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“I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that, Shane.”
“Hey, I’m pro-Israel! No one loves the Jews more than me. The real Jews, I mean. Jesus was a real Jew.”
In his defense, Rhys would later think, he had endured four years of such nonsense, ever since Shane had traded his mild drug habit for a Jesus-and-AM radio addiction—“real Jews” and “real patriots” and “Black-on-white crime” and “owning the libs” and the “lame-stream media” and the “vast conspiracy” perpetrated on “real Americans,” by which Shane always meant people like him.
This raw sewage had been seeping into American drinking water for years, until it eventually contaminated the mainstream, and won over enough Shanes to convince the chattering TV heads and Twitter-taters that such half-assed conspiracies were a legitimate part of the body politic, that somehow, they had to do with white, working-class people getting the short end of some imaginary economic stick.
But fine. Shane could believe whatever he wanted.
It was Bethany who broke his heart. Once-brilliant Bethany who should’ve known better, but who pretended, maybe for her marriage’s sake, or her kids’ sake, that this was all okay. Bethany who practiced a quiet, metaphoric faith, but who kept the peace by going along with Shane’s crazy eagle four-wheel-drive oppo-Christian patriotism, watching quietly as he chased blue-eyed salvation with the zeal he’d once chased meth, venturing ever further into the paranoid exurbs of American fundamentalism.
But how far would they go? How far would the country go? A familiar feeling of grim hopelessness washed over Kinnick, the sense that, just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, it not only got worse, but exponentially more insane. Some days, reading the news felt like being on a plane piloted by a lunatic, hurdling toward the ground.
And to have his daughternotseethis, to have her decide that, in fact,it was Kinnick and his reaction that were the problem—No religion! No politics!—made him feel so disoriented, so alone, so... bereft.
It was while thinking of Bethany, and how close Kinnick had been to her when she was little—that these four, unfortunate words slipped from Rhys’s mouth: “Daughter married an idiot.”
Shane sat up. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I was talking to myself.”
“Did you call me—”
“I’m sorry.”
“You come into my house and call me names?”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Kinnick stood. “I just need some air.”
He started for the door, but Shane leaped out of his recliner and blocked his father-in-law’s path. “Why do you get so bent out of shape, Rhys? Is it maybe because I’m getting close to the truth?”
“Yeah, you got the truth surrounded, Shane. Now, please, I need some air.”
Shane grabbed Rhys’s arm and lowered his voice. “Sit down, Rhys.”
“Let go of my arm, Shane.”
“Please.” His grip tightened. “Bethany’s gonna get mad at us both.”
Rhys yanked his arm away. “Get out of my way, Shane!”
Their raised voices brought Bethany from the kitchen. “Dad, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Rhys pulled away. “I just need some air.”
“Your father called me an idiot!”
“Dad!” Bethany said.
Rhys put his hands out. “I can’t do it anymore, Beth! It’s like talking to a belt buckle!”
“I begged you both,” Bethany said. “No politics.”
“I wasn’t talking politics!” Shane said. “I can’t even talk about football without your dad losing it!”
Celia came in from the kitchen, too, still holding the turkey baster, long gray hair piled and pinned atop her lovely head. “What did you do,Rhys?” His ex-wife and daughter stood there, at the edge of the TV room, staring at him accusingly, Shane blocking the door, Kinnick breathing heavily, looking for a way out, and on the wall next to the door and his escape, more framed needlework:This is the house the Lord has made.
“Time to eat?” Cortland stirred in his recliner.