Gone Lawn 66 : Mary Thorson

Each family woke up in their own homes, in their own beds, and understood in their own time that their own boy was missing. But The Boys were all missing together.

They drove together. There was more room, back then, back there, in the back seat. But still, The Boys, who would always be The Boys, even though they looked like men, from a distance, The Boys did not mind if their knees touched or their shoulders rubbed. When they saw people on the street, they rolled down their windows and waved, even if it was cold. Everyone on the street waved back. Always. To all of them.

One by one each family called another.
He did not come home, is he there?
He is not here, is he there?
Not here, but let’s check over there.
No, not here, either.
Not here. Not anywhere.

The Boys stopped to get candy and milk. They would share these things because they shared almost everything. Of course, each had their own mom, their own dad, their own brother or sister. Each always always went home to their own bed. But they would wake up, and together they would think about being together. The woman who sold them the candy and milk would not have remembered them if they had been on their own. By themselves. She remembered them. All together. And she remembered that one was afraid.

After each family understood that The Boys were missing, the families decided, separately, to call the authorities. But the authorities all said the same thing.
These are men, how do you know they are in trouble?
Because they are just boys, the families all said.

It is impossible to know. Maybe they talked about the basketball game. Maybe they wanted to drive. Maybe they thought someone was behind them so they kept going the wrong way, farther and farther away from their homes. And it is impossible to know when it became too late to turn back.

The authorities found the car high up in the mountains, and The Boys were not in it. The authorities found the candy wrappers and the crushed milk carton. Then they began to understand that they were looking for boys. When they called each family to tell them about the car, but not about The Boys, all the families met in the mountains and started looking together.

The Boys understood that the car was stuck in the snow. They had seen their fathers push their own cars out of the snow, but one of The Boys said no. He did not want to scratch the car because it was his and he took good care of it. This was the first fraction, and he would be the first to fall.

The families were confused. They could only find four sets of footprints. Four going in one direction away from the only road that would get them home. The families did not understand, at all, why there were only four and not five sets of footprints leading farther up the mountain.

Two of The Boys got tired and stopped on the way. They wanted to rest. It was late and usually, by now, The Boys, each of them, were in their own beds. So two of the boys laid down on the road and stayed there.

The families yelled for their boys. They named them individually, and maybe that is why none of them came–because they did not understand themselves in that way.

Two of them made it to the trailer. One of them did not want to go in because it was not his own house. Because it would be wrong. The other knew that they had to because, yes, something was following them. Something was coming. That one, the one that was so sure, broke the window, and it was the final break.

The families found what was left of their boys, one at a time. They recognized them by their clothes and their wallets and their backbones. All of them, except one.

The last boy left the trailer all by himself. He had to, of course. He heard the yelling and he knew that it had come. Whatever it was. He heard all of their names, and maybe this was why he didn’t trust it, because he didn’t understand the names when they were said so separately. The loneliness of the sound was the most frightening thing. So he ran from it, and he was never ever found. Not by himself.

Mary Thorson lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her short story, “Book of Ruth,” was included in Best American Mystery & Suspense ‘24, edited by Steph Cha and S.A. Cosby. Her short story, "Casadastraphobia,” was included in Best American Mystery & Suspense, ‘25, edited by Steph Cha and Don Winslow. Her work has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, a Derringer, and a Pushcart Prize. She hangs out with her two feisty daughters, the best husband, and a dog named Pam when she isn’t teaching high school English, reading, or writing ghost stories. She is represented by Lori Galvin at Aevitas Creative Management. Her debut short story collection, A Woman’s Guide to True Crime, is out with Rock and a Hard Place Press. She is currently working on a novel. Her website is here.