stress of the crummy day stayed grounded while she clambered up and up alongside the floating basket, lost in the allure of the adventure.
Peter poked his head out of the tree house and offered his hand. She took it, noticing the tail end of the tattoo on the inside of his wrist again, and was pulled up through the entrance.
The tree house was totally bare, not even a bird’s roost or squirrel’s nest packed into the corner.
“Welcome to the palace,” Peter flourished.
“Very impressive. And what’s on the royal menu?”
“A sublime cucumber salad,” he said, pulling items out of the basket as he listed them, “and the lady’s choice of chicken or tuna on brown.”
“Exquisite.”
Peter took a tablecloth from the bottom of the chest and rolled it out on the floor. As he spread around the food, Camilla reached over and touched the ornately carved box again.
“These really are beautiful, you know. How long does it take you?”
“Depends. An urn? Maybe three or four weeks. I can etch portraits too, but that takes longer.”
“A portrait? Could you etch me?”
“Why, do you plan on dying soon?”
“People rarely plan on dying. It’s good to be prepared.”
Peter laughed. He ripped off a chunk of baguette and passed it over. “Take and eat.”
Camilla stuck the bread in her mouth and bit down, closing her eyes. It was bliss. When she opened her eyelids again, she looked out of the tree house window and leaned back, savoring the view as much as the bread.
The scattered lights of Nolan were twinkling in the trees like the night’s freshest stars, and under the open black sky—which seemed deeper and spookier than it ever had before—the Vincent manor sat like a sleeping giant. Camilla and Peter were on top of the world, literally, and the whole planet was spinning around them.
“Dad built this tree house under mom’s nose,” Peter said. “Claimed it as our hiding spot. We kept it secret for almost a year too, which…well, you know my mom, wasn’t easy.” He watched the backyard with a smile on his face, almost as if he could see the memories playing out below. “In the winter, he’d set up tombstones on the ice and teach us how to skate around them. Crazy how small things like that stick out.”
Camilla imagined her own father stumbling around their trailer yard, attempting to build her a tree house, but it was like watching a toothless beaver trying to build the Hoover Dam—it would never, ever, ever work.
Pump up your own bike tires. Hang that hammock. Pitch your own tent. Grab me another beer, genius
.
Flashes of the trailer park came back so fast that she couldn’t block them out. Fields of flat, dead grass and the constant slam of screen doors; brown glass shattered on the roadsides; smells of the septic pipes as they burped up a rank sludge when it rained in the spring.
Out! Your mom’s busy!
Camilla was heaved out of her own trailer, down…down…into the sludge. Then she looked up and saw her mother’s face in the kitchen window, looking back, looking sorry. She was still aware then, or at least aware enough to show regret, but gone enough to just letit all happen. And suddenly the face was pulled away from the window. Then her mother was really gone. Physically. The rest would go too, and almost as fast.
Camilla pushed the images out of her head, her heart beating but her breath still under control. It had been a long time since that big of a flash had gone off. Even longer since the images were that vivid.
“Think fast.” Peter tossed Camilla a sandwich—she caught it at the last second.
As she unwrapped the plastic, Camilla heard Moira’s voice echoing the quote that “blood was thicker than water.” She looked down at the funeral home and recalled the way Jasper had marveled at the family portrait in the north parlor, and the way the relatives’ urns were lined up precisely on the mantelpiece. Even though she hadn’t shed a single tear when her father was
Peter poked his head out of the tree house and offered his hand. She took it, noticing the tail end of the tattoo on the inside of his wrist again, and was pulled up through the entrance.
The tree house was totally bare, not even a bird’s roost or squirrel’s nest packed into the corner.
“Welcome to the palace,” Peter flourished.
“Very impressive. And what’s on the royal menu?”
“A sublime cucumber salad,” he said, pulling items out of the basket as he listed them, “and the lady’s choice of chicken or tuna on brown.”
“Exquisite.”
Peter took a tablecloth from the bottom of the chest and rolled it out on the floor. As he spread around the food, Camilla reached over and touched the ornately carved box again.
“These really are beautiful, you know. How long does it take you?”
“Depends. An urn? Maybe three or four weeks. I can etch portraits too, but that takes longer.”
“A portrait? Could you etch me?”
“Why, do you plan on dying soon?”
“People rarely plan on dying. It’s good to be prepared.”
Peter laughed. He ripped off a chunk of baguette and passed it over. “Take and eat.”
Camilla stuck the bread in her mouth and bit down, closing her eyes. It was bliss. When she opened her eyelids again, she looked out of the tree house window and leaned back, savoring the view as much as the bread.
The scattered lights of Nolan were twinkling in the trees like the night’s freshest stars, and under the open black sky—which seemed deeper and spookier than it ever had before—the Vincent manor sat like a sleeping giant. Camilla and Peter were on top of the world, literally, and the whole planet was spinning around them.
“Dad built this tree house under mom’s nose,” Peter said. “Claimed it as our hiding spot. We kept it secret for almost a year too, which…well, you know my mom, wasn’t easy.” He watched the backyard with a smile on his face, almost as if he could see the memories playing out below. “In the winter, he’d set up tombstones on the ice and teach us how to skate around them. Crazy how small things like that stick out.”
Camilla imagined her own father stumbling around their trailer yard, attempting to build her a tree house, but it was like watching a toothless beaver trying to build the Hoover Dam—it would never, ever, ever work.
Pump up your own bike tires. Hang that hammock. Pitch your own tent. Grab me another beer, genius
.
Flashes of the trailer park came back so fast that she couldn’t block them out. Fields of flat, dead grass and the constant slam of screen doors; brown glass shattered on the roadsides; smells of the septic pipes as they burped up a rank sludge when it rained in the spring.
Out! Your mom’s busy!
Camilla was heaved out of her own trailer, down…down…into the sludge. Then she looked up and saw her mother’s face in the kitchen window, looking back, looking sorry. She was still aware then, or at least aware enough to show regret, but gone enough to just letit all happen. And suddenly the face was pulled away from the window. Then her mother was really gone. Physically. The rest would go too, and almost as fast.
Camilla pushed the images out of her head, her heart beating but her breath still under control. It had been a long time since that big of a flash had gone off. Even longer since the images were that vivid.
“Think fast.” Peter tossed Camilla a sandwich—she caught it at the last second.
As she unwrapped the plastic, Camilla heard Moira’s voice echoing the quote that “blood was thicker than water.” She looked down at the funeral home and recalled the way Jasper had marveled at the family portrait in the north parlor, and the way the relatives’ urns were lined up precisely on the mantelpiece. Even though she hadn’t shed a single tear when her father was
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