UNDAMPENED SPIRITS
BY RICKY FAY
It began innocently enough - wholesomely even, given the values of the time. During an extended summer visit across the country to our mother's childhood home in the idyllic town of Norwood, Massachusetts, my brother and I became obsessed with the idea of building a tree fort in the backyard. We were six and eight at the time and spent the majority of our waking hours concocting unique methods of gently tormenting our resilient younger sister. This time, our ambitious mental blueprints called for an elevated clubhouse from which we could launch a barrage of physical pranks aimed at her, should she dare venture into territory clearly designated: NO GIRLS ALLOWED.
But several major roadblocks quickly presented themselves. For one, neither of us enjoyed the architectural ingenuity or master carpentry prowess necessary to design and construct our proposed fortress of solitude. For another, there was simply no way that our grandfather (whom we affectionately nicknamed Bumpa) would ever permit us to go around nailing boards to his beloved trees, even if we'd possessed any measure of knowhow. Finally, the vast majority of trees on the property were of the gargantuan, old growth varieties, requiring spikes and chains and belts to climb them, equipment and expertise way beyond the reach of elementary school-aged city kids.
So, with our options limited but spirits undampened, we cast about for more realistic locations, finally landing on a sprawling, leafy maple less than twenty feet from the back door. We found a big plastic pail (the kind we'd build sandcastles with at the beach) and filled it with water from the garden hose. I scrambled up the trunk, establishing base camp in a notched crook we were certain was far too high off the ground for our sister to ever locate us. In reality, it was only five or six feet up, but viewed through our lens of giddy invincibility, we may as well have been preparing defenses on Gibraltar.
My brother knotted one end of a jump rope to the pail's handle before tossing the other up to me, where I looped it across a sturdy branch and anchored it to another, creating a simple pulley system. Convinced we were unlocking ancient, mystical secrets of the construction trade, I hoisted the full bucket as my brother zealously, resolutely stood guard below. Then he too climbed up to our nest. We settled in, discussing with great detail the finer points of what, in our minds, would soon qualify for acclaim as the single greatest practical joke in the history of humankind.
Within minutes, we were confident, our sister would come looking for us. Unable to ascertain our whereabouts, she'd rest for a moment directly beneath our lair, affording us the opportunity to drench her from above. Our mania was such that we wholeheartedly believed this to be nothing less than a foolproof plan ordained by destiny. And, it being a scorcher of a day during an especially muggy Boston summer, we didn't imagine for a second we'd be doing her any lasting harm.
Truthfully, had she or anyone not legally blind actually wandered into the backyard, we'd have been spotted immediately, our brilliant plan foiled. But, spurred on by delusions of grandeur, we wedged our bucketed ordnance firmly into the notch so as to not accidentally tip it over, giggling like fiends at the unqualified genius and guaranteed success of our scheme.
Apparently, our mother noticed we were M.I.A. before our sister did. Intuiting correctly that, if she hadn't heard from us in the past ten minutes, we were probably up to no good, she slid open the kitchen window which looked out over the backyard and issued a forceful summons. We coiled up the rope (still lashed tightly to the bucket's handle), triple-checked the security of our munitions, shimmied down the tree, and hustled to report for roll call, fully aware from experience that she'd mobilize a posse if we didn't check in post-haste. At all costs, we knew we must prevent her from discovering and disarming our weapon before it could be deployed.
That afternoon, the gathering, oppressive New England humidity which had plagued us since our arrival broke in the fashion of a lengthy summer storm. Nobody was much inclined to spend any time outdoors over the next few days and everyone's attentions drifted to other worthwhile distractions. All too soon came the morning we packed, bid farewell to extended family, and headed for the airport, our long-forgotten W.M.D. still primed and loaded, precisely where we'd left it.
******
We flew home to Portland. Summer came to an end. The school year began. My brother and I daily found innovative ways to antagonize and annoy our sister while somehow dodging a relentless stream of warrants issued by The Hague.
Then, one cold, gray afternoon in October, the phone rang. Our mother picked up. From across the continent, we could hear Granny's customarily cheerful Boston, accent screeching with uncharacteristic fury. Our mother had always been hard of hearing, but this time Granny's shrill volume dictated that even she had to hold the receiver at arm's length as she tried to reply:
"Mom? Mom! Calm down! The boys did what?!" She turned to stare at us with a blend of incredulity and suspicion. "I don't understand. How could they throw water all over you? They're standing right here. They've been here all day. Mom? Mom. Mom, you're not making any sense. You do understand we live three thousand miles away from Norwood?"
Being privy to only our mother's half of this bizarre conversation, we immediately dusted off our halos and adopted stances of righteous indignation. Behind these stoic facades, however, our minds raced. What spurious charges were being leveled against us now? We were able to discern that it had something to do with hurling water at Granny, but this was an utterly preposterous accusation, geographically and logistically impossible. As relieved as we were to have ironclad alibis, something didn't feel right. At the back edges of our memories, some crucial, nagging detail was clawing its way out of the shadows, but neither of us could yet identify exactly what it might be.
Suddenly, a deeper, much calmer voice entered the conversation on the other end of the line. We still couldn't make out the words, but it was obvious that Bumpa had tagged in to translate.
"Dad! Thank God. What is Mom talking about?"
We studied our mother's facial cues and body language intently, trying to approximate how much trouble we were in, desperate for any clue which might clarify our supposed transgressions. Thus far we knew only that we stood falsely accused of some aquatic outrage yet were totally in the dark when it came to specifics.
Our jaws dropped as our mother's face inexplicably contorted with mirth, half a second before she managed to shield her expression from us. At the same time, an involuntary snort of amusement burst from her nostrils, and she battled in vain to regain her composure. Aware she was being observed, she casually retreated down the hallway until she found herself thwarted by the physical limitations of the phone cord. Her eavesdroppers pursued, first at a distance, then closing the gap with fits and starts until we were right behind her. By this time, her entire body was convulsing with suppressed, silent hilarity.
She spoke in terse, clipped phrases, attempting and failing to camouflage her laughter:
"Yes, Dad. All right, Dad. Yes, I hear you. Yes, I'll tell them. Yes, Dad, I'll punish them! Yes, you can tell her. It's as good as done. Yes, Dad, I promise!"
Under most circumstances, a solemn oath to apply grandparent-mandated discipline would have sent us scampering for the county line, probably in opposite directions. Brotherhood may be an eternal bond, but survival in extreme conditions dictates an every-man-for-himself, any-port-in-a-storm approach. In this instance, however, our mother's unprecedented behavior and tone kept us rooted to the spot with morbid, potentially suicidal fascination. In the midst of a dialogue upon which the very fates of our backsides hinged, we were simply too curious to flee.
Parental discipline was a regular fact of life - possible to dodge temporarily but not avoid forever. Accept it, handle it, move on. Punishment meted out by grandparents was another matter altogether, one somehow overlooked by architects of both the Eighth Amendment and the Geneva Convention. In our home, it was a rare thing to see it applied, but we'd witnessed enough to know that, when it landed, it struck with a force capable of recalibrating the Richter Scale. Not only would the accused have to endure draconian disciplinary measures perfected during an age when society agreed not every kid was meant to survive to adulthood, but if we came out the other side intact, we knew another salvo was on its way. This inevitable aftershock would be enthusiastically administered by our parents, whose reputations we'd just tarnished in the eyes of their folks, painting them incapable of reining in the little insurgents who shared their roof. These were the punishments we feared most, those which cascaded across generations, avalanches of shame and recrimination.
Finally, our mother's long-distance deposition wrapped up. She said her goodbyes and turned around, nearly tripping over her boys, both of whom were now peering up at her with the Bambiest of eyes. Our eagerness to hear the whole story had eclipsed any instincts for self-preservation. Wordlessly, she stepped around us, strode with great ceremony to the dining room, sat down, folded her hands, and cleared her throat. Court was in session.
The proceedings commenced without a reading of charges. Suspense built as the accused received a synopsis of recent testimony delivered in camera by our grandparents, augmented by Her Honor's tenacious interrogatory tactics. We'd made the mistake of trusting the system, expecting a favorable reading of facts to exonerate us quickly. Instead, our defiant expressions wilted rapidly as evidentiary details piled up around us like familiar snowdrifts. Was it possible we were guilty after all?
******
Incredibly, it was.
A mere twenty minutes earlier, on the other side of the country, Granny had been humming merrily in her backyard as she took in laundry off the line. When she turned around, a peculiar sight caught her eye — a weather beaten jump rope descending slightly from the crook of her favorite maple. Setting down her basket, she approached the anomaly, puzzled. Standing on her tippiest of toes, her entire five-foot-nothing frame stretched up to collect the rope, intending to return it to its proper place in the basement. This straightforward task proved far more difficult than anticipated and she quickly found herself engaged in an unplanned, ferocious game of tug-of-war, seemingly with the tree itself.
She managed to win the contest and lose in the same instant. When our abandoned bucket, hidden from her vantage point and now filled with months' worth of rainwater, bird droppings, bloated slug carcasses, half-decomposed insect exoskeletons, and arboreal detritus of every sort finally came dislodged, the dramatic shift in weight and leverage rocketed Granny backwards as it popped free. According to Bumpa's eyewitness account, the contents of our bucket sloshed out in one gelatinous blob, defying gravity while it hung suspended in the air for a long moment. Then it began its bombing run, locking onto Granny's heat signature and accelerating into a dive. Its target stood transfixed, paralyzed with astonishment and horror as the kamikaze payload approached in slow motion, scoring a direct hit, drenching her with a hearty goulash of unspeakable filth.
"She's mad as a wet hen!" Bumpa had relayed, himself apparently also struggling to hold the last trench from being overrun by a devastating internal onslaught of forbidden hysterics. His was a simile with which my brother and I were entirely unfamiliar, so our immediate disintegration into cataclysmic fits of giggles could have easily been misread as inappropriate and lacking empathy. Fortunately, our judge too was picturing a soaked barnyard fowl wearing Granny's trademark spectacles and squawking with bewildered rage.
What followed was, without question, the strangest scolding of our young lives. Before it was done, both Her Honor and the notorious desperadoes on trial for our lives were weeping helplessly with laughter and no real punishment was handed down. We did, as I recall, write a letter of apology to poor, dear Granny, who thenceforward was far more cautious when retrieving benign-looking items from unusual places, particularly if there was any chance they'd been placed there by her booby-trapping grandsons. | RF
A LIFE-LONG OREGONIAN OF IRISH-AMERICAN STOCK, RICKY FAY HAS HEARD AND SEEN OTHERS CLAIM TO WEAR THEIR HEARTS ON THEIR SLEEVES. THE ONLY PLACE HE HAS EVER TRULY FELT UNDERSTOOD IS ON THE PAGE OR SCREEN.
