The Eucalyptus Grove (an excerpt)

Abstract

FICTION The Eucalyptus Grove (an excerpt) by Ruby Namdar I’ve seen it more than once: the raised axe swings and chops into the last remnant; Lying still in the dirt is the moving, glowing crown. – Rahel, Eucalyptus T he gray-green tops of the eucalyptus trees were the first thing Avi saw every year as the sluggish Fishermen’s Island ferry slowed down at the entrance to the port. Searching for the treetops, his eyes flitted over the green horizon, spotted gray by the rooftops of the sprawling vacation homes, and didn’t come to rest until finding them, as strange and familiar as always. Seemingly, the eucalyptus trees didn’t belong on the island: they were unusually tall and towered over the local brush; their leaves had a faded, arid look; the gray dirt of the grove was also different from the island’s dark, fertile soil. And yet, though the trees were utterly alien to the landscape and climate of Fishermen’s Island, nothing symbolized his bond to the place better, a bond that began over thirty years earlier when he and his first wife, Odelia, bought a house on the island and started spending their summers there. But something was different about the view this year, and Avi’s visual search went awry. His gaze sped back and forth over the horizon, going faster and faster, searching in vain for the silvery-greenish stain of the grove. They weren’t there, they were gone. His eucalyptus trees had disappeared as if they had been swallowed by the earth, as if they had never been there. Avi WORLDLIT.ORG 71 PHOTO BY MYRTLE SCHILLING ON UNSPLASH was gripped by an eerie, intense unease. The sudden disappearance of the trees disrupted the festive sense of anticipation that filled him every year when the ferry drew close to Fishermen’s Island, separating him from his daily worries and routine concerns and carrying him to this calm, wonderful place for which he had such intimate feelings, even though it was so different from the landscapes of his distant childhood. His large hands gripped the damp rail tightly. He leaned over and continued to scan the horizon as if believing he could will the lost trees back into existence. The ferry blew its loud, metallic foghorn, alerting the crew at the pier of its imminent arrival. He had to go find Lauren and the kid, who were probably still amusing themselves by throwing bits of bread to the seagulls that hovered over the ferry, hoping for scraps, and take them to the car down in the hold. Avi detached himself from the handrail, gazed for the last time at where the eucalyptus trees were supposed to be, and went to look for his young wife and their three-year-old, Alex. The short drive to the house was spent in unpleasant silence. He was distracted. He forgot to slow down before stop signs and had to make abrupt stops that made the car shudder, the bottles of wine in the back clink in protest, and Lauren to flare up in annoyance. Upon the long-awaited arrival at the house, the usual festive feeling was still absent. Avi clambered out of the car, stretched his legs, and looked around, but he wasn’t suffused with strange joy as he usually was; he didn’t take in the salty sea air with relish; he didn’t ramble busily between the rooms of the house, checking the taps and fixtures to make sure they were working properly; he didn’t even unload the wine from the trunk of the car, a crateful that he had selected with great care and pleasure at his wine shop in Princeton, a cherished annual rite forced upon him by the puritanical laws preserved since Prohibition in many counties and towns in the state of Massachusetts, including wide swaths of Fishermen’s Island where the sale of alcoholic beverages was completely banned. He helped the still-scowling Lauren with the suitcases, muttered a confused excuse that even he didn’t comprehend, got back in the car, and drove in the direction of the main road, not knowing where he...