The Tower (WWP #12)

[Wendi S. Harrington]

A Prequel:  Crossland Hills, OK   New Year’s Eve 1988

“What is it?” DJ asked as Brandon shone his flashlight on the tree.

“An old tree fort. I found it when I was a kid.”

[caption id="attachment_126" align="alignright" width="300"] Write about a December camping trip.[/caption]

“In the cemetery?” She shivered and glanced around the darkness.

“It’s not in the cemetery. It’s next to it. My dad said the old caretaker used to live on this lot, but the house burned down before I was born. Dad thinks he built this fort for his kid.” Brandon tossed his backpack on the ledge and motioned for DJ to climb the slats nailed to the trunk.

“What do you do up here?” She stepped onto the slat, testing her weight against the board before climbing up.

“Well, tonight I’m gonna ring in the new year with my girl.” He waited as DJ pulled herself onto the ledge and scooted against the backpack, then he climbed the slats and joined her. He pushed the small wooden door inward. The rusty hinges squealed in protest. He shined the flashlight inside and motioned for her to crawl in. Grabbing the backpack, he followed.

“Why do you call it the tower?” She shivered again.

Brandon removed his jacket and slipped it over her arms. “I don’t know. It seemed really tall when I found it. I must’ve been about six, then. We were at a funeral and everyone was so sad. I got so excited when I saw it, Dad said I could play here for a while. So I climbed up here and prayed for God to help my family. After that, I was hooked. When I was little, we came out here two or three times a year. They always let me play in the tower while they went to gravesites.”

DJ let her chin rest on her knees. “Who died?”

“Huh?” Brandon lit the kerosene lantern and hung it on the hook.

“When you found the tower. You said you were at a funeral. Who died?”

Brandon fell silent, watching the way the light glinted off her eyes and made the emerald green appear coppery.

“Brandon?” She reached for his hand, letting hers just rest on top of his.

“My aunt and uncle. My cousin almost died too. We used to be like brothers before they moved to Texas. I was really glad God didn’t take him to Heaven too. But I wished he could’ve lived with us instead of my Aunt Dinny. I didn’t get to see him much after that unless we went to see them. With mom getting sick, we couldn’t make the trip very often. Travis was too scared to ride in the car to come up here.” Brandon took a deep breath. The evening had turned heavy. This wasn’t how he planned it.

She moved closer to him, letting her fingers trail up and down his arm. “I’m so sorry that happened. It must have been awful.”

He nodded. Warmth traveled up his skin wherever her fingers trailed. The shadow fell deeper across her face, and her murky green eyes seemed to draw him in. “It was.”

She moved closer still, looping her arm through his and resting her chin on his shoulder. “So you found this tower and now your parents let you just come spend the night here anytime you want to?”

“Well,” He lifted his hand to her hair, stroking it softly. “They think I’m at a lock-in.”

Eyebrows arched, she turned to him. “What’s a lock-in?”

“The church has one every year on New Year’s Eve. All the older kids go to church and spend the night there. They lock the doors and we play games and pray the new year in.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather be here with you.”

He kissed her then, slow and gently. He felt the tension melt away from her arms and shoulders. They talked, sharing favorite memories of their childhood. When he asked her about her dreams for the future, she said she never made any.

“What?” He leaned back, eyeing her sideways. “My sisters used to plan their weddings, name their kids, draw their houses. Have you never dreamed of what your life would be like? Did you ever play house?”

“Maybe, when I was little.” She shrugged. Her brows furrowed and she seemed hesitant to continue. “Some kids play house and pretend to be grown up and some kids. . .” her voice trailed off.

He nudged her, encouraging her to continue even though he didn’t want her to. He didn’t want her to say another word. He wanted to start over and tell ghost stories and dumb jokes. The memory was still too fresh, the reality too close. He couldn’t escape the way he met her, though he wanted to with everything inside of him.

“And some kids live it.”

The flat finality of her voice hung in the air long after the words were gone. The tiny room felt more like a prison cell by the second. Too small to put any space between them, too short to stand in. Brandon began to wonder if the old rickety boards were stout enough to hold their weight through midnight.

It had seemed so romantic to bring her here, talk about their plans together, and watch the fireworks in each other’s arms. He didn’t want to think about the past. He couldn’t undo the past. It was over. There was nothing he could do about it now. Midnight marked a new something.

He took a deep breath and turned toward her finally. She was studying the flame in the lantern. He wasn’t even sure she was breathing. “DJ,” He paused, waiting for her to look at him. “I want you to dream of a future. When the clock strikes midnight tonight, something brand new will suddenly exist. A new year. A new life. A new future. I want it to be ours. Mine and yours together.”

Her eyes filled and overflowed. She moved against him and wrapped her arms tight around him. He ran his hands down her hair and back, gripping her tight against him. He didn’t know how long she cried. He didn’t know how many of the tears were his own fault. He just held her and prayed that God would bless her and take her away from the place of her suffering. His prayer was interrupted by the whistle and crackle of the first firework. DJ pulled away, wiping her face on his jacket.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile. “Come on, let’s go out on the ledge.”

She followed him. By the fourth firework, they were holding hands and laughing. He kissed her hand and when her eyes met his, he whispered, “Happy 1989. This year’s for us.”

 

Excerpt from MAKING SHIPWRECK

 

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