The Guardians

Is this, as Randy had asked, an actual date? I'm surprised, clearing my throat and knocking at the door, how much I want it to be. Some nostalgic simulation of courtship might be just the thing, sweet and reassuring and laced with the suspense that comes with wondering if there wil be a goodnight kiss at the end. I'm thinking the question wil be answered by Sarah's choice of wardrobe, and I am hoping, as the door opens, for some show of leg or colarbone. But instead I am met by a kid.

A boy I'd guess to be around eleven years old.

'Is your mommy home?'

'You mean my mom?'

'If they're the same person, then yes.'

He stands there. Patiently absorbing my details, which at present include two fluttering hands at my sides that I attempt to subside by having one hold the other across my waist. If this trembly stranger at his door asking for his mother disturbs him in any way, he doesn't show it. In fact, he ends up standing aside and, with an introductory sweep of his arm, mumbles, 'You want to come in?'

It smels good in here. It's the flowers in the window, but also recent baking and perfume.

'You're Trevor,' the kid says, closing the door behind me.

'That's right.'

'My mom's boyfriend.'

'From a long, long time ago.'

'That's just what she said. Except she had one more 'long.''

A teenage girl wearing train-track braces emerges from the kitchen with a plate of oatmeal cookies.

'My babysitter,' the kid says with a shrug, then takes a cookie. 'These are good. You should try one, Trevor.'

'Don't mind if I do.'

'You want to see my room?'

'I think I'm supposed to take your mom—'

'She's stil getting ready. She said I was supposed to entertain you.'

'Okay. Any suggestions?'

'I've got Transformers.'

'Why didn't you say so?'

His name is Kieran. Sarah's only child. The father supposedly lives out east now, though nobody realy knows for sure. He doesn't show up even on the holidays he says he wil, and he never sends the money from the jobs he says he's going to get. I learn al of this on the walk up the half flight of stairs to the kid's room.

'Trevor?' Sarah cals out from behind the closed bathroom door. 'I'l be out in three minutes.'

'Take your time. Kieran's giving me the tour.'

'Go easy on him, Kier.'

'He ate a whole cookie almost as fast as I did!' Kieran shouts with the excitement that might accompany the witnessing of magic.

I sit on the edge of Kieran's bed and colect the toys and books he shows me, noting the cool sword of this warrior-mutant, the wicked bazooka of that marine. Our conversation is sprinkled with off-topic questions ('Did you have soldiers when you were a kid?' from him; 'Do you have friends in the neighbourhood?' from me), through which we learn what we need to know of each other. He is nearly breathless with pleasure at showing me his stuff, which is of course not realy just stuff but entryways into a boy's world, his secret self.

The kid's hunger for this—the company of a grown-up man in the house, shooting the breeze—is so naked it shames me. Shames, because it is something I too wanted at his age, but only partly, occasionaly received. Though Kieran's case is worse than what I remember of my own. Companionship with a dad type has been missing so long in him he doesn't bother hiding it anymore. He isn't picky. Even I'l do.

He asks about my shaking only once. 'What's wrong with you?' is how he phrases it.

'It's a disease.'

'Does it get worse?'

'Yes.'

'It's not so bad right now.'

'No. It's bad. But what can you do?'

He nods just as Randy or Carl would have. Because al of us know it: What can you do? His unhandsome circle of a face confirms this. There are a good many things he can do nothing about too.

Sarah appears in the doorway. I am glad to see both colarbone and black-nyloned legs.

'You think I could borrow Trevor for a few hours?' she asks.

'Okay. But take this.' Kieran drops a toy Ferrari, his favourite, into the palm of my hand. 'You have to bring it back, though.'

'I promise.'