The Son

Chapter Sixty-two. Diaries of Peter McCullough, SEPTEMBER 15, 1917

Feel my heart growing moderate. An even worse punishment. The might-have-beens filling in my years.

I think of my son’s wounding, his near-death, as an excuse for other deaths. Both my children in some barracks, waiting to be sent overseas. This house nothing more than a mausoleum. Just in recorded history the polestar has changed four times. .. yet men insist we will endure on this earth.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1917

Went out to help the vaqueros check the fences after last night’s rain. In an arroyo, sticking out of the bank, I found a bone so ancient it had completely turned to stone; it rang like steel when I struck it.

SEPTEMBER 20, 1917

Ab Jefferson at Pinkerton came by today in person. Pretended it was a social call. We went for a drive and he informed me that in Guadalajara there are three possible María Garcias, all recent arrivals. Gave three addresses.

I had to pull the car over. He patted me on the back.

“It’s one of the most common names in Mexico, Pete. They are probably farm girls.”

“It’s a start,” I said.

“Do you want me to send someone?”

“No,” I said.

Wrote letters to each of them, begging them to take me back. Lay on the sofa all day. The shadow is no longer standing over me. He has retreated to one of the corners.