The Guardians

'No. Thank you, though.'

'It must be kind of strange. Going through Ben's things.'

'He kept a diary.'

'Yeah? You read it?'

'Enough to know he wasn't wel.'

'I think we knew that.'

'He thought there was something in the house across the street. Something he believed was trying to get out, and would get out—'

'If it wasn't for him.'

'That's right.'

'You said it. He wasn't wel.' Randy's not looking at my elbows now, but squinting severely right at me.

'Or he was right,' I say.

'About what?'

'That the Thurman place needed to have an eye kept on it.'

'Wel, let's see,' Randy says, lifting his hands to count off the points he makes on his fingers. 'One, nobody lives there, so there was nobody to keep an eye on.

Two, Ben was an anti-social shut-in with delusional tendencies—and that was him in grade eleven. Three, even if there was something in there that was trying to escape, how would staring at the front door stop it from getting out? Four, Ben was talking about ghosts. And people with ful decks don't believe in ghosts.'

'You haven't used your thumb yet.'

'Okay, then. Five, you're grieving, whether you think you're immune to that particular emotion or not. And grief can make you stupid.'

'Aren't you grieving too?'

'In my way. God knows I raised my glass to his memory enough times last night.'

We laugh at this. In part because we need to in order to move on to the next chance for normal to settle over us again. In part because Randy's mention of the word

'ghost' feels like it invited one into the room.

'What about some dinner tonight?' Randy says, rising.

'Sounds good.'

'I was thinking the Old London.'

'Is it stil there?'

'Was when I walked past it last night.'

'Perfect.'

'I was going to hit the coin laundry this afternoon. Want me to grab some stuff from your room and throw it in too?'

'I'l use the washer here if I need to. I'm staying here tonight anyway.'

Randy turns around on the porch. 'Here? Overnight?'

'Betty asked if I would. I think she needs the company.'

'Where you going to sleep?'

'Ben's room.'

'That's fucked. Got to say'

'I think it was your point number four, wasn't it?' I say, pushing the door closed. 'People with ful decks don't believe in ghosts.'

The next couple of hours are spent back up in Ben's room, fitting his belongings into boxes and stuffing the clothes from his closet into bags for the Salvation Army ('Take whatever you and your friends might want,' Betty McAuliffe had invited me). I put aside a pair of ties, though I did it just to please her.

They are activities that keep my fidgety hands occupied, but not my mind. Over and over I return to Tracey Flanagan. Odds are that she's fine, and that Randy was right: starting an official search after less than a day was nothing more than the over- reaction of smal-town cops. Yet the news struck me as hard as it seemed to have struck Randy. Maybe it was the way she reminded us of Heather. Maybe it was Randy saying how, now that we'd let it see us, the Thurman house knew we were back.

And then there's the house itself.

By mid-afternoon the clouds had not quite lifted but thinned, so that, from time the time, the sun found a square to poke through. It would flash across the Thurman windows and reflect into Ben's room, beckoning me to turn and look. Each time I did I'd have to close my eyes against the light, and when I opened them again, the sun was gone, the glass dul. The effect was like a leering wink from a stranger, so swift and unexpected you couldn't be sure if it was a signal or just a twitch.

It happens again. The sun, the blink of light.