NSA Junior

Knock, knock.
I knew who it was even before I opened the door.
Mary scurried upstairs into Patrick’s room, trying to divert his attention.
We have one of those steel front doors, painted to appear as if it’s a traditional wooden door.
The door bell hasn’t worked since, well, it must be over ten years now –but we’ve gotten along without it.
We don’t get many surprise visits.
If someone decides to maneuver up our long, twisted driveway –that we affectionately call ‘Lake Woebegone’, endangering their axles on the washed-out gravel surface, risking their side-view mirrors to the encroaching trees, by the time they get to the front door they’re not exactly a surprise.
Somehow though, when this knock came – a dull, almost undetectable rap against the metal surface, we didn’t hear it coming.
I had heard something – a bird playing in the driveway’s standing water I thought: definitely not a car.
The truth is, we’ve done all we can to keep visitors away, especially these kind.
We were attracted to this house, at first, by how far back from the road it was situated.
The driveway’s subtle twists are just enough so that you cannot get a clear view of the house from the road.
At the end of the driveway, three tall, spindly trees completely obscure the front door.
To those obstacles we have added ivy bushes that, as expected, grew out of control, and a lawn whose grass is the spindly, clumpy variety the appearance of which is not improved by mowing.
Then we seasoned the lot with the odd junk car or two, so that visitors can never be sure if anyone is home, or if the place has been deserted for years.
And of course, we chose a lifestyle that works against getting to know your neighbors, or making friends: we both work and are rarely home at the same time.
All told, it’s not the kind of house that strangers will approach on a whim.
It’s more of the kind of house that gets a reputation for being haunted, or having a mean dog, or simply a place that you think twice about approaching and, if you do, you are devising an escape route with each step forward.
But kids are unpredictable: for them an unkempt lawn is not an impediment to play; for them a driveway that is usually under water is a water sports park; for them a junk car is a Spanish Galleon bound for the Galapagos.
So we knew this day had to come.
We could feel it approaching.
Patrick is, after all, seven now: he can throw a ball, swing a bat, ride a bike, and he knows that at the end of our driveway – the other end, is a world of adventure.
Without anyone else nearby to play with, it was easy to say, ‘don’t go any farther than the end of the driveway’.
On special occasions we’d take his bike to a playground, so he could ride over the tar and, occasionally, into the empty parking areas.
Were we overly protective? Of course we were.
Were we stingy with our time? Perhaps.

As I got off the couch and moved toward the door I saw their bikes, kick-stands down, parked in the dirt.
There were two of them: Ben and Raymond.
They didn’t look evil. In fact, they looked almost exactly like kids.
I noticed where the muddy waters of Lake Woebegone had spattered their shorts as they sped up the driveway.
Maybe, I hoped, they were selling something: candy bars, candles, magazine subscriptions.
They soon dashed my hopes.
“Can Patrick come over to my house,” Ben asked, before the door was fully opened?
I wanted to say, oh right, just over to your house: is that all? Don’t you mean can Patrick leave the safety of his home, ride his bike on the dangerous streets, disappear from our sight, and have a life of his own?
But I didn’t want to frighten them.
Before I could formulate a plausible excuse though, I heard the muffled gasp of my wife, and the tell-tale thud of Patrick’s feet on the stairs.
I think he asked. I think I answered. I think he grabbed his helmet. But I can’t be sure.
I do know that Before Mary could get all the way down the stairs all three bikes had disappeared round the bend in the driveway, the water still roiled from their spinning wheels.
“It’s a good thing” I told Mary, seeing the panic in her eyes. “Summer is almost here, and we don’t want him moping around the house, waiting for us to give him something to do”
“Besides, he’s almost eight. There’s nothing we can do.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
There was a brief moment of awkward silence.
Could we? Should we?
We didn’t speak, but we knew what the other was thinking.
We waited a reasonable time – about 30 seconds, and then we took a little drive.
Our parenting philosophy is modeled after the NSA: do everything you can to guard you borders but, when all else fails, spy!
And we’re thinking of putting up a gate at the end of the driveway too.