Chapter Six

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It has been three weeks since I got my ass handed to me on Mr. Henneman's front lawn, at least that is how I feel about the ordeal. I relive it over and over in my head, I can't shake it. I don't sleep well, I can scarcely fall asleep, instead I stare at the ceiling and try desperately to push more personal demons into the backwaters of my mind. It no longer works though, I think there is no space left and more and more the things I put back there are oozing through the cracks and seeping back into the fore.

When I do fall asleep, the nightmares come, it's like being five years old again, the terror is the same. I pace the house at night double-checking that the doors are locked, peering out windows looking for some shapeless threat. Perpetually stalked by a restless fear I can't overcome.

I often pause at Heath's door and listen to him snore and mumble in his sleep. I catch fleeting moments of real sleep, but it's only for short stints then some noise, real or imagined startles me, I bolt upright and listen and listen, gripped with a paralyzing fear in the darkness. Surprisingly, I've become well adept at getting by with little sleep - I'm a functional zombie.

Despite Jake's encouragement that I handled myself well, I feel like I was completely outclassed by some punk. It's a shameful feeling of weakness, and it clings to me like a cold sweat. It's there when I close my eyes, it's there when I look in the mirror, always there, night and day it never leaves. I hate it.

"Connor Curtis." Kate exclaims with mock indignation. I realize I have been staring at her ass the entire time, lost in my thoughts. I don't clarify, it's better to let her think I'm back to my licentious self. She's got enough worries as it is. My other wounds have healed, the black eye is gone and my hand only aches slighty in the morning and is no longer swollen to the size of a catcher's mitt. It's just the mental scars now. The glop of oatmeal at the end of my spoon has gone cold, I stab it back into the bowl and leave the table. My appetite is gone.

Merida seems to have fared much better, she's happy and goofy, apparently having forgot about the whole affair. Jake provided me with a new collar for her, it's for hunting dogs so if they snag on something in the bush, it won't choke them and they can slip free of it. The choke chain went in the trash. Although now, she hardly needs a leash anyway - she stays in perfect check when we walk now, right at my heel.

We still do our neighbour watch walks, I'm more fearful and anxious now, but I push through it. Despite the anxiety, I'm more afraid of looking afraid than I am of being afraid. Someone once said, there is nothing to fear but fear itself - that's bullshit, there's plenty to fear, that's a fact. Yet, many good things actually came out of that incident, I have to admit. Just not for me.

The day after that brawl, Jake and I canvassed the entire neighbourhood and explained what we were doing. Everyone was very receptive and a number of people volunteered to take part as well. We set up schedules and zones, we even started keeping a log of incidents. We also keep descriptions of people and cars that appear out of place and we circulate that information to all the households so the homeowners know what to keep an eye out for.

People started installing security lights and are keeping their porch lights on all night now. An ex-city council member pulled some strings to get the utility company to come out and fix the broken street lamps. There are now at least four people on watch at any given time; no one walks alone and each team carries a two-way radio. We are trying to bring peace and security back to the area, and it seems to be working.

Some folks who can't participate help in other ways, leaving snacks or coffee on their porches. Others come out and chit-chat, or report a suspicious car in the neighbourhood. I can't even count how many people left dog treats out for Merida and Diesel. Big D, as I call him, is a Belgian Malinois, retired from actual police work. Sadly, his handler had been killed while off-duty by a drunk driver. Big D was in the car at the time, but survived his injuries. He now lives with the deceased officer's father, a quiet, unassuming man who mostly tends his garden and makes beautiful wooden carvings of ducks. That is pretty much everything I know about him, that and his name, Ari Cohen.

Tonight Ari and I are teamed up for the first time, Merida is a bit of a nervous pup worrying about Big D, licking at his face and whimpering. Big D is stoic, and ignores her entirely. I correct her a few times before she leaves him alone.

Ari isn't all that unlike Big D, so far he's introduced himself - twice - because I was not prepared for the thick accent. He's tall and barrel-chested, with deep-set dark eyes and a salt-and-pepper crew cut. I notice he is missing a pinky finger on his left hand. He's a solidly built six-three, I reckon and his stern countenance pretty much says 'fuck with me and die'. But I notice, if I look hard enough, his sour, angry expression gives way to an evident, distant sadness. His thick neck bares a sizable, grotesque scar that I try not to look at.

"Let's get started." Ari says marching off. Merida and I catch up quickly.

With the two dogs and Ari, I find my anxiety level is almost non-existent. We are also on the sunrise shift, three in the morning until the sun breaks the horizon. It might be the darkest before dawn, but it also tends to be the least active time for hooligans... everyone has to sleep sometime.

"You have nice family-- cute boy." Ari breaks the silence. I was expecting a conversation-less watch tonight.

"Thanks."

"What are they saying about the riots across the river?"

"Huh?"

"Your wife works with police, they must be monitoring."

"Oh, uh, yeah, er, yes." I stammer, stunned momentarily by Ari's question. I barely knew he lived in the neighbourhood, he knows exactly what my wife does. "She does. They are watching things pretty closely as I understand it."

Across the river is another city, larger, but poorer. Bankrupt for years, it's been decaying from the inside and now it teeters on the edge of complete anarchy. A bridge and a tunnel connect the two cities, and two nations, but what was once a lifeline for international trade has now become a security liability.

"They need a checkpoint on this side." Ari says. "Once they breech the poorly secured facilities on the far side, they can march a thousand troops across and establish a bridgehead."

"Oh?" It's not something that really crossed my mind, I suppose it is possible, but it seems a little far-fetched. Dare I say, paranoid? Ari wasn't done yet though.

"I would blow the tunnel right now. Or at least wire it with enough demolition charges to do the job."

"Blow up the tunnel?" My voice doesn't do much to disguise that I clearly think he's bat-shit crazy now. "I don't think you can just blow up an international border crossing."

"You need to understand, where I come from, we plan for all contingencies. The crossing now poses an immediate threat to the security of our lands. I grew up surrounded by my enemy, across every border were factions who wanted nothing more than to see Israel burn."

"Ah, Israel." I reply. "I couldn't place the accent." I'm not good with accents, I can't tell British from Aussie, or Nordic from Russian. I can tell New England from the deep south, but only just. "How long have you lived here?"

"Sixteen years. We lost David's mother in a rocket attack when he was only ten. I left the IDF and moved here, hoping it would be safer. I did not want David to grow up surrounded by the hate and the fear. He had a good life, but short, too short." He says, his voice trailing off.

An awkward silent moment ensues. There's just our footfalls and the clinking of Merida's leash. I struggle to find something to say.

"I hear you had a dispute on Mark's lawn." He starts up again. Bringing up one topic I would like to avoid.

"Not my finest moment. I took a bit of a beating."

"As I heard it, you did okay."

"Yeah, no... I mean, I got trounced until my dog got involved."

"And then what?"

"Nothing." The memory that haunts me the most, is not what that kid did to me. So I change the subject. "Not much more to tell. So you think the economy will recover any time soon?"

"Never be ashamed to protect what is yours. Yourself, your family, your loyal dog - these are your most precious things, to not fight for them is to deny what they mean to you. You did right, your actions were just, do not punish yourself."

"It's just -- I hit that guy so hard, I thought I killed him. I thought that and at the moment, I did not care, I just walked away and looked for another guy to hit. I'm not like that, I really don't want to hurt anybody, not like that. It's not me."

"My friend, that is combat. You need to make peace with yourself, there is no place for guilt on the battlefield. And it is you, we all have that inside, you have just never been driven to that point, until now."

"It's not a battlefield, this place, these streets, it's like my backyard. It's home."

"These things are the same, Connor, the same. Wherever your enemy brings violence to you is the battlefield. No matter if here or in some far away place. You need to get your mind right, this thing you feel eats away at you, yes?"

"Yes." I answer.

"Let it go. I lost David - and that gave me guilt - I don't know why. It ate away at me until I made peace with it, with bringing David here, leaving our homeland. What happened to him was out of my control and I had to accept that."

I can hear his words, but I am not overly convinced that he has had made peace with the death of his son. I'm pretty certain I would not be able to make peace of any kind if I lost Heath. Maybe that's the point though, ultimately I am out here for Heath and Kate - this is our home, our homeland. If something was worth fighting for, worth killing for -- worth even dying for, family must be it.

"What you say makes sense. It's just easier to say that to do."

"You are correct. Tomorrow night, I make dinner - bring your wife and boy and bring Diesel's new friend. You like barbecue?"

In life, at times, there are offers that you cannot refuse. This is certainly one of those times and I accept the offer graciously. "Barbecue is great."

We continue to make our rounds, sometimes in perfect silence and at other times we engage in small talk. Ari reveals he was in the IDF, but doesn't offer much more than that. I don't press the issue, mostly because I fear he will kill me, or worse. The temperature has dropped so much I'm actually chilly and I can see the dogs breath at times. Thin clouds of low hanging mist form, lending a eery sense to the pre-dawn hours. However, nothing stirs but us, no traffic, no mysterious interlopers, no hoodlums, no vagrants - just us, a couple of guys and our dogs.

As the east turns from inky black, to ever-increasingly lighter shades of blue Ari and I hold up in his driveway. Our shift is over and I think I feel a little less overwhelmed, less guilty or ashamed. I guess Ari has somewhat eased my conscience.

"Peaceful night." He says.

"Just the way I like them." I reply.

"Don't forget, dinner here tonight."

I pause, before I realize today is tomorrow. "I better get some sleep then. Should I bring anything? A salad?"

"Just your family, see you at six."

"Good night."

"Good morning." He replies.

I stand corrected.


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