June and I stood by with Juliet and watched the place get torn apart and the contractors loading up their trucks with all the scraps. The beep beep beep of their vehicles an odd punctuation to the event.
His home taken away, the bare spot on the forest looked strange. The dirt was an oily black, moist, from where his plywood and carpet had sealed in years of evaporation.
We felt unsafe going to bed in our house that night but we resolved to do it, because if we didn't move in now, then when? I have learned in my life that many men appear dangerous, but the fear they create is usually only a tactic--and most men's bark is much bigger than their bite.
As the lights went out, June and I listened quietly to every bump in the night and soon Juliet joined us in our bed because she too was afraid. Having Juliet with us felt good--she had stopped wanting to sleep with us years ago, and it was a wonderful thing about her early childhood that I missed dearly. Making her feel safe, made me feel safe, because it took the focus off myself and my own fears.
The whole experience of having a child is like this. Your own mortality, your own ego driven needs, are so far out-shadowed by the needs of the little one who depends on you, it's relaxing. At least that's been the case for me since I became a father.
I wondered if Lester had ever been with a woman or contemplated having children. I wondered what secrets he had in his past. Had he ever lived a normal life? When he was a boy, would he and I have been friends or was he a strange one every year of his life? What had happened to him to make him who he was? These were the thoughts that plagued me as we lay in bed in silence, me not wanting to talk about these thoughts out loud, not wanting to disturb my bed-mates.
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