Here's what I remember most vividly. This tall, skinny, dark-bearded man -- like Moses in WalMart clothes -- fitting the lobster claw of a bolt cutter around the curved top of the padlock, planting his feet, squeezing. Muscles standing out in plaits under his skin. The lock arcing overhead, glinting in hazy moonlight, hitting the dirt with a solid smack that echoes in my chest. The way it sends my blood through me in a rush.

I bend to pick it up and he says, "Don't do that."

I straighten. "Why not?"

He throws the bolt cutters down, grabs the lock and slips it into his pocket. "You're not touching anything. Nothing I haven't handed you. You're not breaking any laws."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" He's almost sneering. "It's not like I have anything left to lose."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

By midnight that conversation seems like a memory that might or might not be real, as do the children we left behind. I've been walking this dirt road for 10,000 years, hauling things, piece by piece, down the long alleyway, through the narrow gate in the fence, being careful not to touch the live wires, and loading them into the van. Bruises cover my thighs, purple bleeding to yellow bleeding to green. I got them carrying things -- drawers for an antique buffet, a van Gogh print in a wood-cut frame, boxes of china plates -- that bounce against me as I walk. My feet ripple with pain. There is a layer of dark sweat gummed to my cheeks, hands and arms, slick and tight to my body as a wet suit.

"We'll just throw these clothes away when we're done," Jack had said when he first raised the corrugated door and we saw how dirty everything was. I nodded, not knowing that very soon I'd be fantasizing about peeling off my skin and throwing it away, too.

But when I meet up with him on the path, I see the filth suits him. He wears it like a warrior: face painted, eyes and teeth shining through. He reaches out to steady me when I stumble. It's as if he's getting less tired as the night goes on. "I think," he says, pausing to light another cigarette and untying the bandanna he wears around his head so he can wipe off his face and neck, "I've finally found something I'm really good at."

Later, I'm walking back from the locker, a box of linens knocking against my knees, when I hear my cellphone ring. I drop the box and run toward the truck but by the time I get there, the sound has stopped. I listen. It's that silent crevice of time between night and morning. I pick up the phone and look but there is no call-back number displayed on the screen. Maybe I imagined it.

I stand, gripping the phone, debating. The children could be in trouble. I imagine them getting spooked by the stillness of the house, stuffing their clothes into pillowcases, tying these to the ends of sticks, Tom Sawyer-style, setting off in the dark to find us.

I look toward the alley. The box I dropped is lying on its side in the dust. In the distance there is an enormous green couch propped on one end and trundling forward, as if it's suddenly come to life. The wheels of the cart, invisible under the lop of soft cushion padding, squeal underneath. I toss the cellphone onto the seat and reach into the cooler for a bottle of water. It's the best thing I've ever tasted, sweet and lemony.

I can hear the wheels.

Then lights start to flash.

They're ice blue, the color of Freezees. My first thought is that I miss the bright cherry-red ones. Then the squad car rolls up next to me, no siren, moving over the speed bumps stealthily, like a cat. The squeaking has picked up its pace. I watch the officer get out of his car, adjust his belt and walk toward me. Too tired to panic, I smile instead.

"A little late to be moving, don't you think?" He is 40-ish, dark-haired, thick around the middle, clean-shaven.

I'm actually thinking about the phone call I'll have to make from the police station. Mother, you have to come out here right away. I've been arrested. The kids are all alone in an empty house on the bay. I wonder if they'll let me call long-distance, or if they'll make me reverse the charges.

I open my mouth to say something, then hear the disembodied voice of my husband. "I'm afraid that's my fault."

He's coming around the back of the truck, having covered the distance from the gate in half the time it should have taken him, but he's not even breathing hard. He smiles at the man, as if they knew one another from way back, and slides the cart out from under the couch, which teeters on its arm, then settles into balance. "It was the only time I had off work."

They watch each other. The cop is probably older, by a couple years. But his face is soft, cared for, while my husband's is an ancient-looking ruin of edges and lines and planes of dark stone.

"I know how it is." The police officer shifts from one foot to the other, pats his belt. "Even so. I'm going to have to check some I.D."

I turn and take a step toward the truck. But again this man who left me and our children on at least a dozen occasions, who was never around for the middle-of-the-night fevers or Christmas concerts, materializes at my side, like someone who can time-warp over short distances. He slips his hand around my arm, catching me in the act of reaching for the door handle, and slides it down, crawling his fingers between mine. We stand on the hot cement holding hands, the couch erect beside us like a totem, swaying slightly in a warm burst of wind.

"She didn't bring hers. But I have mine." He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and gives the officer a card. "But we're running behind. Gotta have the truck back by morning. You mind if we keep going?"

The cop shrugs, then turns back to his car, which is still running, blue lights revolving, a stream of voices and static coming from the radio inside. As I walk down the alleyway, I hear him reading the license number and using animal names when there are letters in the code: "Rabbit-Panther-4-6-9."

When we return he's leaning against the driver's door, and everything is eerily quiet. Both the squad car's engine and its squawking radio are off. The stars have sputtered out. Gray light swells on the horizon and even the ugly warehouse across the road has been illuminated by the pearly glow. The children might be waking up already, wondering where we've gone and if we're ever coming back.

There are only a few things left in the locker. The police will seize it and everything that's in the truck, take it all, and I'm glad. Anything to be done lifting and walking. To be able to take a shower, even in jail. The cardboard box I'm carrying is light but felty with thick, wet dust. I put it down and prepare to be handcuffed.

"Hey," the officer calls roughly, and my husband steps forward. "Want me to help you get this in?" He tips his head in the direction of the couch that we had left where it stood, poking up into the lightening night sky.

They say nothing then but communicate in that choreographed way men sometimes do, moving instead of talking, the policeman tipping the end of the couch down, turning and backing up the ramp of the truck, my husband crouching, bearing the weight, steering from behind. I wait in a puddle of streetlight. From inside, there's a clunk, a grunt, two sighs. Then the wash of low voices, like a song I can faintly hear though I can't understand the words. They are inside for a long time, at least two or three shades of morning.

When they come out, the officer nods at me and waves one smallish hand. He is wearing a thick wedding band that gleams like liquid. "Have a nice morning now," he says before he drives away, without his headlights on.

After we have hauled the few remaining items from the locker and put them in the truck, rolled up the ramp, closed the rear door and latched it, we hoist ourselves up into the cab. I am in the driver's seat this time, easing the truck out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Clear, pale sunlight has emptied the night sky. The water in the bay sparkles, white on blue, as we cross.

Beside me, my husband lets his head fall back against the seat. He reaches out to take my hand. And I wait to feel something -- pity or anger or the electricity of the padlock's flying through the air. But instead, all I feel is his hand, rough and warm in mine, like a part of my own body I'd forgotten was missing.

"I want to stay." He stares out the window at the blur of trees and buildings that thickens as we near the city. "I want our kids to have a father again. I still love you."

"I'm sure you do ... want to." Every minute that passes, the sun brightens and as it does, I feel myself hardening. After all these years, I've become like a superhero with the ability to form a shell that's invisible, impenetrable. At least that's what I tell myself. "But can you? Can you get a regular job and mow the lawn every weekend and show up for school conferences? Can you stick it out so the kids don't start counting on you again then wake up one morning to the news that you've disappeared?"

He is silent and I wonder if he's fallen asleep. But it doesn't really seem to matter. I drive, feeling the rhythmic bump of the tires and the heavy weight of the trailer as it sways behind me. I begin to blink. And just as I'm about to turn on the radio so it will help me stay alert over the last few miles, I hear him answer: "No." His eyes are closed when I turn, his voice low and old. "I don't believe I can."

The next morning when I wake up, he is already gone.

Recent Stories