travel to the source of the trigger, which was often some ridiculous moment from childhood that didn’t mean anything important. “Losing a spelling bee? Wetting your bed? Seriously?” Skye blurted out one day. “That’s ancient freaking history. Delete it from your mind like a computer file.”
That afternoon, Duncan took her off bathroom-cleaning duty and sent her to crafts class. Pottery: throwing clay on the wheel. “Dude, you’re making a mistake,” she said. “I have no art skills, no desire to create anything, and frankly I’d prefer cleaning toilets.”
“Nah,” he said. “This is where you belong.”
He wouldn’t let her quit. For months she worked at that clay stuff, making lopsided bowls and ugly cups that cracked in the kiln—instant trash. One day, it was finally going well, and right there on the wheel in front of her she had done it, made something that was not half-bad. So what happened? She broke down sobbing. Her muddy, chapped hands left clay on her face like clown makeup. She ripped the perfect bowl from the wheel and squeezed it through her fingers until it was ruined, and out of her came this primal howl that released the floodgates. Duncan stood in the doorway watching her, and for the rest of her life she would hate him for that. Wasn’t it enough that he’d watched her detox? That she’d slipped? Smarted off? Would he not allow her a single shred of dignity?
The next group meeting, he told the story of the Long Walk, a tragedy that took place during the Civil War yet was entirely separate from it. His voice remained steady as he spoke. “General James Henry Carleton, commander of the New Mexico Territory, right around here, near Four Corners, had successfully exiled the N’de , or Mescalero Apaches, so took it upon himself to solve what he called ‘the Navajo problem.’ Pitting tribe against tribe, he ordered the Diné villages burned, wells poisoned, crops trashed, and livestock killed. Some ten thousand five hundred Navajo were marched four hundred fifty miles through winter and summer to Bosque Redondo at Fort Sumner. If you straggled behind, you were shot and left to rot. Some women were taken as slaves, and children stolen from their families. Smallpox, dysentery, and pneumonia ravaged the tribes. Of the ten thousand or so who started out, maybe eight thousand survived.”
Skye was looking at her rehab-issued ugly slip-on tennis shoes at the time, doing her best to block out his voice and almost succeeding, which was a mistake, because Duncan had freaking radar for that kind of thing.
“Skye?” he said. “Look at me.”
She lifted her head and was surprised to see tears coursing down his cheeks while he maintained his poise. God, was there anything worse than seeing a full-grown man cry? “Look, I get it,” she said.
“What is it you get?” he asked.
“That it’s awful, that persecution happens, only the strong survive, what the hell else do you want me to say?”
“Right this second? I’d like to know what’s in your heart.”
“You want to know what’s in my heart? All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll freaking tell all of you. Half of you are whiners, plain and simple. You,” she said, pointing to Duncan, “should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Why?”
“How can you minimize something so terrible, turn it into an anecdote for a bunch of worthless alcoholics and addicts?”
He waited a beat, never a great sign, she had learned, and he said, “History is evidence of cultural extermination. Culture is built on dreams. Dreams become art. Art comes from the gods. Tell us about learning to throw pottery.”
He just loved making her cry.
“I’m sick of you already,” Skye said to her father. “What is it? Three a.m .? I can’t even see your ugly old mug, and the horses probably can’t see where they’re going, either.”
“Never said I was handsome,” her father said. “But you are just about the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes
That afternoon, Duncan took her off bathroom-cleaning duty and sent her to crafts class. Pottery: throwing clay on the wheel. “Dude, you’re making a mistake,” she said. “I have no art skills, no desire to create anything, and frankly I’d prefer cleaning toilets.”
“Nah,” he said. “This is where you belong.”
He wouldn’t let her quit. For months she worked at that clay stuff, making lopsided bowls and ugly cups that cracked in the kiln—instant trash. One day, it was finally going well, and right there on the wheel in front of her she had done it, made something that was not half-bad. So what happened? She broke down sobbing. Her muddy, chapped hands left clay on her face like clown makeup. She ripped the perfect bowl from the wheel and squeezed it through her fingers until it was ruined, and out of her came this primal howl that released the floodgates. Duncan stood in the doorway watching her, and for the rest of her life she would hate him for that. Wasn’t it enough that he’d watched her detox? That she’d slipped? Smarted off? Would he not allow her a single shred of dignity?
The next group meeting, he told the story of the Long Walk, a tragedy that took place during the Civil War yet was entirely separate from it. His voice remained steady as he spoke. “General James Henry Carleton, commander of the New Mexico Territory, right around here, near Four Corners, had successfully exiled the N’de , or Mescalero Apaches, so took it upon himself to solve what he called ‘the Navajo problem.’ Pitting tribe against tribe, he ordered the Diné villages burned, wells poisoned, crops trashed, and livestock killed. Some ten thousand five hundred Navajo were marched four hundred fifty miles through winter and summer to Bosque Redondo at Fort Sumner. If you straggled behind, you were shot and left to rot. Some women were taken as slaves, and children stolen from their families. Smallpox, dysentery, and pneumonia ravaged the tribes. Of the ten thousand or so who started out, maybe eight thousand survived.”
Skye was looking at her rehab-issued ugly slip-on tennis shoes at the time, doing her best to block out his voice and almost succeeding, which was a mistake, because Duncan had freaking radar for that kind of thing.
“Skye?” he said. “Look at me.”
She lifted her head and was surprised to see tears coursing down his cheeks while he maintained his poise. God, was there anything worse than seeing a full-grown man cry? “Look, I get it,” she said.
“What is it you get?” he asked.
“That it’s awful, that persecution happens, only the strong survive, what the hell else do you want me to say?”
“Right this second? I’d like to know what’s in your heart.”
“You want to know what’s in my heart? All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll freaking tell all of you. Half of you are whiners, plain and simple. You,” she said, pointing to Duncan, “should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Why?”
“How can you minimize something so terrible, turn it into an anecdote for a bunch of worthless alcoholics and addicts?”
He waited a beat, never a great sign, she had learned, and he said, “History is evidence of cultural extermination. Culture is built on dreams. Dreams become art. Art comes from the gods. Tell us about learning to throw pottery.”
He just loved making her cry.
“I’m sick of you already,” Skye said to her father. “What is it? Three a.m .? I can’t even see your ugly old mug, and the horses probably can’t see where they’re going, either.”
“Never said I was handsome,” her father said. “But you are just about the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes
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