I finally saw The Lovely Bones; it finally made its way to RedBox. It has made me think about a momma duck that lived in the small pond at our hovel of a place in Florida. Hovel may be a strong word, but I can only slightly defend the place by saying that it was in a great location; however, with the economy, so many of the condos were pre-foreclosure that owners were throwing any warm body inside to help avoid the final ax. Some townies referred to it as the frat house. Of course as transplants from Illinois, we didn’t know this during our two day just-find-a-place-to-live-until-we-find-a-house visit. We were sold on the perfect location and cheap price- we had two pay two mortgages until we sold the old house. In the year we spent there, we saw tenants come and go much like the wildlife on the pond.

The pond had a landmark fountain that rumbled loudly and shot water fifteen feet into the air. I was so thankful for that constant noise because it drowned out the various neighbors who shared each of our walls. It is what made that pond a necessary mental respite and what attracted so much animal activity. In the morning the kids and I watched wood storks and herons pierce their breakfast, in the afternoons we spotted alligator snapper turtles and the rest of the time we fed visiting and resident ducks more bread than necessary.

We presumed a certain duck (Boston the kids named him) knocked up one of two female ducks (Addison and Abigail) because one of them showed up with eight ducklings swimming behind her. Their arrival was an awesome opportunity to discuss nature with my kids but conversely became a distressing opportunity to discuss nature when the first of the eight ducklings disappeared. “Let’s check on the ducks!” developed an ominous intention. The girls prayed every night that “all seven”… “all four”… “both baby ducks”…would be there in the morning. The final two had almost made it through puberty when one got caught in fishing line and was captured and taken to an animal hospital by our downstairs neighbor. After two weeks she returned and the welcome she received from her visibly overjoyed mother made me cry.

The fishing line incident was avoidable, the actions of a bored, young boy. The mom was an administrative manager at a car dealership and the dad, after losing his job, became a stay at home dad of an 8 month old, four year old, and six year old, all boys. He explained this to me one day when his boys and my girls played in the common yard. “My wife can’t stay at home. She can only handle so much of them then she needs a break,” he explained. It was shortly after one in the afternoon and his breath smelled of beer. With the eight month old in a carrier on his back, he gave me a quick tour as I stood in the doorway. “I think I could take on another kid but I’m really only comfortable with boys. If you know of anyone who needs someone to look after their son, let me know,” he said. “Now, I do have a beer after noon if I’m watching my kids, but I wouldn’t do that I had someone else’s kid to watch.” It was one heck of a sales pitch.

Over the next few months, I noticed they moved from the second floor to the first, and then eventually out. He and the baby remained holed up most days, sometimes opening the door in an attempt to listen for the voices of the other two boys through the sounds of crashing water. The boys explored the complex with any other loose kid they could scrape up, and there were many. Being aware of that bothered me, but when the boys played in the pond it really put me on edge. There was a sign that read ‘Alligators in the pond DO NOT FEED” and rumor of a stray alligator that made its way to the pond years ago. But that wasn’t what worried me; neither boy could swim. The pond had deep sides and the bottom was a sink hole. When months earlier a car crashed through the iron fence and flipped into our pond, the driver struggled out of the muck like a zombie in a horror film and she was only five feet from the edge. One slip and those little boys would be sucked in. I assume the dad wasn’t as concerned; he gave the boys a fishing pole.

Once I saw the middle boy “fishing” unmonitored with a real hook and no bait. The girls were taking a nap but instead of relaxing, I had a nagging need to keep an eye on him. My dad was a fisherman; I know a thing or two about proper casting. It was a miracle the boy didn’t catch his own eye. Thankfully he had little patience and gave up quickly, throwing the pole down on the ground and running to nowhere. I can only assume he tried again later, caught the line up, and abandoned the pole in the water. When they pulled the line that constricted the young duck’s leg it unearthed his pole from the muck.

What bothered me the most was that with a little parental guidance…I mean, God knows momma duck had enough natural enemies. But, then so did that boy. Condo complexes like that, with temporary dwellers, are the perfect places for the worst possible scenarios. I once noticed the four year old was limping and asked the boy about it. His brother said he jumped off the second floor of another apartment building. I knocked on the door to inform the dad: “I wondered why he was walking funny. He said he tripped.” The dad had no idea that at one point his son was two buildings away, alone, injured, and vulnerable. Fate, life, nature, whatever you call it, ensures that plenty will happen to our children, good and unfortunately bad, but to test the bad, ignore it, and almost dare the negative possibilities is unconscionable. During their stay at the complex, a girl named Summer was taken from a neighborhood a few miles away as she and her brother walked home from school. Shortly after, I caught the boys alone, playing outside our “gated” complex near the four lane beach highway.

Our downstairs neighbor said that when number six was taken under water, momma duck screamed at the water for an hour while the others huddled nearby. This week a four year old girl was taken in right front of her brother, right in front of her house, while her mom cooked dinner. Some may say I am overly concerned. I can’t tell you how many times during baths I recount my children’s birthmarks. I admit to ruthless mental fist fights with fictitious strangers who attempt to attack me or my children. My husband would say I am a victim of media fright, but I also know what murderous rage would be unleashed should anything happen to his girls. I am smart enough to know I can’t live in paranoia and smart enough to know I can’t ignore the battle of good and evil in nature. Despite my fears, I will keep swimming with eyes wide open, intuition fired, praying that my ducklings will never disappear into the muck. And praying for those boys.