reason Xi exists is . . . the being. . . .”
A new presence. The Director, my first demon, dropped down out of a tree, fell, picked himself up, brushed off his hump, and then said to Langdon, “Cut! Cut! You got the line wrong. It’s too early for that.”
And the forest was silent. No birds sang, no branches clacked in the wind, no car tires whined on distant highways. I bowed my head so low that I could smell the ground, raw mung of dirty ice. When I looked up, no Langdon, no Director. I didn’t know any more now about my mother than before.
BURGLARS
The winter dragged on, and finances started to get tight. At first I was a little confused, because the firewood business was fairly steady and we didn’t need much money. Most of the meat we ate was available from the forest. There was no rent to pay for our housing. Beer was cheap in New Hampshire, and Father’s supply of home-grown marijuana would last well into the flowering of the next crop. The only major household expense we had was the upkeep on the truck. Eventually I figured out that what drained the budget was that Father had discovered a new drug, cocaine. Suddenly there was never enough money around. Father wouldn’t buy me new mittens—I had to get them from the Salvation Army. Father made do with an old chain on his saw, until there was no metal left to sharpen. We drove the truck on a bad tire until, worn to canvas, it just popped. Any income we had coming in just disappeared, down his throat and up his nose. Father had moments when he believed I was trying to kill him. He’d beat me, realize his own madness, and break down and cry. I would bring him a beer, and that would calm him down. Father said we were both hopeless cases, and I was inclined to agree with him.
Things took a turn for the better one day in early March. It had been a cold night, but during the day the sun was strong and the temperature had inched up into the forties. That meant something very important to Father and me: the maple sap was running. We’d hooked plastic tubing to spouts in our maple trees, and the sweet juice flowed down into a big tank in the sugar house. From there, I dumped it into Father’s evaporator, an aluminum jobber that we’d inherited from the hippies who abandoned this land. We burned slabs of hardwood to boil off the sap into syrup and maple sugar. Father loved this kind of work, because there was plenty of time to get drunked up. I liked it because of the sweets.
Father was complaining about the property taxes that he hadn’t paid when I heard the echo of a voice come cascading down the hill, “Langdon! Langdon Webster! Laygangdaygon Waygebstayger!”
I whipped my head around to see a kid dressed in an orange topcoat, striped, gray business suit, white shirt, black tie, and sunglasses sauntering toward us.
Father, who was screened a little by some hemlock boughs, hollered in a menacing tone, “Who goes there? Jehovah’s Witness? Mormon?”
“You old dope fiend! Royal Durocher goes there.” Royal’s voice had changed; he sounded almost like a grown-up.
“What do you want?” Father sounded mean and suspicious, but he didn’t scare Royal.
“I came to see you, Dirty Joe, because you are the man in our dreams.” Royal blew Father a kiss, then turned to me, “Daygeth taygo aygall aygadaygults.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Father said.
“Long time ago, Dirty Joe; long time ago when I was just a little boy.”
I turned to Father, “He’s my friend. He can help with the sugaring.”
“I’ll do more that. I’ll make you rich,” Royal said.
Father was confused, but he didn’t do anything but glower. Royal just ignored him.
A couple minutes later Royal and I were wrestling on the hard-crusted snow. Royal had grown a couple of inches since I’d last seen him, and he pinned me quicker than you can say Attila the Hun. “I give,” I said. Royal rubbed my face in the smashed bits of snow we’d made tumbling about, and then
A new presence. The Director, my first demon, dropped down out of a tree, fell, picked himself up, brushed off his hump, and then said to Langdon, “Cut! Cut! You got the line wrong. It’s too early for that.”
And the forest was silent. No birds sang, no branches clacked in the wind, no car tires whined on distant highways. I bowed my head so low that I could smell the ground, raw mung of dirty ice. When I looked up, no Langdon, no Director. I didn’t know any more now about my mother than before.
BURGLARS
The winter dragged on, and finances started to get tight. At first I was a little confused, because the firewood business was fairly steady and we didn’t need much money. Most of the meat we ate was available from the forest. There was no rent to pay for our housing. Beer was cheap in New Hampshire, and Father’s supply of home-grown marijuana would last well into the flowering of the next crop. The only major household expense we had was the upkeep on the truck. Eventually I figured out that what drained the budget was that Father had discovered a new drug, cocaine. Suddenly there was never enough money around. Father wouldn’t buy me new mittens—I had to get them from the Salvation Army. Father made do with an old chain on his saw, until there was no metal left to sharpen. We drove the truck on a bad tire until, worn to canvas, it just popped. Any income we had coming in just disappeared, down his throat and up his nose. Father had moments when he believed I was trying to kill him. He’d beat me, realize his own madness, and break down and cry. I would bring him a beer, and that would calm him down. Father said we were both hopeless cases, and I was inclined to agree with him.
Things took a turn for the better one day in early March. It had been a cold night, but during the day the sun was strong and the temperature had inched up into the forties. That meant something very important to Father and me: the maple sap was running. We’d hooked plastic tubing to spouts in our maple trees, and the sweet juice flowed down into a big tank in the sugar house. From there, I dumped it into Father’s evaporator, an aluminum jobber that we’d inherited from the hippies who abandoned this land. We burned slabs of hardwood to boil off the sap into syrup and maple sugar. Father loved this kind of work, because there was plenty of time to get drunked up. I liked it because of the sweets.
Father was complaining about the property taxes that he hadn’t paid when I heard the echo of a voice come cascading down the hill, “Langdon! Langdon Webster! Laygangdaygon Waygebstayger!”
I whipped my head around to see a kid dressed in an orange topcoat, striped, gray business suit, white shirt, black tie, and sunglasses sauntering toward us.
Father, who was screened a little by some hemlock boughs, hollered in a menacing tone, “Who goes there? Jehovah’s Witness? Mormon?”
“You old dope fiend! Royal Durocher goes there.” Royal’s voice had changed; he sounded almost like a grown-up.
“What do you want?” Father sounded mean and suspicious, but he didn’t scare Royal.
“I came to see you, Dirty Joe, because you are the man in our dreams.” Royal blew Father a kiss, then turned to me, “Daygeth taygo aygall aygadaygults.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Father said.
“Long time ago, Dirty Joe; long time ago when I was just a little boy.”
I turned to Father, “He’s my friend. He can help with the sugaring.”
“I’ll do more that. I’ll make you rich,” Royal said.
Father was confused, but he didn’t do anything but glower. Royal just ignored him.
A couple minutes later Royal and I were wrestling on the hard-crusted snow. Royal had grown a couple of inches since I’d last seen him, and he pinned me quicker than you can say Attila the Hun. “I give,” I said. Royal rubbed my face in the smashed bits of snow we’d made tumbling about, and then
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