The Weekend Warriors

Carson Parr’s interests were eclectic, to say the least. Once I came out of Madson Bowl & Pin, wrist sore from my lousy hook, jaw sore from too much Laffy Taffy, to see him painting a mural of porcelain dolls and capuchin monkeys on the alley wall. On a breezy afternoon last summer, I spotted him over the fence from my lifeguard tower, sitting on a park bench staring up at an oak tree for hours. He even played an impromptu guest stint on trombone with the high school pep band at one Friday night football game. The last time I saw him, at least until the day I started volunteering at Pine Village, he was dangling his legs from the lower branches of the enormous maple outside Sophie Rivers’s house, “rescuing” their cat. A small crowd had gathered, partially because he was singing “Don’t Cry Out Loud” at volume eleven, but mostly because he’d left his jeans on the grass “so as not to soil them”.

On my orientation day at Pine Village I discovered another of his interests: old people. Beri Nordstrom was giving me a tour of the facility, outlining the basic schedule, services, and “the inside scoop”, when we passed the picture windows facing the inner courtyard. She stopped so abruptly, my hand brushed the frilly fuchsia trim of her blouse.

“And here we have the Weekend Warriors,” she said, flourishing her hands like a The Price is Right model. The courtyard, a rectangular open-air garden with wide, curving walkways, several medium-sized trees, and dozens of flowering plants, seemed like a lovely place to enjoy nature. At that moment it was empty save one table, at which sat three residents and Carson Parr.

I mined my store of “things my parents and other old people say” for the term “Weekend Warriors” and said, “Oh, do they go out on excursions every weekend?”

Beri laughed and instantly I knew why people loved her, even as a teen girl who instinctively knew every laugh I heard was surely directed at me.

“No, sweet Caroline.” My parents and half of the adults in my life called me that, plus that weird Dustin kid in photography class. “Not unless a gabfest in the Kountry Kourtyard counts as an excursion.”

“Is that Carson Parr?”

Beri’s head and shoulders snapped around theatrically, and she fixed me with a faux dark stare. “Yes, it is. Curiouser and curiouser.” Then she laughed, and the sun literally passed from behind a cloud, coating the quartet in a warm glow. “He visits most weekends.”

We continued down the hall, but my eyes stayed behind. “Is he related to them?”

“Don’t think so.”

Carson leaned over the table and took both hands of one of the residents in his. His gaping eyes locked with hers, like they were joined by steel beams. Then they flicked up. I was caught. I gasped and stumbled after Beri, who was already gushing about the new window treatments, handmade and donated by the Madson Moms Club. I think my brain encoded less than half of the remainder of her tour. I couldn’t stop seeing those black eyes, slick as wet stone, each pupiled with a purple spark.

That Monday, after cheer practice, was my first shift. It was only an hour; I’d have longer shifts on the weekend. One of the things I remembered from Beri’s orientation was her advice to change into something loose and comfortable after practice, because some of the residents “don’t know where their body ends and ours start”, so I put on baggy jeans and an oversized UW sweatshirt before walking the three blocks from Madson High.

Beri eased me in with some mail sorting in the front office, and then I helped Rodney, the life enrichment coordinator, prepare materials for a painting activity. Rodney was Black, and gay, and fabulous; he told me so himself, and I found it to be accurate. By the time that first weekend rolled around, I’d worked six hours, met most of the staff and residents, and, being sixteen, was confident I had it all figured out.

So when Carson Parr signed in at the front counter on Saturday morning, flashed a meek smile, and shuffled to the courtyard door, the sour knot in my stomach surprised me. I’d known he was coming—I was scheduled to transport Eleanor Reyes down to the courtyard at ten, and she was one of the current Weekend Warriors (it was a semi-rotating roster, I later learned)—but apparently foreknowledge was inadequate to quell my unease. At least his eyes appeared to be normal, brown eyes.

“Good morning, Miss Eleanor!” I shouted. I’d learned she preferred that to Mrs. Reyes.

She grunted and rolled into the hallway, her grippy-socked feet propelling her wheelchair. She couldn’t hear well, didn’t talk much, and was generally in poor health. She could get herself around, but was “slow as Moses”, as Jack later said, and she didn’t want to be late for the gathering.

When we arrived, the rest of the Weekend Warriors were already seated. Aside from Carson, the club comprised ninety-one-year-old Dr. Grace Stormare, a retired philosophy professor, and her eighty-eight-year-old little brother John “Jack” “The Jackal” Stormare, mention of whose previous exploits was treated with broken eye contact and deft changes of subject.

I delivered Eleanor to the open side of the table and Grace leaned over and placed her hands on Eleanor’s. “I’m so sorry, dear.” Then, to me, with a wink, “Thank you, sweet Caroline.” Sincerity wrapped in an elegant bow. When I’m ninety-one, I hope I can pull off that perfectly-styled white hair and confident wink. I excused myself back to the front counter.

Part of me wanted to monitor the meeting, to observe how normal and wholesome it was, to add some neutralizing base to the acid of the weird eyeball experience last weekend, but my duties kept me away from the desk for most of the hour. The few occasions I was able to peek in, they were just sitting and talking. I returned just as Carson left, flinging the front doors wide like Freddy Mercury strutting the stage at Wembley. Grace and Jack rolled Eleanor home, and that was that.

The next day I returned from reading the newspaper to Alice Cumberland to find Grace, Jack, and Eleanor lined up at the front counter like standby passengers vying for seats on the last plane out. Willa Frank, a certified nursing assistant who graduated with my brother a few years ago, was barricaded on the other side. She stood with her back straight, hands clasped loosely.

“I understand,” she said. Her face held no expression.

“I don’t think you do,” said Jack, punctuating each word with a jabbing finger. My dad loved World War II movies and video games, and the hostile cadence summoned visions of a pulsing M1 Garand rifle.

Grace lowered Jack’s hand for him and said, “It’s highly irregular.”

Willa nodded, stoic. “I understand.”

“Carson always returns at the agreed-upon time,” Grace said. “He’s not answering his phone.”

“And he turned off his location!” Eleanor yelled from below the counter.

Grace placed her ten fingertips on the counter, and leaned in. “I really must insist.”

It was the closest thing to the Jedi mind trick I’ve ever seen in real life.

At that moment, Willa’s eyes met mine from across the lobby.

Jack clocked this and pointed at me. “What about that one?”

“Hello, dear,” Grace said, and reached out to clasp my upper arm. Her bright eyes crinkled warmly.

“Their friend didn’t show up for their meeting,” Willa said.

“He’s missing!” Eleanor shouted.

“He maybe just forgot,” Willa said.

“Jesus!” Jack said, throwing up his hands.

“We’ve been through this!” Eleanor bellowed.

Grace said, “You have a driver’s license, don’t you Caroline?”

I nodded, and Willa said, “They want an unscheduled excursion. I can’t go, I have…” She spread her hands, indicating “this whole damn place”, and shook her head.

“Yeah, the girl can take us,” Jack said.

“Caroline,” Willa said.

“Caroline!” Eleanor barked

“Sweet Caroline,” Grace said, and smiled with her whole face.

Fifteen minutes later, I was strapping Eleanor’s wheelchair into the van. Grace got in the front seat, while Jack climbed into the back row. I stowed the lift and hopped into the driver’s seat. I’d never driven anything larger than our Honda CR-V, and I was nervous to try it with an audience, but now that I was in the seat, it didn’t feel much different.

I pulled onto the street just as it started to drizzle.

“Where does Carson live?”

Grace clucked her tongue. “Sure, we could start there.”

Odd. Why wouldn’t we start there?

Carson lived near the high school football stadium, in a small house in another house’s side yard. I kissed the curb, and Jack yelled “Good lord!” from the back. Grace saw me wince and put her daintily-gloved hand on mine. “Ignore him.”

I ran across the muddy, patchy grass, hoodie up, and knocked. Nothing. Feeling creepy, I peeked in the window. It was dark inside. All I could see was a shadowy fireplace, set in white-painted brick, with brackets above it, like you’d use to display a samurai sword.

Grace called from her open window, “He’s not here. Let’s try his other haunts.”

First, we went to the Red Rooster Tavern on Main Street. I couldn’t go in, but I scanned from the doorway. Nobody but an ancient farmer at the bar, who didn’t look up from his drink, and a bored bartender.

“What’s up?” the bartender said, his tone divulging he didn’t really care what was up.

“I’m looking for Carson Parr.”

He glanced at the old farmer. “Just me and Elmer.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Not really a Carson Parr kinda place.”

“Yeah.”

“Actually, though,” he said, flicking the brim of his threadbare Seahawks cap, “He popped his head in last night, looked around, then fucked right off.”

Back in the van, I reported my news, then said, “Sorry, but do you think he just lost track of time? Maybe he’ll show up tomorrow.”

Jack cursed.

I made myself smaller.

Eleanor stared at nothing.

Grace shook her head. “We really need to find him today.”

We tried the library (closed), the Bowl & Pin (league night), and Kra-Z Kwilt Krafts (“Gone Stitchin”). All Carson Parr haunts, apparently. All busts.

The sun dropped below the scabrock hills.

Grace turned to the back and spoke loudly. “Eleanor, any other ideas? You know him best.”

Eleanor grunted, returned from her reverie, and shouted, “I’m not…I can’t…” She massaged her temple. “I’m fading.”

Grace shot a look at Jack, who returned it. “I think we have to,” she said. Then she faced forward, posture erect. “Caroline, please take us to 1121 Arbor.”

A trail of crushed marigold petals led Grace and me from the sidewalk to a door bearing a black wreath. A middle-aged woman with red-framed glasses answered, a five-year-old boy wrapped around her lower leg.

“Oh! Grace!” she said.

“Frances, so nice to see you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Her eyes looked tired. “Thank you.”

“Listen, we won’t impose–”

“Great Gran!” shouted the boy. He pointed at the van.

Frances shushed him. “Yes, that’s Great Gran’s car, but she’s not here right now.”

Grace said, urgently, “I know this is strange, but by any chance did Carson Parr come by?”

Frances’s jaw dropped. “Why yes, he did, yesterday afternoon! Oddest thing! Wanted to talk about Tommy. I didn’t even know they were friends. He seemed really, very sad. Sweet man.”

Back in the van, after hearing the report, Jack said, “She broke the rules!”

She broke the rules?

“Yes, yes, we’re past that now,” Grace said. Then, to Eleanor, “How are you doing?”

Eleanor opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“I’m sorry, but I’m confused,” I said. “Whose house was that? Why did Carson go there? Who died?”

Grace said, “Jack, we have to tell her.”

“Good lord, no!”

Grace cupped Eleanor’s face. “I’m telling her.” Then, to me: “Eleanor’s grandson Tomás died last week. A terrible accident. Eleanor was too sick to go to the funeral.”

“I knew this would happen!” Jack said. “We never shoulda let her–”

“She deserved to mourn her baby!” Grace said, and Jack shut up.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “But–”

“Stop saying you’re sorry, Caroline.” Her tone was not unkind, and yet tears filled my eyes. Noting this, she continued, “Say what you think, dear, and don’t be sorry about it.”

I nodded. “Why would Carson visit Eleanor’s family?”

“I’m going to rip the band-aid off, dear, because you’re strong and you can take it. Carson Parr swaps bodies with us so we can experience life in a young body again. A taste. But only for a day. Longer than that, and he…starts to forget. To lose himself.” Her eyes flicked to Eleanor, whose mouth was still open, drooling.

This was a lot, but I held focus. “So Eleanor stole his body.”

“Yes! And we have to find him…her…and switch them back before it’s too late”

Even in the wake of this incredible revelation, my problem-solving mind raced.

She missed the funeral…

”What about the cemetery?”

“Matter-of-fact, he was here yesterday morning.” Frederick Angelino, the caretaker, leaned on the low rock wall bordering the cemetery. “Spent a couple hours at Tomás Reyes’s grave. Shame. Young father.”

“She must have come here first after Carson swapped with her,” Grace whispered.

“Anything strange?” Jack said.

“Not that I recall. I try to find chores elsewhere when folks visit, but I could still hear him cryin’ up a storm. Tragic. I heard they dropped the Vehicular Homicide DUI charge on Mark Valley down to Reckless, his uncle being the sheriff and all.”

That sparked something, tickled a memory. I gazed into the distance, watching a tiny black cat with one white foot prance along the rock wall.

Frederick leaned in close. “I heard he’s getting out on bail tonight.”

“A rifle!” I shouted.

Everyone froze.

“In Carson’s house, I saw the brackets where a samurai sword would hang. Only it wasn’t a sword rack, it was a rifle rack, and the rifle was gone!”

“If Eleanor heard about the reduced charges–” Grace said.

“–and that he was getting out of jail–” Jack said.

“–then we need to get to Mark Valley’s house!” I said.

We ran for the van, leaving the confused cemetery caretaker in our wake.

Mark Valley lived in a small house on appropriately-named Hill Street, which ran along the southern edge of town, just down the hill from the giant, spotlighted “M” the town erected in the 1980’s. As we drove up the hill, I caught a glint of light from shadowed rocks and sagebrush under the “M”.

“I think he’s under the “M”!” I said.

“Go!” Grace yelled.

Instead of turning onto Hill, I drove us offroad onto the rocky footpath me and my friends would sometimes take to sneak a drink at the “M”. Grace and Jack held on for dear life; Eleanor’s comatose head lolled

We skidded to a stop near one of the steel support beams, spraying gravel and a cloud of dust into the spotlights.

“Bring Eleanor,” Jack said as he burst out of the side door. Grace helped me unbuckle Eleanor, then raced off after her brother while I gathered the senseless old woman’s body into my arms and followed. She was surprisingly light.

“Don’t do it, Eleanor!” Grace said from ahead of me. “Think of his family!”

“I’m thinking of my family!” Carson’s voice screeched from the darkness.

“What about your beautiful great grandson, who already lost his father, having to grow up without his Great Gran?”

I moved out of the glaring spotlights to see the triangle of Carson, Jack, and Grace, and in the distance beyond, Mark Valley’s living room window.

“I’m already gone.”

“No,” Grace said. “He was so excited to see the van. He cherishes you.”

Carson threw his head back and wailed, like bicycle brakes scraping over wet rims.

Seeing his opportunity, Jack slid down the hill and slammed into Carson, who swung the rifle around. Jack grabbed the barrel with both hands and they grappled.

“Caroline, quickly, take Eleanor to him!” Grace said.

I felt like I did the first time I did a basket toss in cheer, breathless and electric. So I did what I did then: I trusted myself and my team. I charged down the hill, with an old woman in my arms, toward two men wrestling over a gun. And when I was nearly there, I tripped over a rock, crashed into them, and we all tumbled to the dusty ground.

The next Saturday morning, I slipped into the courtyard at Pine Village to bring ice water to the Weekend Warriors. Jack squeezed my wrist. Grace looked up and smiled. Carson mostly ignored me, but I was confident I’d win him over someday. And with them was a new, rotating fourth: Calvin Gentry. I smiled, wondering what new antics Madsonites would catch Carson Parr doing this weekend. I’d heard a rumor that Calvin used to be a collegiate pole vaulter.

It turns out when I’d dumped them on top of each other under the “M”, Carson (in Eleanor’s body), had been jolted back to his senses just enough to swap them back. After that we’d quietly stolen away in the van. Mark Valley never even knew he’d been in danger, although I heard talk of an especially loud, singularly haunting coyote cry that night on the south side of town.

Eleanor settled back into her life at Pine Village; I was pleased to find that her family visited often, and I took her in the van to see them most weekends. I guess we’ll never know if she would have gone through with it. As Norman Bates said: I guess we all go a little mad sometimes.