come to him, and say she was sorry. She did not.
Alex lived like a hermit at Glidden’s cove. He no longer spoke about the depth of the world; but believing he was free, he now spoke of how shallow it was. Belief in anything was given away to the cynicism so prevalent in this day. Not one man or woman given the chance would remain faithful. Everyone had been lied to, and so a new truth would have to emerge.
One day Alex watched Sam climb upon the catwalk in the snow and ice. He stared at him, in a kind of agony, because he knew the boy was exhausted, yet he knew the catwalk moved tenuously in the wind—and Alex was thinking: If he falls I am free.
In deep late December, the child, Amy, was born. He did not become godfather, and he refused to see the child even after he was invited to the christening. What did it matter to him, except to show his displeasure.
Old Muriel kept him fed and clothed, and endured the ranting of the old man, who blamed the great-nephew’s failings on her. But the old man, even in his anger, could not in truth abandon the boy, and let Muriel have money for him, though he pretended he did not. A dollar, a five, or a ten would be on the table some bleak cold mornings when he left for work or mass.
One day Muriel, delivering this money, asked Alex why he and his uncle could not try to get along. “He is growing old now, and he is ill.”
He turned and in a thoughtless moment said: “I’ll tell you why if you are so eager to know! Did you ever hear about Fanny Groat and Uncle Jim—they have been together many times—when you are off being a slave of the church—that’s what God thinks of you—God is acting on their behalf, a pimp, so they can have sex while you pray.”
He saw in a brief moment of clarity the enormity of her suffering, and what his words had managed to do. There was something in her eyes that was wounded, not only because of what he said but because of who said it. He left the room shaking, but then came back in.
“Well you shouldn’t cry about it,” he said. “It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, even if you left him—so what? Find another man—and see how he likes it.”
But he could not believe he had said something so callow. Yet this only enraged him more, leading him to say more callow things. He became resourceful at saying things that would draw attention to himself, by saying things outrageous. Then he would try to take back what he said, and find he was unable to.
Then he did something which keeping it secret would preclude him from the adulation he wanted. On a cold March night, coming across a windswept field he went into the back of the feed shed, to keep warm. He had gone out to see if he had a string of rabbits, and was hungry and humiliated by his lack of expertise in the world of hunting and fishing. It was during this feeling of undeniable humiliation that he spied his great-uncle’s black manifesto. The tyrant’s “four-poster,” people called it, because they said he verily carried his four-poster about in order to fuck you. It listed what people along the lost highway owed the tyrant for animal feed and hay and construction work. To touch it was anathema to good standing with the tyrant, but what did that matter now. Alex took it and in the cold, glassy, windswept field, lighted it afire. Because of the wind, it blew up in his hand and left a permanent scar. He saw it yawl and tumble in the wind, across the glassy ice toward Arron Brook, and disappear forever amid the windy trees.
The old man looked for his book for a week, and went to Alex’s shed and asked Alex if he had it. He was perplexed and sad, and could not come to grips with the numbers in his head, and the many people who owed him. He tore and ranted and tore again, and ranted over it like a man lost at sea.
“This is almost $26,000 owed me this year—!”
“The last time I saw it, it was in your feedlot, where Sam Patch put it,” Alex told him. That was almost not a
Alex lived like a hermit at Glidden’s cove. He no longer spoke about the depth of the world; but believing he was free, he now spoke of how shallow it was. Belief in anything was given away to the cynicism so prevalent in this day. Not one man or woman given the chance would remain faithful. Everyone had been lied to, and so a new truth would have to emerge.
One day Alex watched Sam climb upon the catwalk in the snow and ice. He stared at him, in a kind of agony, because he knew the boy was exhausted, yet he knew the catwalk moved tenuously in the wind—and Alex was thinking: If he falls I am free.
In deep late December, the child, Amy, was born. He did not become godfather, and he refused to see the child even after he was invited to the christening. What did it matter to him, except to show his displeasure.
Old Muriel kept him fed and clothed, and endured the ranting of the old man, who blamed the great-nephew’s failings on her. But the old man, even in his anger, could not in truth abandon the boy, and let Muriel have money for him, though he pretended he did not. A dollar, a five, or a ten would be on the table some bleak cold mornings when he left for work or mass.
One day Muriel, delivering this money, asked Alex why he and his uncle could not try to get along. “He is growing old now, and he is ill.”
He turned and in a thoughtless moment said: “I’ll tell you why if you are so eager to know! Did you ever hear about Fanny Groat and Uncle Jim—they have been together many times—when you are off being a slave of the church—that’s what God thinks of you—God is acting on their behalf, a pimp, so they can have sex while you pray.”
He saw in a brief moment of clarity the enormity of her suffering, and what his words had managed to do. There was something in her eyes that was wounded, not only because of what he said but because of who said it. He left the room shaking, but then came back in.
“Well you shouldn’t cry about it,” he said. “It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, even if you left him—so what? Find another man—and see how he likes it.”
But he could not believe he had said something so callow. Yet this only enraged him more, leading him to say more callow things. He became resourceful at saying things that would draw attention to himself, by saying things outrageous. Then he would try to take back what he said, and find he was unable to.
Then he did something which keeping it secret would preclude him from the adulation he wanted. On a cold March night, coming across a windswept field he went into the back of the feed shed, to keep warm. He had gone out to see if he had a string of rabbits, and was hungry and humiliated by his lack of expertise in the world of hunting and fishing. It was during this feeling of undeniable humiliation that he spied his great-uncle’s black manifesto. The tyrant’s “four-poster,” people called it, because they said he verily carried his four-poster about in order to fuck you. It listed what people along the lost highway owed the tyrant for animal feed and hay and construction work. To touch it was anathema to good standing with the tyrant, but what did that matter now. Alex took it and in the cold, glassy, windswept field, lighted it afire. Because of the wind, it blew up in his hand and left a permanent scar. He saw it yawl and tumble in the wind, across the glassy ice toward Arron Brook, and disappear forever amid the windy trees.
The old man looked for his book for a week, and went to Alex’s shed and asked Alex if he had it. He was perplexed and sad, and could not come to grips with the numbers in his head, and the many people who owed him. He tore and ranted and tore again, and ranted over it like a man lost at sea.
“This is almost $26,000 owed me this year—!”
“The last time I saw it, it was in your feedlot, where Sam Patch put it,” Alex told him. That was almost not a
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