Page 70 of Her Wicker Guardian

I look across the yard. Locke is beside the bear again, one hand resting against its unfinished shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Was he wearing some kind of costume?”

“No.”

Mrs. Calhoun tries camouflage next, then some kind of elaborate prank. I tell her no to those too, and each answer leaves a longer silence behind it.

Finally she asks, “Then what did my son see?”

I could soften it. Call Locke an art project. Tell her somebody was playing a joke. Buy us another hour. But Locke wanted people to know. More than that, he wanted some say in how they knew.

I can’t give him back the first version of his story. I can make sure the next one belongs to him. “His name is Locke.”

Mrs. Calhoun waits.

“He’s made of wicker.”

The silence on the phone becomes absolute.

“Rachel.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re telling me my son didn’t hallucinate a man made out of sticks.”

“He didn’t hallucinate Locke.”

“And the axe?”

“He was splitting firewood.”

Another silence follows, long enough that I picture her standing behind the counter at Calhoun’s trying to decide which of us needs medical attention.

“Rachel, honey, I’m going to ask you one more time because I need to know whether I should be taking my child to urgent care.”

“He saw what he says he saw.”

Locke looks over at me.

“Can he hear me?” Mrs. Calhoun asks.

I put the call on speaker and tell her yes.

For a moment, nobody says anything.

Then Locke says, “Hello.”

This silence is different. Mrs. Calhoun isn’t trying to find the ordinary explanation anymore. She’s trying to make room for the fact that there may not be one.

“Oh,” she says finally.

Locke comes closer but stops several feet from the porch. “My name is Locke.”

Mrs. Calhoun takes a breath. “Hello, Locke.”

“Your son was afraid.”