I didn’t move.
“Get over here,” he said.
I stepped forward slowly, not blinking, watching the Shear as if it
might attack. Luke’s blood was still on the blade. Dad picked up a six-
foot length of angle iron and handed me the end. “Keep a good hold on
it,” he said. “But if it bucks, let go.”
The blades chomped, growling as they snapped up and down—a
warning, I thought, like a dog’s snarl, to get the hell away. But Dad’s
mania for the machine had carried him beyond the reach of reason.
“It’s easy,” he said.
I prayed when I fed the first piece to the blades. Not to avoid injury—
there was no possibility of that—but that the injury would be like
Luke’s, a wedge of flesh, so I could go to the house, too. I chose smaller
pieces, hoping my weight could control the lurch. Then I ran out of
small pieces. I picked up the smallest of what was left, but the metal
was still thick. I shoved it through and waited for the jaws to crash
shut. The sound of solid iron fracturing was thunderous. The iron
bucked, tossing me forward so both my feet left the ground. I let go
and collapsed in the dirt, and the iron, now free, and being chewed
violently by the blades, launched into the air then crashed down next
to me.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” Shawn appeared in the corner
of my vision. He strode over and pulled me to my feet, then spun
around to face Dad.
“Five minutes ago, this monster nearly ripped Luke’s arm off! So
you’ve put Tara on it?”
“She’s made of strong stuff,” Dad said, winking at me.
Shawn’s eyes bulged. He was supposed to be taking it easy, but he
looked apoplectic.
“It’s going to take her head off!” he screamed. He turned to me and
waved toward the ironworker in the shop. “Go make clips to fit those
purlins. I don’t want you coming near this thing again.”
Dad moved forward. “This is my crew. You work for me and so does
Tara. I told her to run the Shear, and she will run it.”
They shouted at each other for fifteen minutes. It was different from