16
In seconds he was back, dragging behind him the huge tarp he had torn from the pump, moving unflinchingly under the cold
jawbreakers that were pummeling us. With a powerful jerk he pulled it up his back and over his head, held out his arms like wings, and we instinctively darted under. The growing force of the hailstorm crashed down on him. Thrashing desperately under the tarp, we found his legs and clung to them. I crawled between them. We could not stop bawling.
Once more he roared over the din. “There’s nothing to fear! ¡Nada! You’re safe with me, you know that, ya lo saben!” And then little by little he lowered his voice until he seemed to be whispering, “I would never let anything harm you, nunca, nunca. Ya, cállense, cállense ya. Cálmense, be still, you’re safe, seguros, you’re with me, with Papá. It’s going to end now, very soon, very soon, it’ll end, you’ll see, ya verán, ya verán. Be still, be still, you’re with me, with me. Ya, ya, cállense. . . .”
17
Bent forward, he held fast, undaunted, fixed to the ground, and we tried to cast off our terror. Huddled under the wings of that spreading giant, we saw the storm release its savagery, hurl spheres of ice like missiles shot from slings. They came straight down, so dense that we could see only a few feet beyond us. Gradually the storm abated, and we watched the spheres bounce with great elasticity from hard surfaces, carom when they collided, spring from the wagon’s tarp like golf balls dropped on black-topped streets. When it stopped hailing, the ground lay hidden under a vast white beaded quilt. At a distance from us and down, the highway was a string of stationary vehicles with their lights on. Repeatedly, bright bolts of lightning tore the sky from zenith to horizon and set off detonations that seemed to come from deep in the earth. At last the rain let up. My father straightened himself, rose to his full height, and we emerged from the tarp as it slid from his shoulders. He ordered us with a movement of his head and eyes, and as he calmly flexed his arms, the four of us struggled to cover the damaged pump with his great canvas mantle.
18
His unexpected “¡Vámonos!” filled us with joy and we prepared to leave. Hail and water were cleared from the wagon’s cover. My brothers and I dug through the ice to free the wheels, and when my father took up the handle and pulled, we pushed from behind with all our might, slipping, falling, rising, moving the wagon forward by inches, slowly gaining a little speed, and finally holding at a steady walk to keep from losing control. Where the road met the highway, we waded through more than a foot of water and threw our shoulders into the wagon to shove it over the last bump. Long columns of stalled cars lined the highway as drivers examined dents and shattered or broken windows and windshields. We went home in a dense silence, my father steering and pulling in front, we propelling from behind.
Entering the yard from the alley, we unloaded the wagon without delay. While my father worked his wagon into the coal shed and locked the door, my brothers and I carried the sacks up to our second-floor flat. It was almost four when we finished emptying the sacks on newspapers spread on the kitchen floor. There we began to pare while my mother, scrubbing carefully, washed in the sink. We chattered furiously, my brothers and I, safe now from the danger outside.
19
Lázaro brought the knife down on the orange, the orange slipped from his hand, and the blade cut the tip of his thumb. He held his thumb in his fist and I got up to bring him gauze and tape from the bathroom. I knew my father would let me in even if he had already started to bathe.
Some object fallen between the bathroom door and its frame had kept it ajar, but he did not hear me approach. I froze. He was standing naked beside a heap of clothes, running his hands over his arms and shoulders, his finger-tips pausing to examine more closely. His back and arms were a mass of ugly welts, livid flesh that had been flailed again and again until the veins beneath the skin had broken. His arms dropped to his sides and I thought I saw him shudder. Suddenly he seemed to grow, to swell, to fill the bathroom with his great mass. Then he threw his head back, shaking his black mane, smiled, stepped into the bathtub, and immersed himself in the water. Without knowing why, I waited a moment before timidly entering—even as I have paused all these years, and pause still, in full knowledge now, before entering that distant Saturday.
Making Meanings
Distillation
Reading Check
a. Which character in “Distillation” is the protagonist ? (If you think there is more than one possibility, consider which character you focus on and which one sets the action in motion.)
b. Explain what the protagonist wants.
c. List the actions the protagonist takes to get what he or she wants.
d. What obstacles does the protagonist have to overcome to get what he wants?
e. Explain how the main conflict is finally resolved.
First Thoughts
1. How did your three purposes — discover, interpret, enjoy —come into play as you read “Distillation”? Which ended up being strongest for you? Why?
Shaping Interpretations
2. How did you feel about the father during the scene in the dump and the final scene in the bathroom? How do you think his sons felt about him?
3. The writer says that he wanted to share his vision of a father who was “larger than life, heroic, a miracle worker.” What details did he use to create this sense of the father? Do you think he succeeded? (Be sure to reread the part where the father saves Lázaro from being buried alive.)
4. The writer says that the landscape of the dump glows in his memory “like a photo negative.” List all the sensory details that make that landscape vivid to you. What is the overall feeling you get for the dump?
5. Think about the character of the narrator. Is he a dynamic or static character—does he change or grow or discover anything in the course of the story? Go back to the text, and find passages to support your interpretation.
6. The word distillation is defined in Before You Read on page 132. How could this term apply to this story? What do you think of it as a title ?
7. How is love displayed in this story? Consider:
• the father's actions during the journey and at the dump
• the father's words
• the sons' feelings for their father
Connecting with the Text
8. Why do you suppose the narrator still pauses before thinking back upon that long-ago Saturday? Are his feelings at all like those you described in your Quickwrite notes? Explain.
Extending the Text
9. What connections can you find or feel between “Powder” (see Connections) and this story?