not my father.”
“Sometimes I wish he weren’t mine.”
My wife sighed.
“I know. This is your cross. Grin and bear it.”
MILFORD | JUNE 27, 1979
T HE MORNING AFTER Dad’s fight with Marie, our crew fell back into its patterns. Dad waited for Jerry, Toby, and me outside the diner, staring at his watch as we arrived late. We dined on bacon, eggs, and for the most part, silence.
“Mitch,” he said, “I don’t want you running off like that.”
“I don’t like getting hit in the head,” I said glumly.
Dad kept his head down and stabbed at his breakfast.
“I’m responsible for you.”
Jerry slammed an empty coffee cup on the table. I flinched as the room came to a dead halt. Every eye in the place was on us.
“Then why didn’t you come get him?” Jerry said. “Shit, even Marie knew where to find him.”
Dad kept his voice low. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“It’s bullshit,” Jerry said.
Not a word passed among us as we rode to the field. For the first time, I didn’t sleep, which was just as well. The tension spilling off the men bracketing me made it clear that my head wouldn’t find comfort on either shoulder.
At work, the unspoken rancor between Dad and Jerry came out in obstinate fits. When Dad told Jerry to do something, my brother would do something else, so long as it didn’t fundamentally interfere with the operation of the rig. These were small rebellions—shoveling when Dad asked for mud, going to the cooler in the back of the pickup for a soda when Dad sought a crescent wrench. Because they were such insignificant challenges, they made the old man all the angrier, although he tried gamely (and futilely) to hide it. My brother, so like our father in so many ways, knew exactly what buttons to push.
“It’s uncomfortable to be around them,” Toby said to me when we broke for lunch. Dad took his sack and sat up in the cab of the drilling rig, and Jerry perched at the edge of the pit. Toby and I sat on the tailgate of the pickup. Most days, the four of us would congregate there, cracking jokes and enjoying a rest.
“I wish I had my motorcycle here,” I said. “I could just ride off somewhere.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to punch Jerry out,” Toby said. “Jesus, man, he’s really pissed off.”
I didn’t worry about that. The more likely scenario, I feared, was that Dad would invent a reason to go after Toby. Weakness or stupidity—and Toby sometimes seemed to have significant doses of both—were like scrapple to Dad. Tangling with someone as strong as Jerry wasn’t likely.
Two years earlier, I saw how Dad’s predation worked. A weeklong break loomed, and Dad was antsy to get back to the ranch. The thing was, Dad wasn’t like most guys. Most guys on a drilling crew, when they’re on the verge of a break, they loosen up, lighten up, and let the anticipation buoy them. Dad’s mood grew darker and more erratic as we got closer to shutdown, for reasons I couldn’t reach. Did he hate to stop working? Did he miss home that much? Was he anxious to see Marie? Did he dread it? I couldn’t hazard a guess.
At breakfast, two days before we shut down, Dad cut off all conversation. One of Dad’s hands, Al Moak, shook his head at one point, when another try at morning chatter had been choked off.
“You have something to say, Al?”
“Nope. Obviously.”
“Say it.”
Of all of the workers Dad employed in the summers I spent with him—a score of faces and names that have been pushed out of my head by more immediate concerns—Al Moak was the friendliest. Too friendly, I would say, at least for Dad’s crew. He always had a kind word and a smile, always asked how I was, never seemed too put out to gas up my motorcycle for me. He was the kind of guy you would want as a friend. His manner made him vulnerable to Dad, who hated weakness and couldn’t see the difference between that and kindness.
“Say it, Al.”
Al kept his composure, which
“Sometimes I wish he weren’t mine.”
My wife sighed.
“I know. This is your cross. Grin and bear it.”
MILFORD | JUNE 27, 1979
T HE MORNING AFTER Dad’s fight with Marie, our crew fell back into its patterns. Dad waited for Jerry, Toby, and me outside the diner, staring at his watch as we arrived late. We dined on bacon, eggs, and for the most part, silence.
“Mitch,” he said, “I don’t want you running off like that.”
“I don’t like getting hit in the head,” I said glumly.
Dad kept his head down and stabbed at his breakfast.
“I’m responsible for you.”
Jerry slammed an empty coffee cup on the table. I flinched as the room came to a dead halt. Every eye in the place was on us.
“Then why didn’t you come get him?” Jerry said. “Shit, even Marie knew where to find him.”
Dad kept his voice low. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“It’s bullshit,” Jerry said.
Not a word passed among us as we rode to the field. For the first time, I didn’t sleep, which was just as well. The tension spilling off the men bracketing me made it clear that my head wouldn’t find comfort on either shoulder.
At work, the unspoken rancor between Dad and Jerry came out in obstinate fits. When Dad told Jerry to do something, my brother would do something else, so long as it didn’t fundamentally interfere with the operation of the rig. These were small rebellions—shoveling when Dad asked for mud, going to the cooler in the back of the pickup for a soda when Dad sought a crescent wrench. Because they were such insignificant challenges, they made the old man all the angrier, although he tried gamely (and futilely) to hide it. My brother, so like our father in so many ways, knew exactly what buttons to push.
“It’s uncomfortable to be around them,” Toby said to me when we broke for lunch. Dad took his sack and sat up in the cab of the drilling rig, and Jerry perched at the edge of the pit. Toby and I sat on the tailgate of the pickup. Most days, the four of us would congregate there, cracking jokes and enjoying a rest.
“I wish I had my motorcycle here,” I said. “I could just ride off somewhere.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to punch Jerry out,” Toby said. “Jesus, man, he’s really pissed off.”
I didn’t worry about that. The more likely scenario, I feared, was that Dad would invent a reason to go after Toby. Weakness or stupidity—and Toby sometimes seemed to have significant doses of both—were like scrapple to Dad. Tangling with someone as strong as Jerry wasn’t likely.
Two years earlier, I saw how Dad’s predation worked. A weeklong break loomed, and Dad was antsy to get back to the ranch. The thing was, Dad wasn’t like most guys. Most guys on a drilling crew, when they’re on the verge of a break, they loosen up, lighten up, and let the anticipation buoy them. Dad’s mood grew darker and more erratic as we got closer to shutdown, for reasons I couldn’t reach. Did he hate to stop working? Did he miss home that much? Was he anxious to see Marie? Did he dread it? I couldn’t hazard a guess.
At breakfast, two days before we shut down, Dad cut off all conversation. One of Dad’s hands, Al Moak, shook his head at one point, when another try at morning chatter had been choked off.
“You have something to say, Al?”
“Nope. Obviously.”
“Say it.”
Of all of the workers Dad employed in the summers I spent with him—a score of faces and names that have been pushed out of my head by more immediate concerns—Al Moak was the friendliest. Too friendly, I would say, at least for Dad’s crew. He always had a kind word and a smile, always asked how I was, never seemed too put out to gas up my motorcycle for me. He was the kind of guy you would want as a friend. His manner made him vulnerable to Dad, who hated weakness and couldn’t see the difference between that and kindness.
“Say it, Al.”
Al kept his composure, which
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