Chapter 21: THE PRUNING
by Shireen Jeejeebhoy
Aban sits up, stretches her arms wide, yawns, and swings her legs to the floor. She's feeling good, still savouring the memory of the bread from the day before. She pads over to the window to see what position El is meditating in this morning. But he’s not there. She furrows her eyebrows in puzzlement at the unexpectedly empty spot; she leans forward to take a harder look. No, still not there. Aban moves her head this way and that, hunting to the far-off sides of the yard, close to the house, and finally toward the back where the evergreens are. She spots a ladder leaning against a straggly tree she hadn't noticed before. She squints and finds El hidden in its shade, his arms disappearing into the shadows of the branches, pruning the tree with long-handled pruners.
“Wha –!” It’s the heat of the summer. He can’t prune at this time. The tree will die. It’s already half-dead. Doesn’t he know this? First the seeds, and now this. And he thinks he’s so smart.
Memory of the sweet bread banished by her anger, Aban turns to her dresser and scrabbles around for a clean T-shirt and a fresh pair of camouflage army pants. “He should’ve pruned that tree in the spring,” she snarls as she pulls on her blue T-shirt with the saying running down the middle, one word per line, “Body-Centered Listening Resolves Conflicts”. The sticky air doesn’t slow her down in her rush to the back deck in her bare feet.
“What are you doing?” Aban yells at El as she slams open the back door.
Clip. A large branch flops down, bouncing gently once before its parched leaves sigh into the ground.
“You can’t prune now! Don’t you know anything!”
Clip. Another branch falls.
Aban puts her hands on her hips and frowns. This must be another of his confusing things. And he’s rude, not answering her.
Aban stomps down the steps to see better. El has started at the top where the new growth is. He’s chopped almost all of the new growth there, what little there was in this drought. He’s now pruning the previous year’s growth where leaves are growing and not as limp or shrivelled as on the new growth. But he isn’t being gentle; he’s pruning hard, right back to where a branch has branched out from the trunk in some cases. The pile on the ground swells as thin branch, small branch, long branch, main branch get clipped and fall down onto it.
Aban shrugs. It’s his tree. Suddenly, she realizes it’s her tree. Her tree. Given to her by her grandmother. How could he prune her tree? What kind of tree is it anyway? Maybe it should come down. All of it. Aban strides across the hard ground toward his ladder, but stops far enough away so that the pruned branches won’t hit her. El has climbed down a few rungs since she first saw him. She hopes he knows she’s standing there. He’s acting as if he doesn’t. Yet that man has eyes in the back of his head and around corners too. And he always seems to know what she’s thinking...or feeling...in a way Mom and Dad never did, her classmates didn’t, or that girl in grade ten, or her teachers. And he seems to know who is where. All the time. She’s never seen him surprised or startled by a person creeping up on him. She shivers suddenly and steps back.
“Why are you afraid?”
She jumps. “I’m not.”
“Why do you persist in denying the obvious. You shivered with fear.”
“How did you see that? You didn’t even know I was here.”
“I always know where you are Aban.”
Aban shivers again in fear of him, in fear of what he knows about her, about how somehow, in ways she doesn’t understand, he knows the real her, and she’s afraid to tell him all that. And so she says instead, “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you pruning this tree? You should’ve done it in the spring or before it budded late last winter. What kind of tree is it anyway?”
“An apple tree.”
“Not like any apple tree I’ve seen,” Aban mutters.
“This is an old, old apple tree and has been neglected many years. Your grandmother left it to its own devices, pruning only a little here and there in the spring. She claimed that it was well experienced in the ways of growth. It never disappointed her in the fruit it bore. But today I came out to scrutinize its growth and saw no signs of fruit. Its blossoms did not become fruit. It’s all leaves. No good for anyone.”
“Yeah, but you can’t prune it now. It’s too hot.”
“When a tree bears no fruit, it is time to cut off every branch that is not fruitful. And those that show promise I must prune so that it will become more fruitful. No branch that is not close to the trunk can bear good fruit. If all the branches in between are lazy, then the furthest branch will be anemic. And so the whole must be cut off. Far away from the trunk, the main source of water and nutrients, the branches can do nothing but bear leaves. And those branches that are close to the trunk yet bear no fruit but are content to grow only leaves, which serve to create food for itself alone and not to share with others, also must be cut off. This tree must be pruned hard so that next year it will bear fruit.”
El’s words make Aban’s head spin. “That’s like, abuse.”
“It is not abusive when it means growth in the future. To not prune is abusive, for that means the gardener is not paying attention and is not interested in her garden. Overgrowth that is unchecked and wild is as unwanted as those plants and trees that are hacked without thought or left to die from lack of water and food. With fewer branches and the remaining branches closer in, the trunk is not overtaxed and can send more nutrients to those that will bear good fruit. It may seem hard to you, but a good gardener knows it’s necessary and will do it, despite any screams or grumbles or criticisms she may hear.”
Aban mulls over his words for awhile. This yakking on of fruit is... Her mind sidles to a halt. A thought enters unbidden: is he talking about the tree or something else? Or maybe somebody else? Like her. She steps back. She watches him warily. But he continues pruning as before. Clip, flop; clip, flop. Aban relaxes and looks around the garden, thinking of the seeds and wondering if they’ve grown in this drought. She doesn’t see any growth. She snorts, “So if you’re such a good gardener, why aren’t the seeds growing? Why didn’t you prune before, like in the spring, you know, when good gardeners do it?”
“You were not here.”
“Huh?”
El doesn’t reply but steps down from the bottom rung, takes one step to the left, raises his arms with his hands holding the pruner's handles firmly, and opens the handles wide so that the two blades fit around a fat branch he can reach from ground level. The branch is so fat that the blades do not have any space between them and the bark. El must push the blades forward, scratching lines into the wood, until they completely cover the width of the branch. He shuts them hard. Clop. The branch falls with a thud next to the pile of limp leaves and smaller branches. Aban looks down at this fat branch, cut off from its trunk, covered in leaves with not an apple on it. It looks forlorn, hurt, dead. She takes another step back.
“Why are you afraid?”
“I’m not.”
El picks up the ladder and leans it against the fence. Sunlight filters between the newly opened spaces in the tree, casting light patterns on its trunk and on the ground, dappling El as he moves around it. But Aban is busy squishing her toes into the arid soil and watching the dry grains flow down around her digits. El returns to the piles of branches, the pruners in his right hand. He begins to chop the branches methodically and ruthlessly into a pile of tiny twigs and small branches for the compost and another one of big branches for the fire.
“Come Aban and help me," he calls to her.
She shakes her head. The whole thing has given her the creeps. She doesn't know why, and that creeps her out more.
El stops what he’s doing, letting the pruners dangle from his hand, “Either make the tree good, and its fruit will be good, or let the tree weaken, and its fruit will be bad. This tree, like all trees Aban, will be known by its fruit. Do not be squeamish about it. A tree cannot produce good fruit if the gardener is unwilling to prune. A tree cannot produce good fruit if it’s unwilling to use all its nourishment wisely. A tree cannot produce good fruit if it’s unwilling to share. Good fruit not only allows the tree to seed and multiply, but also to feed others. Good fruit is both for the tree and for others. How can you be so selfish? How can you say I do not want to prune? You want to take the easy way! You want to take the way of looking good to others so that they will like you. Yet even when no one is watching, you shy away. And always you listen to words meant to keep you down, to keep you from being who you were created to be. You coward!
“The tree is justified by its fruit; the gardener is known through her trees. If the gardener does not know when the tree needs rest, when the tree needs food and water, when it needs pruning, how to grow it so that it can live longer and longer without water, then the people will say the she is lazy, incompetent, unwise, unwilling, and full of dishonesty.”
Aban’s jaw hangs open. How can he speak to her like that? She feels bruised and confused. She has no words. For long minutes, she stands gawking at him as he glares at her, impatience and exasperation and frustration pouring out of his every pore. The thought niggles into her mind: is he right?
They continue to stand glaring and gawking at each other.
The thought grows in Aban's head: if he’s right, who has she been listening to? Mom, comes the thought unbidden. But moms are always right, always want what’s best for you. Well, maybe not moms who dominate, comes another unbidden thought. But her mom loves her. That’s why she’s done what she did. It was for her own good. Mom never spoke to her like El did. No, comes into her mind, no, your mom just bossed you around. Aban thrusts those thoughts away. Yeah, but El never got her pumped up and excited like that man did. That felt good. This doesn’t feel good. What’s wrong with feeling good? Well, what good is feeling good when that man and your mom didn’t want you to think for yourself, only what they wanted you to think? comes the disturbing question.
Aban shakes herself. She doesn’t like these thoughts. She moves so as to silence them. She leans down and using both hands, picks up some of the tiny branches, the ones with many limp and parched leaves on them and carries them over to the black compost bin in the opposite corner. The lid is on it, and she stands uncertain for a moment, not wanting to drop her handful of branches yet not knowing how to open the bin. Back home, they had an open pile for all their pruning and fall leaves. El is suddenly there, unlocking and lifting off the bin lid for her.
“We must keep the bin locked so that the raccoons and squirrels will not raid the compost for apple cores. They take a bite and drop them wherever they happen to be, seeding trees indiscriminately. Toronto is rife with these litterers, and it’s best to lock the compost.”
Wordlessly, Aban drops in her small handful and returns for another. El puts a hand on her upper arm and stops her. She halts but doesn’t look at him. He awaits her. Finally she turns her head, sees his compassionate eyes, and drops her gaze.
“Who is better: the person who at first says no but then changes his mind and does it, no matter the cost? Or the person who says yes, of course, but never gets it done?”
Aban doesn’t answer.
El holds out a pair of large, heavy-duty gardening gloves for her. She takes them, keeping her head down, and slips them on. With gloves on, she can pick up more of the detritus.
While she carries the twigs and leaves and small, pliable branches to the bin, El walks over to a big box at the end of the deck. It's made of old plywood and painted white. He unlocks the angled lid and lifts it to lean against the deck’s rail. He returns to the pile and carries the branches meant for the fire over to the box. He tosses them in and returns for another armful. When all the wood is in it, he closes and relocks the lid. He disappears into the house and comes out again, a rake in his right hand. He walks over to where the leftover leaves and twigs cover the ground and rakes them up so that Aban can pick them up easier.
Aban continues to walk back and forth, from pile to bin back to pile, unseeing, unthinking. For the uncounted time, she returns to the pile, but the ground has been cleared of all that came from the tree. It takes her a moment to see it. She looks up at the tree, the sun in her eyes, and sees so much loss. She wipes her left cheek with the back of her gloved hand. El stands, leaning on the rake, both hands wrapped around its handle, one foot over the other, toes on the ground, attending to her.
“What do you see Aban?”
“A dead tree.”
“I see promise.”
El pushes himself off from the rake onto both feet, hefts the rake into his right hand, brushes off a couple of stray leaves speared on its tines, and carries it into the house. He leaves Aban behind to follow him or not. Her choice.