A Figure of Heroic Size

Abstract

A Figure of Heroic Size Jae Towle Vieira (bio) In Katie’s hometown—Auburn, California—the scales have been missing from the Ladies of Justice at the courthouse for more than one hundred years. Each of the three statues presides over a cardinal direction. None blindfolded, but none with pupils. All grip modest swords in their right hands, and all their lefts are extended as if to hand back change. Katie’s aged uncle wrote an article about the missing scales for the local paper as part of a retrospective in celebration of the new millennium. There are no pictures of the courthouse under construction (one of at least five local mysteries), but photographs of the completed structure from 1897 confirmed that every Iustitia and/or Themis once held a balanced set of scales, swinging on a real chain. The readership appreciated this nugget of local trivia, but no one advocated to reinstate the scales. Their absence had become a tradition of its own. At conception, back in the late 1800s, reports say the courthouse’s dome was capped by “a figure of Progress, of heroic size”—apparently some sort of Cupid, though again there are no pictures—but this Eros was quickly supplanted by a weathervane, which more effectively secured the loyalties of the town. The weathervane was temporarily replaced by the Stars and Stripes during the nationalist fervor of 1917, but this change was received with displeasure. The traditionalists loved Old Glory as much as anyone, but let’s not forget that we have a particular way of doing things around here. The weathervane was eventually restored to its place of honor. Patriotism is important in this old Gold Rush town—certainly one of the top five local values—but not so important as history. Katie’s ex-husband has five sons with his new wife, and all of them, from six to sixteen, race dirtbikes. They can be found at the track every Friday night, zipped into black leather suits with fox head logos across the shoulders, revving, helmets glossy even though the stands and the crowd and the cars and the grills and the beams of the floodlights and [End Page 134] the railroad tracks and the ponderosa pines are all suffused in ochre dust. The six-year-old is a crowd favorite. Katie knows this because she is one of the photographers who comes to every race all summer long. She takes pictures of the racers in hopes of future sales. This is not as easy as it used to be (and it was never easy, strictly speaking), but it is not impossible to make a living this way. She also photographs monster truck rallies, cross-country ski meets, and the Western States Endurance Run, which is her favorite. She takes portraits of seniors at three local high schools, covers festivals including Railroad Days, the Gold Country Fair, the Placer Farm and Barn Tour, the Mountain Mandarin Festival, Lake Tahoe’s Concours d’Elegance, and, with the help of her assistant Ophelia, she shoots weddings. One might say she gets around. “Kitty,” her ex-husband says, leaning against his bike one Fast Friday, cocking his helmeted head. “How’ve you been? We missed you at Peter’s birthday last weekend. The big One-Oh!” “Double digits,” she says, nodding, because Peter is standing nearby, half a hot dog in hand and half in mouth. His helmet, twice as large as his blond buzzed head, is tucked under his other arm. “That’s a big deal!” She makes as if to keep walking. “Really though, how are you?” her ex-husband asks. His voice is muffled; he hasn’t removed his helmet. He always holds himself completely still while talking. Katie believes this is because he cannot stand auditory clutter. When they first moved in together, he convinced her to pawn her father’s mantel clock. “Ticking is for classrooms and other prisons,” he said. The first time they fucked in her bed, he’d attempted to rise above the provocation of her percale sheets. Finally, red-faced and flaccid, he’d asked, “Can’t you do something about this?” “You know me,” Katie says...