Secrets in the Leaves

I snuck up the ladder and stuck my head inside the door opening, my chin just above the floor. Ethan had his nose in a comic book. It took him a while to notice me.

"Get out! Can't you see the sign? Ethan's treehouse. No girls allowed."

"Mom says you have to share. So there!"

"Mom!" he yelled. "JoJo won't lea..."

"Play nice with your sister, Ethan." It wasn't the words, barely discernible from the kitchen window, but the tone that told us she meant business.

"Shit!" he mumbled under his breath. "Damn little brat. I can't get no peace."

"I'm telling Mom you're cussing."

"No you won't. If you do, I'll pick up your scrawny kindergarten butt and throw you out the window!" He gestured toward the framed opening, where a large tree branch jutted out, its green leaves fluttering against the blue sky.

"Nuh-uh!"

He glared at me. "Uh-huh!" I could tell he was trying not to smile.

"Fine!" I plopped down on the pine boards Indian style, staking my claim, daring him with my eyes.

"Listen, if you want to come here, you have to follow the rules."

"What rules?"

"First, no Barbies and baby dolls. No tea parties, or dress up, either."

"What about pirates?"

"I guess pirates are okay; they're manly."

"What about cowboys and Indians, or cops and robbers?"

"Fine, fine! Just no girly junk."

"Okay." I tried so hard to be cool, but my legs were jumping with excitement.

"Second, no touching my magazines, or the radio, or, well--anything."

"Okay."

"And no other girls are allowed unless I invite them. It's still my treehouse, you know--Dad built it for me."

"Not even Macy?"

"No."

I looked down so he couldn't see my lower lip trembling. Macy was my best friend in the world. For a girl, she was really good at pirates, too.

He could tell I was upset, so, like a good big brother, he tried to soften the blow. "Listen, this will be our secret hideout. Wanna know why me and Dad picked this tree?"

I shrugged.

He leaned closer and whispered, "Well, it's magic."

I couldn't control my eyes widening at this incredible news, but I was still suspicious.

"For real?"

"For real. See this knot in the branch?"

I glanced up at the scarred bark. It looked like a typical chain saw cut.

"This is the door to the fairy world. I've seen them dancing late at night when the moon is full. But don't you dare tell a soul. This is our special place, just you and me, okay?"

That sounded good to me. A pinky shake sealed the deal.

Over the next few months, I broke every rule. Once Daddy accepted my invitation to tea, there wasn't much Ethan could say. He sat along the back wall with his arms crossed the whole time, brown hair hanging over his eyes.

But Daddy got into his role as the Earl of Sandwich, speaking with an English accent. Even Ethan laughed when Dad stuck out his pinky as he drank Kool-Aid from a porcelain cup with purple flowers.

Because that old tulip poplar really was magic. The branch above us continued to put out twigs, leaves, and the occasional flower, even without light. We draped sheets here and there as backdrops for our plays. At Christmas, we twined lights around the bark. My dolls loved to nestle in the crooks for a nap. Ethan and I agreed--under her leaves, anything was possible.

From the doorway, we could spy pirate flags and galloping raiders with plenty of time to grab our swords or rifles. But our favorite game was cops and robbers, because Daddy played with us. He always let us play the cops; he said he wanted to be the bad guy for once, since he had to arrest people all day. He'd escape from prison through the window, wait until we were right behind him, then swing on the rope to freedom.

"Take that, copper!"

We chased him around the yard until he slowed enough for us to jump on his back. He'd resist arrest, swinging us in circles until we all fell to the ground in a heap, breathless from laughter.

Over the years, the comics and Kool-Aid gave way to porno mags and cigarettes, but the tree never stopped growing. By the time Ethan got his license, a tangled bower obscured the ceiling, and the treehouse blossomed into a magical kingdom fit for fairies. It was all mine.

My girlfriends and I put up posters of Robert Redford. When we left our makeup lying around, there was no one to complain. We had tons of fun talking about boys during our weekend sleepovers, but it wasn't quite the same.

Shortly after Ethan's high school commencement, Daddy died in the line of duty. I climbed the ladder one summer evening under dark clouds promising a gusher, this time to be alone with my thoughts. I surprised Ethan again. Long, straight hair covered the hands he held over his face. He looked up at me with red, puffy eyes. It shocked me; he didn't even cry at the funeral.

"Don't you..."

"I won't tell anyone, Ethan. Besides--you're supposed to cry. I miss him too, you know."

"I know. Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course! You're my brother. You can tell me anything."

"I don't want to be a cop anymore, JoJo. Or go in the military, either. I don't care how manly it is, how patriotic. I don't ever want to kill anyone, and I sure as hell don't want to die!"

I didn't know what to say. Girls aren't expected to follow in their father's footsteps; I would never know the anxiety he faced. All I could do was hold him, and we cried together for what seemed like hours. We laughed as the clouds broke, drumming the sacred songs of our childhood on the tin roof. And we remembered the Earl of Sandwich, and his wisdom in saving the tree branch that sheltered us. It was almost like old times, except this time our secret seemed grown up, important.

Ethan went to college for four years, graduating with a PolySci degree. He got drafted anyway. I urged him to move to Canada, but he didn't want to be a coward--he wanted to make Dad proud. Thankfully, he came back more or less in one piece, but something in his mind is missing. He no longer has the heart to protest the war, or do much of anything but drink.

Sometimes I'm awakened by his screams. Late at night, under the cold moon, I climb the ladder to the treehouse with a fifth in my hand. Usually three shots and me talking about old times will lull him back to sleep. I don't ask him about the war, and he rarely speaks. The only words I can understand in his frenzied dreams are: "Me lie, me lie." I can't imagine what Ethan would ever lie about, but I know he witnessed horrible things; and I know, despite his childhood vow, he had to kill to survive that leafy jungle half a world away.

I think he'll want to talk soon. I see a glimmer of my brother in this stranger's eyes when I mention Dad's sacrifice. When the time is right, I'll be there in our secret place to listen, without judgment. He's my brother--and a pinky swear is a pinky swear.


Note: This is a work of fiction. The My Lai (pronounced "me lie") massacre occurred March 16, 1968. An estimated 300 to 500 unarmed Vietnamese citizens, mostly women and children, were killed by American forces. Coincidentally, after writing this story, I learned the codeword for the town was "Pinkville".

Prompt: Hiding family secrets didn't save us from them.

Word count: 1264