The last person David chatted with was my mother. It was strange for me. It was only recently, since my father left, that I had gotten into the habit of truly seeing her. What I mean is that for the first time in my life I was able to remember what my mother looked like when she wasn’t around. Before that I’d had a block. Something in me, when given the opportunity, deleted her. She worked for a nonprofit that organized internships throughout the National Park System, and a lot of what she did was fight with the government or coax money out of private businesses. Part of her job was site visits. Six or seven times a year, she would be down at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, or maybe in Alaska, or on a peak in the Smoky Mountains. I would sometimes talk with her as she packed for a trip, and what most impressed me during those moments was the knowledge of how happy she was. My parents loved each other, but their love confused them. Witnessing their marriage was like watching a dog bark at the door when no one’s there. I’m not sure if they ever figured out what their problem was, but I would say it was mostly money and the fact that they took their disappointments in the world out on each other. My father was the only person absent from church that day.

“I met my counselor, Riccardo,” David said. “Sometimes Richard. His mother was Italian. And this fucking guy. This fucking guy was beautiful. He was a maniac. Total drunk. Total drug addict. But that was the world he came from: drunk, drugged, full of maniacs. He told me a story where he and his brothers shot a dozen horses—wild, starving horses—and bulldozed them into a pile and set them on fire. He’d been vicious. Now he lives his whole life in penance to other people and to the earth. When I met your mother, she made me think of him. This idea that, instead of destroying, you could protect. That you could dedicate your life to that. Not like you think you’re a savior, but just because that’s what you do. I think they’d get along. Fucking Riccardo, man. He saved my life. One morning we took the horses for a ride. The sun was coming up over Utah. The stars were still out. I was bitching about the first step. I was like, ‘Fuck God. I don’t want anything to do with God. God’s a lie.’ The usual. And then we came over this ridge, and we looked out across the desert. At first, it was black-and-white like the moon, but then all at once the buds on the plants opened up with the sun. They were all blue. I’m talking for miles. In the middle of it was this crater or maybe a cave. It looked like a huge blue eyeball. But I guess sometimes it’s purple. Or green. Or brown. It blinks when the wind blows. And Riccardo said, ‘This is God, you asshole. You live on God.’ ”

“I can see where he’s coming from,” my father said. “Your mother has a thing about her. That woman casts a spell. The first time I saw her I thought my heart was going to stop. The truth is, it took me a long time to be relaxed around her. Maybe I never was. It’s hard to explain. I wanted her to be free, but I also wanted that freedom to be mine. I think I’ve always been jealous of her. I sacrificed parts of my life to be with her, and I resent her for that.”