The Angel on the Roof: The Stories of Russell Banks by Russell Banks

and the darkness.
    “It seems ridiculous,” the girl said, almost to herself. “You don’t care about things like lotteries and Grand Prize Drawings and all.”
    A few seconds passed. Merle said, “I bought the ticket. I cared.”
    “Of course. I’m sorry,” Noni said. “I just meant … well, no matter. My mother saw in the paper this morning that they’re holding the Grand Prize Drawing in Concord on January fifteenth at noon, and you ought to be there. In case you win.”
    Merle said nothing.
    “It’s a lot of money. Fifty thousand dollars. You have a good chance to win it, you know.” He didn’t respond, so she went on, chattering nervously now. “Think of what that would mean. Fifty thousand dollars! You could have a wonderful old age. I mean, retirement. You could go to Florida in the winter months. You could go deep-sea fishing in Florida. Maybe buy one of those condominiums, play shuffleboard, have lots of friends…” She trailed off. “God, I sound like my mother.” She stood up and moved toward the door. Tenderly, she said, “I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. Ring. My mother … she wanted you to know about the drawing, that’s why I came out here. She thought you’d be … excited, I guess.”
    “I haven’t won yet.”
    “But you have a good chance of winning.”
    “Good chance of dying, too. Better.”
    “Not by January fifteenth, Mr. Ring.”
    “About the same. I’m old. Not much left to do but think, and then, in the middle of a thought, die.”
    “Oh, no,” she said heartily. “There’s lots for you to do.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well … fishing, for instance. And spending all that lottery money you’re going to win.”
    “Yes,” he said. “Yes, there’s that.” Then he lapsed back into silence again.
    The girl opened the door and slipped out, and the bob-house filled again with darkness and solitude.
    The door to the bob-house was flung open, and a blinding light entered, bringing with it a blast of cold air and the hulking shape of a man in a hooded parka. The man splashed the light from his flashlight around the chamber, located Merle stretched out in his blanket roll on the bunk, and let the beam droop deferentially to the floor. The man closed the door behind him.
    “Mr. Ring?”
    “Yep.”
    “I’m… I’m Leon LaRoche. You know, from the trailerpark?”
    Merle swung his body into a sitting position. “You can shut out that light.”
    Leon apologized and snapped off the flashlight. “May I sit down and get warm? It’s mighty cold out there tonight.” He chuckled. “Yes, sir, mighty cold.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    They were silent for a moment. Merle opened the stove front, throwing shadows and sheets of dancing red and yellow light into the room; he tossed a chunk of wood onto the crimson coals and closed the fire door again.
    The young man nervously cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Ring, how’s the fishing?”
    “Slow.”
    “I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately, from folks at the park, I mean … how you stay out here night and day, only coming in now and then for supplies…”
    “Whiskey,” Merle said, and he went under the bench with one hand and drew out his bottle. “Drink?”
    “No. No, thank you.”
    Merle took a slow pull from the bottle.
    “Anyhow, it’s all very interesting to me. Yes, maybe I will have a drink,” he said, and Merle fetched the bottle again and passed it over. “So tell me, Mr. Ring, what do you eat out here? How do you cook and all?”
    “Fish, mostly. A man can live a long time in this climate on fish and whiskey.”
    “Very interesting. And you use lake water for washing, I suppose?”
    Merle grunted.
    “How long do you plan on staying out here, Mr. Ring?” Leon took another drink from the bottle and passed it back.
    Merle said nothing.
    As if his question had been answered, Leon went on. “And do you do this every winter, Mr. Ring? I mean, stay out on the ice, isolated like this, living off fish and