The Wild Shore: Three Californias (Wild Shore Triptych) by Kim Stanley Robinson
Authors: Kim Stanley Robinson
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might be able to spare him.”
“No,” John said for the last time, putting his bulk into it. “I’m not gaming out there, Tom—”
“I know that. I know it.” Tom sipped his brandy and gave me an uncomfortable look. I imitated Emilia and pretended I wasn’t there, staring at the portrait of us all on the black glass of the window. We were a pretty unhappy looking group. Steve was long gone, on the beach, I figured. I thought about how he felt at that moment, and the fine meal in my stomach turned lumpy. Mrs. Nicolin, face tight with distress, tried to refill our glasses. I shook my head, and Tom covered his glass with his hand. He cleared his throat.
“Well, I guess Hank and I’ll get going, then.” We stood. “Wonderful meal, Christy,” Tom muttered to Mrs. N. She began to say goodbye as if nothing had happened; Tom cut her off with a pained expression and said, “Thanks for the meal, John. I’m sorry I brought all that up.”
John grunted and waved a hand, lost in his thoughts. We all stood looking at him, a big man brooding in his chair, staring at his own colorless image, surrounded by all his goods and possessions.… “No matter,” he said, as if releasing us. “I can see what caused you to do it. Come tell me what it’s like down there when you get back.”
“We will.” Tom thanked Mrs. N. again and we backed out the door. She followed us out. On the doorstep she said, “You should have known, Tom.”
“I know. Good night, Christy.”
We walked up the river path full of food, but glum and heavy-footed. Tom muttered under his breath and took swings at branches near the path. “Should’ve known … nothing else possible … impossible to change … set like a wedge.…” He raised his voice. “History is a wedge in a crack, boy, and we’re the wood. We’re the wood right under the wedge, you understand, boy?”
“No.”
“Ah…” He started muttering again, sounding disgusted.
“I do understand that John Nicolin is a mean old son of a bitch—”
“Shut up,” Tom snapped. I did. “A wedge in a crack,” he went on. Suddenly he stopped and grabbed my arm, swung me around violently. “See over there?” he cried, pointing across the river at the other bank.
“Yeah,” I protested, peering into the dark.
“Right there. The Nicolins had just moved here, just John and Christy and John Junior and Steve. Steve was just a babe, John Junior about six. They came in from the back country. One day John was helping with the first bridge, in the start of winter. John Junior was playing on the bank, on an overhang, and the overhang fell in the river.” His voice was harsh. “Fell plop right in the river, you understand? River full of the night’s rain. Right in front of John. He dove in and swam downstream all the way out into the sea. Swam nearly an hour, and never saw the kid at all. Never saw him again. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I said, uneasy at the strain in his voice. We started walking again. “That still doesn’t mean he needs Steve for fishing, because he surely doesn’t—”
“Shut up,” he said again, not as sharp as the first time. After a few steps he said quietly, as if talking to himself, “And then we went through that winter like rats. We ate anything we could find.”
“I’ve heard about those times,” I said, irritated that he kept going back to the past. That was all we heard about: the past, the past, the God-damned past. The explanation for everything that happened was contained in our past. A man could behave like a tyrant to his son, and what was his excuse? History.
“That don’t mean you know what it was like,” he told me, irritated himself. Watching him in the dark I saw marks of the past on him: the scars, the caved-in side of his face where he had no teeth left, his bent back. He reminded me of one of the trees high on the hills above us, gnarled by the constant onshore winds, riven by lightning. “Boy, we were hungry. People died
“No,” John said for the last time, putting his bulk into it. “I’m not gaming out there, Tom—”
“I know that. I know it.” Tom sipped his brandy and gave me an uncomfortable look. I imitated Emilia and pretended I wasn’t there, staring at the portrait of us all on the black glass of the window. We were a pretty unhappy looking group. Steve was long gone, on the beach, I figured. I thought about how he felt at that moment, and the fine meal in my stomach turned lumpy. Mrs. Nicolin, face tight with distress, tried to refill our glasses. I shook my head, and Tom covered his glass with his hand. He cleared his throat.
“Well, I guess Hank and I’ll get going, then.” We stood. “Wonderful meal, Christy,” Tom muttered to Mrs. N. She began to say goodbye as if nothing had happened; Tom cut her off with a pained expression and said, “Thanks for the meal, John. I’m sorry I brought all that up.”
John grunted and waved a hand, lost in his thoughts. We all stood looking at him, a big man brooding in his chair, staring at his own colorless image, surrounded by all his goods and possessions.… “No matter,” he said, as if releasing us. “I can see what caused you to do it. Come tell me what it’s like down there when you get back.”
“We will.” Tom thanked Mrs. N. again and we backed out the door. She followed us out. On the doorstep she said, “You should have known, Tom.”
“I know. Good night, Christy.”
We walked up the river path full of food, but glum and heavy-footed. Tom muttered under his breath and took swings at branches near the path. “Should’ve known … nothing else possible … impossible to change … set like a wedge.…” He raised his voice. “History is a wedge in a crack, boy, and we’re the wood. We’re the wood right under the wedge, you understand, boy?”
“No.”
“Ah…” He started muttering again, sounding disgusted.
“I do understand that John Nicolin is a mean old son of a bitch—”
“Shut up,” Tom snapped. I did. “A wedge in a crack,” he went on. Suddenly he stopped and grabbed my arm, swung me around violently. “See over there?” he cried, pointing across the river at the other bank.
“Yeah,” I protested, peering into the dark.
“Right there. The Nicolins had just moved here, just John and Christy and John Junior and Steve. Steve was just a babe, John Junior about six. They came in from the back country. One day John was helping with the first bridge, in the start of winter. John Junior was playing on the bank, on an overhang, and the overhang fell in the river.” His voice was harsh. “Fell plop right in the river, you understand? River full of the night’s rain. Right in front of John. He dove in and swam downstream all the way out into the sea. Swam nearly an hour, and never saw the kid at all. Never saw him again. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I said, uneasy at the strain in his voice. We started walking again. “That still doesn’t mean he needs Steve for fishing, because he surely doesn’t—”
“Shut up,” he said again, not as sharp as the first time. After a few steps he said quietly, as if talking to himself, “And then we went through that winter like rats. We ate anything we could find.”
“I’ve heard about those times,” I said, irritated that he kept going back to the past. That was all we heard about: the past, the past, the God-damned past. The explanation for everything that happened was contained in our past. A man could behave like a tyrant to his son, and what was his excuse? History.
“That don’t mean you know what it was like,” he told me, irritated himself. Watching him in the dark I saw marks of the past on him: the scars, the caved-in side of his face where he had no teeth left, his bent back. He reminded me of one of the trees high on the hills above us, gnarled by the constant onshore winds, riven by lightning. “Boy, we were hungry. People died
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