sustenance from an organization dedicated to its salvation, she didn’t really like it all that much, even the compressed simulacrum of one presented by the Gardens. She found it dank and gloomy and clammy hot, and she didn’t care for the way everything crawled over everything else grasping for light and things to eat. In a strange way it reminded her of winter in an Iowa kitchen, steam and bad odors and the adults looming overhead and the unwanted children on the rough floors clamoring and striving and pushing one another. Still, she visited the place every time she came, hoping that she would get it, and feeling down when she did not.
When she came to the little path that led to the entrance to the great conservatory that housed the more delicate tropical plants, Jenny was passed by three running men in the tan uniforms of Fairchild groundskeepers. They seemed to be searching for something, calling to one another, and pausing at intervals to peer behind branches. Shortly they came back along the path at a slower pace with a blue-uniformed security guard in tow.
“Did you get him?” one of them asked the others, and was answered, “No, he must have left over the wall.”
Jenny asked, “What’s going on?”
One of the groundskeepers, a portly woman with cropped gray hair and rimless glasses, said, “Some guy stealing plants. He was just standing there like he was shopping in a supermarket, taking cuttings with a little knife and sticking them in a bag.”
Another groundskeeper added, “Yeah, they usually come over the walls at night. What’d he get, Sally?”
“Not a lot, from what I could see. Usually they dig up plants, but he was just doing snips. Some bark peelings, too.”
The security guard spoke. “You say he was a black guy?”
“Not really. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I’d say he was an Indian of some kind—brownish red skin and straight black hair. He was wearing some kind of bathing suit, a bare chest anyway, and boy, could he disappear. I mean I was ten feet from him and I saw him chopping at the jatoba, and I yelled, ‘Sir, excuse me, you can’t do that,’ and then he was just gone.”
The guard’s radio burbled, he spoke into it, and then said, “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for him, but he’s probably back on the reservation by now.”
He left, and the group dispersed. Jenny walked back along the path into the rain forest exhibit, looking at the plant labels, laboriously sounding out the names on each until she came to one that read HY-MENAEA COURBARIL — JATOBA TREE , and then some fine print about what all the natives used the tree for, which she didn’t bother to read but looked upward along the trunk. The groundskeeper had said he’d been cutting on this tree, and Jenny figured he was probably still around it. At least it was a place to start looking.
It was a gray-barked tree, around forty feet tall, with shiny thick leaves and dark brown podlike fruit. Its foliage started about three-quarters of the way up and was tangled in some thick climbing vine. She stared up into the green gloom and called out softly, “Hey, Juan! Whatever your name is! Are you there?”
No sound but the breeze whispering among the branches and a lawn mower off in the distance. She continued staring upward, and as her eyes adjusted to the shade, she saw something brown that was not a fruit, or bark, or shadow. At first she thought it was an animal, a coon, or, absurdly, a sloth, but then she saw that it was a man’s face, his.
“Hey, you can come down now. They’re gone. They think you’re out of the Gardens. Come down!” She gestured broadly and wished again that she wasn’t so dumb and could speak Spanish. But the Indian appeared to catch her meaning. In what seemed like no time at all he flowed down the trunk like a python and stood in front of her, regarding her gravely. He was wearing nothing but a breechclout and a kind of furry belt, and a thong around his neck with a
When she came to the little path that led to the entrance to the great conservatory that housed the more delicate tropical plants, Jenny was passed by three running men in the tan uniforms of Fairchild groundskeepers. They seemed to be searching for something, calling to one another, and pausing at intervals to peer behind branches. Shortly they came back along the path at a slower pace with a blue-uniformed security guard in tow.
“Did you get him?” one of them asked the others, and was answered, “No, he must have left over the wall.”
Jenny asked, “What’s going on?”
One of the groundskeepers, a portly woman with cropped gray hair and rimless glasses, said, “Some guy stealing plants. He was just standing there like he was shopping in a supermarket, taking cuttings with a little knife and sticking them in a bag.”
Another groundskeeper added, “Yeah, they usually come over the walls at night. What’d he get, Sally?”
“Not a lot, from what I could see. Usually they dig up plants, but he was just doing snips. Some bark peelings, too.”
The security guard spoke. “You say he was a black guy?”
“Not really. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I’d say he was an Indian of some kind—brownish red skin and straight black hair. He was wearing some kind of bathing suit, a bare chest anyway, and boy, could he disappear. I mean I was ten feet from him and I saw him chopping at the jatoba, and I yelled, ‘Sir, excuse me, you can’t do that,’ and then he was just gone.”
The guard’s radio burbled, he spoke into it, and then said, “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for him, but he’s probably back on the reservation by now.”
He left, and the group dispersed. Jenny walked back along the path into the rain forest exhibit, looking at the plant labels, laboriously sounding out the names on each until she came to one that read HY-MENAEA COURBARIL — JATOBA TREE , and then some fine print about what all the natives used the tree for, which she didn’t bother to read but looked upward along the trunk. The groundskeeper had said he’d been cutting on this tree, and Jenny figured he was probably still around it. At least it was a place to start looking.
It was a gray-barked tree, around forty feet tall, with shiny thick leaves and dark brown podlike fruit. Its foliage started about three-quarters of the way up and was tangled in some thick climbing vine. She stared up into the green gloom and called out softly, “Hey, Juan! Whatever your name is! Are you there?”
No sound but the breeze whispering among the branches and a lawn mower off in the distance. She continued staring upward, and as her eyes adjusted to the shade, she saw something brown that was not a fruit, or bark, or shadow. At first she thought it was an animal, a coon, or, absurdly, a sloth, but then she saw that it was a man’s face, his.
“Hey, you can come down now. They’re gone. They think you’re out of the Gardens. Come down!” She gestured broadly and wished again that she wasn’t so dumb and could speak Spanish. But the Indian appeared to catch her meaning. In what seemed like no time at all he flowed down the trunk like a python and stood in front of her, regarding her gravely. He was wearing nothing but a breechclout and a kind of furry belt, and a thong around his neck with a
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