Four Seasons of Patrick

by Susan Hughes

  “Patrick,” he called, annoyed. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see the look of disappointment on Dad’s face. I hurried away to meet Harry.

  Two days later, Harry and I were finally ready to build. Trevor had a summer job, but he had agreed to help on weekends and some evenings. Sometimes having an older brother is good.

  “We want to see in every direction,” I told him. I spun in a circle, with my arms soaring outward. “So we’ll build the tree house floor all the way around the trunk, and we’ll put windows on every side.”

  “No problem,” Trevor said, with a bow and a flourish. “Your wish is my command.”

  Harry and I laughed.

  Dad had ordered lots of materials for his renovation. He had offered to get some for the tree house, too: planks of different lengths, nails, even extra tools. The three of us—Trevor, Harry, and I—worked hard all weekend. We carried all the materials into the forest. We even built the walls and roof of the tree house.

  During the weekdays, Harry and I kept building. We left many empty spaces for doorways and windows. We made one large room. We made a balcony where Harry and I could sit together outside.

  Trevor was at work in town all day long. He helped Dad a little with the renovations some evenings. But most nights, he ended up coming along to give us a hand. It was like he couldn’t stay away.

  “Go on. Go ahead,” Dad told him. “Patrick needs help, too.”

  The three of us worked hard until the sun sank.

  One week went by, then another, and another. Mostly, when we were working on our tree house, we were on top of the world. Sometimes, though, I made mistakes and Harry got angry. Or Harry made mistakes and I got angry. On those days we both had lots of elbow room on the hike out to our bikes.

  It was hard to divide the big room into two smaller rooms—one for me and one for Harry—but we did it.

  Some days, even though we knew we didn’t have time, Harry and I took long, lazy breaks. We couldn’t resist. We wandered through the woods, exploring. We waded in the stream. We scouted out the trails that the deer made, and the coyotes.

  One morning, around the middle of August, I asked Dad if he wanted to come and see the tree house.

  “I wish I could,” he told me. “But I’m behind on the renovations. And I need to make everything ready for when Linda and Claire arrive. I’m sorry, Patrick,” he said. “Do you understand?” He looked worried.

  “Sure,” I said. And in a way, I did. Guess we both had a lot to do. Guess we were both watching that red circle on the calendar coming closer and closer. The difference was that he’d be happy when it got here, ready or not.

  “Rain check?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said.

  And then, late one Wednesday evening, just before August ended, Dad’s renovations were done.

  “What do you think?” he asked me proudly. He flung open the door to our old den. “Do you think Claire will be happy here?”

  I pretended to look in. A small desk. A bunk bed squeezed between the walls. That’s where she would do homework. That’s where she would sleep. The walls of the house seemed to press against me.

  I shrugged. “Guess so, Dad,” I said.

  The very next day, just in time, the tree house was finished, too.

  Harry and I climbed up and looked out across the tree tops.

  From here, the world looked different. The world sounded different. The world even smelled different.

  Up here, there was all the space in the world. Up here, there was room to breathe.

  “What do you think?” Harry said proudly. “Great, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “It’s great. It’s just right.”

  3

  Claire

  On Friday night, Claire came, and her mother. They moved in.

  Dad put five potatoes in their skins on the barbecue. He did some chicken, too, and he boiled sweet carrots.

  Dad and Linda, Trevor and Claire sat around the table on the porch. I sat on the front steps with the plate on my lap. I didn’t talk much. I was thinking hard about my tree house, thinking about the plans, thinking about what more we needed to do.

  I didn’t look at Claire, and she had left me alone, for once. Elbow room.

  The next morning, I was heading out to meet Harry, to go to the tree house for our first sleepover.

  “Leaving so soon, Patrick? Hey, why don’t we all come with you? Give you a hand with your things. Help you set up for the night,” Dad suggested. “I know Claire would like to see your tree house, and I certainly would, too.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I haven’t even seen it yet!”

  Dad looked at me, hopeful, and maybe a little guilty. Linda was looking at me, too. Not hopeful but more than that. Like she was sure that I would make things right.

  Claire was sitting at the kitchen table, coloring. Her hair fell forward, covering her face.

  “Claire?” Linda asked gently. “Do you want to go and see Patrick’s tree house?”

  I was halfway out the door, almost away from here. Dad hadn’t wanted to come before now, and it was okay for him to see it, finally. But I didn’t want Claire to come. I just didn’t.

  Claire lifted her face, looked at me, and I looked back.

  “No,” she said quickly. She looked back down at her paper. “No, I think I want to finish this.”

  I knew she didn’t mean it. I knew she wanted to see the tree house. And I thought about telling her she could come along. Maybe I was that kind of guy.

  But I just couldn’t let go of this tight feeling inside. I knew it wasn’t Claire’s idea to live with us. I knew it wasn’t her fault. But here she was, crowding her way in, her and her mom. Now there’d always be less room. Less time with Dad and Trevor. Less space for memories of Mom.

  I turned.

  Dad followed me outside. “So, you be careful there, Patrick,” he said. He watched me strap my sleeping bag onto my bike. “Have you got your walkie-talkie? I want to hear from you boys this afternoon, and then this evening, and then first thing in the morning.” He looked worried.

  I nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Okay, Dad.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. I hoisted up my backpack.

  “You know, Patrick, I love you. I’ll miss you today and tonight,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, surprised.

  “Patrick, I haven’t talked to you much about my marriage to Linda, about them moving in with us. I guess I was afraid of what you might say. I thought if I waited, you’d just come around. Get to know Linda. Get to like Claire,” Dad said. “Like Trevor has.”

  I got on my bike.

  “I’m sorry. For not talking to you about all this a long time ago.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I said quickly. I put my foot on the pedal, gave a push. “I’m going to head out now.”

  He waved as I rode away.

  I met Harry at the end of his road. We rode our bikes to Mr. Mutter’s land, and then began the hike into the clearing. All our visits had made a path, like we belonged here.

  “Did they come?” Harry asked over his shoulder. “Linda and Claire?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I banged my stick on the tree trunks as we passed, banged it hard.

  Harry didn’t talk about them anymore after that.

  The rest of the day was good, really good.

  Being in the tree house was like being in another world. Harry and I yelled at the top of our lungs. We spotted shapes in the clouds and we squinted into the distance, imagining we saw smoke signals. We ran in the field, arms flung wide, and we watched birds, silent and still. We threw stones at targets. We did somersaults and collapsing cartwheels. We inhaled lunch and we wolfed down dinner. I walkie-talkied Dad once, and then again as evening came.

  Harry and I carried soft pine branches up into the tree house. We spread out our sleeping bags on them.

  We went to sleep with the smell of pine surrounding us, and the stars shining down.


  The summer was almost over.

  Next day, Sunday, we rode our bikes home, and then the following day was Monday, the very last day of the summer holidays.

  One last summer day at the tree house.

  Dad came into my room early, before I was even out of bed.

  “Patrick, I know you’re trying to get used to all the changes around here. I know it’s hard for you, but Claire is only seven and it’s difficult for her, too. She said no before, but I want you to show her the tree house,” he told me. “It might cheer her up. It might help her feel more at home. She said no before. But this time, she has to go, today. You have to take her, and I think it’s best if you do it alone, you and Harry, without me along.”

  I wanted my dad to come, not Claire. I didn’t want Claire anywhere near the tree house. It made me feel like crying. But my dad didn’t wait for me to say it was all right. After I ate breakfast, Dad helped Claire get her bike out of our shed. He watched while we rode away.

  I rode my bike ahead fast, dust kicking up behind. Claire trailed after me, following.

  Harry was waiting on the fence by his laneway, as usual. He waved as we got close.

  “Hi Patrick. Hi Claire.”

  He made his bike rear like a horse, neighed, and Claire smiled a little.

  “Let’s go,” I grumbled, riding ahead.

  We rode down the path to Mr. Mutter’s land until we got to the right place along the rail fence.

  “Put your bike here,” Harry told Claire, showing her.

  Soon after, Harry and I and Claire were heading down the path. For once, I was in front. I walked on, didn’t look back.

  Harry called, “Wait. Wait for Claire.”

  I picked up a handful of pebbles. I threw them at a squirrel. One, two, three.

  Down the path, through the trees. “This way,” Harry was saying to Claire, just like she was his little sister.

  I picked up a stick. I hit the bushes with it as I walked. Wap! Wap! Wap!

  And when we came to the clearing, there it was. The tree house.

  The sun shone down. The leaves on the tree were still green. The branches were wide and welcoming. The tree house was there, open to the sky.

  Looking at it, I could breathe.

  I walked toward it and put my hand on the bark. And behind me, I heard Claire speak.

  “Your tree house hugs the tree,” she said softly.

  And I guess she was right.

  So … she saw the tree house, and I’d done what Dad had asked me to do.

  Now Harry said to me softly, at my shoulder, “Aren’t we going up? Aren’t we going to take her up?”

  “No,” I said.

  And so we turned around again and walked back out the path to our bikes.

  “Who’s that?” Claire asked Harry, pointing.

  There was Mr. Mutter leaning on the rail fence, swinging his walking stick. We hadn’t seen him all summer.

  “Hello, boys,” he greeted us. “Hello! How did your tree hunt go?”

  “Good,” Harry replied enthusiastically. “We found just the right tree, in the clearing. Just where you said.” Mr. Mutter nodded, pleased. “And we built our tree house. It’s fantastic. You should go and have a look sometime.”

  “Good, good,” Mr. Mutter said, nodding.

  But now Barney was sniffing Claire’s hand, and Mr. Mutter was asking me, “Who’s your new friend? Who’s this charming little girl?”

  I shrugged. I got on my bike.

  Harry nudged her encouragingly. “I’m Claire,” she said.

  I turned my back on them all, said, “Goodbye, Mr. Mutter,” and pedaled away.

  AUTUMN

  1

  Drawing

  School started on the next day, Tuesday. Linda took Claire that first day and waited for her after school, too. She did it on the second day, Wednesday, as well.

  But on Thursday and Friday, because of her work, Linda couldn’t take Claire to school or bring her home.

  So I took Claire with me on the bus to school, like Dad asked. And I waited for her after school, like Dad asked.

  “You’re a good boy,” Dad told me, ruffling my hair. “Thanks, Patrick.”

  Claire trailed silently behind me. Down the driveway to where we got on the bus, and back up the driveway again.

  “Here,” I said. I showed her where the cookies were. The milk. The crackers and cheese.

  But she just said, “No, thanks,” and went right upstairs. To her room, I guess.

  I didn’t know, because that first week, as soon as I could, I went to the tree house. I climbed up the ladder. I looked out into the distance as far as I could see. I took deep breaths. I spread my arms and stretched.

  I did my homework there. I sat on the platform and dangled my feet over the edge. I lay back and looked at the leaves on our tree.

  On Saturday, Harry came to the tree house, too. We were there all the day long. We made plans. We talked about getting a rope and hanging it from a branch, making a swing. We drew pictures of how it could look. Then we looked in the woods for a big tree stump that we could turn into a table. We looked for smaller stumps that we could turn into stools.

  On Sunday, it rained. Trevor asked Claire if she wanted to play Snakes and Ladders, but she said no. Linda asked Claire if she wanted to go grocery shopping with her and Dad, but she said no. When Linda and Dad came back, Dad asked Claire if she wanted to help make the apple crisp for dessert, but she said no.

  She just sat at the kitchen table all day long, and it looked like she was drawing.

  All the next week, as well, I walked Claire back and forth from the school bus. And all those mornings, and after-school afternoons, and all those evenings, she still didn’t run around the house and make a lot of noise. She didn’t mess up my stuff. She didn’t kick me under the table while we ate.

  It was weird. Now that she was living here, she seemed different. Not as much of a pest.

  I don’t know what she was doing instead of all those annoying things. But when Harry came over after school on Friday, she was sitting at the kitchen table again, drawing.

  Harry stood, looking over her shoulder.

  “Hey, Claire,” Harry said. “That’s really good!”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I mean it, Claire,” he said. He nudged her. “You’re an artiste,” he said with a grin, “which is artist in French,” and he nudged her again. “Your drawing is really good!”

  Claire giggled, squirming away from his elbowing. “Stop it!” she complained, grinning. “You’re tickling me!”

  “Come and look, Patrick,” Harry called to me. “It’s really cool.” But I muttered, “That’s okay,” and continued up the stairs.

  Later that night, I did see it, though. It came under my door, a flat piece of paper, no folds, covered in pencil markings and eraser shavings. Claire had titled it Patrick’s Tree House. She had drawn the tree house so it looked like it was hugging the tree. No, more than that. It looked like it was growing right out of the tree, like it was part of the tree itself.

  I didn’t like Claire or her mom living here. I felt like I’d lost my home. But at least I had the tree house.

  I looked at the drawing for a long time. Harry was right. It was really cool. It made me smile. I felt good just looking at it.

  Good but bad, too.

  Bad because Claire had made it for me, and I guess she’d lost her home, too. And even though I had the tree house and she had nothing, Claire was trying to make me feel better. And I was just trying to make her feel worse.

  2

  Going Home

  On Saturday, Harry and I spent the day at the tree house again. “Come for dinner,” I said to Harry as we rode toward home.

  That night was quiet and still. After dinner, Trevor went upstairs to watch television. Dad was reading. Harry and I played chess. One game, two. It was getting late, but we started our third game.

  Harry yawned. His arms were crossed over the t
able and his chin rested on his fists. He yawned so hard, his eyes closed.

  I yawned back. My elbow was on the table, my head propped up on my fist. I was tired, too. I was so tired, I couldn’t remember if I was waiting for him to move or he was waiting for me.

  “Your turn, slowpoke,” he said.

  “Okay.” I moved my queen. Then I shut my eyes for a moment, just to rest them.

  It was so quiet. It was like being alone, just Dad, Trevor, me—and Harry, of course. It was just like it used to be.

  I rubbed my eyes. Maybe we would take a star walk tonight.

  In the dreamy silence, I heard Linda say, “Time to go home, I think.”

  I’d almost forgotten they were here. I had forgotten they were here.

  Linda was saying it was time to go home, I realized sleepily, and, of course, it was time for them to go home, back home, to their own home. Yes, that’s where everyone wanted to be on a drowsy, cozy night like this one. Home. In your home. Just you and your very own family.

  Claire thought so, too. Because I saw her look up from her book, look up quickly, right into her mother’s face. “Home?” she asked, her sleepy voice lifting.

  She was going home! I could see the idea sparkling in her eyes.

  “Yes, it’s time for Harry to go home, honey.” Linda put her hand gently on Claire’s shoulder and stroked her hair.

  It was time for Harry to go home, of course, not Claire.

  “Look at the boy,” Linda said to Dad. “He’s almost falling asleep playing chess with Patrick.”

  “You’re right, dear,” my dad was agreeing. “I’ll drive you home, Harry,” he said, and he gathered up my sleepy friend. Linda was going upstairs with Claire to get her ready for bed, and then I was going upstairs, too.

  But when I climbed into my bed and I closed my eyes, I couldn’t fall asleep. I couldn’t stop seeing the look on Claire’s face. She wanted to be home, in her own home. She wanted to be where she belonged.

  I closed my eyes but I couldn’t fall asleep. Not for a really long time.