husband’s face and neck. Tears rolled from her eyes. She gripped the cloth arms of her chair, a wingback like Shale’s. She worked hard to be quiet. She watched.
Dad beat Weston’s face for fifteen minutes straight. For most of it Weston said no and his father said shut up, taking a full swing, always open handed, but hard as a flatboard, dashing Weston’s head and hair to the side. He said other things too, like, “You won’t treat me with disrespect”; “You’ll obey me, whether you like it or not”; and, “You better shut your mouth.” Finally, it was just closed-mouthed Weston, tears on the puffed, blotched features of his face while his father kept slapping him. Weston’s eyes remained unchanged. In the end it stopped. Then the words, “Go to your room.”
Weston rose, turned, and walked past Mom and Shale, not looking at them. The way he held his shoulders and his eyes—this image, an agile body burned down to the white hard bone—would stay with Shale, through many wildernesses, for most of his life. The boys’ father followed Weston from the kitchen.
They were in the back room for over an hour. Mom and Shale sat still in their chairs. If Weston and Dad spoke, Shale heard nothing. Shale wondered if Weston was all right, wondered if he didn’t need hospital care, wished there could be someone for him, Mom, even Dad, but Shale felt only a conviction of hopelessness, that there was no one, only Weston on the island of his bed, stony eyes to the ceiling, and no one for him. When Dad emerged he went back to the kitchen, made himself a sandwich and drank it down with a large plastic glass of water. Weston stayed in his room. The next day they returned to their places: Dad to his post as principal, Weston and Shale to school, Mom to the linear enclosure of the mobile home.
In a few short years Weston was gone, hurtled into the maw of an ancient canyon. He drove a heavy vehicle whose engine burned wild in the open air as the car leapt the threshold and fell far into the dark. For the rest of their lives Weston spoke to each one, uniquely and in fact, tenderly. And for Shale, his father, and his mother, the voice they heard was immutable and holy.
—for Hugh Dragswolf, good friend, gone now
RODIN’S
THE HAND OF GOD
—A TRIPTYCH—
Woman Saved, Two Children Lost
AP—Bozeman, Montana. Mary Luzrio, 33, was rescued yesterday by local rancher Sven Hansen when her car flew from an embankment into the Madison River. Ms. Luzrio’s two daughters did not survive the accident. “Hadn’t seen a soul for miles of road,” Hansen said. “Pure luck I was there when it happened.” Hansen jumped in the river, kicked in the window on the driver’s side and drew Ms. Luzrio from the car. She was unconscious. The river brown with spring runoff, Hansen didn’t know there were children inside. The children were 5 and 3.
PANEL I
WHEN SHE TOOK the curve she felt the back end of the Thunderbird slip and from there nothing was logical—the narrowed vision, a sharp yell, her hands and her disequilibrium as the vehicle cleared the embankment and fell twenty feet into the Madison River. Dusk, the night red and gray, black on the edge of the earth. Wheatlands, mountains, sky, and in the backseat, Ella and Shayla like soldiers, like generals in plastic thrones. They’d been singing to Eva Cassidy, practically shouting the words to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” … then a calm, abiding horror, an impact that made her go blank, her head like a hammer on the wheel … and the song now muted under water.
A MAN ENTERS her room in full-length wool coat and leather gloves. His hair is silver, slicked back, crisp. He is a good lawyer, with international accounts, but in his heart when he sees her on the bed fetal as a child, he admits he has never been a good father. His only child. A girl. He was ashamed then. Now he is ashamed of himself. He wishes he had something, anything for this sort of thing, but he has nothing. He
Dad beat Weston’s face for fifteen minutes straight. For most of it Weston said no and his father said shut up, taking a full swing, always open handed, but hard as a flatboard, dashing Weston’s head and hair to the side. He said other things too, like, “You won’t treat me with disrespect”; “You’ll obey me, whether you like it or not”; and, “You better shut your mouth.” Finally, it was just closed-mouthed Weston, tears on the puffed, blotched features of his face while his father kept slapping him. Weston’s eyes remained unchanged. In the end it stopped. Then the words, “Go to your room.”
Weston rose, turned, and walked past Mom and Shale, not looking at them. The way he held his shoulders and his eyes—this image, an agile body burned down to the white hard bone—would stay with Shale, through many wildernesses, for most of his life. The boys’ father followed Weston from the kitchen.
They were in the back room for over an hour. Mom and Shale sat still in their chairs. If Weston and Dad spoke, Shale heard nothing. Shale wondered if Weston was all right, wondered if he didn’t need hospital care, wished there could be someone for him, Mom, even Dad, but Shale felt only a conviction of hopelessness, that there was no one, only Weston on the island of his bed, stony eyes to the ceiling, and no one for him. When Dad emerged he went back to the kitchen, made himself a sandwich and drank it down with a large plastic glass of water. Weston stayed in his room. The next day they returned to their places: Dad to his post as principal, Weston and Shale to school, Mom to the linear enclosure of the mobile home.
In a few short years Weston was gone, hurtled into the maw of an ancient canyon. He drove a heavy vehicle whose engine burned wild in the open air as the car leapt the threshold and fell far into the dark. For the rest of their lives Weston spoke to each one, uniquely and in fact, tenderly. And for Shale, his father, and his mother, the voice they heard was immutable and holy.
—for Hugh Dragswolf, good friend, gone now
RODIN’S
THE HAND OF GOD
—A TRIPTYCH—
Woman Saved, Two Children Lost
AP—Bozeman, Montana. Mary Luzrio, 33, was rescued yesterday by local rancher Sven Hansen when her car flew from an embankment into the Madison River. Ms. Luzrio’s two daughters did not survive the accident. “Hadn’t seen a soul for miles of road,” Hansen said. “Pure luck I was there when it happened.” Hansen jumped in the river, kicked in the window on the driver’s side and drew Ms. Luzrio from the car. She was unconscious. The river brown with spring runoff, Hansen didn’t know there were children inside. The children were 5 and 3.
PANEL I
WHEN SHE TOOK the curve she felt the back end of the Thunderbird slip and from there nothing was logical—the narrowed vision, a sharp yell, her hands and her disequilibrium as the vehicle cleared the embankment and fell twenty feet into the Madison River. Dusk, the night red and gray, black on the edge of the earth. Wheatlands, mountains, sky, and in the backseat, Ella and Shayla like soldiers, like generals in plastic thrones. They’d been singing to Eva Cassidy, practically shouting the words to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” … then a calm, abiding horror, an impact that made her go blank, her head like a hammer on the wheel … and the song now muted under water.
A MAN ENTERS her room in full-length wool coat and leather gloves. His hair is silver, slicked back, crisp. He is a good lawyer, with international accounts, but in his heart when he sees her on the bed fetal as a child, he admits he has never been a good father. His only child. A girl. He was ashamed then. Now he is ashamed of himself. He wishes he had something, anything for this sort of thing, but he has nothing. He
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