into Icebox Canyon. We used to love to take Nate and his friends on this hike, when they were big enough to manage the boulders and to follow the stream of water into the narrowing rock walls, until the sky was just a sliver of azure and the world the width of a hallway. If we hiked long enough, we came to a waterfall crashing over the mottled sandstone above and into a stone basin. Nate and his friends would splash there, and sitting at that clear pool of water in the desert on Sunday, Nate had gotten upset, angry that Jim wanted to sell the house.
I have to admit, hearing that made me feel good. On the night we told Nate about the separation, I thought he blamed me. He said something to Jim about giving me another chance, a comment that was still burning in me, so to hear that he had stood up for me yesterday pleased me. It’s hard not to want Nate to be angry at Jim.
I AM SURPRISED TO SEE Nate’s door standing open when I pull up. I get one of the boxes out of the trunk and call his name as I head up the walk. Nobody answers, but I hear a sound as if something has fallen.
Then I am in the doorway, shocked by the scene before me.
“Nate, what are you doing? Stop!”
Nate has Lauren in a vise grip. His hand is squeezed so tightly around her wrist that I wait to hear the snap. His other hand is in her hair, pulling her head sideways. She is oddly silent, intent on getting free, or on not antagonizing him further, or maybe even on not letting me know how much pain she is in.
“Stop it. Nate, stop it!”
My shouts make it worse. He begins to pull and squeeze harder, in rhythm to my voice.
I silence myself. Breathe deep.
“Let her go. I am calling 911.”
I set down the box and hold up my phone. I am too far away for him to hang on to her and reach for my phone. I know what Nate is thinking. He will lose any chance at the police force if I make this call. I can almost see him making the calculation: she will not make the call, she will not risk me losing my job—or will she?
Lauren’s hair is pulled tight across her temple, and her eyes are creased in pain. I shake the phone at him, my mouth tight. I feel a little like I did when he was three, refusing to climb down from the monkey gym, or eleven, threatening to walk out the door. Which doesn’t make any sense. Because Nate grew up a long time ago.
Nate stares back at me. Something in his eyes makes me afraid. I am not sure he is going to let go. What is he thinking? Does he have control?
With a shake, he releases her. Lauren sinks to the couch, tears spurting out. Nate turns on me.
“Who the hell do you think you are, walking in our house without knocking? Don’t walk in my house again!”
It is an absurd response to the situation. His door was standing wide open. Anyone could have heard what was going on in here.
WHEN NATE WAS FOUR YEARS old, Jim signed him up for a soccer team. I had never played soccer, and neither had Jim. The flyer said, “No special equipment. Wear tennis shoes and gym shorts. Shirt provided.” The shirt was a navy blue uniform with a white 6 and the words “Las Vegas Parks and Recreation” on the back. I think we must have ten photos of him in that first uniform shirt.
But the team was a disaster. After the first game, Nate wouldn’t kick the ball. He wouldn’t even get near the kids kicking the ball. I offered him a dime for every time he kicked it, but Nate, who was a pretty tough little four-year-old, stayed away. Of course, the coach was very nice about it. He said that some boys aren’t ready for team sports, may never be. Jim and I asked Nate why he didn’t kick the ball, but all he said was “I don’t want to.” He used to suck his thumb on the way home from games, which was a habit I thought he had dropped.
And it wasn’t that we hadn’t noticed that every other child had on special soccer shoes and shin guards. We did notice. But this equipment was optional, and Nate didn’t seem to like soccer, so we
I have to admit, hearing that made me feel good. On the night we told Nate about the separation, I thought he blamed me. He said something to Jim about giving me another chance, a comment that was still burning in me, so to hear that he had stood up for me yesterday pleased me. It’s hard not to want Nate to be angry at Jim.
I AM SURPRISED TO SEE Nate’s door standing open when I pull up. I get one of the boxes out of the trunk and call his name as I head up the walk. Nobody answers, but I hear a sound as if something has fallen.
Then I am in the doorway, shocked by the scene before me.
“Nate, what are you doing? Stop!”
Nate has Lauren in a vise grip. His hand is squeezed so tightly around her wrist that I wait to hear the snap. His other hand is in her hair, pulling her head sideways. She is oddly silent, intent on getting free, or on not antagonizing him further, or maybe even on not letting me know how much pain she is in.
“Stop it. Nate, stop it!”
My shouts make it worse. He begins to pull and squeeze harder, in rhythm to my voice.
I silence myself. Breathe deep.
“Let her go. I am calling 911.”
I set down the box and hold up my phone. I am too far away for him to hang on to her and reach for my phone. I know what Nate is thinking. He will lose any chance at the police force if I make this call. I can almost see him making the calculation: she will not make the call, she will not risk me losing my job—or will she?
Lauren’s hair is pulled tight across her temple, and her eyes are creased in pain. I shake the phone at him, my mouth tight. I feel a little like I did when he was three, refusing to climb down from the monkey gym, or eleven, threatening to walk out the door. Which doesn’t make any sense. Because Nate grew up a long time ago.
Nate stares back at me. Something in his eyes makes me afraid. I am not sure he is going to let go. What is he thinking? Does he have control?
With a shake, he releases her. Lauren sinks to the couch, tears spurting out. Nate turns on me.
“Who the hell do you think you are, walking in our house without knocking? Don’t walk in my house again!”
It is an absurd response to the situation. His door was standing wide open. Anyone could have heard what was going on in here.
WHEN NATE WAS FOUR YEARS old, Jim signed him up for a soccer team. I had never played soccer, and neither had Jim. The flyer said, “No special equipment. Wear tennis shoes and gym shorts. Shirt provided.” The shirt was a navy blue uniform with a white 6 and the words “Las Vegas Parks and Recreation” on the back. I think we must have ten photos of him in that first uniform shirt.
But the team was a disaster. After the first game, Nate wouldn’t kick the ball. He wouldn’t even get near the kids kicking the ball. I offered him a dime for every time he kicked it, but Nate, who was a pretty tough little four-year-old, stayed away. Of course, the coach was very nice about it. He said that some boys aren’t ready for team sports, may never be. Jim and I asked Nate why he didn’t kick the ball, but all he said was “I don’t want to.” He used to suck his thumb on the way home from games, which was a habit I thought he had dropped.
And it wasn’t that we hadn’t noticed that every other child had on special soccer shoes and shin guards. We did notice. But this equipment was optional, and Nate didn’t seem to like soccer, so we
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