It was an excellent tree house. Uncle Hurley from Frederick said so, and if Uncle Hurley said so, then it was, most definitely, excellent. Whenever Oliver lay on his stomach, he could see through the wooden slats to the place where the trunk split in two. At this hour, the sun had set, but the light dawdled; everything looked bluish.
“Statistically speaking, Oliver, twilight is the most hazardous time of day.” That’s what his dad said. Lately, his dad launched sentences with “Statistically speaking,” and Oliver wondered what other kind of speaking there was.
But it was an excellent tree house. Sturdy 2x4s, the high-grade kind without knots, were the bones of the place, and real pine planks made the floor. The first official day in the tree house, four weeks ago or five, Oliver measured from each side with a 12” ruler and determined two points on the floor side-by-side. He marked them with a ballpoint pen and drew a circle around each dot. They looked like eyeballs. He sat there, on one of those points, on one eyeball but not the other, legs crossed, and spied a small spider repelling from the tree house roof. It was like Oliver was living inside the tree, like he had been swallowed by the oak itself and was part of something real.
The tree house was a sudden construction and was built in one weekend. It was July and the Maryland summer sky lobbed thunderstorms every day at 4pm. Oliver’s dad slaved through the downpours, fearless amidst lightning and wind-bent trees. He was electric and hammered with an over-handed wail that made Oliver look away. Once, when the rain came, Oliver’s dad, with tools in both fists, looked straight up and hung his mouth open. Inside at the large bay window, Oliver looked up at the kitchen ceiling and hung his mouth open, too, but he disliked how the stance tightened the muscles in his neck, how it choked his boy breath.
The tree house was an orange kind of red. Oliver had wanted it to be. His dad had suggested other colors like khaki and hay and moss, but Oliver said no thank you, those are “I’m sorry colors” and picked the least “I’m sorry color” he could find: Tomato Tornado.
When the tree house was finished and Oliver’s dad had tested it for solid support and sound structure, he packed up his tools and tossed the black toolbox on an empty shelf in the garage, but he had not closed the toolbox latch tight, and the tools spilled down the back of the plastic shelving unit. There was a clanging of metal on metal that sounded like the crumpling of a guardrail.
“Statistically speaking, most car accidents occur within 5 miles from the driver’s home,” Oliver’s dad said as they returned from the hardware store. One of the tree house floorboards had come loose and caused concern. Oliver’s dad had shaken the board to show him saying, “See this? See this here? This is what danger looks like,” but as hard as Oliver stared at the wood plank and his dad’s thick hand pressing down till the fingertips went white, he couldn’t detect a single movement in the board.
“Stay put and watch,” said Oliver’s dad. “See here. Watch this,” his dad called out. The repair, Oliver couldn’t see, but the pounding rattled his ribcage and pinched his teeth. “Watch how I make us safe.”
“Statistically speaking, Oliver, twilight is the most hazardous time of day.” That’s what his dad said. Lately, his dad launched sentences with “Statistically speaking,” and Oliver wondered what other kind of speaking there was.
But it was an excellent tree house. Sturdy 2x4s, the high-grade kind without knots, were the bones of the place, and real pine planks made the floor. The first official day in the tree house, four weeks ago or five, Oliver measured from each side with a 12” ruler and determined two points on the floor side-by-side. He marked them with a ballpoint pen and drew a circle around each dot. They looked like eyeballs. He sat there, on one of those points, on one eyeball but not the other, legs crossed, and spied a small spider repelling from the tree house roof. It was like Oliver was living inside the tree, like he had been swallowed by the oak itself and was part of something real.
The tree house was a sudden construction and was built in one weekend. It was July and the Maryland summer sky lobbed thunderstorms every day at 4pm. Oliver’s dad slaved through the downpours, fearless amidst lightning and wind-bent trees. He was electric and hammered with an over-handed wail that made Oliver look away. Once, when the rain came, Oliver’s dad, with tools in both fists, looked straight up and hung his mouth open. Inside at the large bay window, Oliver looked up at the kitchen ceiling and hung his mouth open, too, but he disliked how the stance tightened the muscles in his neck, how it choked his boy breath.
The tree house was an orange kind of red. Oliver had wanted it to be. His dad had suggested other colors like khaki and hay and moss, but Oliver said no thank you, those are “I’m sorry colors” and picked the least “I’m sorry color” he could find: Tomato Tornado.
When the tree house was finished and Oliver’s dad had tested it for solid support and sound structure, he packed up his tools and tossed the black toolbox on an empty shelf in the garage, but he had not closed the toolbox latch tight, and the tools spilled down the back of the plastic shelving unit. There was a clanging of metal on metal that sounded like the crumpling of a guardrail.
“Statistically speaking, most car accidents occur within 5 miles from the driver’s home,” Oliver’s dad said as they returned from the hardware store. One of the tree house floorboards had come loose and caused concern. Oliver’s dad had shaken the board to show him saying, “See this? See this here? This is what danger looks like,” but as hard as Oliver stared at the wood plank and his dad’s thick hand pressing down till the fingertips went white, he couldn’t detect a single movement in the board.
“Stay put and watch,” said Oliver’s dad. “See here. Watch this,” his dad called out. The repair, Oliver couldn’t see, but the pounding rattled his ribcage and pinched his teeth. “Watch how I make us safe.”
The moon was bone in the daytime sky, and Oliver leaned his small body against the ladder, gripping tight the edge of a red rung. Blades of parched grass tickled his ankles, and he wanted lots of grape juice in a big white mug, but he didn’t dare move because just overhead on that ladder, his dad, sweaty behind the knees, labored with wet rhythm, and the dull hit of hammer on wood, the blunt one-two, one-two, was the sound of his dad saving his life.
Rosie holds her MFA in Fiction from the University of New Hampshire, where she received the Thomas Williams and Dick Shea Memorial Awards for fiction writing, and her most recent story will be featured in the Prime Mincer winter issue. Rosie has taught creative writing for UNH and Interlochen Summer Arts Camp. She is an only child.
Rosie holds her MFA in Fiction from the University of New Hampshire, where she received the Thomas Williams and Dick Shea Memorial Awards for fiction writing, and her most recent story will be featured in the Prime Mincer winter issue. Rosie has taught creative writing for UNH and Interlochen Summer Arts Camp. She is an only child.
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