“I thought you were going to build us a tree fort.”
A family issue that arose every six months or so, Walt had resisted the idea of a tree fort because of the enormous work involved and the likelihood of it turning out to be only a passing interest. He realized, more important, that this was gender bias on his part. He thought of tree forts as a boys’ realm, and was convinced his daughters would quickly lose interest, a conviction he now questioned.
“You’re right,” he answered. “I think I forgot all about it.”
“Can we build one?”
Now Emily was sitting up and looking at him excitedly as well. “With curtains and a bucket to bring stuff up?” she said.
He wondered if a tree house was part of the show they were watching. They were easily influenced.
“Curtains? Why not?” he said.
“When?” Emily shouted far too loudly.
“How soon?” Nikki added.
The questions hit him as a fist in the chest. Everything came down to time. It was the one commodity that fell short and left him feeling cheated, as well as the one doing the cheating. Never mind that he had no time for himself; he gave his daughters short shrift and even his job occasionally suffered. He considered himself an excellent time manager, and yet how was he supposed to find the four hours to erect a tree house with his daughters? And if he couldn’t find four hours to be with his kids, what did that say about him?
“This weekend,” he answered.
“Seriously?” Nikki said, suddenly the spokesperson for the two.
This change caught her father’s attention. Of the two, Nikki had retreated far more deeply into herself following the divorce. Her elevation to spokesperson, and Emily’s willingness to allow it to happen, held profound significance for him.
“Seriously,” he answered. “This Saturday.”
To his surprise, the girls exploded off the floor, throwing their hands high in the air and dancing around, causing Walt to realize how much he missed the obvious. Their excitement had little or nothing to do with a tree house.
“Saturday,” he repeated, watching how it spurred even more celebration. He wished he had a camera. Wished he could preserve forever the elation on his daughters’ faces, wished he understood the complexities of fatherhood better, and resolved to do just that.
With the idea of a tree house now firmly rooted, he began to imagine what backyard tree or trees could be used, as well as the structure’s overall design. A tree house was no simple undertaking, and Walt was no do-it-yourselfer. He Googled “tree house plans” and uncovered a half-million hits. He scrolled down through, then changed his mind and clicked on the “Images” link at the top of the page to see what he was in for.
There on the screen was a small thumbnail photograph of a structure that matched the last tree house he’d seen: the one in the Engletons’ woods. The one he’d been sitting near when he’d suggested to Fiona that a small fire would clean things up nicely.
His house phone ringing interrupted him, and he rose to answer it with reluctance. Anyone who wanted to reach him called him on his mobile, so he assumed this was either for the girls, or a telemarketer. Both options left him grumpy. He answered the phone, “This is Walt,” and paused.
“Sheriff Fleming?” It was a high, timid voice, with a Hispanic accent, and Walt’s first thought was how she’d gotten his unpublished phone number.
“Speaking.”
“My name Victoria Menquez. I am married to Guillermo. You know Guillermo. He work for Forest Service.”
“Yes, Mrs. Menquez.”
“My Guillermo, he no come home.”
Walt had been led into a search for Gilly once before; he felt the taste of sarcasm lingering on the tip of his tongue as he swallowed it away.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Walt said. “Have you called his friends?”
“He not fine,” she protested. “He said he do something for you when he left this morning. This is why I call you. Why he not call? Why he not come for supper?”
“Me?” Walt blurted out too quickly. The last thing he needed was to be dragged into a pub crawl looking for Gilly Menquez. He was about to suggest looking under “Bar” in the Yellow Pages when he gained some control. “The Forest Service,” he said. “He must carry a radio or something?”
“I call. No answer. Only recording. Office opens eight a.m. I know when office opens.” She was the one reverting to sarcasm. He glanced at