PROTECTION by Castle Freeman, Jr.
Who is that? That kid? Who is he? One of yours? Hard to say: who can remember them all, who can identify them all? He might be. Whoever he is, something about him is not right. Something is off.
What’s he doing here? Well, suppose he’s a hunter? He might be a hunter. Look at his coat. He might be a hunter resting, taking a break. In March? Nothing’s hunted in March. And where’s his gun, his bow? No, this kid is no hunter. Kid? Necessarily. Who but a kid sits like a fool on the ground, in the wet, beside a road that goes nowhere in half-frozen, snow-pied, mudbound March, with the premature, disgruntled robins and the restless snowbirds, eager to be on their way?
He sits on the snowbank. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a hood, the shirt orange, the color of a hunter’s coat. But he’s no hunter. He sits on the dirty snow, beside a bundle, it might be – it is – a backpack. A kid for sure, then. Today they all have backpacks, don’t they? To hold what? Who knows, but they all have them. A backpack, therefore a kid.
Doesn’t Mr. Ames, looking on from his window, know kids? Hasn’t he, a retired country schoolteacher, spent his working life among the young? Hasn’t he walked among them, year after year, felt their scorn, their incomprehension, more rarely their passing, amused affection, never their admiration, never their assent? Mr. Ames knows the young. He ought to.
He stood to the side of the window and peered cautiously out. A minute ago, he had about decided to leave the house and approach the figure in the road. But he had not.
He had not, because the kid was not right. Off. Something about him was off. Drunk? High? Injured? Ill? Crazy? Criminal? Something. Ames felt it keenly. He couldn’t have felt it more keenly if the other had been hung with a flashing red light. And yet, there was no visible reason for his feeling: merely a kid in the road. When is a kid in the road not a kid in the road? At what point in our aging, in that remarkable, unaccountable, imperceptible, headlong, stealthy process, do the old begin to fear the young? For surely, surely they do: the young on street corners, in parking lots and doorways. The young even on unfrequented, dead-end country lanes. The young there, especially. When is a kid in the road not a kid in the road? When you’re old. When you’re alone.
Fifteen or twenty minutes earlier, Ames, in his wanderings among his silent rooms, had passed that window and noticed the fellow walking by in the road. Ames knew him, he first thought, had taken him for one of the Case kids, though you seldom saw young Cases on foot. He had gone on to the kitchen, to the spare room, to the sitting room, to the hall, and returned to the front room, to find the figure had stopped and was seated on the snowbank. Ames now saw he couldn’t be a Case. The Cases were a diminutive breed, and most of them were barely out of high school. Ames saw this one was a kid, yes, but not a Case. He was older, taller, skinnier than the Cases. Older, taller, skinnier – and off. Off, compared to any Case, and the Cases themselves weren’t the Young Republicans, were they? Not an Eagle Scout in the room. Ames knew Nelson Case had stolen the spare tire from his, Ames’s, truck. Couldn’t prove it. Proof’s for court. Knowing’s for your friends and neighbors. Though the Cases weren’t particularly friendly, and they lived almost a mile on, where the road ended.
Maybe the kid in the road was going to the Cases’, was a friend, relative, employee. Ames wished he’d get on his way.
Get on your way.
Why should I?
Go on, now.
Do you own the road? You don’t own the road.
Move along.
Fuck you, you old fuck. Fucking make me.
Fucking make me. “Why must they talk that way?” Ingrid more than once had asked. “Don’t they tire of it? Fucking this, fucking that. What is that?”
“Present participle,” said Ames. “Participial adjective.”
“Hah,” said Ingrid. “You wag. You keep us in stitches But, really. It loses all effect, doesn’t it? It becomes so boring. Don’t they see that? Why, then? Where do they get that talk?”
“TV,” said Ames. “Movies. Home.”
“Home? What kind of homes do they come from, that they talk that way at home? Zoos?”
“Fucking zoos,” said Ames. Ingrid shook her head.
Ames stood by the window. He stood to one side so the kid wouldn’t be able to watch him watching him.
You might go down there and offer the fellow a lift to Cases’. But then you’d be connected, you’d be allied, and what if the kid isn’t going to Cases’, has no knowledge of them, is there on other business? What if he’s in some kind of trouble, wants help, food, water, a doctor? Well, go on down there, ask him does he need this or that? But then, again, what are you really saying to him? You aren’t seeking to help him, you’re seeking to move him on. Can I help you means, Get lost. It means whatever it is you need, there’s none of it here.
Get on your way.
The kid’s no fool. He sees that. And again, what would he reply?
Make me. Fucking make me.
Unless, unless he should say, Yes, I could use a drink, a sandwich, a bathroom. Yes, I could. The two of you go up the driveway, then. You go to the house. You let him into the house. You let him in.
* * *
Down in the road, the kid has lighted a cigarette and is smoking. He’s sitting on the snowbank, smoking. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Maybe there are two of them. Partners. They have made their plans. They have brought their tools: the backpack. He’s smoking. He’s getting high. For what they plan, he’s getting high. He has to. An old house standing alone, undefended, essentially wide open, no other house for half a mile one way, three-quarters the other. An old man likewise. Things to take, things to sell. Money. Credit cards. A car.
What to do? Mr. Ames has a phone. He can call the sheriff’s office in the village. Call them, and tell them what? A kid in the road, another on the way – or not. A backpack. The sheriff’s dispatcher is not impressed, says, in effect, “Fuck you,” et cetera, et cetera. And if a deputy should come out, he or she won’t be along for an hour. If you’re going to call for help, the people to call are the Cases. No.
Ames left the window. He would see that the door was locked. Why? His house is like its owner, off by itself. Two men, taking all the time they needed, could hitch a truck to the front door and rip it from its frame, they could open the wall with axes, with a chain saw, and nobody would hear them, or see them, or know what they were up to. What good is a lock when everybody has a key? What good is a lock when there isn’t a door?
Locks. When Ames and Ingrid and their baby boy had moved into their place, an old place, the doors didn’t have locks, had never had them. Ames and Ingrid saw no reason to install any. They liked the idea of bringing up their boy in a quiet place, a safe place, a place where nobody locked his door.
Then houses down on the main road began to be broken into while the owners were away. Valuables were stolen. Indoor campfires were built. Furniture was smashed, floors were pissed on. So Ames put locks on the doors, locks that were never turned unless he and Ingrid were going to be away for more than a couple of days. They had locks, then, but never used them. They were proud of that. That was almost as good as not having locks at all.
Then somebody broke into the house of an old couple in town. They were bound, their house was wrecked, they were abused in some way that was never made clear to Ames. This outrage Ames thought of as the Doorlocker. Now they locked their doors at night. They weren’t the only ones. They also got a dog, partly for their boy, Teddy, who was ten, partly as a guard. The dog was a shepherd the size of a pony, but it was a sweet-tempered animal and would have done what it could to make a housebreaker feel welcome. In time it came to the end of its dog’s life, Teddy grew up, went away to school, married, moved away for good. Ames and Ingrid kept the doors locked.
Ingrid herself was gone now. “I worry about you,” she had said.
“Don’t,” Ames said. “I’ll do fine.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll be helpless. You’re helpless now.”
“I’ll be alright,” he said. But Ingrid only looked at him and shook her head on the pillow.
Ames was right. He got on, was, indeed, in good health, was well able to take care of himself, by himself. Too well, perhaps. Would you be better off if you were worse off, if you needed more help?
He stayed on alone. Teddy brought his own family east to visit when he could, but they lived in Ohio. Teddy worked hard, and so did his wife. Three kids in school.
Ames stayed on alone. Then, the year before, a couple of drifters had knocked on the door of an old woman’s house on the Intervale Road. One of them later told police the poor thing simply let them in when they asked her to. They beat her to death with a baseball bat and stole her car.
What was Ames to do, now? He already locked his doors. He couldn’t keep up with another dog, didn’t want one. But Teddy reminded him of the shotgun he, Teddy, had used as a boy and kept in the closet. Teddy had been an outdoorsman, a bird hunter. He had left the gun behind when he moved away. Now he advised his father to get it out, buy a box of shells, and at least be equipped to defend himself.
Ames was amused. Teddy, the cowboy, the shotgun guard, the Wyatt Earp of Chagrin Falls. Maybe that worked in the Wild West, maybe it worked in Ohio. In this state, Ames understood, if you shoot an intruder, no matter with what effect, you’ll find yourself in worse trouble than he is. Still, he took the shotgun from Teddy’s closet and leaned it in a corner near the door. He didn’t have to buy shells. He found a box in Teddy’s closet. Ames was going to leave them there, but then he changed his mind. He put the shells, in their box, beside the gun. Say what you will about the turned-around, upside-down laws on home defense, it would be hard to get into worse trouble than the poor lady on the Intervale Road. Teddy’s Wingmaster, unloaded, stood behind Ames’s door.
But, then, can you do it? A gun doesn’t defend you by itself. You have to be able to use it. More than that, crucially, you have to be willing to use it. Are you? And, don’t the intruders have to be literally, physically inside your house to justify your using – what’s it called? Deadly force. Otherwise, it’s not home defense; it’s hunting. Could you kill a man for coming through your door? Could you fire Teddy’s gun in the first place? Could you fire it at a man, a boy? At a former student? Come to that, could you fire it indoors? What about Ingrid’s china? What about her wallpaper? What about her goddamned Staffordshire dogs?
Or, or – you could withdraw. Retreat. Leave. It looks like you can defend the house or you can defend yourself, not both. So be it. Vacate, then. Get in the car and go, leave the house, empty, to whoever threatens it. Leave it.
Leave it, and go where? To Teddy. Ames knew the way; he and Ingrid had made the drive three times. To Albany and the Thruway, then west. Past Syracuse and the Finger Lakes, toward Buffalo, where the continent begins to open out, begins to suggest the vast and frightening distances ahead. You can drive it in a long day, bumped and buffeted by the wind from the enormous semi-trailer rigs that bore on over the miles, over the hundreds of miles, tirelessly, like migrating whales, like battleships. Teddy’s got a guest room, a suite, over the garage. You’ll sleep. The children will be glad to see you.
* * *
Sitting on the snowbank, watched from the house by Mr. Ames, the kid has finished his cigarette. Now he’s looking about him, up the road, down the road, before, behind, above, in a dazed, wondering way, as though he has this minute fallen to earth from a star. What’s he up to? He doesn’t look dangerous, he looks bewildered. He doesn’t look like he was waiting for an accomplice. He looks like he’s alone in the world. There’s nothing wrong with this kid. He’s lost, is all he is. What’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of?
The paradox of caution, of self-protection. How is it that the more life you have to protect, the less protecting you do – the less, the more? Ames, a young husband and father, having a houseful of precious innocents to protect, having his own precious life before him to protect, had no lock to his door. Today, alone, his span about used up, having nobody and nothing to protect, he peeps fearfully around his window and keeps a gun in the corner. We should see the young trembling under the bed and the old, trusting, flinging wide the doors of naïve and reckless hospitality. Instead we see the reverse. We are the reverse. How, how to fly beyond the imaginary, debilitating nets we spread for ourselves, to bind us and make us afraid? Do it, just do it.
Pretty day.
Sure.
You’ve been sitting out here some time.
So?
So, nothing. Are you all right? Would you like to come in, warm up? Coffee’s on the stove.
For real?
For real. It’s a pretty day. It’s not a warm one.
Behind his window, Ames looked again at the kid on the snowbank. He had gone into his backpack and brought out a candy bar or some like thing, which he proceeded to eat. He had put back the hood of his sweatshirt. Coarse, spiky blond hair like straw. He was, after all, Ames now saw, one of the Case boys – not the tire thief, but one of his brothers. Travis? Brett? Wayne? Possibly an older Case, possibly a step-Case, no longer living at home. There might be more Cases than you know. This one might be from a previous litter – not a pure Case, but a Case nevertheless, a Case for sure.
Hey, I know you.
You do?
You taught my brother. In school.
It’s possible.
Sure. But then when I got up there, you were gone.
I retired.
No shit?
No shit.
No shit. A silent kid who had never spoken a word to Ames. But, then, had Ames ever spoken a word to him? Have you ever taken an interest? Have you ever gone out of your way? This young man might be the Cases’ salvation. He might be their redeemer. And you, you might have a role to play. The kid might be in need of things you can give him – you alone, nobody else. He might be willing to receive such things from you. What things, exactly, might those be? Well, different things.
Amo, amas, amat.
Okay.
Amamus, amatis, amant.
Okay.
Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres.
Okay. So, that’s it? I mean, is that all?
No, there’s more.
Well, but I’m going to Kristen’s, after.
Who’s Kristen?
My girlfriend. I’m going to her place, after. So, is there a lot more?
Quite a lot, yes.
And, then, Ames himself might benefit. There are so many tasks around an old place, especially at the end of the winter, tasks requiring strength, agility, cooperation, tasks that more and more, in his age and solitude, failed to be achieved.
Ames’s roof, piled still with the long winter’s load of snow and ice, two feet deep. A lot of weight. How much weight would that be, half a ton? More? And bearing on rafters put in place when Washington was a general. March is a snowy month. Another storm, another, more snow, more weight. Roofs collapse in March, entire barns, entire houses collapse. So, if you’re smart, if you’re careful, you go up there and shovel the snow off, as much as you can. Not really a big job. Ames was smart, and Ames was careful. He’d shoveled his roof in many a March. Not anymore. Ames and ladders were no longer allies, nor were Ames and steep, slippery shingles.
Got a ladder?
Yes.
Got a shovel?
Sure.
I can go up and get it for you. Nothing to it.
Would you? I’d pay you.
No need.
I can spot the ladder.
Sure.
But then, what? Then, now, the camel’s nose is in the tent. Soon young Case has a regular handyman gig going around your place. He mows, he cuts, he cleans, he shovels. He paints, he repairs. He drives, he runs errands. All very well. But then he starts fighting with his father, down the road. Matters go from bad to worse. One night the kid turns up at your door with Kristen, his waiflike girlfriend, in urgent need of a place to stay. Children of the storm. What do you say? What can you say? You can’t tell the kid you haven’t room; he knows better. You can’t tell him you’re too busy; he knows better. There they are. By and by, another brother moves in, too. He can’t get along with the old man, either.
“I knew it,” said Ingrid. “I told you. No sooner am I gone than you turn the place into some kind of idiotic Boys’ Town.”
“It isn’t, at all,” said Ames.
“Some kind of reform school.”
“Not at all.”
“Some kind of farm club for the penal system,” said Ingrid.
“What would you have me do?” Ames asked her.
By and by, the girlfriend begins to feel poorly, mornings. Even Ames isn’t so gone in age that he can’t remember what that means. What’s the famous bird that lays its eggs in another’s nest, its young eventually crowding out the offspring of the species whose nest it is? Cuckoo. In your own house, you find yourself, as they used to say, up-attic. You’re the master, but you’re a prisoner. You’re Rochester, and you’re Rochester’s crazy wife, all in the same character. But you’ve got no Jane, and she’s not likely to show up now.
Ingrid is hard on the Cases. Her tongue can cut glass. In fact, there’s no question here of what she called the penal system.
“No Case we know of was ever in jail,” Ames reminded her.
“No Case we know of was ever caught,” said Ingrid. She would have none of the Cases. Always a disorderly, male bunch, they were. The ball of snakes down the road, the can of worms down the road. “Those are the dirtiest children I ever saw,” Ingrid once said. It wasn’t Ames she said it to; it was Mrs. Case. Ingrid was plain-spoken, always. After her death, Ames learned that he had for years been an object of pity as being married to a termagant. Ames was amused. Ingrid wasn’t a termagant, exactly. Plain-spoken. “You’ll be helpless. You’re helpless now. Some kind of reform school. Those are the dirtiest children I ever saw.” This kid didn’t look dirty.
Now he was waving. He was waving to Ames. At his window, watching, Ames had lost track of the sun, which had gotten around far enough to show him through the window where he stood. The kid on the snowbank could see him, evidently. He was waving. Ames made to step back, then stopped, looked again.
Teddy. Of course: it’s Teddy. Now Ames understood why he couldn’t place the kid, had seemed to know him but couldn’t make him out for a Case. It’s Teddy. Teddy is home. A few minutes ago, Ames had been ready to drive him off with a gun. Now he rejoiced. A few minutes ago, Ames had been ready to run to his car and drive eight hundred miles to Teddy. Now Teddy had come to him.
Teddy, of course. Teddy always wanted to be outdoors – hiked, backpacked, slept outdoors, lived outdoors, forever tramping about in the woods, half lost. No ordeal for Teddy to sit all day on the snowbank like an unemployed Eskimo, doing nothing, simply taking in the setting, feeling the cold, feeling the sun.
It’s you. I thought you were from the neighbors.
The neighbors?
The Cases.
You thought I was a Case?
Only for a minute. Aren’t you coming in? Come on in.
No. I have to get on. I’m late as it is.
Late for what?
Just late.
But you just got here.
I’ll be getting on.
Stay. Stay for a little. We’ll go up, we’ll watch the game.
What game?
I don’t know. The game. Any game.
No. I’m going. Say hi to Mom.
I can’t.
Why not?
She died.
* * *
Mr. Ames left his window and hurried to the outside door. He unlocked it, threw it open, and went quickly down the steps and along the icy path to the driveway. There he turned and started for the road where Teddy waited. But there was nobody there, nobody on the snowbank, nobody walking away, nobody in the woods. No backpack. No Teddy, no Case, no friend, no enemy. Near where the kid had sat, a flock of little gray snowbirds, fifteen or twenty, flew about nervously in the road, here and there, lighting, taking off, searching. But they were on their way to someplace else, someplace far, and soon they would have moved on. Soon they too would be quite gone.
Castle Freeman, Jr. is the author of the short story collections Round Mountain (Concord Free Press, 2012), The Bride of Ambrose and Other Stories (Soho Press, 1987), and the novels All That I Have (2009) and Go With Me (2008), both from Steerforth Press, and My Life and Adventures (St. Martin’s Press, 2002). His short stories have appeared in New Letters, Southwest Review, Idaho Review, New England Review, and The Hopkins Review.