Sheri S. Tepper - The Family Tree

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THE FAMILY TREE - Sheri S Tepper
THE FAMILY TREE
Sheri S. Tepper
[23 aug 2002—scanned for #bookz]
[30 nov 2002—proofread by SweetTart]
Dora Henry and the Weed
Midmorning, a Tuesday in July, Dora Henry went out the front door of Jared's place to get the paper that
the paperboy had, as usual, dropped just over the picket fence. On her way back up the immaculately
swept walk she glanced at the front stoop and stopped dead in her tracks. She quit breathing. The world
became hot and still as she teetered dizzily like a tightrope walker, thinking it would be nice to faint, but
as she'd never done that, she didn't really know how.
Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and made herself breathe, one long slow breath while she counted
ten: Grandma's prescription for fear or anger or anything unsettling, one long breath with eyes shut, not
looking at whatever it was that was bothering. Sometimes it worked. When her eyes opened, however, it
was still there: a sprig of green thrusting up from the hairline crack between the brick of the stoop and
the wall of the house.
It's just a weed, she told herself, looking at her hands with disbelief as they twitched and grasped toward
the encroaching green. She heard her own voice yammering at her, "It can't stay there. It has no right to
be there. Jared will be so angry…"
Jared would be so angry.
She clasped her hands together and tightened them until the knuckles turned white, biting her tongue
until it hurt, willing herself to stop all this foolishness. "Weed," she said, invoking a label. It sounded
right. Just a weed. Which, if Jared saw it, would bend him all out of shape, but that didn't mean she had
to have a breakdown. Even if Jared had a major hissy, my Lord, she didn't need to go into some kind of
hysterical spasm at the sight of a weed!
She cast a quick, almost furtive look around to see first if anyone had seen her having a cow on the
sidewalk and then if any other strange growths might have sprouted during the night. Negative on both
counts. The block was as vacant as a hatched egg, and Jared's place was as usual: three meticulously
trimmed rose bushes still marched up each side of the front walk; one geometrically sheared blue spruce
still held down the corner opposite the driveway; six junipers bulged smoothly and uniformly across the
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front of the house, neatly carved into convex mounds; two flowering crab apple trees (fruitless) still
stood at attention, each on a hanky of lawn that had been weeded and clipped and fertilized until it
looked like a square of Astroturf.
She didn't need to look at the rest of it; she knew it by heart. The fences on either side and across the
front were as pristine as when freshly painted. The driveway to the garage was smooth, gray concrete, as
unstained as when newly laid. Out behind the garage, the trash cans were doing close order drill, each
one precisely helmeted. The arbor covering the patio was grown with tightly clipped Boston ivy, and the
narrow strip between garage and patio was planted with a single row of absolutely uniform hostas,
which, so Jared said, were the least troublesome of shade-tolerant ground covers.
The Tree that cast the shade belonged to the people next door south, or, since it was on the far property
line, maybe the people beyond them. It was huge and old with limbs like buttresses. Each fall it turned
flaming red and scattered the whole block with glittering confetti, an autumnal celebration that went on
for weeks while Jared fumed and snarled. He couldn't wait until the last leaves came down so he could
vacuum them up, restoring his place to its usual purity. Once Jared had arranged things to his
satisfaction, he did not tolerate alterations.
Dora hadn't known that, not at first. Under the assumption-quite wrong, as it turned out-that Jared's place
was now "their" place, she had suggested some pansies by the back steps, a lavender plant, maybe, and
some tulip bulbs under the hostas. Even some violets along the edges.
"They make a mess," Jared told her. "Tulip foliage dies and turns an ugly yellow. Pansies aren't hardy.
The bloom stalks on lavender drop their buds. Violets seed themselves." His tone of voice made it clear
that seeding oneself was a perversion.
Still thinking she was allowed a voice in the matter, she had argued, "Hostas have bloom stalks."
"Not for long," he'd crowed. Which was true, of course. The minute one showed, he nipped it off. All
Jared wanted to see was those nice, shiny, evenly spread green leaves. Every week, he used the
carwasher gadget on them, floods of soapy water to get rid of the dust. Even the roses out front were
allowed their rare blooms only for a day or two. First sign of blowsiness, first sign a petal might drop,
off they came. Jared had always been neat, said his mother. No trouble bringing Jared up, not a bit.
Dora sometimes entertained brief visions of the baby Jared sitting in his crib, neatly organizing his
Pampers, folding his blankets, plumping his little pillow. Or the schoolboy Jared, sharpening his pencils
and laying his homework out with a ruler, even with the edge of his desk.
"I wasn't at all like that," Jared laughed, shaking his long, high-domed head in pretend modesty. Varnish-
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haired Jared, high-gloss Jared. "For heaven's sake, Dora, what an idea!"
"I know." She smiled her meaningless smile, one of several conciliatory expressions she had adopted
during their two years together. "It's just, your mother makes you sound like such a…perfect child." She
had been going to say, "unnatural," but had caught herself in time.
"Oh, no," he said comfortably. "I had my share of scrapes. I had friends down the street, the Dionne
boys. We used to get into trouble regularly. I don't think Momma ever knew. At least, I never told her."
And he laughed again, just one of the boys, patting Dora's shoulder. He often patted Dora's shoulder in
an understanding way, though that was all he patted. Lately she caught herself flinching even from that
casual touch.
"Jared did hang around those Dionne boys," Jared's momma sniffed, when queried. "Ragamuffins. No
more civilized than young billy goats! And that slut of a girl. And that mother! No better than she should
be. Well, I soon put an end to that!"
Jared's momma, rigid with rectitude, whose very clothes seemed carved from some durable material, ran
the boardinghouse two blocks down, on the corner facing the avenue. It was a huge, vaguely Queen
Anne hulk that had started as a hotel in the twenties. When Dora had sold the farm after Grandma's
death, she had taken a room in the boardinghouse, meaning it to be only temporary, while she sorted
things out. She'd met Jared, instead, and things never had gotten sorted out.
"Where are they now?" Dora asked Jared's mother. "The Dionnes?"
"Who knows," said Momma, mouth shutting like a trap. "Who cares."
"Where did they live?" Dora asked Jared.
"The Dionnes? Oh, a couple of houses down from here. They weren't here long." He laughed. "We have
a certain standard in this neighborhood, and Vorn Dionne wasn't interested in living up to it."
"Standard?" she asked, doubtfully.
"You know. Keep your car put away and the garage door shut, keep your lawn mowed, no weeds, no
burning trash, garbage in containers with tops. Just good neighborly behavior. Old Vorn came from a
more individualistic time."
"It's an odd name. He sounds like a character."
"Probably a family name. But the real character was the mother. I'm afraid she and Momma got into it a
time or two."
"Mother? Not wife?"
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Jared's face went blank. "Wife? Vorn didn't have a wife, at least not when I knew them. I suppose he had
had a wife, at one time. He had four boys. No, I mean the girl's mother." His tone said, "This is my last
word on this subject."
Dora persisted. "Two doors down doesn't look big enough for that size family."
Jared turned away, busying himself. Complacent as a cockroach, Jared. Ubiquitous about the house, but
hard to pin down. He said stiffly, "That house is new. The Dionne house was a big old thing. It burned
down."
"That's why they moved?"
He spoke in the oh-so-patient tone he used when he lost all patience with her. "I think it burned around
the time they moved. They moved because they didn't like the neighborhood. They were only here long
enough for everyone concerned to know they'd be better off somewhere else. And that's enough about
them, Dora!" And off he scuttled, avoiding any further discussion.
It hardly seemed the Dionnes had been around long enough for Jared to get into scrapes with them, but
what did she know. Dora came to herself with a start, surprised to find herself still out in front of the
house, still lollygagging, still staring at the weed. It looked very determined for such a feathery little
thing, almost as though it knew it had a fight on its hands. She thought maybe she should pull it up
herself, so Jared wouldn't see it, but as she moved onto the stoop, she heard the phone ringing, and she
forgot about the weed in favor of getting herself into the house before it stopped. Then, after all that
hurry, it was a wrong number.
She forgot about the weed, but when Jared's car pool dropped him off that evening, he came up the front
walk and saw the weed the minute he wiped his feet on the mat. He had it out in an instant, before he
even opened the door.
"Little devil had quite a root on it," he snarled, displaying his triumph.
Dora took it from him, laying it across the palm of her hand. Poor pathetic thing. One feathery sprig of
green, and then that long, pale shoot, much like the pallid shoots that bindweeds spring from. Pull them
up by the quarter mile, and all you'd get is a long white link with a smooth end where it had broken
cleanly from the real root, the way-down root, the root from hell. Then, when you turned your back, up
it would come again, squirming and proliferating, covering itself with those innocent little blooms while
it strangled everything but itself. She opened her mouth to tell Jared, but then decided not to. Root or
not, the thing was out and he wouldn't care in the least about Dora's experience with bindweed.
Time was she'd spent hours and hours on her hands and knees, pulling out mallow and bull heads and
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bindweed from Grandma's garden because Grandma wouldn't use spray.
"You can't kill bindweed this way, Grandma!" That'd been her plea from the time she was thirteen until
she was almost grown.
"Not tryin' to kill it," the old woman said, grinning on one side, the way she did (like a fox, said
Grandpa). "Just tryin' to keep it in its place, teach it some manners."
Dora doubted very much that the bindweed learned anything, including manners. Grandma should have
seen Jared's place. Jared's place was so mannerly it almost begged your pardon. Jared's place was cowed.
"How come you always say 'Jared's place,' " her friend Loulee asked her. "You never say 'home.' You
always say 'Jared's place.' "
"Well, because it is," Dora answered. "He had it before he ever met me, and he decides what goes in it,
and I sort of…just live there." As in another board-inghouse, sort of, except in this one she cooked and
did laundry for her keep.
"How come you two don't have kids?"
"I don't know," Dora had answered in a genial voice, lying through her teeth. "Not everybody has
children, you know. With all this overpopulation, not having is probably better anyhow."
"Oh, so it's ethical with you."
"No." She laughed, showing how unimportant the subject was. "I just pretend it is when people get nosy.
Children just never happened."
Loulee didn't take offense, unfortunately. "Dora, there are such things as doctors."
"I know." She frowned, then, distinctly uncomfortable, making herself say lightly, "I've got plenty of
time, Loulee. Give it a rest."
Loulee never knew when to quit. "Jared got plenty of time, too?"
Jared was somewhat older than Dora, and though his age might be a factor, the real reason they didn't
have children was that they had never had sex. Dora admitted to being an innocent in such matters, from
an experiential point of view, but after eight brothers and sisters, she certainly knew where babies came
from. On their wedding night, Jared had indicated that the front upstairs bedroom was to be hers, saying
casually that he didn't care for physical sorts of things, and at his age, those sorts of things weren't
necessary. Which was one way of putting it.
The real question in Dora's mind had less to do with children than with why she had stayed married to
Jared when it would have been perfectly simple at that point, or at any time since, to get an annulment.
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Was she, herself, interested in that sort of thing? Had she realized subconsciously that Jared wasn't? Had
she married him for that reason? She honestly couldn't say. During the first thirty-three years of her life
she couldn't recall that she had ever had time to worry about it. There had been some men she'd thought
were pleasant enough, but never any trumpets blowing. It might have been different if she'd been hungry
for children, but being the eldest of nine almost guarantees a person won't be hungry for children.
Especially remembering a mama like Dora's mama, who actively loved getting pregnant, who indolently
loved being pregnant, who had no trouble producing them one right after the other, but wasn't up to
taking care of them once they were born.
From the time Dora was five she'd been changing didies and warming bottles and dandling little howlers
so they'd stop howling. She could handle it without breaking a sweat, if and when, but it wasn't
something she was exactly pining for. She figured she'd already done her duty by the human race.
"Why did you marry Jared?" Loulee had asked. "Forgive me being real blunt, but you don't seem to care
that much for him."
Why had she married Jared? "I grew up in a big family, and when my grandmother died and the last of
the kids left home, I missed having people around…"
That sounded logical enough. It might even be true. Or, she might have married him on the presumption
that marriage would let her escape from herself. On the farm, she'd been too busy to worry about herself,
but once the farm was gone, there was too much time alone, time to replay her life. The chances she'd
missed, or muffed. The mistakes she'd made. The college she'd had a chance to go to if she'd been able
to leave the kids dependent entirely on Grandma and Grandpa, which she felt wouldn't have been right.
The plum of a job she'd turned down because she'd have had to move away. So, instead, when Michael
graduated high school back in 1984, when it was clear all the brothers and sisters were going to grow up
and have lives of their own, she'd gone to the police academy, right here in town, where she could work
but still live on the farm and help out.
None of which she said as she wound up her explanation to Loulee, not that she owed Loulee an
explanation. "Besides, Jared is…well, he's predictable. I feel like I always know what he's going to do
next." God knows that was true.
"How exciting." Loulee flared a nostril.
Dora forced another sprinkle of light laughter. "My job is excitement enough. It keeps me busy."
"Well, of course it does," said Loulee. "I just can't imagine how you became a cop, though. You don't
seem the type. Not at all."
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"What type am I?"
"Oh, I don't know. You look sort of studious to me. Librarian, maybe, you read so much. Or astronomer,
because you're a stargazer." She giggled. "But not a cop!"
Dora knew well enough how she became a cop. Settling things among eight siblings gave you a very
good foundation for working with people, and finding out who was really to blame was itself a course in
investigating crime. Most importantly, being a cop meant having rules for everything. If you studied the
book and did it by the book, you had nothing to blame yourself for. Once you knew the rules, you could
relax and be yourself. You didn't have to second-guess yourself.
"I like it," she said.
"Well, of course, dear, or you wouldn't do it," said Loulee. "And you've got plenty of time to have a
family, don't you? You're not even thirty-five yet."
She was now. Since yesterday, a fact which everyone seemed to have overlooked, including Jared.
Thirty-five years old, thirteen years on the job. Not that she'd ever made a big fuss over her birthday. At
home, they'd had three birthday parties a year. One on the fourth of July for the three born in May, June
and July; one on Halloween for the four September through December kids; and one on Valentine's day
for the January and March kids. Three sets of cakes and parties was all Dora and Grandma had been able
to manage.
The first of the younger kids, which is what Dora always called the other eight, had been born when
Dora was five. That was Michael, and he'd been a howler, and Mama hadn't felt well enough to walk
him or rock him or dandle him, and Daddy had to have his sleep, or, so he said, he couldn't get anything
done the next day (not that he got anything done anyhow), so Dora had done most of the baby tending.
All the summer after he was born, and most of the year after that, with only time out for school.
"Take care of the baby, Dora. You're his big sister. That's why babies have big sisters."
She remembered Daddy's voice saying that in his slightly peevish voice. She recalled Little Dora feeling
the weight of those words, more burdensome than the weight of Michael in her arms. He was a big baby,
hard for her to hold. It was hard becoming big sister. She had to become an entirely different person.
Sometimes now, when the day had been long and she lay drowsily in her bed with everything quiet, she
remembered Little Dora as she might remember a story she had heard. A little girl who had heard
ecstatic music in her head. A little girl whose every experience was accompanied by complicated and
fantastic sound: the thunder of deep drums, the bray of trumpets or the sonorous clamor of horns. In that
child's remembered life the sun rose to sensuous violins, noons were a stutter of brass, evenings waned
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in wandering oboe melodies, night faded into plush purple violas and bassoons. Every Little Dora day
had been joyous with music.
Of course, music was appropriate in paradise. She hadn't called it paradise at the time; she hadn't called
it anything, it was simply her world. When she walked out the front door of the house, she entered a
forest of trees, was surrounded by flocks of birds, met all kinds of animals that she talked with, had
conversations with. It was as vivid in her mind as if it had been yesterday.
Until Michael. From the moment Daddy called her "big sister," the music stopped and other living
things became sparse and occasional. The forest became one gaunt tree out back by the ash pit. The
flock of birds became one fat crow perched on the fence pecking at something dead held in his talons.
The beasts were only the neighbor's cat, the grocery man's dog.
She missed the music most, for it stopped so suddenly she thought she had gone deaf, wished she had
gone deaf so she couldn't hear Michael's fretful howling and Mama's petulant "Can't you quiet that
baby?" and Daddy's "For heaven's sake, feed that child, Dora, you know where the bottle is." Michael
didn't tolerate the formula very well. None of them ever tolerated the formula very well. Mama said she
had tried to nurse Dora, but she didn't feel well enough, and besides, she didn't like it, all that chewing at
her, so she wouldn't try with Michael.
There hadn't been another baby until Dora was seven-that was Kathleen-but after that it was like Mama
finally got the hang of it, and there'd been Margaret, and Mark and Luke and Millicent for Dora to be big
sister to. Then when Mama got pregnant with Polly-Polly was number eight-Grandma arrived out of
nowhere like a cyclone of gray hair and starched skirts. She spun around, looking here, looking there,
then took thirteen-year-old Dora by the hand and said enough was enough, what was Mama trying to
do? Set a new record?
And Mama just smiled that slow way she had and said she didn't think using anything was nice. That
Daddy wouldn't like it if she used anything.
"Well, the two of you have been using something! You've been using Dora!" said Grandma. "Look at
her! She looks like a dishrag! This child deserves a childhood." And that was it, because Grandma took
Dora with her when she went back to her own house in Denver, and it was like going to heaven, even
with all the weeding.
Meantime, back at home in Omaha, everything went from pillar to post, and two years after Jimbo was
born Mama died from something perfectly preventable, except they hadn't bothered to prevent, and then
Daddy fell apart, and Grandma asked him what the hell he expected, a medal?
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That's when the younger kids had come to Grandma's house, too. Michael was eleven, and Jimbo was
only two. And from then on it was Grandma and Grandpa and Dora and the kids, then after Grandpa
died, Grandma and Dora and the kids, and finally just Dora and the three left at home. Daddy was never
part of the equation.
"It hurts to say it about my own, but he always has been useless," said Grandma. "Takes after my dad.
Why my mother married that man, I'll never know. Nothing in his head but maybe this, maybe that. Sit
there for half an hour looking at his shoes, wondering which one to put on first! Both my brothers were
just like him. I did my best to compensate, Dora, I swear to God. I picked a man with some gumption to
him, but it seems I carried the strain, like a curse in the blood. Your daddy showed the tendency by the
time he was two. Most kids, they'll holler, they'll reach for things, but not your daddy. Too much trouble.
He always did what was least trouble. I thought he'd never learn to walk; he couldn't decide to stand up.
And school, Lord, he'd do just what he was told and not a bit more. If the teacher said pick a topic for a
paper, he was a goner. The only thing I ever saw him hot and bothered over was your mama, and I guess
it was less trouble for him to marry her than to say no to her mama, and God knows without her
supporting you all these years, you'd all have starved."
She frowned, shaking her head, pinching her lips together.
"You never had any other kids, Grandma?"
"Nope. Not after I saw how your daddy had inherited the diddle gene. Diddle here, diddle there, never
get anything done. The world's got enough fool diddlers. Doesn't need any more."
Grandma was right about Daddy. He was ineffectual. Dora would say we need shoes for Michael, he's
got holes all the way through the sole, we have to have lunch money, school says we have to get
immunizations; and Daddy would say, sure, have to pick those up, have to get some change, have to
plan a visit to the doctor. Then nothing happened. Nobody ever picked up, nobody ever got, nobody ever
remembered the plan. They were always running out of diapers, running out of milk, forgetting to pay
the gas bill. There were always notes coming home from school-this child doesn't do his homework, this
child needs polio vaccine, this child, this child…
Daddy and Mama just couldn't get around to doing anything on purpose. The two of them were like,
leaves before the wind, just skittering along from bedtime to bedtime until they wore out or there was
nowhere else to blow.- The diddle gene finally killed Daddy when he went to bed with the gas heater on
even though he knew it didn't work right. Have to see to that, he'd said. Have to see to that, someday,
sometime, when I get around to it.
Which was maybe reason enough right there for Dora to have married Jared. Jared never went anywhere
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or did anything without planning it right down to the molecular level. There was something almost
inhumanly rigorous about Jared. With him, you always knew right where you stood.
Grandpa'd been gone about eight years: stroke. Grandma'd died four years ago: heart. Jimbo'd been only
sixteen. Polly was seventeen, ready to start college on a full scholarship. Milly was eighteen, not starting
anything, just moping around. Grandma left the house to the girls, and Dora had kept the household
together for a year, until the last three had gone: Milly to a cult, Polly to college, Jimbo off God-knows-
where.
The other kids were spread all over the map now, and except for Milly and maybe Jimbo, they'd escaped
the worst of the family curse. Michael and Margaret had married, Kathleen had a job in advertising,
Mark and Luke had joined the army. They were going to make a career of it and never get married. So
they said.
Milly had inherited the diddle gene, and a cult was easier than thinking, and drugging was easier yet.
She'd died of a drug overdose, though Dora had told the others it had been meningitis. Polly had
graduated from college the past June with a degree in botany. She'd always been a little soldier, now she
wanted to get a graduate degree.
And the baby, Jimbo…well, God knows what would become of Jimbo. Every now and then he lit on
Dora's doorstep, like a confused migratory bird, not sure whether he was coming or going. He never
stayed long, though. Jared didn't look kindly on people like Jimbo. Jared didn't look kindly, period.
Maybe seven out of nine wasn't that bad. In a family with the diddle gene, seven out of nine was damn
near a miracle. Dora didn't call it the diddle gene now, of course. She knew the curse for what it was.
Chronic depression, something you could be born with, something you couldn't do much about,
something you passed from parent to child, begetting misery and suicides and endless dark days of
hopelessness and despair. Dora had seen it, firsthand, and why would she want more babies to pass it on
to? After all the years, she still missed the music…
"Did you ever hear music in your head, Grandma?"
"Like a tune, child?"
"No. Like a huge orchestra, with all the instruments, and playing the most marvelous music…" She had
looked up to find tears in Grandma's eyes. "Grandma?"
"Just remembering, child. Oh, yes. I remember the music. The horns of elfland, that's what it was."
"Elfland?"
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THEFAMILYTREE-SheriSTepperTHEFAMILYTREESheriS.Tepper[23aug2002—scannedfor#bookz][30nov2002—proofreadbySweetTart]DoraHenryandtheWeedMidmorning,aTuesdayinJuly,DoraHenrywentoutthefrontdoorofJar\ed'splacetogetthepaperthatthepaperboyhad,asusual,droppedjustoverthepicketfence.Onherw\aybackuptheimmaculately...

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