Among them, he felt unease at first, but never fear. His size, and access to the tools, made him safe. Then he heard the whispers, “That’s the dude who fucked up that ballplayer.” He had made the news. He was one of them.
Because of his tools, he was caged off from the others behind a locked gate when he worked. The fire of the smithy, too, had to be kept far from the hay of the stables.
The horses were all thoroughbreds, retired racehorses whose chests once heaved on spindly legs down dirt or muddy tracks, carrying a man and the wagering hopes of many. But they aged out, or were losers, and were destined to some shit-heap farm or slaughter. The jail rescued them, as it did their caregivers. The men renamed them, with their own pet choices, forgoing the race program names christened by wealthy sportsmen. Now they had names like Street, 12 Step, Muchacho, Boss Man. They renamed Horace, too. They called him Blackie. Not imaginative, but simple. And somewhat dangerous. Horace liked that.
Horace watched the convicts through the wire mesh as they groomed the horses with care. These animals, once worth thousands, still had the glossy coats of privilege and once-regal stature of their breeding. But their muscles were softer now and less defined, and there was an arthritic gimp in some of their halting gaits. Their heads, once held high, bobbed lower as they walked, a sign of age and weariness. Horace understood.
And the men with hands that once punched or choked or stabbed or pulled triggers or raped or stole now caressed and brushed animals as used up and broken down by life as they were. The men brought the horses to him, blacksmith and farrier, and held their legs still as he fitted and nailed in metal shoes.
The barn was a quiet place. Sometimes the only noise was the snorting of the horse and the echo of Horace’s hammer. The men rarely yelled or cursed or even laughed. All was calm. They took their cues from the muted dignity of the animals. The men had peace—or was it surrender?—in their hardened criminal faces—God grant me the serenity—and the barn was their place of solace, far from the chaos of the streets where they grew up and the other prisons where they served time.
That peace settled on Horace, too. His anger dissipated, turning to silent purpose. It was the work. Always the work.
He was the blacksmith, always the blacksmith, now behind different walls. No tourists, no talk, just work. Each day, he pulled on old long-sleeved leather gloves and shoveled coal in the hearth. He started the fire, got the bellows blowing, and let the ring of his hammer echo over the countryside.
Acknowledgments
Many authors write, “this book wouldn’t be possible without . . . ,” but in the case of my editor, David Falk at Touchstone, there are no truer words. David believed in the book from our first discussion and inspired me to finally complete this fourteen-year stretch of hard labor. His deft touch on the work can only be described like this: every single suggestion he made responded to an unspoken, nagging thought in my head that those areas needed help. We have an uncanny writer-editor relationship that I have only experienced once in my forty-year journalism career. To that point, the book’s title, Gods of Wood and Stone, was David’s suggestion after I wrote two versions under different names. The current title did not come easy. David and I kicked several around until this one stuck. And it is perfect.
I would also like to thank his wife, Sara, for the lost family hours David put into the book. It’s a good thing she likes me—I think.
Thanks to the many good people at Touchstone/Simon & Schuster who’ve helped polish, design, and shepherd this book you hold in your hands, including Brian Belfiglio, Jessica Roth, Susan Moldow, Tara Parsons, Meredith Vilarello, Isabel DaSilva, Kelsey Manning, Cherlynne Li, Kyle Kabel, Sarah Wright, Amanda Mulholland, and Mike Kwan—passionate readers and champions of the unknown writer.
Likewise, my agent, Peter McGuigan of Foundry Literary + Media, was steadfast in his belief in this book. He read the first sixty pages as soon as he received the manuscript via email and called right away to sign me up. For an unknown novelist that kind of response puts a gust in your sails.
My children, Anthony, Michelle, Stephanie, Matthew, Mark, and Laura, have endured my journalistic writing their whole lives. There were times it simply had to come first. It’s called deadline. Rather than feeling neglected, they instead learned something about work ethic and dedication to craft.
Several of my former Star-Ledger colleagues must be thanked: David Tucker, an award-winning poet who was my longtime editor and the catcher in our writer-editor acrobatic team; Rosemary Parrillo, my current editor, an award-winning playwright who, like Tucker, was always encouraging and never reluctant to show pride in my work; Robin Gaby Fisher, a New York Times bestselling author and two-time Pulitzer finalist in feature writing, whose complimentary encouragement broke all bounds of generosity; Amy Ellis Nutt, a Pulitzer Prize winner in feature writing, who also worked hard to convince me I had a gift.
My friend, author Wendy Wyatt, has guided me through dark periods in my life. She is always there, as is my lifetime best friend, psychologist Ted Batlas. His degree has come in handy over five decades of friendship with me. And finally, my sister-in-law Annette Kaiser, who evolved into a best friend and helped me reach a place of faith and humility that added great humanity to the finished version.
All of these people have love and hope for writing. And I thank them for that.
About the Author
Mark Di Ionno is a lifelong journalist and a Pulitzer Prize finalist in news commentary for his work on the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. He is also a four-time winner of the New Jersey Press Association’s first-place award for column writing. His columns appear regularly in The Star-Ledger and in its online partner, nj.com/starledger, with an estimated daily readership of over 1 million. Prior to becoming a front-page columnist at The Star-Ledger he was an editor of the paper’s Pulitzer Prize–winning coverage of Governor Jim McGreevey’s abrupt resignation.
Di Ionno began his career covering sports for The New York Post, where he broke many significant sports stories, including parts of baseball’s case against Pete Rose and the undoing of Mike Tyson. His first novel, The Last Newspaperman, was published by Plexus Publishing. He is an adjunct professor of journalism at Rutgers University and a single father of six children.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Di Ionno
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First Touchstone hardcover edition July 2018
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Interior design by Kyle Kabel
Jacket design by Gregg Kulick
Jacket photographs: baseball in grass by Jgareri/Getty Images; sparks by Beth Rooney/Getty Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Di Ionno, Mark, author.
Title: Gods of wood and stone : a novel / by Mark Di Ionno.
Description: New York : Touchstone, [2018]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017020852 (print) | LCCN 2017024909 (ebook) |
Classification: LCC PS3604.I114 (ebook) | LCC PS3604.I114 G63 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020852
ISBN 978-1-5011-7890-0
ISBN 978-1-5011-7892-4 (ebook)
Gods of Wood and Stone Page 37