Every time I heard the screen door whine and crash as it closed, my seven-year-old heart stopped. Every hinge of our rented, 100-year-old farmhouse was like a different pitch of a lonely coyote, or an outdoor cat that Momma secretly fed when Pops had already fallen asleep. The uneven wood floors carried a presence, one that wasn’t ghostlike or angellike, but apathetic. As if it had grown tired and hadn’t even noticed we were there. I became familiar with those floors, as they would be my bed until we found someplace else to live. I used to liken that presence to God, but now I’m not sure.
Pops came through the front door and my blue eyes met his with a curious bravery. Was he angry because of the Florida heat? Or maybe the van was acting up again. He took it to the shop last week but they said the repairs would be more than that 15 passenger is worth. And Pops says he doesn’t like having them fix it anyway because they charge for “shop towels” and try to find extra stuff that might be wrong with it. As he walked past me I could see the sweat falling off his bald head. He went to momma with determination and exhaustion.
I scribbled a quick cartoon. A cowboy with a banjo, or something innocent like that, and signed my name at the bottom with the nub of the yellow crayon. I ran to mom and dad’s room and screamed something like, “look what I drew!”. Pops turned on his heels, muscle memory, hunched over with veins popping everywhere and said something painful about interrupting.
I don’t know what I did with that banjo-playing cowboy but Pops never saw it.
-
There were 12 of us then, counting mom and dad. Three rooms and 11 beds. I was number nine of ten children, the youngest boy. The two oldest were hard to keep track of, they had jobs and friends, we mostly saw them at night. But the rest of us were wild homeschool kids, spending every second of daylight in the Florida sun. Number 10, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 2, and 1 were gifted with Italian skin, the kind that makes you ethnically ambiguous and always tan. But number 3 and I were given printer-paper skin, the kind that turns red after 5 minutes in the sun and makes you look like you have the flu all the time. So that’s why I spent more time inside than my blood brothers and sisters. Writing stories and sketching cowboys and astronauts.
After something painful I stumbled outside in my usual summer outfit: no shirt, no shoes, just cargo shorts. It was dangerous to be the only kid inside, so most of us stayed close to each other. If you were caught in the kitchen then momma might make you do the dishes. Or if there’s a commotion you might become collateral damage. All in all, it was just safer to be outside.
I covered the sun with my hand and looked straight up at our treehouse. There was no one hiding in the branches or sitting in the chair, but the prickly rope that leads to our castle was swaying side to side. I wandered to the side of the house near the little shed and heard the murmurs of my siblings. They were all standing around number 6 as he dug into the ground with a short shovel.
“We’re making a pool!” screamed little number 10, showing her missing front teeth.
“It’s not gonna be big enough to swim in” said 7, the pessimist.
“But it will still feel nice when you’re sweating” said 8, the optimist.
Number 6 stood up straight and complained about his hurting back. “Who’s up next” he said.
That hot day was spent digging a massive hole behind the shed, a place where Pops wouldn’t notice. We all took turns with the short-hand shovel, some turns more helpful than others. When I lifted the heavy spade it felt like a 100 pounds, and I was hitting rocks every other dig. Eventually we all got so tired and sweaty that we decided to take a break, so I went to check on Baby.
Baby was the sweetest cat you ever met. The kind of cat that had the friendliness and confidence of a dog. She loved humans, but especially me. I don’t know where she came from but since I hung out with her the most, I called her mine. Baby was a grey tabby, extra fluffy with no tail. Her personality was just like Momma’s, but more cuddly. Some nights we would hear weird noises outside our windows, Baby and the other outside cats wrestling and fighting. Then a few months later Baby would be really fat and slow.
In the two years we lived at our ghostlike farmhouse, Baby brought three litters of kittens into this world. Every time it was the same routine. Baby would whine in the middle of the night, lay down a lot, get fat, then disappear for a few days. Then we would find her somewhere in the backyard with three or four little ones of different colors and sizes. Momma would find a box she got from the grocery store and cut out the top and one side. The towel with the most stains became their blanket. Baby would care for them in the most beautiful way, helping them learn to open their eyes and meow for the first time. Her fluffy body would coo and shift as they nursed from her. I would sit by their side for hours every day, watching them stumble and cry. Little ones discovering the sun that was just too bright for their eyes.
But then a few days later we would go see the little feline family and Baby would be gone. And in the box I’d see three or four little baby kittens, motionless.
Momma said sometimes they just aren’t strong enough to make it. I told her it wasn’t fair, they didn’t even get to open their eyes or leave that box. Momma said Baby would try again later. I told her that I didn’t want her to.
-
After some searching, I found Baby by the big air conditioner behind the house. She had made this spot her nest for the next litter she was expecting, her third set. I wondered if the dull hum of the AC was comforting to her. I hoped it was, because it was really unsettling to me. So loud that you couldn’t hear if anyone was sneaking up on you. Baby was resting beside Momma’s cardboard box, blinking slowly and breathing even slower. She lifted her head and sniffed the air as I came close, her way of saying hello. I gave her the softest pets I knew and comforted this soon-to-be mother.
You’re doing so good.
These little ones are gonna make, I just know it.
As soon as I get out of here, I’ll take you with me. And you can sleep inside.
I’ll cut your hair when it gets in your eyes.
I’ll buy you tuna.
I’ll take care of you, Baby.
-
When we finished digging our homemade pool, number 7 got the hose from the other side of the house and it barely reached the hole. While we waited for our new pool to fill up we ran barefoot to the backyard and played something innocent like cops and robbers. Number 10 said, “I want to be a cop”. She wouldn’t play if she was a robber, she hated waiting in jail. Got caught too easily. Number 7 picked him and I as robbers, and we conspired our plan in the privacy of the corn stalks. Number 10 and 8 sat next to the watermelons. With intense screaming and running, scraped knees and way too much crying, we played until number 10 threw a temper tantrum and ran inside.
By then the water was a few feet high. The boys and I ran inside the shed and we watched number 6 cut away at scrap wood with a scary circular saw.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“A raft” said number 6.
“What’s a raft?”
6 and 7 snickered at my ignorance, but 8 said, “it’s like a door that you can float on”.
6 shot up from his scary cutting. “A door? No. This is a serious seafaring vessel. It can withstand a tsunami”.
“It’s a door.” Said 7, “but he’s gonna put it in our pool so we can lay on it and get tan”.
“You don’t need to get any darker than you ardy are”, jabbed number 8 (We had trouble with the syllables in already).
“You’re dark as a Mexican” giggled 6.
And they bickered about 7’s ultra-Italian skin, the definition of a raft, and if 6’s scrap wood creation would make it ten seconds without sinking to the bottom.
-
Later that day, with only an hour or so of daylight left, our pool was filled to the top with muddy hose water. I was too scared to get in. Number 6 dug too deep and I couldn’t touch the bottom. I was terribly afraid of water. But my brothers and sisters rushed to get into their swimsuits and took turns jumping in. Even 3, 4 and 5 jumped in, though they quickly realized it was little more than a muddy pit. With everyone shaking up the dirt and adding their own filth, the water quickly turned brown. The girls abandoned ship as soon as it got gross.
Then number 6 came out of the shed with the newest update of his raft, complete with no holes, leaks, or splinters. Our swimming pool was rectangular, cut into the shape of a large door, number 6’s serious seafaring vessel barely fit. With unparalleled confidence he hopped onto his ship and everyone held their breath to see if he would sink. The vessel swayed and water splashed onto our feet, but it calmed as 6 sprawled out on top of it. Like Einstein, Frankenstein, or some other Stein, number 6 screamed at the joy of his creation and the boys and I screamed with him.
-
Pops says he got fed up, but I think he just didn’t get along with his boss. He quit his job at the grocery store and Momma started crying at night. I could hear them through the door when I was in the hallway. I slept there that night so I could eavesdrop.
I hope no one steps on me in the morning.
A few days later, Momma told me I couldn’t go outside until I put my shoes on. I told her I lost them. She didn’t believe me but I pretended to look for them until she joined me. We couldn’t find them anywhere because I had hid them under the house. I thought maybe if those ugly old boots were “lost” then Mom and Pops would have to get me new ones. I was sick of being made fun of for having stinky feet. But that’s what happens when you don’t own socks and your shoes are older than you. After a few minutes of looking around the house, Momma got flustered. She turned red, she fanned her face with her hand as she started to cry.
“What’s wrong Momma?” I murmured from the other room. Not too loud, in case she didn’t want me to notice her getting upset.
Then she replied, either to me or just talking to herself, “I don’t know what we’re going to do, we don’t have enough for new shoes”.
That’s not fair. Because Pops always had enough money for another lottery ticket. Or a cigar. Or a baseball figure for his collection. But I couldn’t leave the house without feeling like everyone was staring at my hideous red boots. At Sunday School they made us take our shoes off to play games, but I couldn’t get laughed at again so I sat and watched. It’s not fair.
But Momma didn’t do anything wrong.
“Don’t cry, Momma. I’ll keep looking.”
So I went under the house, reached my hand past the cobwebs, and caught the shoelaces of those boots. I slipped them on and ran back inside. Momma stopped crying and made spaghetti dinner for all 12 of us, by the time she made her plate it was cold.
-
With Pops being home all day again, us kids had to be strategic about where we played. We got used to having eyes in the back of our heads. Watching for Pops, giving signals with our eyes when it was time to assume formation, and never getting caught being too loud or saying bad words like, “you suck”. Pops was a time bomb, and you didn’t want to be around when he exploded.
But with his extra time, he became the full-time gardener he dreamed of being. Our rows of corn became a lot less sad, Pops knew when it was the right time to pick ‘em. The jalapenos and the cucumbers were falling on our plates like rain. And best of all, Pops showed me how to take care of my watermelon.
Earlier that Summer, each kid got to plant and grow one crop all by themselves. I chose watermelon because vegetables are gross. I dug the hole with a little shovel, spread the seeds with my hands, and watered it every day. It seemed like it took ages just to see green coming out of the ground, but my hard work was finally paying off. I checked it that day and it was perfectly round. My mouth watered just thinking about the sugar. Maybe today we can eat it. When number 8 came outside I asked him if he knew where Pops was.
“He’s at his drawing board. And he’s in a good mood too! He just let me borrow his pocket knife!” He brushed past me with a crazed grin and headed for the edge of the farm. Probably to find a good tree to make a bow and arrow out of.
Pops is in a good mood. My heart bounced.
On good days, Pops was less like a time bomb and more like a hibernating bear. Quiet, gentle, and patient. As long as you didn’t make him angry with too much noise, he was caring. He would sit at his drawing board and work on his next art piece, listening to John Denver and mumbling the words in his monotone singing voice. His bedroom felt brighter then, I think he remembered to open up the curtains. That day, the atmosphere was peaceful so I laid on his big bed and listened to, “Rocky Mountain High”.
“Hey Pops, I think my watermelon might be ready”
“Oh yeah?” He said, carrying out the words in a long, low hum.
“It’s so big and green. I bet it’s so juicy!”
No response.
“Should I pull it out? From the branch thingy?”
He sighed and turned his chair around to face my direction, but his eyes never met mine. He was fiddling with his x-acto knife.
“If that’s what you think you should do, it’s your watermelon.”
Then he turned back around and focused on his drawing again.
“But do you think you could come look at it, to make sure it’s ready?”
“I can’t right now. I’m busy.”
Later than day I yanked the watermelon from its home and brought it inside. Momma cut it up for me. It wasn’t as red as I thought it would be. It barely leaked onto the table as she made slices. She said, “let’s put it on the dinner table and everyone can try some”. Before the spaghetti was ready, everyone took a slice. I bit into it, but it wasn’t sweet. It was hard too. I finished my slice so no one would notice that I didn’t like it.
“I think this needed a bit more time to grow” said number 4.
I know.
-
We never paid much attention to the weather. In sweltering heat or gloomy days, we were outside. Because no one had their own room, personal space was a rare commodity. In the tall grass and big oak trees, everyone made a second home for themselves, a place to get away. My place was with Baby, wherever she settled down. Number 8 was typically found in the farthest corner of our farm, chipping away at wooden swords, walking sticks, and bows. Number 7 roamed the farm roads on his BMX bike, hopping over old tires and spying on the neighbors. Number 6 had the shed, where he worked on the beloved treehouse.
The treehouse was our castle. Our impenetrable getaway. A place to run to when being chased by boredom, or dish duty. The first floor was built on the first set of thick branches that protruded from the old oak. It was far from arm’s reach, which kept Momma and Pops away. The bark along the bottom of the tree was mostly picked off for kindling or by wandering hands. This gave it a disheveled look like a caring parent, so tired but always welcoming. The older boys started building our castle after just a week of moving here. They found old boards on the side of the road, or in folks’ trash cans, riddled with mysterious substances and rusty nails. Haphazard materials came together to form a floor that almost wrapped around the whole tree.
When the first floor was put in, the older boys built a ladder against the tree. It took us longer than everyone else, but number 10 and I managed to get to the top. Even if our limbs were shaking from the unstable boards. Then number 7 started talking about ropes.
“It’s just like in Indiana Jones, but thankfully there are no snakes involved.”
“But if we take away the ladder then they won’t be able to get up there,” said number 8, pointing at 10 and I, “they would never stop complaining about it.”
“Yeah it’s our treehouse too!” yelped 10.
“Stop crying,” said 6, “we just need to teach you how to climb up a rope.”
So number 6, 7, and 8 got a big ugly rope from the shed and 8 climbed to the top and tied it to the toughest branch. He yelled for somebody to test it. Number 6 jumped on it and swung back and forth. “Not you, you’re too light” yelled 8. Then there was a silence. Number 7 grabbed the rope and pulled it down with all of his weight. No one made any comments, no one wanted to get beat up. “It’s good” he mumbled.
But before we could begin our Indiana Jones training, Pops came out of the house.
“Hey guys”
We gave a scattered, out of unison reply.
To break the tension, I told Pops about the snipers nest that the older boys had just completed at the top of the treehouse. He was intrigued, and decided to take a look. His 50-year-old body clumsily climbed the wooden ladder, his beer belly hitting every step. When he reached the top, we heard him say, “wow, that looks great, guys”. 8, 10, and I grinned. 6 and 7 had their heads down. When he came back down, the conversation didn’t go much further than that. No eye contact was made, because that starts conversations.
After Pops went back inside, number 7 ran to the shed and came back with a hammer. He pried the wooden steps from the tree and nobody made a fuss about it.
-
Days later, Baby was missing. But I wasn’t worried, that usually meant she was getting ready to bring us more kitties. Momma and I checked the cardboard box every few hours to see if Baby had brought them home yet, but it was empty. Early the next morning, Momma woke me up and told me to come outside. I ran to the air conditioner behind the house and found Baby in her box with three tiny kittens. My heart jumped and I squealed something innocent like, “they’re here!”.
This litter was two scrawny black tabbies and one orange tabby. This was the first orange one out of all the litters. Baby was tired, but there was a spark in her eyes. I think she was happy. The other kids came to see the new kittens and made comments about how they wouldn’t last. I told them this time was different.
A few days later, Momma found one of the black kittens in the corner of the box. She said he didn’t make it, but she buried him for me so I didn’t have to see. A day after that I found the other black one under a fold of the blanket. He never got to open his eyes. I asked Momma to bury him too.
I picked up the orange one.
Please open your eyes.
And he did.
I cried. Momma did too.
Little Orange grew up strong. With a loud baby meow and shaky legs, he was making his way to adulthood. I tried to name him many times but couldn’t decide what to call him. Momma and I settled on Little Orange. In the weeks that followed, his stumbling walk turned into a run and he played with Baby in the grass, shaking his bottom like a lion before pouncing. His messy fir turned soft and even, and he lifted his back when you pet his little spine. Momma said Baby just needed time to get one right. I told her it was Little Orange’s color that set him apart.
-
Momma and Pops were still fighting at night, but I stopped sleeping in the hallway. One morning, Pops didn’t come out of his room. Momma said he didn’t sleep the night before and was still in bed.
“Your dad is upset”
While the other kids were outside, I grabbed a piece of paper from the printer and stole number 5’s colored pencils. I drew a cowboy with twin pistols, but this time he was bald. Just like Pops. I made his shirt brown, Pop’s favorite color, and attached a color wheel and paint brush to his belt. The Paintslinger.
I snuck into Pop’s room and put the picture on his nightstand.
That night, Pops called a family meeting. All twelve of us gathered in the living room. Pops said it was time to move on, that he had a feeling we shouldn’t be in Florida anymore.
“Where are we going?” asked number 3.
“I don’t know yet.”
-
Momma said we could bring Baby and Little Orange. She got a cardboard box from the attic and poked holes in the top and sides so they could breathe. While we were making their portable home, number 8 ran inside the house and interrupted.
He looked at me, then Momma. “Baby is sick.”
We ran to the back of the house and Baby wasn’t in her box. Number 8 pointed to the crawlspace under the house, “she’s under there”. We ducked our heads down and found Baby lying in the opening. She was breathing very slow and barely keeping her head up. Momma reached up and grabbed her limp body, placing her in her box. Baby’s neck was bleeding.
“She got bit by a snake” said Momma.
“Will she be okay?” I said through tears.
“I don’t know yet”.
We cared for her that day. She wouldn’t eat or drink, she could barely keep her eyes open. The next morning, Momma wouldn’t let me go outside. I knew what she meant. She wrapped Baby in the towel in her bed and made number 6 dig a hole next to the swimming pool. She didn’t want me to see her like that.
Momma said Baby got poisoned.
We should have taken her to the hospital.
Momma said this happens sometimes.
She shouldn’t have been living outside.
Momma said Baby lived a full life.
She was supposed to come with us.
Momma said I should make her a tombstone. Number 8 found a broken cinder block for me and I painted on it.
It read:
“RIP Baby. She was the best cat”
-
I visited her grave every day. Until Pops said it was time to pack up. It was the end of the Summer and the garden was burnt out. We picked what we could and left the rest. There were no watermelons worth taking. Number 6 covered the pool with boards. Pops told the older boys to take the treehouse down but they refused. He got angry and grabbed a hammer. But he couldn’t get up the rope. He gave up.
Momma gave me a little box and I fit all my stuff in it. 3 pairs of shorts, 1 pair of pants, 2 pairs of underwear, 5 shirts, and some toys. I collected my drawings from around the house. One on the fridge, dozens in my notebook, one in the treehouse, and one on Pop’s nightstand. I put my old boots on and escaped to the backyard. I hastily wrote a letter.
Dear anybody,
I lived here in 2004 and a little before that too. Baby was my best friend. She was a grey tabby. I hope you like our treehouse and I hope you know how to climb ropes without getting rope burn. There’s a snake that lives under the house and he’s not very nice. And I’m sorry for the big hole next to the shed, maybe if you make it a little bigger you can put a real pool in there. I’m really sad we’re moving away and I won’t get to visit Baby anymore. Please take care of her tombstone for me.
Sincerely,
Brian
I dug a hole and buried the letter.
And all the unseen cowboys as well.