Treehouse
Struggling to breathe, the ovarian cancer covering me like a shroud, tubes in my nose, arms, legs, and elsewhere, white walls closing in, my son to my right, my daughter to my left, numerous grandchildren scurrying about, realizing my last moments are upon me. And all I can think about is that damn loon, Harry Avant, and how he spent the last thirty years of his life up in a treehouse in his backyard.
He and his wife Patricia, a peach of a woman, had been our neighbors for three years when it happened. Being the only young couples in a neighborhood filled with retirees, we all hit it off quickly, spending Friday nights playing Spades and carpooling to Sunday service at First Methodist. Our boys were the same age—five when it happened—and the Avants also had a two-year-old daughter that she allowed me to fawn over. Truth be told I was envious as hell. She was a precious little girl with blue eyes so large they could break your heart. If you threatened to tickle her she’d laugh ‘til she could barely breathe.
One night, while Harry and Patricia were washing dishes together, their daughter snuck outside and fell into the swimming pool. By the time they realized she was missing she’d already drowned. During the funeral, Harry refused to speak to anyone and when he got back home—still wearing his suit and tie—he went into the backyard, climbed the ladder up into the treehouse he had built for his children and refused to come down.
My husband, George, called it a breakdown and shook his head, his disgust obvious. Men are supposed to be stronger than that, no matter the circumstances. Patricia left him alone for three days, hoping he would come down out of hunger or boredom.
He didn’t.
Patricia came to us that Friday as if Spades could be played with three people. George went down into the den and left us alone. We spoke about nothing of importance and she held it together until it thundered and the rain pitter-pattered. “He’s going to get wet,” she sobbed and buried her face in her hands. She quickly apologized and left.
I learned later that she rushed home and took a basket of food and a sleeping bag up to her husband. She never came back over for Spades again and I never saw her at church. I think she had given up on God.
I’m ashamed to admit that I never went to see her either. It was easier not to see her and be reminded of what she had lost. My only connection to her after that rainy night was our sons. They remained friends through it all.
My son, James, spent at least one night a week at their home. I learned much later that the boys actually slept up in the treehouse with Harry. Silent Harry with his Grizzly Adams style beard and tattered suit. Silent Harry with his endless basket of sandwiches and daily bucket of waste. Silent Harry with his broken heart and broken mind.
It horrified me—even all those years after the fact—to learn that my baby boy spent so many of his developmental years with such a man. I told him so and he laughed. “Mother,” he said. “Mr. Avant is and always has been harmless. Doug and I would take a radio up there and listen to baseball or kooky talk stations from around the world. It was like we were atop Mt. Kilimanjaro and we could hear a fart from across the ocean. Like being on our very own island, distant from anything and everyone else.
“There were holes in the tin roof and you could stare through them and see stars beyond the scope of the finest telescope. You could hear yourself think up there and you were aware of being part of something greater—surrounded by squirrels, birds, carpenter ants, and webs filled with caterpillars during the spring.”
“He’s broken down,” I pointed out. “That means he’s unpredictable.”
“No,” James said. “That means he’s utterly predictable. Every night under that star filled sky I would wake and hear him crying. Doug would climb over to his father’s sleeping bag and hold him until he stopped. After graduation, Doug and I took a case of beer up there and Mr. Avant drank with us and listened while we bragged about how we were going to change the world. We stayed up all night and as the sun rose above us Doug poked me on the shoulder and pointed at his father. Mr. Avant was smiling. It had been forever since Doug had seen him smile—a rare gift.”
I reach out and James takes my hand. I try to speak, but words aren’t as easy as memories.
How many years after the rainy night had Patricia died? Nineteen? Twenty? We assumed that Harry would come down then. He had to, his wife was gone and he had to pay his respect and mourn her. The irony was not lost on any of us—he had climbed into that tree after the funeral of his daughter and now he would have to come back down for the funeral of his wife.
He didn’t.
His absence was more meaningful to most of us than Patricia’s death. What kind of a monster was he? Doug delivered the eulogy in the place of his father—a beautiful declaration of love and adoration. Afterwards he moved back into his parent’s home. Someone had to send up the basket each morning and take down the bucket each night. I was outraged. A parent’s most important responsibility is his children’s welfare. What was that crazy old fool in the tree, but a burden?
Doug found a woman decent enough to marry a man with such tremendous baggage, and they made a family of their own. Their third child, a daughter, was born a week before my darling husband died. What is that called, the circle of life? If so, my personal circle was broken. I felt as alone as that foolish loon up in the treehouse. I woke each morning and went through the motions—knowing if I ever dared to stop I might wallow in loneliness, let it cover me like a dreamless sleep.
One day I thought about Harry and how he chose isolation when his loved ones were still there for him, while I had been thrust into isolation against my will. James living three states away and Beverly somewhere in Africa trying to save the world. I took that spark of anger and fed it, felt the pulse of life as it grew.
I decided to go to the treehouse and tell Harry just how horrible he was. He had given up and here I was still plodding away. I marched out of the house, full of righteous indignation, considering my words for maximum sting.
The house was less than half a block away, but I hadn’t visited it in all of those years. I headed for the back gate. Doug would never let me tell his father what needed to be said. I opened the gate and my eyes were immediately drawn to the swimming pool. I remembered that darling little girl and I could almost see her floating in the deep end, feel the terror that must have accompanied discovering her like that.
I walked wide around the swimming pool and headed for a large pine tree in the back of the yard. A red ladder had been nailed to the tree’s trunk and led up to a square room painted a matching red, with a dull tin roof.
I doubted I could climb up that ladder so I shouted, “Harry?”
A little blonde girl climbed down the ladder. She had blue eyes so large they could break your heart. She smiled when she saw me and said, “Grandpa is taking a nap.”
“I need to speak to him,” I mumbled.
“Are you his friend?”
“I used to be.”
Just then a boy, maybe a few years older than the little girl, walked over to us. I felt a bit wobbly and sat down on the dirt.
“Are you okay?” the boy asked.
I nodded and asked, “How often do you see your Grandpa?”
The boy smiled. “Everyday. All the time.”
I struggled to my feet and stumbled back home, though the treehouse never left my mind. I thought about it during the gloomy days at home, and later when I was forced to move to Sunny Pines, and now, in this hospital bed.
Memories come easier than words, so I whisper.
James leans in close and asks, “What, Momma?”
“Treehouse.”
I close my eyes and I can see it—a tall pine tree with a red ladder. Suddenly everything around me is peaceful and true. I reach out, take hold, and slowly climb up the rungs. Now inside the treehouse, I look out through a hole in the tin roof.
The view stretches out to eternity.