Whisper Me This(86)

“We’re not together. He’s Elle’s father, that’s all.”

“That’s not the way it looks.” And now Tony’s eyes are on me, and I wish they weren’t. Assessing, questioning, probing.

“Sometimes things aren’t how they look.” My eyes, seeking sanctuary, turn up to the green branches above us and find a house. It is so camouflaged by leaves and branches that it looks almost part of the tree itself. A wooden ladder, stained the same color as the tree bark, leans against the trunk.

“For nieces and nephews?” I ask. “If Elle sees this, I’ll never get her home.”

“For me,” Tony says, the tension draining from his voice. He flashes me a smile, half man, half mischievous child. “Although, yes, my sisters’ kids certainly make use of it. You want to see? We can hide from the others for a minute.”

My child-self dreamed of such a thing. My invisible friend Marley and I inhabited dozens of tent forts, created from an amalgam of my imagination, furniture, and blankets. We imagined some of them were in trees, way up high where nobody else could find us.

An emotion I recognize from childhood but can’t put a name to creeps over me as I look up, up, into green leaves and the wooden house nestled in branches.

“Yes, I want to see.”

“Go on up. Ladies first.” He executes a formal bow.

I fit my toe on one of the rungs and reach for another with my hands. Each step brings me away from the earth. Up, up, into wonder.

That’s the word, the label for this feeling like my heart and soul are too big for my mortal body. There is this tree, bark, leaves, a scurrying ant. The ladder. My body, hands, arms, legs, moving up, rung by rung, as if I’ve climbed this way a thousand times before. Up, up, all my worries and responsibilities and even my grief falling away.

My head pokes through a round opening, and I laugh out loud in sheer delight, looking around me in amazement and wonder. Floor pillows to sit on. A treasure chest, actually painted with a skull and crossbones, and above it a rough map tacked into the wood. I recognize the confluence of the Colville River with Lake Roosevelt and guess that the big white X lies approximately over the location of this treehouse. A stack of paperbacks, waiting to be read. A cardboard box full of snacks.

A tap on my foot and a voice from below asking, “Are you sightseeing or are you going in?” reminds me that I’ve stopped moving, and I climb on up to make way for Tony.

There’s not room to stand upright without bumping my head on the ceiling, so I sit on one of the pillows, looking out a window into leaf-green light and a wisp of blue. Tony enters on hands and knees, crawling over to the other pillow and settling himself with a satisfied little grunt.

“Getting too old for this,” he says, though he’s clearly not too old at all.

“What’s in the treasure chest?” I ask him.

“Arrr, if I told ye that, the pirate ghosts would come for me, sure and certain.” He laughs and opens the lid, revealing more books, a length of neatly coiled rope, a radio, and a row of bottled water.

“Thirsty?”

“I am.”

The water he hands me is warm, but no drink ever tasted better.

For some reason, the dim light, the slight sway, the whispering of wind in leaves all around us, relieves me of the pressure to make small talk, and we sit in silence, him cross-legged, me with my knees drawn up to my chest.

My water is gone, and so is Tony’s, before either of us says a word. He’s the one who breaks the silence.

“So, you and Greg.”

“We’re not together.”

“Does he know that?” he asks, and that edge is back in his voice. “Not that it’s my business.”

I clasp my knees tighter against my chest, clinging to the fragile sense of safety the treehouse gives me. Tony doesn’t hate me, at least, or he’d never have brought me up here. The treehouse lends itself to secrets, but still I’m quaking inside when I whisper, “I’ve only just realized how—things are between us. Like at the funeral. He’s married to somebody else, but if he thinks I like somebody, he still pops up like a malevolent genie.”

“Try asshole on for size. Genie sounds too Disney and Robin Williams.”

A dry laugh turns to dust in my throat, and I cough instead. My body is damp with cold sweat, a reaction to speaking my thoughts aloud.

“Seriously, Maisey. I don’t know you well, but why do you put up with a guy like that?”

“I don’t. Usually. I mean, I try not to.”

Tony’s silence speaks for him, and I fumble my own defense.

“I only talk to him when I have to. About Elle. I didn’t even know he was coming to the funeral. I certainly didn’t expect him to be sitting in Mrs. Carlton’s living room.”

Tony shifts his weight and brings his eyes to focus on me, instead of the wall. A minute ago I wanted this. Now I squirm beneath his scrutiny, and it takes all my will to keep my chin up and meet the challenge of his gaze.

“He thinks he owns you.”

“He does,” I whisper, realizing. My throat constricts, an invisible chain tightening, tightening. “He does own me.”

“I’m so confused.” Tony leans back against the wall, and I take a deep breath as he releases me from that intense observation. “Don’t take that as criticism,” he quickly amends. “I get it. My mom was abused until—” The stop is as abrupt and as violent as a collision. Glass shattering, metal screeching.