![]() ![]() ![]() I feel years of my parenting efforts crumbling away. Max releases but his defiant expression remains. Only then does my father allow a rare smile. Max grunts more and his eyes narrow his intensity as he squeezes suggests he’s actually trying to inflict pain. You need to show the other guy that, if you absolutely had to, you could tear his throat out. Who would win in a fight? That’s what I want you to think about. “Listen to me,” my father tells him, still squeezing Max’s bony hand. Max grunts as he puts all his strength into his grip. “Now squeeze, boy.” My father looks down at their joined hands. “What? He’s gotta learn these things.” He turns back to Max, sticks his hand back out. My father looks at me in mock surprise, and still the squint remains. SunLit present new excerpts from some of the best Colorado authors that not only spin engaging narratives but also illuminate who we are as a community. Hugs are luxuries of the weak, and the Yates family tree is carved from petrified wood. Skulking is a fifty-cent Logan Yates word. I realized I didn’t need someone skulking about the house if there wasn’t enough work to do.” My father would have made a hell of a professional gambler. Etchings of time, and casualties of practiced, unwavering stares. The only signs of his aging are the deepened grooves forged by that squint, the dry riverbeds spider-webbing from the corners of his eyes. Logan Yates will stare at you in silence with that squint, embracing the tension, and wait until you talk first. If you asked a stranger what color my father’s eyes were, they’d probably guess wrong, because his eyes are largely hidden within a perpetual squint, the kind that makes the receiver of his gaze anxious. Now as I look at him boxed by the mammoth doorframe, he doesn’t look all that different from his picture in the decades-old magazine. It was a profile of his private equity firm, Yates Capital Partners, and the reporter quoted anonymous sources labeling my father “cold-blooded” and “ruthless.” My father considered those terms high praise. When I was seventeen, my father showed me a BusinessWeek article about him. He stares at me, then offers a smirk that never blossoms into a smile. I’m surprised when my father himself opens it. It’s locked, so I press the doorbell and hear the muffled ring of the familiar chime inside. I asked him who we needed to protect ourselves from, and I’ll never forget his answer.įor a moment I have the impulse to ring the bell of the house where I spent the first seventeen years of my life. That we needed a thick door, like a castle, because it sent a sign to all who tried to enter. My father told me when I was a little girl that a door like ours conveyed wealth and strength. We reach the front door, a curved and heavy slab of maple reinforced with iron hinges and bands. I tousle his hair, which probably assures me more than him. ![]() Each week, The Colorado Sun and Colorado Humanities & Center For The Book feature an excerpt from a Colorado book and an interview with the author. ![]()
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