the size of Landish, who, to top it all off, was a Druken, a member of a family that no one with a mote of sense would ever cross.
Hogan had been suffering from an apparently symptom-free complaint since his youth, and got by on a combination of what he called “top-ups”—some kind of disability pittance, rent relief and food vouchers.
There was a closet where they did their “business.” A bucket with a board on top, a round hole in the board and sawdust that you poured into the hole when you were finished. Each night Landish put the bucket on the path beside the road. The Night Soil wagon took the bucket and replaced it with another one. The business buckets.
Landish dealt with Hogan’s buckets. Hogan left his business bucket on the stairs outside his kitchen every night. They would have been there forever if Landish hadn’t dealt with them.
“You should mind your own business,” Landish told him. “I shouldn’t have to mind it for you. Never mind your ‘condition.’ What is your condition? No one’s ever seen any sign of it.”
Hogan snitched on his neighbours to the landlord, the nuns who came to visit him, the man who came by with his food vouchers, the ’Stab, and other authorities whom he collectively referred to as the Clout. Landish sometimes felt sorry for Hogan and just as often was sickened by the sight of him.
Hogan wore long underwear with pants but without a shirt, his white top always buttoned to the neck, a pair of suspenders hanging loose about his waist. He smiled at Deacon in a way that made Deacon smile back even though he didn’t want to.
He was always in the kitchen when they came and went. They opened his door one day to see him racing to the stove lest they close the door at the bottom of the stairs and pass through his kitchen without his having seen them. Landish told him his socks would last longer if he simply put his bed beside the stove.
Hogan muttered something under his breath about Mr. Nobleman, their landlord, whom Landish simply called “the nobleman.”
“What was that?” Landish said, but Hogan turned away.
The nobleman sometimes wrote letters warning Landish what would happen in the event of more complaints. The letters always enraged Landish. He said that one day, the nobleman would find out what came of slipping letters under doors in the middle of the night. He wrote letters to the nobleman that ended up in the stove with the nobleman’s once he had read them aloud:
“Should you, as you say in your letter, have no recourse but to evict howsoever many tenants now occupy the premises known as the attic, I will have none but to evict howsoever many living daylights now occupy the premises known as the nobleman.”
Later, Landish opened the attic door, went downstairs and hammered on Hogan’s door, shouting “kitchen snitch.”
“Tell the nobleman you live below a den of thieves,” he shouted. “Tell the Clout I taught Deacon how to pick the smallest pocket. Tell the nuns they’d better keep us both in front of them when they come to visit, unless they want to see their rosaries in the window of a pawnshop.”
“Landish, come upstairs,” Deacon whispered. “If Hogan tells the nobleman, we might be sacked.” Landish did as Deacon said but clomped on the steps as loudly as he could.
He bundled up the boy and took him down to the harbour to see the Gilbert once when his father was in Harbour Grace.
“If you add up the weeks, I spent almost three years on that ship,” he said. He and his father had not spoken since Landish had left Princeton in 1891. He had seen his father since his disownment but only from a distance and by chance.
Landish said that among the men for whose deaths Captain Druken was blamed was Deacon’s father, Carson of the Gilbert . Deacon, his nose running from the cold, stared at Landish. “It might not have been your father’s fault,” Deacon said, but Landish said it was.
Landish told the boy everything he knew
Hogan had been suffering from an apparently symptom-free complaint since his youth, and got by on a combination of what he called “top-ups”—some kind of disability pittance, rent relief and food vouchers.
There was a closet where they did their “business.” A bucket with a board on top, a round hole in the board and sawdust that you poured into the hole when you were finished. Each night Landish put the bucket on the path beside the road. The Night Soil wagon took the bucket and replaced it with another one. The business buckets.
Landish dealt with Hogan’s buckets. Hogan left his business bucket on the stairs outside his kitchen every night. They would have been there forever if Landish hadn’t dealt with them.
“You should mind your own business,” Landish told him. “I shouldn’t have to mind it for you. Never mind your ‘condition.’ What is your condition? No one’s ever seen any sign of it.”
Hogan snitched on his neighbours to the landlord, the nuns who came to visit him, the man who came by with his food vouchers, the ’Stab, and other authorities whom he collectively referred to as the Clout. Landish sometimes felt sorry for Hogan and just as often was sickened by the sight of him.
Hogan wore long underwear with pants but without a shirt, his white top always buttoned to the neck, a pair of suspenders hanging loose about his waist. He smiled at Deacon in a way that made Deacon smile back even though he didn’t want to.
He was always in the kitchen when they came and went. They opened his door one day to see him racing to the stove lest they close the door at the bottom of the stairs and pass through his kitchen without his having seen them. Landish told him his socks would last longer if he simply put his bed beside the stove.
Hogan muttered something under his breath about Mr. Nobleman, their landlord, whom Landish simply called “the nobleman.”
“What was that?” Landish said, but Hogan turned away.
The nobleman sometimes wrote letters warning Landish what would happen in the event of more complaints. The letters always enraged Landish. He said that one day, the nobleman would find out what came of slipping letters under doors in the middle of the night. He wrote letters to the nobleman that ended up in the stove with the nobleman’s once he had read them aloud:
“Should you, as you say in your letter, have no recourse but to evict howsoever many tenants now occupy the premises known as the attic, I will have none but to evict howsoever many living daylights now occupy the premises known as the nobleman.”
Later, Landish opened the attic door, went downstairs and hammered on Hogan’s door, shouting “kitchen snitch.”
“Tell the nobleman you live below a den of thieves,” he shouted. “Tell the Clout I taught Deacon how to pick the smallest pocket. Tell the nuns they’d better keep us both in front of them when they come to visit, unless they want to see their rosaries in the window of a pawnshop.”
“Landish, come upstairs,” Deacon whispered. “If Hogan tells the nobleman, we might be sacked.” Landish did as Deacon said but clomped on the steps as loudly as he could.
He bundled up the boy and took him down to the harbour to see the Gilbert once when his father was in Harbour Grace.
“If you add up the weeks, I spent almost three years on that ship,” he said. He and his father had not spoken since Landish had left Princeton in 1891. He had seen his father since his disownment but only from a distance and by chance.
Landish said that among the men for whose deaths Captain Druken was blamed was Deacon’s father, Carson of the Gilbert . Deacon, his nose running from the cold, stared at Landish. “It might not have been your father’s fault,” Deacon said, but Landish said it was.
Landish told the boy everything he knew
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