Tom Mason’s neighbors watched him surreptitiously through the long months after his son Tommy died unexpectedly. He quit his job, cashed out his retirement, sold his two vehicles, and rid himself of almost every furnishing in his house. Audrey left him a week after Tommy’s funeral. Those around Tom could smell the smoke from his grill nightly. No one suspected that he slept every night under the stars. Though Tom was still friendly, he no longer accepted invitations to socialize, and no one visited him. He waved and smiled at them as they passed his house. In time, he lost at least seventy pounds and grew a beard past his neckline.

Tom spent hours outside working on the impressive treehouse he erected high up in the backyard trees. The yard transitioned to dense trees and foliage behind Tom’s house, an area technically owned by the township. Tom strategically built the treehouse on the edge of the unmaintained property. People wondered if he had permits for the work, but no one dared break the taboo of reporting him. Losing a son had short-circuited something inside him; no one wanted the burden of being the one to shatter him completely.

Two months after starting the mysterious project, he was the talk of the block when he spent one entire day back there tearing it all down. The neighbors wrongly assumed he abandoned his plan to build a treehouse. Some of them expected a bonfire to follow the demolition. They realized later that most of them collectively held their breath that night, waiting for something terrible to happen. It didn’t.

The next morning, several of them laughed in relief when they saw the local lumber yard send a construction truck to Tom’s house. It unloaded an impressive load of lumber. By 8 a.m. Tom was already up in the trees without a harness or safety scaffolding. He’d torn down the weeks of work because it wasn’t perfect, and he knew he could do better.

Day after day, Tom stayed outside, experimenting, measuring, and learning new skills that he added to the structure. At times, the neighbors could hear the echoes of work being done inside the house, too.

One night in July, after most neighbors finished late suppers, lights came on in the trees, casting an eerie and beautiful bouquet of illumination into the adjacent yards. Tom learned wiring at some point. A few nights later, people craned their necks from his neighbor’s yards to note that he’d erected light posts across the perimeter of the property, as well as installed solar lights on the city property behind it. Lights curled around trees, and some of them were vivid colors: blue, red, and soft green. Most neighbors would have been shocked to know that Tom installed an array of solar batteries in weatherproof containers, ones concealed in the foliage. He installed an electrical subpanel in the back, too, for times when solar power wouldn’t suffice. He wanted the next occupant of the house to know that he thought of every eventuality.

On August 3rd, each neighbor awoke to discover a hand-printed envelope on their front door. To each recipient’s surprise, inside was an invitation to a party at Tom’s house on Saturday. Though the notice was short, no one considered not attending. Curiosity consumed everyone. Later that morning, dozens of calls, texts, and emails passed between the neighborhood’s connections.

The following day, cargo and utility trucks arrived, each with a different specialty emblazoned on the vehicles’ sides. Electrical, cabinet, ironworks, painters. Tom had a vision for his treehouse. By noon on Saturday, all the hired help departed, and a strange silence fell over Tom’s house. No one felt at ease. Months had passed with an endless series of new sounds. Tom’s project was done. The neighborhood once again held its breath, hoping that nothing terrible would happen. By 6 p.m., everyone was tapping their feet in anticipation. By 6:30, people lost their ability to wait and found themselves walking to Tom’s house early.

As each person or couple walked up to Tom’s front door, they discovered to their delight that a man dressed in a bright blue suit stood at the front door. He handed each party an envelope. “Please don’t open it until Tom makes the announcement.”

Inside the door, Tom stood. He was tanned, healthy, and smiling. As if his son hadn’t died and his wife left him, he smiled ear-to-ear, and he hugged everyone. “Come inside. Go anywhere in the house you want. Just don’t go outside yet.” By 7 p.m., all the people who received invitations were inside the house. Slightly after 7, Audrey came inside the house. Without saying a word, she hugged Tom fiercely for a few moments and then went for a drink.

Each guest noted that Tom had utterly remodeled the inside of the house, too. Wood floors, new furniture, walls removed, and custom tile work through the bathrooms and kitchens. It was a fantastic transformation, fueled by grief and unlimited time. In the kitchen, Tom built a fifteen-foot long sapphire river table that had inlaid lighting. On its wooden edge stood buckets of beer, wine, champagne, and carafes of bitter coffee.

“Drink! Enjoy!” Tom shouted until his guests realized he meant it. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now, outside,” Tom said, ensuring that everyone had a drink of their choice as they exited. Tom also replaced the back patio. Instead of broken concrete, his guests discovered that he’d carried the custom tile and brickwork outside. Hand-carved columns now supported a raw wood roof that smelled of fresh wood. Along one side of the new patio stood several tables, each also built by Tom. They were filled with bbq, salads, chips, and a thousand condiments. Two younger women stood by, keeping everything replenished. Another woman stood near two large gas grills as smoked slowly made its way out.

“Let’s eat!” Tom said. And then he added, “Before the big event.” He smiled as if he knew a secret. He turned to a panel by the double french doors leading the patio and pressed a button. The entire backyard exploded in soft colors. A thousand subdued lights suddenly illuminated the whole back yard, all the way into the trees. Several people gasped at the unexpected beauty of the lights and colors. From somewhere, soft music filled the air.

“Seriously. Let’s eat.” He clapped, and though people still gawked at the lights, they began to eye the food selections eagerly. For thirty minutes, the guests consumed their food with abandon. Tom moved among them, talking and smiling. Everyone kept watching Audrey as she occasionally approached Tom, touch his arm, and speak to him softly.

The lights dimmed and brightened a few times, a signal that the ‘event’ was due to start. A hush fell over everyone.

Tom climbed up on one of the tables in the grass.

“Everyone open their envelopes.” He laughed.

Each guest or couple tore the seam of their respective envelope. Inside was a single sheet of gold paper:

“We lost Tommy a year ago. And it destroyed us. He wouldn’t have wanted that. It ended our marriage. We had a beautiful house, a beautiful ten-year-old son, and beautiful life. I’ve spent a year making this house one anyone could be proud of. And we are proud again. We are doubly proud because we are giving this house to the Leer family. The Leers, for those who don’t know them, have three kids, one two, one four, and one eight years old. They live two streets over. This remodel is a gift for them, so that a family can once again live in this house. I built the treehouse for the kids. Tommy always wanted a treehouse. I took for granted that we would have time to build it. Everyone welcome the new owners, the Leer family. They are not here tonight. We gave them the news yesterday. We’re moving to their house Monday. Audrey and I love you all.”

No one spoke. From somewhere, someone clapped. And then another. In a few seconds, everyone was applauding. As the crescendo of applause deepened, Tom hung his head and looked at the ground. When he raised his head, tears rolled off his face. He did not attempt to conceal them or wipe them away.

Tom raised his hand. “Now, let’s go look at the treehouse, shall we?” Audrey walked over to him and took Tom by the hand as he led her to the rear of the property.

Ahead of them, the colorful lights lit the way.

Darkness had departed.

*

The bus station was long past its prime. Nothing about it caught the eye. Even the once-polished metal looked abandoned and ready for demolition. When Mayor Gates built it in 1965, Wheaton’s residents were in a fugue of excitement, anticipating that the new interstate would revive the economy. As happens in so many other towns, they didn’t realize that the speedy conduit would rocket people away from their respective hometowns and rupture their connection to home. When 1970 came, no one noted that the town had passed its zenith.

Zeke stood along Main Street, his eye carefully absorbing the details of the surrounding businesses. Most were long-shuttered, and none of the marquee signs were freshly-painted or modern. He only returned this time to sign away his parcel of land along Sherman Street. The house had been demolished years ago. His distant cousin Jermaine wanted it to build another house across two lots. Zeke was happy to reward him for staying and keeping roots here. Few could do so.

Zeke departed Wheaton for the Army the week after high school. Vietnam was a concern, but college was not an option for him. He witnessed a few people come back as completely different people. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Zeke loved the Army. He stayed in for eight years until he met Sally Jenkins. They married and moved back to her hometown in Mississippi. To Zeke’s surprise, her hometown was exactly like Wheaton, a declining farm town with few jobs. She died in 1992 of an inoperable brain tumor. Zeke never remarried, though a couple of women asked him. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he stayed in Sally’s hometown. Zeke appreciated it in a way that he couldn’t love Wheaton.

Zeke’s mind drifted back to 1965.

The day the bus station opened, Zeke was ten years old. His Mom told him he was going to witness history and insisted that he accompany her downtown. She also made him dress up, including a tie and hat. All he remembered were people talking excitedly about an old bus as it pulled into town. The town newspaper sent out a junior reporter who animatedly took pictures of the ribbon-cutting and people stuffing hot dogs in their faces. The diner next door, owned by Mayor Gate’s brother, gave out free soda, coffee, and hot dogs. Zeke quickly consumed four hot dogs, much to the embarrassment of his Mom. She stopped him as he went for number five.

Zeke escaped his Mom’s rebuke and sat on an extended bench on the side of the building. The relief driver who came in on the bus sat there, too, smoking a long cigarette. He offered Zeke a drag. After carefully considering that someone might see him, he declined. Zeke acquired a taste for smoking when he was seven. His uncles gave him cigarettes regularly when his Mom wasn’t paying attention. To his Mom’s credit, she pretended that she couldn’t smell the stench of tobacco on him. She was a mix of disciplinary contrast, and it was her voice of conscience he heard in his dark moments of indecision.

“What’s so special about a bus station?” Zeke asked the middle-aged and weary driver.

“They think it will save them. It won’t. It will siphon all of you out of here. I’ve driven all over the United States. That is what happens.” He took another long drag of the absurd cigarette and laughed. “Can’t tell adults anything, though, right?” He asked. Zeke couldn’t tell if he was serious.

Zeke sat on the bench with the bus driver, talking, for at least thirty minutes until the crowd realized that no further excitement would ensue. A few minutes later, the bus pulled away from the new bus station without any additional passengers. Zeke waved enthusiastically as the tired passengers from other places watched him recede from view. He had a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes in his pocket, a departing gift from Petey, the driver.

Zeke thought about the intervening years, fifty-five incredible years. In the interim, the town dwindled by two-thirds. Zeke’s return trips gradually declined. After his Mom passed, he stopped coming for obligatory funerals, too. His hometown had become a reunion base for those who refused to leave. With each visit, a little bit of vitality disappeared from the buildings and the faces of those there.

Another bench now stood against the side of the old diner building. Though it probably had been replaced repeatedly, the bench there looked to be one hundred years old. Zeke could still picture the relief bus driver in his uniform, sitting there and smoking in the early May afternoon sun. He could almost taste the mustard-covered hotdogs he had indulged in, too. Zeke found himself walking toward the bench to sit down. As he did, he stretched his legs out in front of him.

His imagination filled his head with the remembered murmur and the excited chatter of the people assembled here in 1965 to witness the new bus station being christened by the arrival of a tired Greyhound bus.

Zeke decided to sit there for just a minute. He felt exhausted, and his memories weighed on him like nostalgic sandbags.

Two hours later, one of the residents walking her dog found Zeke sitting on the bench, his hat askew, his eyes wide open to the receding sun.

He wouldn’t leave Wheaton after all. He would have been happy to know he hadn’t escaped. No one escapes where they are from, and if you consider the implications of this truth, a big piece of your heart will swell and float away.