Humid Humours

[10:08 AM]

“Move, you livid heap of laundry,” Juniper growls. Her feet dangle uselessly while her arms struggle, half-wedged against and half-clinging to the wood. Her dress strains against her armpits, shoulders bunching fabric in cutting creases and billowing in parachute-like excess below. Seams press against her arms with too-tight ardor, clamoring for the release that will cast her down as a heap of tumbled bones. Dust, she eulogizes, to dust.

Her chest shudders with ragged gasps as trembling arms slip her lower, gradually giving in to physical defeat. This is far from the memories of youth, nimbly scaling up and down the tree trunk a dozen times a minute. This process is arduous and painful.

“Release me - you - wretch!” She curses the trunk between uneven breaths, blunted orthodics scrabbling blindly against the stalwart shaft. Heaving legs, Juniper catches her breath. Her toes rest tentatively on the lost rung, the one whose collapse left her dangling like a pillowy pinata in a cotton dress. Praying the thick shoes won’t slip further, Juniper’s foot searches for the next rung. She heaves her chest up into the cavernous floorboards with a lurch, struggling until her flailing limbs follow.

Air rushes out of her lungs with a gasp as she lay on the floor. Her heart throbbed. Her head pounded. Air.

[11:33 AM]

Juniper’s eyelids wake heavy from sleep. She forces herself to attention, foggily tracing the grey woodgrain around her. Flecks of melted crayons punctuate the boards, sloppy scribbles around the edges and clear-tipped signatures at the roof’s peak. A dusty bag of marbles—are they marbles?—sag in the corner, it’s limp cover overgrown with thin green moss. Rusty leaves scatter on the floor and scrape against the wood. The tree creaks, each subtle shift rocking the whole structure back and forth.

Pushing up on one elbow, Juniper winces, pain exploding down her arm and forcing her to collapse again. “Still think this is a good idea, Juney? Who knows how long we’re going to be here, all at the hands of your silly, foolhardy—“

She sighs. Napping had seemed inevitable, but now her sticky tongue fumbles clumsily in her rasping mouth. “Hhem! Come on Juney. You know Christy and the kids are coming this afternoon. Didn’t you think about that before your grand adventure, you goose? Of course you didn’t”

She squints at the small metallic hands of her watch, losing the thin lines between the shadowy cracks cast by the sun. I’m puckered as a pickle already, without water. Come on Juney, finish up and get out a’ here. Gracious, I must have sprained that arm. Most likely gonna need to wait for rescue. Idiot. Remember you brought this to yourself, you decrepit hooligan. Now, settle in.

[14:27 PM]

Juniper’s fingers rustled a folded square of paper. Maybe she could flag somebody down, after all, what kind of woman doesn’t have a handkerchief in her pocket? The fabric of her dress rumples under her hand, heavy with summer humidity. Even the paper absorbs the dragging heat, saturating itself, its rustle nominal at best. Sweat beads her brow. Darn. Don’t tell me that fell out too.

[14:35 PM]

Her eyes ache with the weight of heat, hunger pangs travelling from Juniper’s stomach to throb behind her eyes. Lunch had long passed. She recalls the pasta salad left optimistically on the counter, desperately trying to coax water to her mouth. Regret wrenches her chest like a lost love.

I’d be darned if there isn’t a firefighter for saving dehydrated old women in trees, she thought, wryly. Defeat wrapped the image, an acknowledgement limp as the overbearing heat. An assessment of her situation—injured arm, broken ladder, age and fatigue—thinned her already-narrow lips into a hard, pale line. Her grim eyes snap, sharpening with frost as internal determination reasserts itself. You got yourself into this mess, girl, you have to get yourself out.

A ruddy squirrel hovers outside the windowsill, hand twitching, unable to decide whether run or freeze. Juniper watches his limbs tremble, shaking the thin leaves perilously. Shh. Lovely afternoon, isn’t it? I bet you’re aching for some lunch too. Spare any acorns?

He startled, tail flicking, and scatters.

Good for you Juney, you’ve started talking to squirrels now. I’m surprised you held out his long. Friends!—incredulously—You might as well have promoted him to general manager of ‘The Treehouse’ and asked him to bring you the dish of the day. Soon you’ll be weak in the knees and start calling him something human, like “Jericho” or “Rodney.” Get a grip.

[14:53 PM]

Good thing you didn’t tell him this is now a hotel chain with room service. What a horrible rating he would get! “Negative three stars, rotten service. The waiter absconded long ago and has been gone for hours – in squirrel years. All fine looks and nothing to speak of.” Juniper looked up as her wrinkled lips mouthed the end of Jericho’s empty review. The squirrel was back, peering in on her with persistent curiosity. Drat. He heard.

[15:05 PM]

Jericho darts back and forth along the tree branch, continually checking to see if Juniper was still there with the persistence—or curiosity—of a toddler. Don’t you have something better to do, squirrel? Fine. Jericho. Getting all high and mighty, aren’t we?

—That sounds like a car door. People should do a little bit more visiting to old women trapped in treehouses. What a day. Come on, Juney, don’t mind your arm. Haul yourself up now. It’s a lot of work in this heat, but you made this muddle yourself. Still don’t know how I’m ever supposed to get out of here, but maybe I can wave. How about a sock? That’s as good a flag of surrender as any.

Juniper struggles up, wincing with each movement. Her stiff body reprimands her for their poor cushioning. She clumsily unties the thin, wire-like laces, pulling the stiff black shoe from her foot. A high frilled sock comes next, reversing into grey sweat stains as it peels back from her clammy toes.

Running footsteps slap against the sidewalk, and the front door thuds with enthusiastic rapping of small fists.

“Grandma! We’re here!” Alex’s electric voice wakes the baby with a wail. “Grandma?”

“Alex—” Her lips only issue a parched, cracked whisper. Her dry tongue is clumsy in her mouth, sticking on the words. Clearing her throat is like grating sandpaper. “Alex!”

Juniper’s cracked yell rises as Jericho resumes chattering. His trill peaks sharply, deafening her call. He perches on the dogwood, beady eyes fixed on hers while droning her out.

“Is Grandma in the back, Honey?” Christy’s voice melds into the cacophony, thin and on-edge.

Now, thinks Juniper. She flings her arm out the window, waving the grey-and-white flag of surrender.

Alex’s tow-coloured head bobs into view, Juniper waving her weary pennant frantically from the corner. His head never rises, slowly swiveling from left to right to scan the backyard. He wanders towards the vegetable garden and kicks the empty hammock half-heartedly. Plunging his hand into the dirt, he pulls up a half-grown carrot, wiping the dirt in a black smear on his shorts. He takes a bite, crunching loudly.

“Nope, she’s not here,” he hollers back, mouth full.

I wonder if these socks are still good slingshots. Juniper grabs one of the marbles—acorns—behind her and aims towards the hammock. The long, woven stripes seem destined for target practice. She pulls back, releases—Yes!

Inadvertently, she lets go of the sock, which now dangles out of reach on the branch below her. Her excitement is muted, but she has Alex’s attention. She grabs another acorn and throw wildly, hitting Alex by accident, maybe. She isn’t sure, doubled over, out of sight from the window and clasping her arm. The pain of the last shot made her empty stomach recoil, as if from a kick, for forgetting her injury.

Jericho trills louder, indignant at the waste of his larder. Junipers eyes squeeze shut, the sound and pain culminating to oppress her.

“Mum, the squirrel’s throwing acorns at me!”

“Come back, Alex. Grandma must have gone out.” The baby is still crying. “Honey, Lucy’s had enough. I’m sorry Grandma forgot, we’ll phone her tonight to check in, okay?”

Juniper forces herself back to the window in time to watch Alex round the corner of her house. Honeysuckle clings to the trellis laden with bright orange flowers, hiding the driveway. Car doors thud—this time with slow defeat—and the car pulls away.

Well—dryly—that was nicely handled. Dolt.

Regretfully, she props her arms against the window and sighs a long, listless breath.

[15:28 PM]

A flash of pink catches her eye. Juniper slowly refocuses, brushing away the thin film creeping into her vision. The pink pennant flashes again.

Juney, you should know better than to let clouds get into your eyes. You can’t see your own toes—never mind high heaven—when you get like that. Now, what on Earth is that? Juniper squints ineffectively towards the vibrant colour. Hmphf. Juney, if you expect to see that little girl with your eyes half shut, your brain is more of a lint-trap than I wagered—You don’t think that’s Carleigh, do you?

Ceasing to care, Juniper frantically waves her arms, ignoring the pain. Continually. Steadily. Come here—please—come here.

[15:39 PM]

A peaked, freckled face peers up from the ground. Juniper is positioned like the assistant in a magic trick, with only her head visible through the gap in the floor.

“Mrs.—Mrs. Ellison? Are you okay?”

“Carleigh. Thank Heavens.” She’s whispering, using up the last words left to her mouth. Finally. Something is going right. “I was trying to send you a note, dear, and I got stuck. Ask your mom or dad to come over with a ladder.”

“Okay, but—Mrs. Ellison? How were you going to send it? What was it for?”

“Here, Carleigh.” Juniper extracts the withered paper from her pocket and lets it fall to the ground. She has no energy to throw it. Carleigh’s pigtails bobbles as she bends down. She unfolds the limp sheet like fabric falling open. Large blue letters sprawl across the page. HI.

Carleigh’s face beams up at her. “Hi! I told you I could see your treehouse! And can see it even better when I’m using my spy-binoculars.”

She gestures to the bulge in her pocket where, Juniper guesses, a bulky plastic pair reside. “That’s right, Carleigh, I needed to test out your spy-abilities. I think you passed the test—level 9, secret agent. Excellent job, operator. Now for mission number two, operation Call Mom.”

Her words are spent, but Carleigh is already dashing around the corner, her eager pigtails quickly hidden by the obscuring honeysuckle.

Playing spies at your age, really Juney. But now, a timid smile threads her lips. The corner of her mouth twitches, begging her to laugh. Jericho trills with anticipation. Thank Heaven.