Thibault
So that’s it, huh?”
Despite the canopy offered by the trees, Thibault was drenched by the time he and Ben reached the tree house. Water poured from the raincoat he was wearing, and his new pants were soaked below the knees. Inside his boots, his socks squished unpleasantly. Ben, on the other hand, was bundled from head to toe in a hooded rain suit; on his feet, he wore Nana’s rubber boots. Aside from his face, Thibault doubted he even noticed the rain.
“This is how we reach it. It’s awesome, isn’t it?” Ben motioned to an oak tree on the near side of the creek. A series of nailed two-by-fours climbed the side of the trunk. “All we have to do is climb the tree ladder here so we can cross the bridge.”
Thibault noticed with apprehension that the creek had already swollen to twice its normal size, and the water was moving fast.
Turning his attention to the small bridge, he saw that it was composed of three parts: A fraying rope bridge led from the oak tree on the near side toward a central landing station in the center of the creek that was supported by a four listing pillars; this landing was connected by another rope bridge section to the platform on the tree house. Thibault noticed the debris deposited around the pillars by the rushing waters. Though he hadn’t previously inspected the bridge, he suspected that the relentless storms and rapid flow of water had weakened the landing’s support. Before he could say anything, Ben had already scaled the tree ladder to the bridge.
Ben grinned at him from above. “C’mon! What are you waiting for?”
Thibault raised his arm to shield his face from the rain, feeling a sudden sense of dread. “I’m not sure this is a good idea—”
“Chicken!” Ben taunted. He started across, the bridge swaying from side to side as he ran.
“Wait!” Thibault shouted to no effect. By then, Ben had already reached the central landing.
Thibault climbed the tree ladder and stepped cautiously onto the rope bridge. The waterlogged boards sagged under his weight. As soon as Ben saw him coming, he scrambled up the last section to the tree house. Thibault’s breath caught in his throat as Ben hopped up on the tree house’s platform. It bowed under Ben’s weight but held steady. Ben turned around, his grin wide.
“Come on back!” Thibault shouted. “I don’t think the bridge will hold me.”
“It’ll hold. My grandpa built it!”
“Please, Ben?”
“Chicken!” Ben taunted again.
It was obvious that Ben considered the whole thing a game. Thibault took another look at the bridge, concluding that if he moved slowly, it might be safe. Ben had run—lots of torque and impact pressure. Would it hold the weight of Thibault’s body?
With his first step, the boards, drenched and ancient, sagged under his weight. Dry rot, no doubt. Thibault’s mind flashed on the photograph in his pocket. The creek swirled and spun, a torrent beneath his feet.
No time to lose. He walked slowly and reached the central landing, then started up the last suspended section of the rope bridge. Noting the rickety platform, he doubted it would support their combined weight simultaneously. In his pocket, the photograph felt as if it were on fire.
“I’ll meet you inside,” Thibault said, trying to sound offhand. “You don’t have to wait in the rain for an old man like me.”
Thankfully, Ben laughed and ducked into the tree house. Thibault breathed a sigh of relief as he made the shaky rise to the platform. He took a large, quick step to avoid the platform and stumbled into the tree house.
“This is where I keep my Pokémon cards,” Ben said, ignoring his entrance and motioning to the tin boxes in the corner. “I’ve got a Charizard card. And a Mewtwo.”
Thibault wiped the rain from his face as he collected himself and sat on the floor. “That’s great,” he said, puddles from his rain gear collecting around him.
He took in the tiny room. Toys lay heaped in the corners, and a cutout window exposed much of the interior to the elements, soaking the unsanded planks. The only piece of furniture was a single beanbag chair in the corner.
“This is my hideout,” Ben said, collapsing into the chair.
“Yeah?”
“I come here when I get mad. Like when kids at school are mean.”
Thibault leaned back against the wall, shaking the water from his sleeves. “What do they do?”
“Stuff. You know.” He shrugged. “Teasing me about how I play basketball or kick ball or why I have to wear glasses.”
“That must be hard.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
Ben didn’t seem to notice his obvious contradiction, and Thibault went on. “What do you like most about being here?”
“The quiet,” said Ben. “When I’m here, no one asks me questions or asks me to do stuff. I can sit here and think.”
Thibault nodded. “Makes sense.” Through the window, he could see the rising wind beginning to drive the rain sideways. The storm was getting worse.
“What do you think about?” he asked.
Ben shrugged. “Like growing up and stuff. Getting older.” He paused. “I wish I was bigger.”
“Why?”
“There’s this kid in my class who always picks on me. He’s mean. Yesterday, he pushed me down in the cafeteria.”
The tree house rocked in a gust of wind. Again, the photo seemed to burn, and Thibault absently found his hand wandering to his pocket. He didn’t understand the compulsion, but before he realized what he was doing, he pulled out the photo.
Outside, the wind continued to howl and he could hear branches slapping against the structure. With every passing minute, he knew, the rain was engorging the creek. All at once, an image arose of the tree house platform collapsing, with Ben trapped in the raging water beneath it.
“I want to give you something,” Thibault said, the words out before he’d even consciously thought them. “I think it’ll take care of your problem.”
“What is it?”
Thibault swallowed. “It’s a picture of your mom.”
Ben took the photo and looked at it, his expression curious. “What do I do with it?”
Thibault leaned forward and tapped the corner of the photo. “Just carry it with you. My friend Victor called it a lucky charm. He said it’s what kept me safe in Iraq.”
“For real?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? After a long moment, Thibault nodded. “I promise.”
“Cool.”
“Will you do me a favor?” Thibault asked.
“What?”
“Will you keep this between the two of us? And promise to keep it with you?”
Ben considered it. “Can I fold it?”
“I don’t think it matters.”
Ben thought about it. “Sure,” he finally said, folding it over and slipping it into his pocket. “Thanks.”
It was the first time in over five years that the photo had ever been farther from him than the distance to the shower or the sink, and the sense of loss disoriented him. Somehow, Thibault hadn’t expected to feel its absence so acutely. As he watched Ben cross the bridge and he caught sight of the raging creek, the feeling only intensified. When Ben waved to him from the other side of the creek and began to descend the tree ladder, Thibault reluctantly stepped onto the platform, before moving onto the bridge as fast as he could.
He felt exposed as he crossed the bridge step by step, ignoring the certainty that the bridge would plunge into the creek, ignoring the fact that he no longer carried the photo. When he reached the oak tree on the other side, he breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Still, as he climbed down, he felt a nagging premonition that whatever he had come here for still wasn’t over—and was, in fact, only beginning.