By Neil Mathison
My son plans a violent act. My girlfriend says she’s thinking of moving out, at least until my son’s attitude improves, and if Heidi suspects violence, something more than a fifteen-year-old’s petulance, I know she’ll leave.
Last August, when Jacob’s mother sent him here, to this Idaho ski town where she birthed him, she declared he needed a change of scene. In new snow, Rachel said, a sapling breathes. Such koan-like utterances pepper Rachel’s speech, leftovers from when she studied to become a Buddhist nun, although in this, as in motherhood, Rachel only half-completed the job. Though what Rachel half-completed, I never began. I intend to make amends. For my betrayals of Rachel. For not being there as Jacob’s father. For all the years Jacob and I have been apart. Amends—a lovely word, so weighted with self-deception. Except how do I make amends when Jacob rejects me?
Today—this is the last weekend of October—we’re holding our annual Shoulder-Season Party. We’re celebrating our valley’s return from the tourists to its residents, at least until the ski season opens. The party will take place behind our cabin, under the golden cottonwoods, on the river-stone patio whose stones I laid with my own hands the year Jacob turned five. Even Jacob has agreed to help but only because his new heartthrob is coming, “Ms. Nemesis” I call her, the girl I suspect of seducing Jacob to violence. “How about lighting the grill?” I call out. [Read more…]
