The Diviners

Robert McDowell

• Publisher: Story Line Press
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9780595093120, 9781416566502
• eBook ISBN: 9781586548216
• Edition: 2
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

A book-length poem that brilliantly reinvents narrative poetry, The Diviners is a single poem divided into five chapters, each a different decade. McDowell relates the most crucial developments in each decade spanning from the 1950s through 1990s, of the shared lives of Al, Eleanor, and their son, Tom. The Diviners records in blank verse the family’s beginnings, their growth, their problems, their separation, and their ultimate reunion. The events that follow the intertwined lives of the characters illustrate the endless capacity for human empathy.

CHAPTER ONE

They waded in . . .

THE FIFTIES

When Al and his career were very young.
Before the nickname, Boss, was pinned on him,
He had to spend most weekdays far from home.
From Chicago or New York he’d call the house
To say goodnight and talk with his only son,
Who hated phones, the voices trapped in them.
The distance from his home-life gnawed at Al,
Whose own dad had forsaken family.
He thought of this as Eleanor, his wife,
Discussed the day’s events and hung up lonely.
Dissatisfied, she spent long nervous nights
Until the Open House in ’58.
Her son, who was eight, had begged her to attend.
“Why not?” she said.

She parked in the visitor’s lot

And stepped out of her Edsel like a queen,
Or so it seemed to her son who was watching her
From a window in his homeroom science class.
Her ankle bracelet sparkled in black-top heat;
Her red hair caught the sun and softened it.
The teacher felt soft, too, when she strolled in.

“I couldn’t miss our little Einsteins’ Day,”
She said. “You must be Mr . . .”

“Just call me Bill.”

The teacher led her up the nearest isle
So he could show the tar pits diorama
And brag about her son’s accomplishment.

“Your Tom,” he said, “was in charge of animals.
They’re realistic—scary—don’t you think?”

“He reads a lot,” she said. The boy, embarrassed,
Fell back to watch a girl with a scalpel in hand
About to probe and slice a cow’s brown eye,
While at the tar pits Eleanor rubbed the fang
Of a saber-tooth depicted going down.

“They thought the stuff was water, right?” She said.
Bill nodded.

“It looked inviting. They waded in—”

“And got sucked down.” She finished his sentence for him.

The way she said it, especially that word,

Made Bill’s knees buckle. He leaned on the table for balance

And silently cursed himself. Hair flat with sweat,

His face was red from holding in his gut.

He felt inadequate, desire’s fool.

He wondered what to say to keep her there.

He took a chance.

“May I call you Eleanor?

It’s funny but I feel we’ve met before.”

She caught the hint and laughed.

“We’re meeting now.”

Bill thought of undoing the zipper of her dress
As he steered her up and down the classroom rows.
She liked his graying temples and blue eyes,
The perspiration veil above his lip;
She hesitated as they reached the door.
“I’m free for dinner later, if you’d like.”
The look between them settled any doubts.

From then on Tom spent many TV nights
With sitters while his mother stayed out late.
In haste she’d pat his hair, explain the meeting
She couldn’t miss that night, then close her door
To begin the hour of bathing and getting dressed.
But Tom could press his ear against the wall,
And later even lie down on her bed
And imagine mother singing just for him.

TOM:

The first thing I remember: my dad is gone.
Not permanent, but enough to rattle me.
My mother works all day, then rushes home
To change and go. The sitters are mostly ok,
But I prefer my room with lots of books.
Mom gets home late. Some mornings when it’s dark
I sneak into her bed. I touch her face.
I get this feeling. I touch her and I hurt.

ELEANOR:

My boy hides in his room, says he’s preparing.
He locks the door and I must shake the knob
And yell Go Out and Play! I get all weepy,
Never what I want. A horn sounds off
Outside on the gravel drive. I stare at the mirror.
My make-up could be better. I poke my hair
And stand, then pull my sweater down and go,
Imagining Bill’s hands exploring there.
Then Tom unlocks his door and watches me.
I peck him on the forehead, hurry past;
I’m thinking Damn Him, meaning everyone.

TOM:

The screen door slams. I lock my door again.
I study notes and pull out all my books
On polar exploration; I memorize
The characters, events, all dates and charts.
I prepare for when I’m older, more important,
Maybe President. Or I may leave.
It must be cold outside the galaxy,

But knowing about Admiral Scott will help.

Al slams his office door. He works the phone,

And says hello as he loosens the knot of his tie.
“I got your name and number from a pal
Who says you used to be a cop in Frisco.
He says you’re good at finding what gets lost.
I’m on the road a lot, and so’s my wife.
You follow me? That’s right. I want to know.
I’ll come by after lunch if that’s ok.”

At 1:00 a cab drops Al at Mission and Fourth.
He pauses, pulls a matchbook from his vest,
And double-checks the address, then lets it drop
Beside a leaflet hawking Stevenson,
He crosses traffic, making drivers stop,
Then bulls up varnished stairs and raps his fist
On frosted glass. He peppers the door again.
A voice inside shouts.

“Open! Come on in!”

Inside a woman looks up from her desk
And says “Sit down.” Al wrinkles in a chair.
O’Hara, who was writing, drops her pen.

“Ok,” she says, “suppose you fill me in.”
Al fidgets with his hands and rambles on
About his company, his working wife,
His quiet son who won’t get close enough,
The deadening weeks of travel coast to coast,
Temptations he’s turned down at swank hotels.
O’Hara lets him talk. She studies him,
And now and then makes notes on a pocket pad:

Al’s wife—Eleanor—30. Clothes designer/ 58 Pacific

Ave. One kid—Tom—8. Guy on road/ gal on town.

Out when he calls/ nervous when questioned/ moody/ headaches

every night. Description: 5'8"/ 125/ red hair (long)/

green eyes/ snappy dresser (naturally). Photo in hand.

Tail and shoot.

As Al winds down he wheezes like a patient.
“Are you a drinking man?” O’Hara asks,
And pulls a fifth of bourbon from a drawer.
Red splotches form a pattern on Al’s face
And down the sides of his neck. He rubs his eyes,
And in the voice of a little boy says

“Please.”

“Let’s eat up in the hills tonight,” Bill says.
“You know. That spot my mother liked so much.
Romantic. We’ll be inspired by the view.”
Inspired is...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright page
• Contents
• Introduction
• Chapter One: The Fifties
• Chapter Two: The Sixties
• Chapter Three: The Seventies
• Chapter Four: The Eighties
• Chapter Five: The Nineties
• Author Bio
• Back Cover