The Spruce Row That Was Hers

“These are good trees,” he said. “Straight leaders, good color, a nice even taper. I figured somebody had been pruning them.” He counted the yellow loops out loud, one to thirty, the way she had. “I wondered about the twine. I almost cut it off.”

“I tied them so I could see them from the road,” Hannah said.

“When?”

“When I was nine.”

“What did your grandfather tell you they’d be worth?” he asked her.

“A hundred dollars each. When they got big enough.”

“They’ll get there. A five-foot blue spruce, balled and burlapped, runs a hundred and eighty at a garden center, give or take.” He said it quietly. “I paid your grandpa sixty. That’s fair wholesale for a man who says he owns them. It’s not fair for the person who grew them.”

He took off his cap and rubbed the back of his head.

“I’m not going to sell you a tree for sixty-four dollars, young lady,” he said.

I felt Hannah’s shoulders go still beside me. I stood close enough that our sleeves touched.

“I’m going to give you ten,” Ray said.

Nobody spoke. A truck door slammed somewhere across the lot.

“Ten,” Hannah said, very carefully, as though the word might break.

“Ten. Your pick.” He put his cap back on. “I paid for thirty and I’ll keep twenty. A man can’t run a business giving everything back. But I’m not going to sit on ten trees a kid raised and look her in the face.” He pointed down the row with two fingers. “Go on. Pick them.”

She did not move. She stood there holding the envelope, and her chin started to shake, and I watched her fight it down. Then she did something I had not planned for. She walked up to Ray Kowalski and held out the envelope again.

“Take this anyway,” she said. “Please. For the trouble.”

“No, ma’am,” Ray said. He did not look at me. He looked at her. “You keep that. You’re going to need it.” Then he nodded toward the shop. “Come in out of the wind a minute. I want to ask you something.”

Inside, the shop smelled of coffee and cut cedar and diesel. A woman at a desk looked up from her screen and then politely back down. Ray poured himself a cup and did not offer us one, which I appreciated, because it meant he was not going to make this a visit.

“I run two crews in the summer,” he said. “Winter, I’ve got a Christmas lot out on the highway, wreaths and roping, and I plow parking lots for the township. Usually I hire a couple of kids to tag trees and run the wreath bench and keep the greens stacked.” He looked at Hannah. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“I can’t put you on a saw or a machine. The state won’t let me, and I wouldn’t anyway. But you can tag, and you can make wreaths. Your hands look like they know what a wire is.” He glanced at the notebook. “And a girl who keeps books like that, I’d trust with the cash box, with somebody standing by.”

I opened my mouth. He raised a hand.

“Fifteen dollars an hour. Three hours after school, three days a week, and Saturdays up to eight. I’ll need your mother’s signature on a form for the state. That’s the law, and it’s a good one.” He took a sip of coffee. “Winter job. Through Christmas Eve, and longer if you want it.”