The Castle

1st Place Winner of Antelope Hill's 2022 Short Story Contest

There used to be a cantankerous, old beaver who lived near the stream by our house. He was well known in the neighborhood and harassed the ducks who tried to break his dam. One day a little girl came too close, and the beaver bit her. The girl’s father shot the old beaver, and the ducks broke the dam for good. The father left the body on the side of the river, his fine pelt being picked at by some birds and other scavenging animals. A few months passed, and it was as if the old beaver had never been there at all. I’ve been thinking about this more and more lately.

The dog woke us up. An unceasing combination of barking and howling, whose only slight reprieve was the occasional fit of growling. This woke the baby, whose crying matched the dog, though we could not blame her, even if sleep was a rare luxury these days. Alice went to her, and I was to find out what had Max so bothered. He usually slept through the night, and the baby was learning to as well. A setback, but it was easy to wave it off. I checked in on them before heading downstairs, and Alice had calmed her down, nursing our child on her breast. Looking in on them, I almost forgot about Max.

I got to the pup and did my best to grab his attention. Commands did not dissuade him, and I felt a bit of shame and embarrassment. He really ought to listen better. I looked out the window to see what he was so fixed on; I figured it was a rabbit. I was wrong.

It was dark, but I saw two people camped out on our sidewalk. They had backpacks and a few garbage bags, and I saw sleeping backs unfurled, though all careful not to touch a blade of grass on my lawn.

My shame and embarrassment turned to pride. "Good boy, Max," I said and patted his head. His barking subsided, but he kept a steely gaze on the interlopers.

"What's going on?" Alice asked from upstairs, the baby still on her bosom.

"There are people sleeping on our sidewalk."

She said nothing, but the look of concern on her face and the beauty of those two just up the stairs was all the motivation I needed.

"It's okay, I'll take care of it."

I thought about the sprinklers, but it was still technically winter, and I wasn't going to crack the pipes just to shoe away a couple of bums. I could go out there, wear the 9 mil on my hip, and tell them to shove off. But what if something happened? What if they were on drugs? If they got the gun? No, charging into a siege when you have a perfectly good castle is a fool’s tactic. Alice and our child were my first and only concern.

I called the police. I paid taxes after all. They'd take a while, but I had time. Max had all the time in the world. The house was quiet again, though not peaceful.

I got off the phone with dispatch, and as the motion-sensing floodlights popped on, I saw the two bodies turn into four and wished I hadn't called at all. They weren't just some vagrants, but a family with two small children. The boy had a toy truck and a Spongebob SquarePants sleeping bag. The little girl, a stuffed unicorn, and some sort of pony sleeping bag. The mother, worn and haggard, was brushing her daughter's long, black hair. The father was making shadow puppets on the ground for his children. He was short and fat and Hispanic. Probably Mexican, though that mattered less than their being on my street at all.

I looked for alcohol and saw none. I looked for needles, but there was nothing, though it was dark and those things could be there, just hidden for now until the children were sleeping. It would be much easier if these were degenerates. I could even cope and say I was being helpful, but that is a lie and weak. Deep down, past the weakness, I wanted this man and woman to be good.

I wanted to see a man who I might even befriend. I could just go out there, shake his hand, and we'd find common ground between my limited Spanish and his broken English. He'd leave, and no one would need to go to jail or be harassed by the police.

But that was improbable. If I were out there and my child was cold and I was desperate and some stranger approached us to shake my hand and tell me to shove off, I might clock him so hard and go inside his house, if only for a night. I would kill for my daughter. For my wife. No, I'd stay put. And he'd stay out there, outside the walls that I've marked as mine.

I could hear my sister in my ear. She has that Master's Degree confidence conferred to affluent liberal women who live in big, dangerous cities, yet somehow believe they're invincible. She ignores the depravity around her and focuses on avocado toast and rooftop lounges overlooking polluted waters. Family is complicated, but I still love her.

What would Jesus do, I wonder? Help the poor, feed the hungry. Love thy neighbor. But Christ was never a father. And God sacrificed his only child, and I'm not strong enough to do that. No, I’m doing the right thing. I know this but it’s difficult.

What if it were us out there and them in here? I wouldn’t want the cops called. I wouldn't want to be sleeping outside some guy's house, putting on a brave face for my wife and kids. This couldn’t have been the plan. No, something happened to that man, and something could happen to me, too. How many paychecks can I go without before I'm him? More than one maybe, but not many more. I can't hate him; I am him. If I hate anyone, it's the politicians who welcomed him with open arms and told me to suck it up. If I let him stay, he might tell someone else, and then I'm walking Max, trying to avoid human shit, used needles, and piss-soaked cardboard. No. Not today, not ever.

I can see the angel and the devil on my shoulders, but I wave the thought away. That too is a cope. A holdover from my liberal upbringing. It's not evil to have responsibilities. Those two children are not my responsibility. The one up those stairs is.

The patrol car comes around, and they pack up without incident. No one is arrested; instead, they load up in a car that swings by ten minutes later or so. I see the father's face, and he sees mine through the window as the police lights shine through. He nods at me, and I nod back. He understands. He would do the same. If such men ruled the world, it would be better.

But that isn't how it is. Maybe never was like that. Agamemnon always leads the Achaeans. Hector and Ajax are always opposed, and though they trade gifts, they are not friends. They can never be friends, but it would be nice if they could.

The show ends, and I go to bed. Alice grabs my arm and requests that I spoon her. I hold tight like someone is trying to take her from me. A few hours pass, and I can't sleep. I sit in the nursery and watch my little girl. The savagery I'd perform for her, though it disturbs me, finds me unflinching in my resolve.

I walk Max in the early morning, just after sunrise, and inspect their campsite. They left it cleaner than I thought they would. A candy wrapper that might have blown in from the wind and a plastic back with something inside. Drugs, I bet. I hope for it. But it's not. It's a ziplock bag of red playdoh. My eyes well up a bit. Guilt? Shame? Maybe, but that's fine. I can be guilty. I can be shameful. But my home is unmolested. My wife is safe and sound. My daughter was protected from the world another day. Sorry, Amigo. The reason you want in is the same reason I need to keep you out.