of tall grass, bugs caught in the air like thrown pebbles, the mirrored surface of thetruck, my father, his stunned expression, the handheld wire cutter, the sparkle of multiple jeweled rings, and, clenched in my father’s fist, wearing these rings, a severed human hand.
17.
O N THE WAY HOME I sat up in the truck bed. There was no more reason to hide. As we pulled away from the tree, I noted with dulled surprise that the wooden fence I had leaned against marked the outer confines of a graveyard. It rolled gently over the hill, the white ghosts of gravestones perishing quietly into the pitch.
My father is a grave robber
, I told myself, over and over and over—the only garbage he carried was carrion. I hoped the horror of it would diminish with each repetition, but instead it overtook me. My brain spun in slow and terrified loops: disgust at such an unspeakable act, disbelief that my mother could have lived with such knowledge, the potential reactions to such revelations by Woody or Celeste or Gottschalk or Simmons or Diamond or Laverne or Ted, and more than anything else the smell—that odor invading the very fibers of the cabin walls as well as my clothes, skin, and hair. I finally knew its origin.
I ran through the last moments back there outside the graveyard: his blank astonishment, my immobility, his slow forward motion to take the camera from my numb fingers. He placed the camera in a pocket, then picked up the wire cutter again. I heard a snip and the soft chip of bone detaching from bone. I watched him remove two rings from the isolated finger, put them in his pocket, and then take the hand,as well as the finger, with him back up the hill. I followed him with my eyes and saw him scale the cemetery fence. He was returning the hand to where he found it. It was lunacy. I could barely think, hardly move. It was much later, maybe another hour, before my father returned. He had with him the other sack, which he placed in the truck bed. He seemed beyond wrath; his eyes were glazed and he spoke not a word. When he looked at me, I held out a trembling hand to stop whatever was coming next.
“Look,” I said, but I had no other words.
He did the opposite and looked away. He entered the truck, slammed the door, and started the engine. It growled to life and I watched the brake lights color the exhaust. I expected him to drive away. Instead he sat motionless behind the wheel. After a minute I climbed into the back of the truck.
Now, the ride nearly over, the wheels left the relative smoothness of pavement for dirt. Here it was, my final resting spot, the place where he would fulfill his earlier promise of a Scottish blade driven with soft precision. Trees laced their fingers above me, then clenched to blot out the night. The truck shuddered to a halt. I heard the cab door open and shut. I sat up and saw that we were not in some unfamiliar thicket but back at the cabin, and my father was loping toward the front door, leaving the sacks with me. The whisper of the river was outrageously keen after the truck’s guttural howl. I looked at the sacks and wondered wildly if he expected me to bring them inside.
A long time passed. After a while I stood and urinated off the side of the truck. I lay back down, accepting for a bed the graphed surface of the vehicle much as I had accepted the floor by the sink. I checked my watch: four in the morning.The sun would be up in a couple of hours and it would be Monday. School seemed a method of escape: I could go there, just like always, and lose myself in routine as I thought about what to do. There were even people there who could possibly help me: Simmons, maybe; maybe Ted; maybe I could even tell Laverne. Though I could not imagine how to introduce the topic. All opening statements I imagined were spectacularly insane. I closed my eyes but knew I would never sleep, and then, a few minutes later, fell asleep.
18.
T HE POSITION OF THE sun told me I had awakened at my usual
17.
O N THE WAY HOME I sat up in the truck bed. There was no more reason to hide. As we pulled away from the tree, I noted with dulled surprise that the wooden fence I had leaned against marked the outer confines of a graveyard. It rolled gently over the hill, the white ghosts of gravestones perishing quietly into the pitch.
My father is a grave robber
, I told myself, over and over and over—the only garbage he carried was carrion. I hoped the horror of it would diminish with each repetition, but instead it overtook me. My brain spun in slow and terrified loops: disgust at such an unspeakable act, disbelief that my mother could have lived with such knowledge, the potential reactions to such revelations by Woody or Celeste or Gottschalk or Simmons or Diamond or Laverne or Ted, and more than anything else the smell—that odor invading the very fibers of the cabin walls as well as my clothes, skin, and hair. I finally knew its origin.
I ran through the last moments back there outside the graveyard: his blank astonishment, my immobility, his slow forward motion to take the camera from my numb fingers. He placed the camera in a pocket, then picked up the wire cutter again. I heard a snip and the soft chip of bone detaching from bone. I watched him remove two rings from the isolated finger, put them in his pocket, and then take the hand,as well as the finger, with him back up the hill. I followed him with my eyes and saw him scale the cemetery fence. He was returning the hand to where he found it. It was lunacy. I could barely think, hardly move. It was much later, maybe another hour, before my father returned. He had with him the other sack, which he placed in the truck bed. He seemed beyond wrath; his eyes were glazed and he spoke not a word. When he looked at me, I held out a trembling hand to stop whatever was coming next.
“Look,” I said, but I had no other words.
He did the opposite and looked away. He entered the truck, slammed the door, and started the engine. It growled to life and I watched the brake lights color the exhaust. I expected him to drive away. Instead he sat motionless behind the wheel. After a minute I climbed into the back of the truck.
Now, the ride nearly over, the wheels left the relative smoothness of pavement for dirt. Here it was, my final resting spot, the place where he would fulfill his earlier promise of a Scottish blade driven with soft precision. Trees laced their fingers above me, then clenched to blot out the night. The truck shuddered to a halt. I heard the cab door open and shut. I sat up and saw that we were not in some unfamiliar thicket but back at the cabin, and my father was loping toward the front door, leaving the sacks with me. The whisper of the river was outrageously keen after the truck’s guttural howl. I looked at the sacks and wondered wildly if he expected me to bring them inside.
A long time passed. After a while I stood and urinated off the side of the truck. I lay back down, accepting for a bed the graphed surface of the vehicle much as I had accepted the floor by the sink. I checked my watch: four in the morning.The sun would be up in a couple of hours and it would be Monday. School seemed a method of escape: I could go there, just like always, and lose myself in routine as I thought about what to do. There were even people there who could possibly help me: Simmons, maybe; maybe Ted; maybe I could even tell Laverne. Though I could not imagine how to introduce the topic. All opening statements I imagined were spectacularly insane. I closed my eyes but knew I would never sleep, and then, a few minutes later, fell asleep.
18.
T HE POSITION OF THE sun told me I had awakened at my usual
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