Soil and Water

Soil and Water by Angela Townsend We did not see the mermaids coming, but surprise is the prerogative of mythical creatures and Executive Vice Presidents. Ten years into fundraising for the arboretum, I thought I knew where to find all the knotholes and gnome settlements. They are mostly in Sol’s office. Sol founded New Jersey’s only arboretum for endangered trees. He tells people that he does not, “by and large,” like people, but then he sits on the floor with them when they cry. I do not think I would have lasted so long at an arboretum where people do not cry. Sol favors the forest’s urchins. This attracts a certain genus of donor. Sol calls them “toasty.” I call them “Sequoia Souls.” Sol scolds me for using the word “soul” like table salt. In the lunchroom, our gypsy moth experts and soil scientists want to recap shows about dragons or debate the merits of vegan cheese. I always have to bring up souls. I remind Sol that he poached me from my plan to become a pastor. He reminds me that my gift is convincing people they have empathy for trees. One inch into the topsoil, my blurbs are all about the understory. Sol allowed me to name our major gifts society “Sequoia Souls.” He did not love it, but the “big giant donors” might. People who donate five thousand dollars to save objectively unattractive trees deserve a name. I reminded Sol that nobody feels grown, whatever the spoor on the sides of their eyes may say. Sol reminded me that he does not, “by and large,” like people. The local gazette ran my press release, and Cornelius Wagner Jr. called to enroll as a Sequoia Soul. I should call him “Corn.” His father was born in Germany, so the Black Forest was in his blood. He would direct his foundation to send the check. He would be a Sequoia Soul. I looked up his name online. Corn was the Executive Vice President at Manatee Memories, LLC. At this news, Sol pronounced Corn “burnt to a crisp” before I could go further. I bristled. Since I was born without bark, I maintain a moderate-to-severe case of donor infatuation. Corn was already in my ventricles. Sol had to understand. Corn told me he gave his days to “feeding the ocean of joy.” Sol asked if I was planning to accept Corn’s hand in marriage. That could be good for the arboretum. I insisted Sol pull up Manatee Memories’ website. He did, then took the Lord’s name in vain. Manatee Memories is an “aquatic imaginarium.” Manatee Memories is the world’s preeminent manufacturer of biologically accurate marine mammals, designed for “compassionate thalassic play.” A solemn Corn greets you on the home page, moist eyes behind trendy glasses. “I’m Corn Wagner, and I invite you to the place where the sun meets the sea.” At this, Sol reached for his recycling bin and placed it over his head. “I’m Sol Diamond, and I have just contracted a stomach virus.” I reminded Sol that Corn was sending us five thousand dollars. Sol peeked under his blue plastic shroud and grabbed at the air. I knew this meant he wanted one of the individually wrapped pretzel rods on his desk. I knighted him with it, dropped it in his hand, and let him know Corn would be visiting for the first time on Monday. Sol spent the weekend on a scavenger hunt. He emailed me twenty-nine times. Since I was going to be a pastor, Sol knows I am never off duty. Souls call on Saturdays asking if we received their Snoopy checks for the cherry trees that do not bear fruit. They write on Sunday afternoons to tell me that their nephews died, which is a strange thing to tell the Development Director in the arboretum unless you have sat on the floor with her. I call them from my personal number. They text me pictures of their cats, and then I need to flag them in our database as my personal friends: “Do not solicit without Lizzie’s permission.” Sol suggests we name this group “The Invasive Species.” Sol knew I would be checking email as he found Corn facts. Sol has two doctorates. Sol founded an organization without rival in the deciduous sector. But when Sol writes on the weekend, he blows his cover as the boy in the backwards baseball cap. His emails to his “defrocked priest Development Director” read like graffiti. “PopCorn has too much butter.” “Corn done lost ALL his kernels.” The evidence would be embarrassing, if Corn were not a soul. Every video on the Manatee Memories website seemed to feature Corn, in various states of pathos, confessing why sea lions or belugas meant so much to him “as a human being.” He clasped the toys so tightly, it appeared he might pull the walrus wrinkles taut. He spoke about three-inch rubber baleen whales with the ecstasy usually reserved for shamanic activity. He spoke, mostly, about himself. “Whatever he’s doing is working.” I felt protective of Corn. “They are a jillion-dollar company.” “Not much competition,” Sol fired back. I shimmied up my remaining memories of Pastoral Counseling 101. “Maybe he’s doing generational repair work. His father came from a landlocked country. Corn claims the sea.” Sol had his own hypotheses. “Corn feels like a SMALL stalk. Maybe his mama invented dessert pierogi, and his papa was the bass player for a band called Untrustworthy Eyebrows. Corn wants to be BIG WHALE. Corn feels like PLANKTON.” I was tempted to remind Sol that such speculation is unbecoming of a grand soul who has repatriated thousands of trees. I was laughing too loud. There was one last message on Sunday night: “If he doesn’t bring us both a humpback, I repudiate his five thousand dollars.” Sol needn’t have worried. Corn had a briefcase of mermaids. I was not privy to this when I gave him the grand tour of the