old is his youngest? Fourteen, maybe fifteen?” My mother was talking to herself.
“Jesus, turn that up,” my father said as the screen boiled over with still photos of smoke and ash and burning flesh, a village on fire.
“His eldest boy, Harry, what would he be now? Eighteen? Nineteen? He’s at Yale, or so Gin says. I saw Harry in Provincetown at the horse show not long ago, the image of his father at the same age. Not a bad rider.”
Now I was intrigued. Not bad was as good as it gets from Greer. Harry Devlin must have been a centaur.
“Goddamn it,” my father said, shaking his head, concentrating on what was happening on TV.
My mother sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Camp, how many wars do you intend to fight? What has it to do with you?” She walked over to the sofa. I reluctantly made a spot for her next to me.
“Wonder who the younger boy looks like?” she asked. “Let’s hope for his sake it’s not his mother.”
Camp finally looked away from the news story and frowned over at her.
“For Christ’s sake, Greer, the poor woman has been dead for a decade.”
“Well, of course, I’m sorry.”
My father hooted as my mother pursued the point she was born to make.
“But what does that have to do with her face? Believe me, Riddle, in Polly Devlin’s case, decomposition would be an improvement.” Her remark produced a weird round of enthusiasm from the dogs, their tails banging on the wood floor.
“What a fiasco,” my father said, turning his focus back to the TV.
“Poor Michael,” my mother said, surprising me with her sympathy. “He must be worried, thinking about all the possibilities. I can’t imagine.”
“You can imagine,” my father snapped, finger thrust forcibly forward. My mother and I were jolted from our private thoughts by the violence of his response. “You can imagine anything. Anyone is capable of anything. Do you hear me? And by the way, how about a little perspective? Starving children being burnt alive and we’re supposed to wring our hands over some spoiled rich kid like the Devlin brat just because he can’t be bothered to call home?”
I nodded, too timid to speak, feeling pulverized by the rogue elephant of male rage. For once my mother had nothing smart to say. My father churned from the room, glass ornaments trembling in his wake. His feet were loud on the stairs. I jumped when the door to his bedroom slammed shut. Moments later I heard the bludgeoning sound of him on the phone, talking about the incident in Trang Bang. Animated speech, angry, pounding out each point as if he were trying to break something into pieces, killing it with the blunt force of his point of view.
M Y FATHER WAS PASSIONATE about being right. To him, being right was a thing of violence and covered vast territory: moral, factual, ethical, social, philosophical. His certitude ran bloodred; his belief in himself was starkly anatomical. You could smell the rawness of it. His confidence was an athlete. Lift the lid, look inside his head, and you’d see goalposts and a megaphone.
I worshipped my father. So, why was I listening to him and thinking about Gula, so soft-spoken, so watchful and self-editing? I could feel myself shrinking under the enormity of their separate angers even as I hated myself for indulging such a hideous comparison. I blinked and swallowed, the events of Sunday acquiring new life in the wake of my father’s rampage.
Anyone is capable of anything.
Camp might as well have been talking about me.
L ATER THAT NIGHT, THE house in darkness, I was in bed unable to sleep when I heard a sharp noise coming from the kitchen. Glass shattering. Sitting up, rigid, I struggled to understand what I was hearing. The old pipes rattled in the walls. Water ran from the faucet.
Slowly, I crept from my bed, navigating past my parents’ room where my father slept on, seemingly oblivious, then through the library, and into the dining room where I watched from my concealed position
“Jesus, turn that up,” my father said as the screen boiled over with still photos of smoke and ash and burning flesh, a village on fire.
“His eldest boy, Harry, what would he be now? Eighteen? Nineteen? He’s at Yale, or so Gin says. I saw Harry in Provincetown at the horse show not long ago, the image of his father at the same age. Not a bad rider.”
Now I was intrigued. Not bad was as good as it gets from Greer. Harry Devlin must have been a centaur.
“Goddamn it,” my father said, shaking his head, concentrating on what was happening on TV.
My mother sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Camp, how many wars do you intend to fight? What has it to do with you?” She walked over to the sofa. I reluctantly made a spot for her next to me.
“Wonder who the younger boy looks like?” she asked. “Let’s hope for his sake it’s not his mother.”
Camp finally looked away from the news story and frowned over at her.
“For Christ’s sake, Greer, the poor woman has been dead for a decade.”
“Well, of course, I’m sorry.”
My father hooted as my mother pursued the point she was born to make.
“But what does that have to do with her face? Believe me, Riddle, in Polly Devlin’s case, decomposition would be an improvement.” Her remark produced a weird round of enthusiasm from the dogs, their tails banging on the wood floor.
“What a fiasco,” my father said, turning his focus back to the TV.
“Poor Michael,” my mother said, surprising me with her sympathy. “He must be worried, thinking about all the possibilities. I can’t imagine.”
“You can imagine,” my father snapped, finger thrust forcibly forward. My mother and I were jolted from our private thoughts by the violence of his response. “You can imagine anything. Anyone is capable of anything. Do you hear me? And by the way, how about a little perspective? Starving children being burnt alive and we’re supposed to wring our hands over some spoiled rich kid like the Devlin brat just because he can’t be bothered to call home?”
I nodded, too timid to speak, feeling pulverized by the rogue elephant of male rage. For once my mother had nothing smart to say. My father churned from the room, glass ornaments trembling in his wake. His feet were loud on the stairs. I jumped when the door to his bedroom slammed shut. Moments later I heard the bludgeoning sound of him on the phone, talking about the incident in Trang Bang. Animated speech, angry, pounding out each point as if he were trying to break something into pieces, killing it with the blunt force of his point of view.
M Y FATHER WAS PASSIONATE about being right. To him, being right was a thing of violence and covered vast territory: moral, factual, ethical, social, philosophical. His certitude ran bloodred; his belief in himself was starkly anatomical. You could smell the rawness of it. His confidence was an athlete. Lift the lid, look inside his head, and you’d see goalposts and a megaphone.
I worshipped my father. So, why was I listening to him and thinking about Gula, so soft-spoken, so watchful and self-editing? I could feel myself shrinking under the enormity of their separate angers even as I hated myself for indulging such a hideous comparison. I blinked and swallowed, the events of Sunday acquiring new life in the wake of my father’s rampage.
Anyone is capable of anything.
Camp might as well have been talking about me.
L ATER THAT NIGHT, THE house in darkness, I was in bed unable to sleep when I heard a sharp noise coming from the kitchen. Glass shattering. Sitting up, rigid, I struggled to understand what I was hearing. The old pipes rattled in the walls. Water ran from the faucet.
Slowly, I crept from my bed, navigating past my parents’ room where my father slept on, seemingly oblivious, then through the library, and into the dining room where I watched from my concealed position
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