Howard Elman's Farewell

The Last Great Elm

THE LAST GREAT ELM % minutes later howard drove to the scene of the crime along a Class VI dirt road that wound through the Trust lands. The road petered out into a path that ended somewhere up a tree in a knothole where perhaps the ghost of Lilith Salmon, Birch’s mother, resided in her reincarnated life as a red squirrel. The car would go no farther. Howard got out and started to walk, dragging his bad leg. He knew the area well. There was a gorge only a few hundred yards from here that was the home of one of his shameful acts. Years ago, when he had started his trash collection business and he was feuding with the Salmon family, he’d dumped some refuse into the gorge from the road above. It was Birch who had brought the Elmans and the Salmons together finally, but he was a boy then and that time had gone by. Good times, bad times—they all leave you driving a bumpy road to catch up. Howard followed the ruined ground where a tracked vehicle had pulled the logs out of the woods. Quite a ways. He was huffing and puffing, and his bad leg ached. The prime evil forest has been desecrated all right, and now it’s desecrating you. Sunlight slashed through dark green hemlock shadows that gave the place an air of mystery and majesty. Like a church at night lit by candles only. How would you know? You avoided churches. You’d wait in the car while Elenore attended service. Truth is, I felt embarrassed in a church. Like God, if there was one, didn’t want you there. That’s right. The tracked vehicle had steered around huge mossy fallen trees. Howard was surprised to find that Birch was already at the crime 31 scene. He wore blue jeans and hiking boots, carried a small backpack, and held a hand-carved walking stick. It helped his limp. “How’d you beat me here?” Howard said. Birch flashed his cell phone. “Grandpa, I called you from here. I’ve been waiting.” “Every kid growing up wants a walkie-talkie—now everybody’s got one,” Howard said. “What’s left to want, I wonder?” “How about a sustainable future for the generations to come?” Birch said. “I guess,” Howard said. He wasn’t sure what Birch meant by “sustainable .” He turned his eyes to the elm stump. It was about three feet in diameter, a mature but modest-sized elm tree. “The last great elm on the Trust lands,” Birch said, his voice sad with a touch of anger. “Look at the saw cuts. They felled it so it wouldn’t get hung up in the hemlocks. Whoever did this knew what he was doing.” “Indubitably,” Howard said. He respected his grandson’s opinions and observations. F. Latour had brought Birch up in the woods, and he knew the Trust and forest lore. Howard knelt with a groan on the forest duff and sniffed the elm stump. “I always wondered why this tree was never infected.” “Because it happened to grow in an area with no other elm trees and so it wasn’t exposed,” Birch said. “Want to bet they cut the tree down during Cooty’s birthday party?” “No doubt some of our Darby neighbors were in on it,” Howard said in those droll tones that infuriated his son but amused his grandson. “Probably, but I hate to think,” Birch said. “Whoever did this knew about this tree, knew about our private road, and knew the hours when we wouldn’t be vigilant. What I’m wondering is—why?” The old constable and the young forest conservancy steward stood silent for a few moments, contemplating the issue of motivation. “The obvious one is spite,” Howard said. “I know spite. Spite beats even religion as a trouble starter. Somebody knew how to hurt us here.” Howard thumped his chest. “Pretty elaborate scheme just to inflict a psychic wound, Grandpa. It might be something more subtle.” “Okay, try this,” Howard said. “Some rich bastard, he wants some- 32 thing special, real special, something you can’t get in the normal market , let’s say, some goddamn piece of furniture he could show off to his friends, like from an elm tree in a virgin forest?” “It’s possible.” There was doubt in the grandson’s response. “Think...