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

whiskey and solitude?” He chuckled again. “I’m relatively new to the park,” he explained.
    “I know.”
    “Yes, of course. Well.” He wrestled himself free of his parka and flexed his shoulders and hands. “Say, it’s really comfortable in here, isn’t it? Smells a bit of whiskey and fried fish, though,” he said with a light laugh. “You wouldn’t mind if I had another sip of that, would you? What is it, by the way? It’s quite good! Really warms a man’s insides, doesn’t it?”
    Merle handed him the bottle. “Canadian Club.”
    Leon unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow, then slowly screwed the cap back on. “Yes. So, yes, I was saying, do you do this every year?”
    “Man and boy.”
    “But why ?”
    “It makes the rest of the year more interesting,” Merle said wearily.
    Leon was silent for a moment. “I wonder. Yes, I’ll bet it does. I couldn’t stand it, though. The isolation. And the cold, and the darkness.”
    “It’s a good idea to get used to the idea. Like I said, it makes the rest of the year more interesting.”
    Leon’s voice was tight and frightened. “Are you talking about dying?”
    “I’m talking about living.”
    “Speaking of living,” Leon said, suddenly hearty again, “you are probably wondering why I came all the way out here this evening.”
    “Not particularly.”
    “Yes. Well, anyhow, it has to do with the Grand Prize Drawing next week. You know, the state lottery?”
    “Yep.”
    “Folks in the park have been wondering, Mr. Ring, if you plan on attending that drawing over in Concord, and if not—assuming you win, for you just might win, you know—folks are wondering how you plan to pick up the prize money. You have to be there in person to pick up the prize money, you see…,” he trailed off, as if waiting to be interrupted.
    Merle said nothing.
    “Well. It occurred to some of us that you might not care to take the time off from your fishing to go all the way in to Concord and deal with those state officials and the reporters and so forth, seeing as how you enjoy your privacy and like to spend your winters alone out here on the lake, and we thought you might be able to empower someone else to do that chore for you. So I did a little checking around at the bank, which is where I’m employed, and, sure enough, you can empower someone else to pick up your prize money for you!” He waited a few seconds, but nothing more than the crackle and spit of the fire came out of the darkness, so he went on. “Anticipating your reluctance to leave your fishing at this time of year, I went ahead and took the liberty of having the necessary document drawn up by the bank attorney.” He went into his shirt pocket and brought forth a crisp, white envelope. “This document empowers me to act as your agent, should you win the Grand Prize Drawing,” he said, handing the envelope to Merle.
    The old man took out the paper folded inside, and, at the sound, Leon snapped on his flashlight. “Where do I sign it?” Merle asked. His voice was strangely woeful and riddled with fatigue.
    Leon directed him to a line at the bottom of the paper and handed him a pen.
    Slowly, the old man placed the paper against his knee and scrawled his name on it. “There,” he said, and he handed the paper, envelope, and pen back to the bank clerk, who doused the light. “It’s your problem, now,” the old man said.
    “No problem at all, Mr. Ring. None at all,” he said, as he stood and pulled his parka on. “I assume,” he went on, “that, if you win, you’ll want your check deposited in a savings account down at the bank.”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “Bring the money here.”
    “Here?”
    “In cash.”
    “Cash?”
    “Cash. No point letting some bank make money off my money. The government owns all the money anyhow. They just let us use it for a while. It’s the banks that foul everything up by getting in the middle. You bring me anything I win in hundred-dollar bills. You