The Creek

The backyard on West Market Street stretched back into what my child mind viewed as an immense wilderness far from the busy street out front. At ages eight, five, and four, Peter, Beth and I pushed out the back door into an expanse of overgrown grass, decaying stumps, and stubby shrubs sloping down to a sentry of shade trees along the creek at the back border of the yard. Today, my adult self sees the narrow trickle of water in a dirty mud trench for what it actually is, a drainage ditch for the small backyards of dilapidated duplexes on two adjacent streets.

As preschoolers, Beth and I stepped down the steep bank with care to crouch at the water’s edge. Our shoes are scuffed with dirt. Cold water drenches our toes and creeps up the hem of our pants. We like the quiet and the abundance of treasures. A slug leaves a trail of slime across a bright orange leaf. A smooth, gray stone fits our palms perfectly. We delight in letter-shaped twigs and the designs in multi-colored rocks. We find flat, round skipping stones and pitch them across the water’s surface. We attempt what our brother does with ease, but ours mostly drop immediately out of sight with a satisfying plunk. We drop leaves into the slow-moving water and watch as they swirl in eddies, bump into obstacles, creating ripples until they float out of sight around the bend.

As we got older, we raced to the creek. We slip, slide, and elbow past each other to get the best position on the bank: the large flat rock, the old fallen log, an exposed tree root. Some days, the creek is noisy with neighborhood kids. Someone wedges a board into the bank on either side to create a bridge. Peter, a big third grader, crosses in a single bound. With a running start, he launches himself in a flying leap. A single foot touches down in the middle of the board-bridge, and he is on the other side.

Beth and I are more cautious. The board bounces and wobbles with each step. We are tightrope walkers, arms reaching for balance at our sides. We have freedom here away from adult eyes, but we’ve been warned not to venture too far.

We follow our brother across the creek to explore this new land, other houses, unfamiliar backyards. We walk through patches of lawn and brush, weave through a virtual forest of trees and random log piles to find a wooden ladder leaning against a tree. It reaches up to a raised platform with a treehouse on top. One by one we climb up the shaking ladder to find a low-roofed shelter with a crooked door, a glassless window, and room inside for four or five kids. We lean out the window, peer through the leafy canopy, and look down on the world below.

A few days later, I cross the creek alone and wander back to the treehouse. Today, it is noisy with bigger boys. “You can come up,” they call from the platform. Two boys climb down to make room for me. “Go on up,” they say. “We’ll hold the ladder for you.”

“I can climb by myself,” I tell them. Confidence puffs my chest, my hands grasp the rough rails, my feet step assuredly up and up and up, I am proud of myself as I step onto the platform high above the ground, I look down on the boys watching from below.

“Go inside.” They grin and snicker.

I push the door open to see a boy sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the small room. Afternoon light slants in through the cracks in one wall, striping the floor. An erect penis pokes out of denim pants, pale and pink. He tips the chair back on two legs and reaches his hands behind his head. “You can touch it,” he says with a lazy smile.

I back out of the door and step down the ladder, each foot reaches blindly for the rung below.

A splinter snags my palm.

Keep stepping. Don’t cry.

My breath is tight, cold grips my spine as I land on solid ground.

“Did you touch it?” The boys at the bottom laugh. “Did you touch his dick?”

I don’t know this word, but I know it is dirty and dangerous. These boys are dirty and dangerous.

I don’t look behind me as I run back to the board-bridge and our side of the creek. I say nothing to Beth or Peter when I get to the house.

I never tell anyone.

I stop crossing the creek.