Could We Live In a Tree

My sleep was honestly the best I’ve had. I mean it. The best sleep I’ve ever had. In the deep of it I dreamt I owned a turtle, it was a small tortoise, the size of a cereal bowl. I was on holiday with the turtle and I set it free in a lake before I went home. I asked to whoever would listen, ‘Do I get a rebate on the turtle?’ I got up and put the needle on the record past the songs so I could listen to the end part, that skipping near the label over and over, an optimistic start to the day, so soothing.

When I lived in the Bay Area, I took my nephew, Kevin, to the pet store in Berkeley to buy a mouse for his pet snake named Juna. Such an odd name for a young boy to name a snake. Walking to the store was one of the last times Kevin held my hand. He was at that age and we were comfortable walking the seven blocks, swinging our arms, holding hands. Berkeley was dry but foggy, there was moisture in the air but everything was brown. Shrubs and brush and the sidewalk and everything worn on the street, brown, brown, brown. We were both obsessed with Juna’s eating and we talked about it over and over on the walk.

Kevin had told me that the last time he’d been to the pet store they had put the mouse in a paper bag, smaller than a purse and he’d carried it home. The hippie behind the counter had no mourn for the mouse, he’d dropped it into the bag from its’ tail and winked at Kevin. There was no mystery, the fate of the mouse was obvious to everyone but the mouse. The first time Kevin fed the snake, it took Juna a while to even entertain the idea. The mouse in the cage had grown comfortable, too comfortable and the mouse was oblivious. She had stretched out and was exploring , getting close to Juna, sniffing.

‘All of a sudden,’ was how Kevin described it and his face scrunched up and his eyes widened. He showed me his teeth, he was excited and there was too much spit in his mouth.

The pet store might as well have been called the snake store. It was just snakes. Snakes and snakes and snakes. At the beginning of the store there were little ones in aquariums. Tangles of them wrapped up together, writhing. Red ones, dark green ones, yellow ones, like the produce in Berkeley, vivid and popping off the shelves. What grows there grows of color and vibrancy, the soil and the fauna and the air that’s breathed, there’s magic and a history that breeds flair and flavor. Colors and tapestry come natural in Berkeley, mishmash is represented profunctly all at once and it explodes everywhere.

Towards the back of the snake store was a glass case that took up nearly the whole wall. The case was like a stage, similar to one I’d seen at the Natural History Museum. The snake was an anemic pale yellow patterned beauty that was as thick as Kevin’s waist and for a second I felt protective and pulled Kevin close. We were drawn of course to that one, it was massive and I didn’t want Kevin to get too close. There in the corner of the cage, twitching and sniffing comfortably was a rabbit. A rabbit. There was another boy, a little bit younger than Kevin watching and waiting. The snake was sleeping or still, not moving and the rabbit, the baby rabbit was fussing with something amongst the wood chips. We stood in front of the case and Kevin squeezed my hand so tight I had to let go and give it a break. The tension was too much, the rabbit would get closer to the snake and the snake would blink. We got out of there. Another mouse in a bag and we left.

Kevin and his two sisters and I were very close. I was a regular thing in their lives and they in mine. We drove places in my mother’s old car, she’d given it to me when my father died. He’d promised me his and she pulled a switch, took his and gave me her crummy one. That said, it was a Jaguar, a very old Jaguar but super classy. They’d sit in the backseat, watching me through the rear view mirror as I drove, and we’d sing musicals and visit street fairs and museums and try exotic ice creams, anything they wanted. We’d have sleepovers at my house and I’d play them movies I loved from my childhood. The Black Stallion, Eraserhead, The Parent Trap. Swiss Family Robinson was one that resonated. Of course it did. The shipwreck, the lonely island, the animals and the handsome teenagers, but tantamount was the treehouse. I was so relieved with their reaction to it when we watched. Most of what we watched felt dated. We spoke of the Robinsons and the island and their home constantly that weekend, what living in a treehouse would be like. Monkeys could come and go freely, cranks and pullies would bring water up into the high branches, ladders and stepstools served their purpose all high up in the tree, we’d make mosquito netting out of coconut hair from the trees on the island and protect ourselves from the bugs.

I promised I’d build a treehouse when I decided to move back to Los Angeles. It took the sting out of the news a little bit. I told them through the rear view mirror and looked at their worried eyes as we drove. The promise of the treehouse was something we all held onto, a glimpse into our future plans. It took precedence over being apart. They’d visit me down in Los Angeles and when they did they’d sleep in the treehouse, the way the Robinsons did.

That’s how it went down. The three of them, Rozy, Michaela and Kevin all tucked into treehouse that I built in Los Angeles after I’d moved. It was nestled into the trees in the backyard and was maybe 20 yards from the house, surrounded by branches and leaves. We called it ‘the great outdoors.’ I’d been sleeping there with Baby, my dog, and had seen a possum and rats and raccoons in the night. I’d taken to peeing off the side rather than getting up and going inside to the bathroom. I slept there regularly, even through the winter, until Baby got skunked in the middle of the night and jumped back into the bed with me. Rozy and Michaela and Kevin came down from Berkeley for a weekend and the treehouse to them was everything. That first night, though, I got spooked. It felt dangerous to leave them out in the backyard through the night. There was only room for the three of them and I felt weird. There were outside forces that made me nervous but honestly... the Robinsons dealt with similar perils. I let it go and went to sleep while the three of them slept in the great outdoors.

In the morning, earlier than usual, I woke up panicked. I’d been dreaming about losing my keys, searching frantically, missing deadline after deadline as I did. Then I remembered about Rozy and Michaela and Kevin and the great outdoors. I casually put on my robe and pretended I wasn’t nervous, that I was in no hurry. I crept down the stairs quietly and walked across the wooden bridge to the tree house and there they were. At first it was all good. Kevin rolled over in his sleep though and I saw. His face was covered in blood. The pillow next to him was covered in blood. Blood on the sheets and blood on his sisters. They were basically still and though I could see their little bodies breathing, they looked like they’d been massacred. Like a crime scene. Covered in blood. Michaela woke first and smiled at me, blood on her cheek, under her eye. So quickly she assessed the situation and realized.

‘Rozy had a bloody nose.’

That was it. I cleaned them up, not unlike I had the time Kevin had diarrhea in the middle of the night on a boat in Honduras. You do what you need to do with kids. That’s what I’ve been told anyway.