land delivers them. Shale contemplates what he sees. God didn’t owe us anything, he thinks, but he gave his most beloved.
II. THE FIRST DEFINITION OF PRETTY
Shale was nine years old. Weston eleven. They’d been summoned to the relic zone, their parents’ bedroom, a place the boys walked through quietly so as not to disturb anything. They’d been there so rarely the room fascinated them. A mirror plate trimmed in silver lay flat on the dark wood bureau, set with Mother’s rings and lead crystal vials of perfume. The boys sat on the end of the bed, their feet hanging toward the floor. They sat on a blue flowered bedspread that was military sharp, pillows encased and tucked with a hard feminine hand. It was the femininity of it, the absence of the masculine that surprised and hushed them because they considered the great power he had over her, and they felt deeply the facade of this room, the fear that held her here, her sanctuary in the evenings and into night when he manned the living room watching TV, or when his presence downtown with alcohol and whatever he did when he was gone became a silence in the home that was physical. Her mind ran circles while she lay off to one side in the bed under the tight curve of clean sheets and straight coverlet; she heard the sound of her boys breathing, sleeping down the hall. At night, they’d heard her weep so many times they had no words.
They sat there, Shale and his older brother, at the edge of the bed, in the elegant feel of that place, in the gold light of the afternoon. They had never met in their mother and father’s bedroom. They met here today. Their father had never cried in their presence.
He was a big man, six feet four, nearly 250 pounds. He held his hands together, pressed them to his forehead, moved them away. His face was bent, twisting at the mouth and the eyes. The body was bent too, inward with shoulders rounded, chest caved in. His arms surrounded the cavity he created. His hands worked in the middle, folded in the form of a prayer but wrung out, white knuckled.
“Your mother and I are getting a divorce,” he said.
He looked away. He pushed at his fingers. He was standing over the boys.
“We can’t seem to work it out. We’re getting a divorce.” He stared at them. Pink welled below the white curve of his eyes where the tears pooled and spilled. “Well?” he said, still looking the boys.
Mom looked to them too, into their faces. She was crying. She pressed her fingers to her lips.
Weston said nothing.
They didn’t cry, the boys. They had no idea what he was saying.
“What do you mean?” Shale said finally. It was 1977 in Billings, Montana, he was in fourth grade, and he didn’t know a single friend whose parents were divorced. He didn’t understand the word.
“I’ll be seeing you guys less,” his father said. “I’ll be moving out.”
Shale didn’t say anything. Weston had his head down. Mom was quiet. The meeting ended.
This was the arrangement: Dad came home every other Tuesday night for an hour or two. On one such night when he was ten minutes in the door Shale’s mom kicked him back out, while she screamed at him and threw curses like bombs. His head and hands hung slack and as he walked her fists pounded dents in his green down jacket. She herded him over the front steps, along the front walk, and down the driveway. With their knees on the couch and their bodies leaned up the back of it, Shale and Weston watched from the front window. Shale’s arms were folded tight over his chest. He touched his nose to the glass. He saw his mother’s face red and blown out, white teeth shining. He felt something like a release of bees in his stomach, up under the ribcage. The door was open, the screen door black and gray.
“Bastard!” she said. “Stay away from my kids.” She followed it with louder, sharper cussing. The words were black, four-lettered words, ugly from her mouth, hard to listen to.
Weston put his arm around
II. THE FIRST DEFINITION OF PRETTY
Shale was nine years old. Weston eleven. They’d been summoned to the relic zone, their parents’ bedroom, a place the boys walked through quietly so as not to disturb anything. They’d been there so rarely the room fascinated them. A mirror plate trimmed in silver lay flat on the dark wood bureau, set with Mother’s rings and lead crystal vials of perfume. The boys sat on the end of the bed, their feet hanging toward the floor. They sat on a blue flowered bedspread that was military sharp, pillows encased and tucked with a hard feminine hand. It was the femininity of it, the absence of the masculine that surprised and hushed them because they considered the great power he had over her, and they felt deeply the facade of this room, the fear that held her here, her sanctuary in the evenings and into night when he manned the living room watching TV, or when his presence downtown with alcohol and whatever he did when he was gone became a silence in the home that was physical. Her mind ran circles while she lay off to one side in the bed under the tight curve of clean sheets and straight coverlet; she heard the sound of her boys breathing, sleeping down the hall. At night, they’d heard her weep so many times they had no words.
They sat there, Shale and his older brother, at the edge of the bed, in the elegant feel of that place, in the gold light of the afternoon. They had never met in their mother and father’s bedroom. They met here today. Their father had never cried in their presence.
He was a big man, six feet four, nearly 250 pounds. He held his hands together, pressed them to his forehead, moved them away. His face was bent, twisting at the mouth and the eyes. The body was bent too, inward with shoulders rounded, chest caved in. His arms surrounded the cavity he created. His hands worked in the middle, folded in the form of a prayer but wrung out, white knuckled.
“Your mother and I are getting a divorce,” he said.
He looked away. He pushed at his fingers. He was standing over the boys.
“We can’t seem to work it out. We’re getting a divorce.” He stared at them. Pink welled below the white curve of his eyes where the tears pooled and spilled. “Well?” he said, still looking the boys.
Mom looked to them too, into their faces. She was crying. She pressed her fingers to her lips.
Weston said nothing.
They didn’t cry, the boys. They had no idea what he was saying.
“What do you mean?” Shale said finally. It was 1977 in Billings, Montana, he was in fourth grade, and he didn’t know a single friend whose parents were divorced. He didn’t understand the word.
“I’ll be seeing you guys less,” his father said. “I’ll be moving out.”
Shale didn’t say anything. Weston had his head down. Mom was quiet. The meeting ended.
This was the arrangement: Dad came home every other Tuesday night for an hour or two. On one such night when he was ten minutes in the door Shale’s mom kicked him back out, while she screamed at him and threw curses like bombs. His head and hands hung slack and as he walked her fists pounded dents in his green down jacket. She herded him over the front steps, along the front walk, and down the driveway. With their knees on the couch and their bodies leaned up the back of it, Shale and Weston watched from the front window. Shale’s arms were folded tight over his chest. He touched his nose to the glass. He saw his mother’s face red and blown out, white teeth shining. He felt something like a release of bees in his stomach, up under the ribcage. The door was open, the screen door black and gray.
“Bastard!” she said. “Stay away from my kids.” She followed it with louder, sharper cussing. The words were black, four-lettered words, ugly from her mouth, hard to listen to.
Weston put his arm around
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