledEmily Pinder enough that she spilled a littlecoffee from her cup into the saucer. Not alot, just enough to fill the indentation at thebottom. She wondered why she felt nervouson this beautiful Key West morning in 1918.Wasn’t it just another day?As she opened the door more than justbright morning light flooded into the roomand her life. The small boy who stood beforeher had his head bowed like he was studyinghis dirty bare feet and didn’t look up like hewould have normally. He just stood there andmumbled, “Mornin’ Miz Pinder. I been sentover here to bring you this telegram.”With that, he pulled the envelope from hispocket and offered it up, spun around, stillnot making eye contact but managed a gurglesounding, “Bye, Miz Pinder.”Emily Pinder stood like a statue in thedoorway holding the envelope in her nowtrembling hands until, through already mistingeyes, she forced herself to look down andconfirm her worst fear. It was from the WarDepartment in Washington, D.C.The GangI’m the only one left now which is funnybecause I wasn’t the youngest of the gang wecalled the Black Mangrove Society. But lifedoesn’t always go the way you think…that’sone thing for sure.I say ‘we’ called it the Black MangroveSociety but, like most everything we did backthen as boys growing up in Key West, thewhole idea was John “Bubba” Pinder’s inspiration.It wasn’t just because he was the oldestbut he was clearly the smartest of us all and,believe me, he used his smarts to get us intoa lot of stuff we wouldn’t have done withouthim. Like the time some big shot came fromChicago to collect rare tropical fish and wasgoing to pay a lot for them. We found one andwhen we couldn’t find any more, we’d swimunder the building at night into the pen wherehe was keeping all the fish and get the sameone from that morning. He was all excitedwhen we’d brought him four until he foundout it was the same fish. Bubba’s mom madeus give the money back. But we got a goodlaugh out of it while it lasted. I didn’t know itat the time, but those would be the best daysof my life.Bubba even gave each of us our names. No,I don’t mean what we signed with at school,but the name everyone wound up calling you.Key West was like that back then. Most all theboys had names and even some of the girls.You prayed you didn’t get stuck with a badone like “Big Lips” or “Runt.”Of course, when Bubba took a liking toa kid and gave him his name it was alwaysa good one that seemed to fit. Like AbnerSweeting who got called “Tweetie” becausehe was damn near always whistling. Hewas pretty good, too…hear a song once andwhistle it perfect after.Then there was Henry Salinero who gotcalled “Coffee.” I’m not sure whether it wasbecause his family ran the grocery store wherethey served café con leche or because he wasa kind of swarthy-looking Cuban kid. Bubbanever explained why he picked the namesexcept maybe once or twice when it was prettyobvious like when a seagull flew over andcrapped on Joe Esquinaldo and, of course,he got to be called, “Poopy” for the rest of hislife. It wasn’t a bad thing though because backthen getting crapped on by a bird was consideredgood luck by the Cubans, who, like thenative Conchs, had a lot of funny ideas aboutsuch things.“Yoyo” was just Yoyo because what elseare you going to call someone named JesusArroyo? He could have got a lot worse. Hewas always in trouble for something. I guessMiss Marina, our first grade teacher, was rightabout it when she said anytime she had a kidnamed Jesus she knew he was going to be aproblem!Bubba called me “Tuffy.” I was small formy age and it seemed I was always going atit with someone about something. Like Isaid Bubba never said why. My name is JohnKnowles.The Meeting“Bubba’s dead,” I said. “Don’t you get it?He’s dead and he ain’t never coming backfrom that God damned war we all thoughtwas so wonderful for him to lie about his ageand go to.”I still remember the exact words I used totell the fellows about the telegram I just deliveredto Bubba’s mother that morning. I knewwhat the telegram was because my father ranthe Western Union office in Key West and I’ddelivered a few like this one before. Believeme when I tell you, though, this one felt awhole lot different. I mean, of course, I knewall the families that got them. Everyone kneweveryone then, but for Bubba it was different.He was more than the leader of the gang. Hewas like a big brother who would always stepin for you in a fight. He was the guy whotried “it” first. Christ, he was our hero.When he came home on leave in hisuniform after basic training, we all went tomeet him at the train station. It was like hewas a returning general or something. And,of course, he didn’t have to be the way hewas with us then. He was a man now and wewere still punk kids. He could have struttedoff that train and had any girl he wanted andeven gone into the bars for a beer. But no…that wasn’t Bubba’s way. He was as loyal asalways and hugged us all like little brothersand made his easy jokes.“Hey Poop, you keepin’ your head down?Tuffy, I hope the other guy looks worse thanyou!”Jesus, we felt like kings and everywhereBubba went we all went. It was just like oldtimes. We hung on every word of his storiesabout training camp and thought it was justthe grandest of adventures.Then the day came when Bubba’s leavewas over and his orders came. He was to shipout of New York to some place in France sohe could go kill Krauts. We weren’t too surewhat a Kraut was except Mr. Altman, thebaker, was one and I couldn’t understandwhy we’d want to kill people like Mr. Altman.Bubba tried to explain about the presidentand countries and all, but we were just islandpeople 120 miles from the mainland and 90miles from Cuba. What did we know?I remember waving goodbye to Bubbafrom the platform. We were all shouting andyelling and Bubba was just standing there atthe back of the last car looking swell in hisuniform but with a funny look I’d never seenbefore. His mother was crying into the coatof Bubba’s dad who was standing as stiff as aboard.The TreeWe were all crying now but we didn’t care. Itwas us…the Society. It was for Bubba. Whoeversaid men aren’t supposed to cry neverlost anything worth a damn.After a while of just staring blank faced andletting the reality of it sink in, Tweetie spokefirst.“What do you mean he ain’t never cominghome? Ain’t they gonna even send his bodyback?”“No,” I said. “You know there’s been a fewother Key Westers kilt over there and some areprobably just blown all to hell, but they neversend anybody back anyway unless they’resomebody important like a general or a richguy. Mostly they just get buried wherever theyare. No, Bubba is dead and buried in Franceand that’s that.”The thought of Bubba being buried insome far away place hung in the air of thesmall shack we built for our clubhouse like thefoul breath of reality that it was.“Whaddya mean ‘that’s that’? ‘That’s that’ isshit,” Coffee wailed with tears, snot and spittlecollecting and dripping off his quivering chin.“Christ, Coffee, I didn’t mean it like thatbut it’s just the truth that’s all.”“So ‘that’s that’ means that somedaysomebody’ll put his name on a goddamnedplaque somewhere in the goddamned park,like the one for the guys who died in the CivilWar?” Poopy managed to choke out wanting itto sound tougher than it did.“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “But that just don’tseem like enough. I mean what about us?We’re the Society and he was a brother. Whatare we going to do?”“We ain’t got any money for no plaque,”said Tweetie. “And anyway, where’d we put it?”Yoyo, who’d been sitting quiet now fora long time, suddenly drew everybody’s attentionwhen he stood up looking off intonothing and said, “I know exactly what Bubbawould want. You know how everything inthe Society is ours and nobody else’s like thisplace, our handshake and secret code words –all the stuff he came up with to make us feellike blood brothers? Bubba’d want somethingthat only we knew about that would be partof the Society…another bond sort of. He’dwant us to plant a tree to remember him byso every time we went by it the people whomeant the most to him would think of him.Yeah, a tree…a remembering tree! What doyou say, guys?”“That’s it!”“Yeah, a tree!”“A mahogany tree!”“Yeah, that’s good!”“A mahogany tree that’ll grow a long time!”We were shouting and laughing and cryingall at the same time because we all knew Yoyohad got it right and it was something we coulddo to ease our pain.The CeremonyIt was about a month after the telegramand the church service that we all went overto the Pinders’ house. We had been there a lotsince the news and when we told Mr. and Mrs.Pinder about what we wanted to do, they saidit was a fine idea and they’d like to have it intheir yard where they could take care of it. Ofcourse we agreed and today was the day.For the previous couple of weeks we hadscoured the hammocks for a suitable specimenand found a beauty over on Stock Islandnear the Indian Mounds. It was straight andhealthy. We dug it up, being careful not tocut a single root and put it in a wash tub andbrought it over across the channel to Key Westin Poopy’s little cat boat.We didn’t know about planting trees oranything but it seemed watering was all itneeded because on the day it was to be plantedit was healthy and fine. The hole was dug inthe corner of the yard so you’d be able to see itfrom either street that made up their corner lot.It was one of those magical days of autumnin October when the breeze was light, the skieswere clear blue and the air was laden with thesweet smell of the sea and flowers. It was thekind of a day we’d have been doing somethingspecial with Bubba.At the appointed time, we gathered aroundthe hole and even Mrs. Pinder helped us liftthe tree into the hole. We all pushed the dirtin with our hands patting it down snug aroundthe roots.This being done we stood in a circle andpassed around a watering can so each of uscould pour out a little water and say something.We were all crying, of course. Mrs. Pindermore than anyone. Only Mr. Pinder held back,but I knew he wanted to.The words weren’t anything to remember.Just things like, “So long Bubba”, “Goodbye,son”, “I’m really going to miss ya, pal” and thelike. But when it came to Tweetie, he pouredthe water from the can and then started towhistle Taps at which even Mr. Pinder brokedown.Believe me when I tell you it was the mostbeautiful thing I’ve ever heard before or since.When he finished we all joined hands and sangAmazing Grace, stood for a while in silence,and then just broke the circle and walked awaywithout another word.NowWell, that’s the story of the RememberingTree, as it became known on the island. It wassupposed to be just us but somehow it gotout about the tree and I guess it’s all right. Ofcourse, I’m an old man now and every timeI go by it I still think of Bubba. I started tothink about the folks who were around then,who are either gone or dead now, and I don’tknow if anyone else even knows about the bigmahogany tree on Frances Street. What good’sa Remembering Tree if nobody remembers?Maybe I should ask the owners if I could put asign on it? I wonder who lives there?The End.This is a selection fromthe upcoming collectionof short stories byF.W. Belland andChris Belland, entitled“Almost Havana”.