Gene Wolfe - Paul's Treehouse

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Paul's Treehouse

by Gene Wolfe

It was the day after the governor called out the National Guard, but Morris did not think

of it that way; it was the morning after the second night Paul had spent in the tree, and

Morris brushed his teeth with Scotch after he looked into Paul's bedroom and saw the

unrumpled bed. And it was hot; though not in the house, which was air-conditioned.

Sheila was still asleep, lying straight out like a man on the single bed across from his

own. He left her undisturbed, filling his glass with Scotch again and carrying it out to the

patio at the side of the house. The sun was barely up, yet the metal furniture there was

already slightly warm. It would be a hot day, a scorcher. He heard the snip-snack of

Russell's shears on the other side of the hedge and braced himself for the inevitable

remark.

"It's going to be a hot one, isn't it?" Sticking his head over the top of the hedge. Morris

nodded, hoping that if he did not speak Russell would stay where he was. The hope was

fruitless. He could hear Russell unlatching the gate, although he purposely did not look.

"Hotter than the hinges of hell," Russell said, sitting down. "Do the gardening early, that's

what I told myself, do it early while it's cool, and look at me. I'm sweating already. Did

you hear what they did last night? Beat a cop to death with golf clubs and polo mallets

out of a store window."

Morris said nothing, looking up at Paul's treehouse. It was on the other side of the yard,

but so high up it could be seen above the roofline of the house.

"Beat him to death right out on the street."

"I suppose some of them deserve it," Morris said moodily.

"Sure they do, but it's them doing it. That's what gets to me … Drinking pretty early,

aren't you?" Russell was tall and gangling, with a long neck and a prominent Adam's

apple; Morris, short and fat-bellied, envied him his straight lines.

"I guess I am," he said. "Like one?"

"Since it's Saturday …"

It was cool in the house, much cooler than the patio, but the air was stale. He splashed the

cheaper "guest" whisky into a glass and added a squirt of charged water.

"Is that your boy Paul's?" When he came out again, Russell was staring up at the

treehouse just as he himself had been doing a moment before. Morris nodded.

"He built it on his own, didn't he? I remember watching him climb up there with boards

or something, with his little radio playing to keep him company." He took the drink.

"You don't mind if I walk around and have a look at it, do you?"

Reluctantly Morris followed him, stepping over the beds of flame-toned, scentless

florabundas Sheila loved.

The tree at the other side of the house gave too much shade for roses. There was nothing

under it except a little sparse grass and a few stones Paul had dropped.

Russell whistled. "That's way up there, isn't it? Fifty feet if it's an inch. Why'd you let him

build it so high?"

"Sheila doesn't believe in thwarting the boy's natural inclinations." It sounded silly when

Morris said it, and he covered by taking another sip of the whisky.

Russell shook his head. "If he ever falls out of there he'll kill himself."

"Paul's a good climber," Morris said.

"He'd have to be to build that thing." Russell continued to stare, craning his body

backward. Morris wished that he would return to the patio.

"It took him almost two weeks," Morris said.

"He swiped the lumber off the housing project, didn't he?"

"I bought him some of it." For an instant Morris had seen Paul's small, brown head in one

of the windows. He wondered if Russell had noticed it.

"But he swiped most of it. Two-by-fours and four-by-fours; it looks solid."

"I suppose it is." Before he could catch himself he added, "He's got buckets of rocks up

there."

"Rocks?" Russell looked down, startled.

"Rocks about the size of tennis balls. Paul built a sort of elevator and hauled them up. He

must have eight or ten buckets full."

"What's he want those for?"

"I don't know."

"Well, ask him." Russell looked angry at having his curiosity balked. "He's your kid."

Morris swallowed the last of his second drink, saying nothing.

"How does he get up there?" Russell was looking at the tree again. "It doesn't look as if

you could climb it."

"He cut off some of the branches after he got the place built. He has a rope with knots in

it he lets down."

"Where is it?" Russell looked around, expecting to see the rope tangled in the tree's

branches somewhere.

It was bound to come out now. "He pulls it up after him when he goes in there," Morris

said. The Scotch was lying like a pool of mercury in his empty stomach.

"You mean he's up there now?"

Neither of them had heard Shelia come out. "He's been up there since Thursday." She

sounded unconcerned.

Morris turned to face her and saw that she was wearing a quilted pink housecoat. Her hair

was still in curlers. He said, "You didn't have to get up so early."

"I wanted to." She yawned. "I set the clock-radio for six. It's going to be hot in town, and

I want to be right there when the stores open."

"I wouldn't go today," Russell said.

"I'm not going down there—I'm going to the good stores." Shelia yawned again. Without

makeup, Morris thought, she looked too old to have a son as young as Paul. He did

himself, he knew, but Sheila usually looked younger to him; especially when he had had

something to drink. "Did you hear about the National Guard, though," she added when

she had finished the yawn.

Russell shook his head.

"You know how somebody said they were shooting at everything and doing more

damage than the rioters? Well, they're going to protest that. I heard it on the radio.

They're going to hold a march of their own today."

Russell was no longer listening. He leaned back to look at Paul's treehouse again.

"Ever since Thursday," Sheila said. "Isn't that a scream?"

Morris surprised himself by saying, "I don't think so, and I'm going to make him come

down today." Sheila looked at him coolly.

"How does he live up there?" Russell asked.

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