Up High in the Trees

by Kiara Brinkman

  No, I tell her. I don’t want to go with her. I want to stay here.

  Sebby, Cass says, you don’t have a choice—I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.

  I don’t say anything.

  Give the phone to Dad, says Cass.

  I run upstairs and lie down on the bed where I sleep. This is my room now and I want to stay. I pull the pillow over my head because I’m not talking to anyone and I’m not leaving this room. Cass is mad and I won’t go with her.

  I can hear Dad coming. When he sits, my bed sinks down. Dad doesn’t say anything. I want to kick and scream, but I can feel my eyes burning hot like I’m going to cry. I bite hard on the inside of my mouth to make my eyes stop. I lift up the pillow.

  Why did you call her? I ask.

  Dad looks out the window.

  You scared me, Dad says and then he lies down next to me. I’m so tired, he says, can we just rest?

  The room’s darker when I wake up. Dad’s shirt has a wet spot on it from my mouth drooling. I wipe my mouth on his shoulder and then I hold still. Dad’s sleeping and I want to be sleeping, too, but I can’t.

  I know where the old man and his dead bird are. I know where to look and I can see them. The old man is awake and so am I.

  Dad, I say, I’m awake. Dad, I say again.

  What’s the matter? he asks. His voice is tired and crackly.

  I’m awake, I tell him, I want to listen to the record now, the one from Mother’s box.

  Dad rolls over onto his side.

  Now? he asks.

  Right now, I tell him.

  Give me a minute, he says and he rubs his face awake with his hands.

  I jump down off the bed and find my paper bag where I left it. I pull out the record.

  Here it is, I say to Dad, come on. I walk over to the door and flick on the light.

  Christ, says Dad. He stands up and holds his head.

  My head’s spinning, he says.

  That’s okay, I tell him.

  Dad laughs a half laugh, like a cough.

  I’m coming, I’m coming, he says and he follows me down the hall to where all the music is. Dad lifts the plastic top off the record player.

  The record makes scratchy, popping noises and then it starts.

  Here we go, Dad says. He lies down on the floor with his hands tucked up behind his head. I sit next to him.

  On the record, a man introduces Steve Martin and calls him the master of comedy. Then there’s clapping and people shouting yay and whistling, and after that, music plays.

  Dad says, Oh God, I forgot about the banjo.

  Is that Steve Martin? I ask.

  Dad nods his head yes.

  Why’s the banjo funny? I ask.

  You wanted to listen to this, Dad says, it gets better, I think.

  The people on the record are laughing at Steve Martin and I’m watching Dad. He smiles sometimes, but he’s not laughing.

  What’s funny, Dad? I ask.

  Listen, says Dad.

  I listen to Steve Martin talk about being on drugs and feeling small. Dad’s laughing now, so I laugh, too.

  Your uncle used to laugh so hard he cried every time he heard this, says Dad.

  It’s funny? I say.

  Yeah, Dad says.

  What’s his job? I ask. What’s Steve Martin’s job called?

  Huh? Dad says.

  He’s the master of comedy? I ask.

  Yeah, I guess so, Dad says and laughs. He’s a stand-up comedian.

  Oh, I say.

  I listen to Steve Martin talking about eating dinner in a restaurant and someone asks him if it’s okay to smoke. Steve Martin says, Sure, is it okay if I fart?

  I get it, I tell Dad.

  He laughs at me.

  What? I ask.

  He keeps laughing at me and that makes me laugh, too.

  Then Steve Martin says he’s mad at his mom, who is 102 years old, because she needs to borrow money for food.

  Dad stands up and turns off the record.

  I want to hear it, I tell him, but Dad shakes his head.

  Come on, I say.

  Dad says, NO. His voice is loud and sharp.

  That’s enough, Dad says, just stop asking. You don’t know, he says. Then he walks away.

  I look at the record still spinning, but I don’t know how to make it play again. I only know how to work tape players and also the new CD player in Leo’s room at home. I watch the record spinning until it stops.

  It’s night now and I don’t know what to do because I’m not tired.

  Gray light comes in from the window and I think maybe it’s almost morning. I’m lying next to Dad’s record player. The floor feels hard and cold, but before, when I fell asleep, it didn’t. The floor is different now. I get up and find Dad. He’s sleeping in his bed and that’s a good place for him to be.

  Downstairs, I put on my green puffy coat and walk outside. I try not to think about the people watching me. People are watching me because I did what Mother did. I jumped in the water. On the phone, Cass said that I have to be careful and do things the right way, or else people will think there’s something wrong with me. She said I have to think about what I do before I do it and I have to wear my coat. I don’t know who told her that I wasn’t wearing my coat.

  I walk to where there are blood spots from Jackson’s bloody nose. I follow the dark red brown spots to the playground and then I climb up the jungle gym. I sit way up high on top of the clown’s hat and I wait for it to be morning. I know that I lost Mother’s picture when I was in the water and now she is gone. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything.

  I climb down and walk slow to the blue house. If I walk slow, then maybe morning will come. In my head I count, so that way I’m not thinking.

  I ring the doorbell. Then I have to wait again and I’m tired of waiting. It takes a long time before the door opens and Jackson’s mom is standing there in a yellow fuzzy robe.

  She says, Sebastian, is everything all right?

  I nod. She looks at me with her forehead wrinkled up. She says, Sebastian, honey, it’s six o’clock in the morning.

  I try to think of something to say. I look down at her feet. She’s not wearing socks and her toenails are still painted the light pink seashell color.

  Well, come in, she says.

  I follow her and I watch how she walks on her tiptoes. I like how she walks like that. In the kitchen, she sits down at the table so I sit next to her.

  Hmmmm, she says. She’s looking at me, her lips pressed together in a small, tight smile.

  I say, I need to talk to Jackson.

  He’ll be up in a while, she says, and then she looks behind her like there is something there to see.

  Do you want some milk or juice? she asks.

  I nod.

  Milk or juice? she says.

  I don’t really care which one. In my head, I’m trying to pick. Milk or juice, milk or juice, milk or juice, I’m thinking and the words sound funny to me. The words are just words and I don’t know which one to pick.

  Sebastian, she says. Her eyes are looking at me, trying to look at my eyes.

  Juice, juice, juice, I say—only I say it too loud.

  Sebastian, she says my name soft and quiet. She’s leaning forward trying to make me look at her.

  I’ll get the juice, she says.

  I listen to her pour it. Then she sets a green plastic cup down in front of me.

  Thank you, I say.

  I don’t want any juice, but I drink a sip.

  Why’re you up so early? she asks.

  My sister’s coming to get me, I tell her, and I have to go home.

  Jackson’s mom is sitting with her hands on the table and she’s looking at her hands now. Is she a good sister? she asks.

  I shrug because I haven’t ever thought about that before.

  I hope my children learn to take care of each other, she says. I was an only child, and it was very lonely growing u
p. She stands and pushes her chair in. She stays like that behind her chair with her arms folded together.

  You mind if I make some coffee? she asks and I shake my head no.

  I look at my cup of juice. I pick it up and drink it all. Then, I say her name.

  Alison, I say.

  She turns around fast.

  Yeah, she says. She’s holding a red-and-white-checkered dish towel.

  I look at the dish towel and I tell her.

  I hid, I say, I didn’t want to go to Mother’s funeral.

  Jackson’s mom sits down with me.

  I think that’s okay, she says. She reaches out and puts her hand on the table, close to me, but not touching.

  Even some grown-ups choose not to go to those, she says.

  Her fingernails are short and the pink polish is almost all chipped off.

  Look, I tell her, I finished my juice.

  Good, she says and her hand knocks on the table two times.

  Can I go see if Jackson’s awake now? I ask.

  Sure, she says, he’s sleeping in a tent in the playroom.

  Upstairs, I push open the playroom door slowly and take quiet steps. The tent is a real tent for camping. I sit down and tap on the door. It’s a light blue door that zippers open and the rest of the tent is a darker blue color.

  Jackson, I say, but nothing happens. Jackson, I say again. It’s the morning, I say. I sit in front of the tent, waiting. Jackson, I say louder, please wake up now.

  The tent door zippers open a little bit and Jackson sticks his head out.

  What do you want? he asks. His face looks red and sleepy.

  My sister’s coming today, I say, and she’s taking me back home. I have to go with her.

  Jackson zippers the door all the way open. Then he lies back down in his sleeping bag.

  Come in, he says.

  I scoot into the tent. Inside, the light is blue.

  I don’t want to go, I tell him.

  Jackson stretches his arms up to the top of the tent and sits up again. He’s wearing dinosaur pajamas. The dinosaurs are all different colors and they look happy, like nice dinosaurs, not like real dinosaurs.

  It’s because you jumped off the pier, Jackson says.

  I don’t want him to know about that. I look up at the top of the tent. I can feel blue light all over my face.

  I saw blood spots from your nose on the sidewalk by the playground, I tell him.

  So what? Jackson says.

  They’re your blood spots and everybody can see them, I tell him, but I know how to clean it. If we pour Coke on them, the blood spots will go away.

  Jackson’s sucking on his bottom lip.

  How do you know? he asks.

  My brother told me, I say.

  Okay, Jackson says and crawls to the tent door. He has to push around me to get out. I sit by myself in the tent and stretch my hands up to the top. My fingers look bluish, like ghost fingers.

  Come on, says Jackson. He puts his jeans on over his dinosaur pajama bottoms.

  Let’s go, he says and runs downstairs.

  I follow him. In the kitchen, Jackson’s mom is sitting at the table holding her cup of coffee with both hands.

  We’re going to the park to play, Jackson tells her.

  It’s cold, she says. You have to put another shirt on over that and wear your jacket.

  Jackson just stands there.

  Run upstairs and put on another shirt, she tells him, or you’re not going out.

  Jackson turns and walks out of the kitchen. I can hear his feet running up the stairs.

  We’ll miss you, Sebastian, Jackson’s mom says. Behind her the clock on the microwave says 7:08.

  It’s 7:08, I tell her, it’s morning now.

  She looks back at the clock.

  Yes it is, she says and then takes a sip of her coffee.

  Jackson comes back with a blue turtleneck over his dinosaur shirt.

  Okay? asks Jackson.

  Get your coat, she says, and your boots are by the door.

  Bye, I say to Jackson’s mom.

  You take care of yourself, she says. Then she gets up and hugs me tight against her.

  I step backward when she lets go.

  You take care of yourself, I tell her. I think maybe that is the right thing to say.

  Outside, the sky is white and flat and there’s no sun.

  Where’re we going to get Coke? asks Jackson.

  We’re standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. Jackson puts his hands in the pockets of his coat.

  Maybe in my refrigerator, I say.

  I follow Jackson to the white box house.

  Wait, I say before he opens the door. You have to be quiet, I tell him, because my Dad’s sleeping.

  Jackson doesn’t say anything. He opens the door and goes in. Gently, I close the door behind us so it makes only a tiny clicking noise.

  Got it, Jackson says. He’s already back with a Coke bottle that’s almost all the way full. I open the door for him and he runs out.

  I let him get way ahead of me. I have to think. I know soon I won’t be here anymore. I know that in my head, but when I try to think about it, I can’t. So I don’t feel sad or anything. And I know that I lost Mother. I look up at the white sky and it’s like all the outside colors are gone. The colors of the houses and trees are there when I look, but they don’t have as much color in them.

  Come on! Jackson yells. He’s waiting for me at the place where the blood spots start.

  I run to him. I don’t want to think anymore.

  It doesn’t really look like blood, says Jackson.

  I know, I say, but it is. I touch one of the blood spots. It feels the same as the rest of the sidewalk.

  What do we do? Jackson asks.

  I pour out a little bit of Coke onto one of the blood spots. The Coke fizzes. We lie down to watch it up close.

  Let me do it now, says Jackson.

  I give him the bottle and then I count. There are seventeen blood spots.

  I’m going to be a stand-up comedian, I tell Jackson.

  What? he asks. He’s pouring out Coke.

  You know Steve Martin? I ask.

  Jackson shrugs.

  I’m going to be a master of comedy like Steve Martin, I tell him.

  You mean, like, tell jokes? asks Jackson.

  Yes, I say.

  But you never tell jokes, he says.

  Jackson laughs at me. I try to think of a joke, but I can’t think of any.

  I can learn, I tell him.

  A car is coming and we both look because no other cars have gone by. It’s Mother’s old green car. I think maybe Cass won’t see me if I lie down flat on the ground.

  What’re you doing? asks Jackson.

  Shhhh, I tell him.

  Cass stops the car right next to us. I hear the sound of her rolling down the window. I stay on the ground and close my eyes.

  Sebastian, Cass says, what’re you doing?

  I close my eyes tighter. I listen to Cass open her door and there’s the dong, dong, dong noise that the car makes when you open the door with it turned on.

  Sebastian, says Cass. She’s close to me now.

  We’re cleaning the blood spots, Jackson tells her.

  What? Cass asks.

  We’re cleaning the blood spots with Coke, says Jackson.

  Sebastian, Cass says. Her voice is right by my ear. She puts her hand on my back.

  Sebby, she says, come on. Cass holds me under my arms and pulls me up. I don’t want to look at her.

  I told you to stop, Cass says, you can’t be doing this weird shit.

  I don’t say anything.

  Cleaning blood spots off the sidewalk is weird shit, she says. Sebastian, are you listening to me?

  Bye, says Jackson.

  I can hear his feet running away down the sidewalk. I don’t move and I don’t look at Cass. The car is still making the dong, dong, dong noise.

  Come on, says Cass. She pushes m
e into the car.

  Cass drives the rest of the way to the white house. When we’re there, I get out fast and run inside.

  Dad! I yell.

  Sebby, Dad says.

  I run into the kitchen and Dad’s sitting at the table. On the floor by his feet, my blue and green bag is packed up full.

  Hello, Dad, says Cass. She’s in the kitchen now, too.

  Dad stands up and walks over to where she is. He hugs her and then Cass puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him back.

  Do you know what he was doing? Cass asks. He was cleaning blood, she says. What do you think about that?

  Dad doesn’t say anything, so Cass talks to me.

  Sebby, she says, do you even know who the president’s going to be?

  I shrug.

  I want to write a letter, I say.

  Clinton got elected, says Cass. It’s possibly the most important political event since you were born, she says to me or Dad. I don’t know who she’s talking to.

  My friends are Democrats like Clinton, I tell her.

  Dad laughs a quick laugh through his nose.

  What? he asks.

  Shelly and Jackson, I say.

  At least your friends give a shit about the world, says Cass.

  I want to write a letter, I say again.

  Not now, Cass says, we’re leaving.

  THE BACKSEAT

  It takes a long time to get home.

  I don’t want to sit in front with Cass, so I’m sitting in the back. There’s just the sound of the car and wind. My head feels soft inside from being tired. I lie down and that’s a good feeling because my head touches one door and my feet reach all the way across to the other. I like to push my feet against the door and that makes my head push backward into the other side. It feels good and tight, like the car is squeezing me and holding me in. The ceiling of the car has tiny pinholes so small you can’t count them all.

  Cass turns on the news radio. She looks back at me for a second and then faces forward again.

  Pay attention, she says, you should know what’s going on in the world.

  I try to listen, but the voices are just words in my head. I can’t understand them.

  The car stops and I open my eyes. I can see a gas station sign—an orange ball with number 76. Sinclair dinosaur gas stations are my favorite. Leo says that all of the dinosaurs’ dead bodies give us oil for gas and that’s why Sinclair has the picture of a brontosaurus. When I was little I asked Leo what sound they made and he said the brontosaurus sounded like a giraffe, so we went to the zoo and listened to the giraffes, but I couldn’t hear anything. Leo said they were making a quiet noise that sounded like this: minu-minu. I know that sound is not for real.