southeast, out the living room window, the straight edge of the land framed a black void free of stars.
Shale had entered the kitchen at the halfway point of the house, where the brown carpet of the living room met the worn linoleum of the dining space, the line that unites the two halves of every mobile home. In the kitchen sat the oak table and wood chairs. Weston and Dad and Mom were in the narrow space near the sink. Attached to the sink was a white Formica countertop, gold-yellow grain in it like small truncated veins. Shale noticed a dark power had begun between Weston and Dad. Shale turned and left the kitchen directly, walked to the gray cloth wingback, and sat down and pressed himself into the corner of it and watched. He curled his feet beneath him and positioned his hands in his armpits. The front door was closed, as were all windows. Because of Mom, the house, the arrangement of things, was crisp and clean. The sweet smell of sweat that accompanied the living room due to having three athletes had grown more pungent suddenly. Shale was cold.
Weston ran into the fray, straight and hard, and Shale experienced an ascension of fear like he had never known. “I don’t have to do anything you say!” Weston shouted and screamed in his father’s face in response to an order he’d given.
“You’ll do exactly as I say,” his father said quietly. His father’s eyes were rocks beneath the hard bones of his forehead. Weston and his father approached one another like warships in close waters, large men, both six feet four, their fists slung at their sides, loose and open. “No,” Weston said, and he entered his father’s space with shocking speed, put his hands on his father’s chest, and shoved him back. The rest was something no one imagined, the power of the boys’ father, quick, controlled, enraged but not crazy. Shale pictured his dad throwing punches in bars, intoxicated but intelligent, windmills with precise arcs that landed on the soft skulls of men smaller than he.
He grabbed Weston by the shoulders and lifted him from the ground. Weston looked very small now. He lifted him and slammed him into the nearest kitchen chair, an oaken midback with thick out-facing arms, made of sturdy wood that had no bend. He turned Weston out, jerking the chair and spinning it to face the kitchen window and the north where the violet sky was dark. A splintering of stars shone dimly behind the fingerlike limbs of the cottonwoods.
“Shut up!” he yelled, his face big and hard boned moving at Weston, bending him back. When it had started Weston’s face looked soft and young, grayish-white and claylike in the kitchen light, but it soon began to change. His father gripped Weston’s slender white biceps with both hands and held him to the chair. Weston’s arms seemed awkwardly small in the tight curve of his father’s fists. Weston’s eyes were wet but unwavering. The blood filled Weston’s head and flushed and darkened his skin. His face twitched. He screamed in his father’s face, “No!”
The slap was hard and a white mark bloomed red, sudden and wide, from the center of the cheek up over the small bright mound of the cheekbone and down to the jawline. “Shut up!” the man yelled. “I’m telling you.”
“No,” Weston said, his lips trembling, body crimped down i the chair, eyes small and dark. He looked neither left nor right; he stared directly into his father’s face.
Mom was in the kitchen corner beside the window, beyond them, leaning against the taupe-colored drapes with her hands to her chest. “Please, Edwin,” she said, and reached out.
He moved his head toward her. “Shut up,” he said. He enunciated the words. Spittle shot from his mouth.
She went silent and he turned to Weston again. From the kitchen she moved along the far side of the table to a chair across from Shale. From her vantage she saw the brown sheen of the back of Weston’s head, and beyond him the rooster flare of her
Shale had entered the kitchen at the halfway point of the house, where the brown carpet of the living room met the worn linoleum of the dining space, the line that unites the two halves of every mobile home. In the kitchen sat the oak table and wood chairs. Weston and Dad and Mom were in the narrow space near the sink. Attached to the sink was a white Formica countertop, gold-yellow grain in it like small truncated veins. Shale noticed a dark power had begun between Weston and Dad. Shale turned and left the kitchen directly, walked to the gray cloth wingback, and sat down and pressed himself into the corner of it and watched. He curled his feet beneath him and positioned his hands in his armpits. The front door was closed, as were all windows. Because of Mom, the house, the arrangement of things, was crisp and clean. The sweet smell of sweat that accompanied the living room due to having three athletes had grown more pungent suddenly. Shale was cold.
Weston ran into the fray, straight and hard, and Shale experienced an ascension of fear like he had never known. “I don’t have to do anything you say!” Weston shouted and screamed in his father’s face in response to an order he’d given.
“You’ll do exactly as I say,” his father said quietly. His father’s eyes were rocks beneath the hard bones of his forehead. Weston and his father approached one another like warships in close waters, large men, both six feet four, their fists slung at their sides, loose and open. “No,” Weston said, and he entered his father’s space with shocking speed, put his hands on his father’s chest, and shoved him back. The rest was something no one imagined, the power of the boys’ father, quick, controlled, enraged but not crazy. Shale pictured his dad throwing punches in bars, intoxicated but intelligent, windmills with precise arcs that landed on the soft skulls of men smaller than he.
He grabbed Weston by the shoulders and lifted him from the ground. Weston looked very small now. He lifted him and slammed him into the nearest kitchen chair, an oaken midback with thick out-facing arms, made of sturdy wood that had no bend. He turned Weston out, jerking the chair and spinning it to face the kitchen window and the north where the violet sky was dark. A splintering of stars shone dimly behind the fingerlike limbs of the cottonwoods.
“Shut up!” he yelled, his face big and hard boned moving at Weston, bending him back. When it had started Weston’s face looked soft and young, grayish-white and claylike in the kitchen light, but it soon began to change. His father gripped Weston’s slender white biceps with both hands and held him to the chair. Weston’s arms seemed awkwardly small in the tight curve of his father’s fists. Weston’s eyes were wet but unwavering. The blood filled Weston’s head and flushed and darkened his skin. His face twitched. He screamed in his father’s face, “No!”
The slap was hard and a white mark bloomed red, sudden and wide, from the center of the cheek up over the small bright mound of the cheekbone and down to the jawline. “Shut up!” the man yelled. “I’m telling you.”
“No,” Weston said, his lips trembling, body crimped down i the chair, eyes small and dark. He looked neither left nor right; he stared directly into his father’s face.
Mom was in the kitchen corner beside the window, beyond them, leaning against the taupe-colored drapes with her hands to her chest. “Please, Edwin,” she said, and reached out.
He moved his head toward her. “Shut up,” he said. He enunciated the words. Spittle shot from his mouth.
She went silent and he turned to Weston again. From the kitchen she moved along the far side of the table to a chair across from Shale. From her vantage she saw the brown sheen of the back of Weston’s head, and beyond him the rooster flare of her
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