Falling in Place

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JOHN JOEL WAS high up in the tree, the one tall tree in the backyard. Forget the stick-y lilacs and the diseased peach tree with branches that splayed like umbrella spokes. The tree he was in was a great tree. The robins had left their nest early in the week, so John Joel had his favorite resting place back: the tenth branch up, the one that he could crawl out on, high above his mother’s Chevy and the small kidney-shaped pool, now empty, that in previous summers had held goldfish, tadpoles and water lilies, and that now was filled with sticks and leaves no one had cleared out when winter ended.

“Frog face,” his sister Mary said. She crossed her eyes and puffed her cheeks in and out. She was coming home from her friend Angela’s house, and she had cut through the empty lot between their houses, even though she had been told not to because of poison ivy.

“I hope you get poison ivy,” John Joel said.

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