The Guardians

I don't remember speaking to my parents when I came in (my father captaining the remote, my mother asleep sitting up on the sofa, a basket of half-folded laundry at her feet—their usual evening positions). It was strange how, after al that had happened in the house that night, I walked out and didn't speak a word to anyone until the next morning, when I caled Carl and, before he could say helo, blurted out 'It's over' as if we'd been dating.

'I know.'

'We have to let him go, Carl.'

'I know.'

'And last night, Ben and I were with him, and—'

'Not on the phone.'

'You don't understand.'

'Fuck you I don't.'

'I saw something. There was—'

He hung up.

Ten minutes later we were walking over to the Thurman house together.

Why had I caled Carl and only Carl? There was no choice, realy. It could only have been him puffing steam out his nose, teling me to shut up every time I tried to explain what happened the night before, his eyes darting between the houses on either side of us, alert to witnessing stares.

It was early enough that there was little traffic on the streets. Stil, we approached the house by way of the back lane and slipped through the break in the fence.

As soon as we were through, we both stopped. The house looked different somehow, though it took a moment to figure out how.

'Did you leave the door open last night?' Carl said.

'No.'

'Did Ben?'

'I was the last one out.'

Carl started toward the back door. His gait— roling shoulders and old warrior's limp—suggested the weariness of a man charged with completing a serious task, but been thwarted at every turn by his forced partnership with children.

I folowed him in. By the time my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Carl was already heading down the celar stairs. Neither of us had brought flashlights, thinking (if we thought of it at al) that the morning's sunlight would be sufficient. But there were only two half-buried windows in the celar. It was barely enough for me to see Carl standing just a few feet from where I had stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

'Oh fuck,' he said.

I went forward to put my shoulder against his, peered into the near darkness beyond.

Emptiness. No, not that. Not only that. The cords we'd used to tie the coach to the post now a loose coil on the ground.

'We'l find him,' I said.

'He's probably at the cop shop right now.'

'No. They would have come for us already.'

'You think he just went home and asked his wife to fry him some eggs and not to worry about where he's been the last three days?'

'I don't think he ever planned to go home after this.'

'Right, right,' Carl said, his thoughts so rushed it seemed to be causing him pain. 'So why bother looking for him? We were going to let him go anyway.'

'We need to make sure he's okay.'

'Why wouldn't he be?'

'Because he was in here alone.'

Carl shuffled closer to the post. Bent to inspect the cords.

'These haven't been cut.'

'I tied him.'

'You sure?'

'I was here, Carl. You weren't.'

'Maybe I should have been.'

He stood. Put his hands in his pockets, took them out again.

I said, 'I'm not arguing with you right now.'

'Is there something you want to argue about?'

'I'm saying we should get out of here. Look for the coach. If we can find him, maybe we can—'