The Protector (Lexington Avenue Express Book 34)

The Protector (a Lexington Avenue Express short story - 1,350 words) "You sure you want the foundation that thick?" the young contractor asked. "Eighteen inches," the bespectacled old man nodded, pointing at the blueprint with a shaking hand, "with quarter-inch reinforcement bar." "It'll be like building a bomb shelter on a mountain top," the young man said, tilting his baseball cap back to reveal a pockmarked forehead. The child smiled at the forehead moonscape, recalling the wrinkled cover of the Classics Illustrated comic in the box of treasures hidden beneath the snug bed he and his brother had shared. Jules Verne, From the Earth to the Moon, he thought. The old man intended no cruelty as he savored the unexpected childhood memory. Responding to the contractor's puzzled look, he shifted his weary eyes back to the blueprint and in an instant the crystalline image was gone, forever lost like the precious April-flutter of a Junebug’s wing. "The generator hut will be here near the fresh water tank," the old man continued in a soft voice. "The septic system will be located thirty meters to the west." "Access to this remote region is a problem," the contractor said, "but if the weather holds, we should be able to finish pouring by the end of next week. The concrete block work shouldn't take more than four days and the slab roof with the solar panels can be set in a single day." "Good," the old man nodded and lifted the stones that held the blueprint flat on the pickup tailgate. As he did so, the worn plans curled like an ancient window-shade … The baseball crashed through his Grandmother's parlor window and struck the yellowed-shade sending it flapping noisily upwards; the ball came to rest on a low table featuring the picture of a stern, long-departed uncle. Sweating statues on a blazing August afternoon, the brothers scarcely breathed as they awaited her appearance at the door. "You two hooligans get away from this house!" she screeched. For a moment, he could smell the cherry pie cooling in her pantry. "Mr. Carter? You okay?" the young man said as he stared at his customer. "Oh … certainly," the old man stammered. "It'll be next week then?" "Yep, we'll start Monday," the contractor said. "Sure gonna be some kind of unusual place you'll have up here. The old man was still absently nodding his response as the contractor's four-wheel drive pickup rumbled away through the wall of pines. Turning, he picked up a water bottle and shuffled toward the overlook where he could observe the truck serpentine down the narrow mountain road, visible one moment … disappearing the next … as if seeking refuge beneath the cool, green canopy. "Oh, no, the moon, it's gone away," the tiny voice said. "It's not gone; it's just behind a cloud. Wait just a minute, things will be just like they were before, I promise." The two boys were lying in the grass that edged the alley behind their house. A metal drum that served as the family garbage incinerator was smoldering nearby, embers glowing through a narrow crack near its rusting base. "If you can't see it, it is not there anymore," the little one insisted. "Mickey …" he started to respond angrily but he paused; when he glanced toward his little brother his tone changed, “I promise you, even though you can't see it, the moon is still there." The old man turned his head toward the rumble of distant thunder, glanced at his wristwatch and walked toward his truck. His appointment was at two o'clock and the drive to Canyon City would take nearly ninety minutes. As he climbed into the driver's seat, a cold drop of rain fell from a lone, gray cloud, dampening his khaki-trouser leg; he watched the moisture spread and disappear then shifted his gaze to the pastel sky as the silent magician drifted away. Mickey had told him that he had grown accustomed to life in the Canyon. ...

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