ground, my father calling out in pain or surprise — was unbearable.
My new worry was that this was not over. We’d gotten through today, but what would happen the next time Lance and my father ran into each other? A person who wore cowboy boots and cut down trees in order to displace birds was likely capable of anything: a surprise attack, loosened lug nuts, a firebomb. They were reasonable fears, but if any of them occurred to my father, he did not show it. When Lance walked away, he simply put on his gloves and went back to work, as if this had been just any ordinary interruption — Chester wanting him to check a leaky faucet, the Barrett sisters asking if we could come and clean out their gutters. It may have been different for Lance, but my father didn’t live like this. There were no shoving matches at IBM or the Raleigh Country Club, and while he was aggressive in smaller ways — ramming people’s carts at the grocery store, yelling at other drivers to get a Seeing Eye dog — I think it had been a long time since he had seriously considered a fight. All he said was “Can you beat that?” and then he shook his head and revved up the chain saw.
The sun was setting as we piled the logs into the bed of the truck. My father fished the keys from his pocket, and we sat in the cab for a few minutes before heading home. Over at Minnie Edwards’s, a child opened the door to a live-in boyfriend who was not supposed to be there. This sort of thing was of interest to the welfare department, especially when the boyfriend held a job and contributed to the running of the household. Every so often, a caseworker would come around, looking for men’s clothing or evidence of wild spending, and it was assumed that my family shared this interest. The man entered Minnie’s apartment, and a moment later she stepped outside and gestured to my father to roll down his window. “He’s my brother,” she said. “Home from the army.” All this hiding. All this exhausting explanation.
“So what do you think?” my father said. He wasn’t talking about Lance or Minnie Edwards’s boyfriend, but all of it. Everything before us was technically ours — the lawns, the houses, the graveled driveways. This was what ingenuity had bought: a corner of the world that could, in time, expand, growing lot by lot until you could drive for some distance and never lose your feelings of guilt and uncertainty.
Lance and his family would eventually leave the apartment, but not before what had seemed to be a perfectly fine bathroom ceiling fell with no provocation upon his wife’s head. She would limp into court, ridiculous and so predictable with her bandages and neck brace, but the jury would fall for it and award her a settlement. We’d later hear that the two of them had broken up. That he had taken off with someone else. That she was changing beds in a hotel. Chester, too, would eventually break up with his wife and leave with not just the appliances but the storm windows as well.
Troubles moved on only to be replaced by new ones, and looking out the windshield, my father seemed to see them all: the woman whose son would set fire to his bedroom, the man who’d throw a car battery through his neighbor’s window, a frenetic blur of hostile tenants, dismantling his empire brick by brick.
“I was going to help you out if Lance, you know, hit you or anything,” I said.
“Of course you were,” my father said, and for a moment he even allowed himself to believe it. “The guy didn’t know what he was up against, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“The two of us together, man oh man, what a sight that would have been!” We laughed then, Vespasian and Titus in the cab of a Toyota pickup. My father patted my knee and then pulled the truck away from the curb. “I’ll give you a check when we get home,” he said. “But don’t think I’m going to pay you for standing there with your mouth open. It doesn’t work that way. Not with me it
My new worry was that this was not over. We’d gotten through today, but what would happen the next time Lance and my father ran into each other? A person who wore cowboy boots and cut down trees in order to displace birds was likely capable of anything: a surprise attack, loosened lug nuts, a firebomb. They were reasonable fears, but if any of them occurred to my father, he did not show it. When Lance walked away, he simply put on his gloves and went back to work, as if this had been just any ordinary interruption — Chester wanting him to check a leaky faucet, the Barrett sisters asking if we could come and clean out their gutters. It may have been different for Lance, but my father didn’t live like this. There were no shoving matches at IBM or the Raleigh Country Club, and while he was aggressive in smaller ways — ramming people’s carts at the grocery store, yelling at other drivers to get a Seeing Eye dog — I think it had been a long time since he had seriously considered a fight. All he said was “Can you beat that?” and then he shook his head and revved up the chain saw.
The sun was setting as we piled the logs into the bed of the truck. My father fished the keys from his pocket, and we sat in the cab for a few minutes before heading home. Over at Minnie Edwards’s, a child opened the door to a live-in boyfriend who was not supposed to be there. This sort of thing was of interest to the welfare department, especially when the boyfriend held a job and contributed to the running of the household. Every so often, a caseworker would come around, looking for men’s clothing or evidence of wild spending, and it was assumed that my family shared this interest. The man entered Minnie’s apartment, and a moment later she stepped outside and gestured to my father to roll down his window. “He’s my brother,” she said. “Home from the army.” All this hiding. All this exhausting explanation.
“So what do you think?” my father said. He wasn’t talking about Lance or Minnie Edwards’s boyfriend, but all of it. Everything before us was technically ours — the lawns, the houses, the graveled driveways. This was what ingenuity had bought: a corner of the world that could, in time, expand, growing lot by lot until you could drive for some distance and never lose your feelings of guilt and uncertainty.
Lance and his family would eventually leave the apartment, but not before what had seemed to be a perfectly fine bathroom ceiling fell with no provocation upon his wife’s head. She would limp into court, ridiculous and so predictable with her bandages and neck brace, but the jury would fall for it and award her a settlement. We’d later hear that the two of them had broken up. That he had taken off with someone else. That she was changing beds in a hotel. Chester, too, would eventually break up with his wife and leave with not just the appliances but the storm windows as well.
Troubles moved on only to be replaced by new ones, and looking out the windshield, my father seemed to see them all: the woman whose son would set fire to his bedroom, the man who’d throw a car battery through his neighbor’s window, a frenetic blur of hostile tenants, dismantling his empire brick by brick.
“I was going to help you out if Lance, you know, hit you or anything,” I said.
“Of course you were,” my father said, and for a moment he even allowed himself to believe it. “The guy didn’t know what he was up against, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“The two of us together, man oh man, what a sight that would have been!” We laughed then, Vespasian and Titus in the cab of a Toyota pickup. My father patted my knee and then pulled the truck away from the curb. “I’ll give you a check when we get home,” he said. “But don’t think I’m going to pay you for standing there with your mouth open. It doesn’t work that way. Not with me it
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