03/03/01

How someone managed to incinerate my trailer without waking me, much less the dog, I just don’t know. Wouldn’t you know the first night in days that I sleep soundly, that’s the night I get attacked by a fucking firebug. Police won’t let Tommy New Yawka off the hook as yet, but I know it was only because of him that I lived. He was just getting home from the firehouse. It was in the middle of the night. He saw the fireball erupt, was right on the scene doing his rescue business immediately. He said he saw a man running off just as he arrived at the trailer. The pole the man used to drop a soda bottle full of gasoline down the woodstove pipe was left behind. It was one of those poles used for picking apples high on the tree. The police wanted to say Tommy was only saying all that about a man running off to make himself out to be a hero---that he was trying to make up for shooting the neighbor’s dog--- but I don‘t doubt what Tommy said to be the truth. Who that man was that Tommy saw in the darkness is anyone’s guess. I’m thinking there are at least 5 or 6 different men who might want me dead these days, not that I‘m bragging. It’s no easy mystery to solve for sure.

Dog was scared. Ran off. Hasn’t been seen since. I don’t blame him for once. He might have got burned worse than I did.

Like I said, the cops seemed most interested in Tommy at first, but then when they learned Phebe and I’ve been separated, they seemed to lock on to the theory maybe Phebe put someone up to try to take me out. When they heard about Phebe’s history with Stash Skimington---I guess I just couldn‘t help myself opening my mouth about that fucker--- that’s all they wanted to know about for awhile---Stash. Then they talked about the punk kid up the road. Then, of course, they hashed over Rocky’s testimony against the Umbria crime family, the attempt on Rocky’s life in jail.

Well, maybe it could be a mob hit.

And then--- I couldn’t believe it---there was this question: If I’m not mistaken you have a daughter you’re estranged from attending the state police academy right now, isn’t that right?

At some point last night after I got out of the hospital---after I spent all day getting burn treatments and talking to the police--- I got back to look for the dog with the police escorting me. I also managed to check the tool shed, found the computer disk and the Cumberland spearhead safe in their hiding spots, spared damage somehow from the heat of the nearby fire. I managed to slip them both into my coat without the cops seeing anything.

I’ve been staying at Percy’s duplex in Maybrook since then. No one seems to have any worries that Percy would torch my ass. He’s got that harmless kind of insanity everyone seems to love. No one tried to talk me out of taking up his offer for shelter like they did when Phebe and Tommy both offered.

I sure do appreciate Percy now. If I was home in bed with Phebe right now I might be scared to fall asleep for fear she’d crack my skull open with the nearby lamp.

I never brought up Hiram Palfrey’s name to police for some reason. Not sure why. Not til today anyway. That’s because so happens Porch Rot’s truck was found in Newburgh near the bridge. He’s missing. They think maybe he jumped into the Hudson or staged things to make it seem that way. Fucker.

03/01/01

I guess great minds really do think alike. . .

I didn’t even have to bring up the idea about digging up Phil’s body with Porch Rot. Found Hiram this morning out in his yard at the spot of the filled well. The El Camino that had been covering the spot had been hauled off earlier in the week like just about everything else on the place. Hiram was trying to bust through the frost in the ground with a shovel and a pick ax. He tried to deny he was digging up Phil, said he had to bury a calf that was too sick to truck off the place with the rest of the stock.

I say: C’mon Hiram, I know what you said about Phil being buried here. I know what you’re doing. You don’t have to tell me any story about burying a calf.

He says: Yeah, you did such a fine job keeping that piece of information to yourself too, didn‘t you?

I say: What yah saying, Hiram? I never told no one what yah told me.

He says: The heck you didn’t! Why the heck is it getting around the neighborhood that I buried Phil in the well after I found him hanging in the barn? That’s exactly the same gosh darn story I told you! The exact same gosh darn story! I didn’t give out that story to no one but you!

I never had Porch Rot so enraged at me before. The guy was red in the face pissed. Of course I was plenty pissed too at gosh darn Stash Skimington. I’m swearing under my breath the whole time recalling the time Stash let himself into the trailer and read through all my shit on the computer. Fucker not only invaded my privacy, he’s fucking spreading around my secrets around town!

I asked Hiram if he wanted to get any machinery in. He told me to mind my own business. I don’t know why I had to say it just then--- it wasn’t like I was trying to be hurtful--- but I tried to justify my interest in the matter. I reminded Hiram that Phil was family.

Yeah, your wife’s family, Hiram says.

No, my father’s family, I reply quickly.

Just then Hiram threw his shovel at me and stormed off towards his house. I barely got out of the way of the god damn thing. Could have gashed open my scalp.

I tapped the shovel a couple of times on the frozen ground in frustration. A different, warmer day I’d might be in business. Not today.

I got the hell out of there. Frozen, fucked-up place.

02/28/01

I didn’t sleep at all last night. Kept thinking about Rocky rotting in jail. Kept thinking about myself maybe ending up there too. Kept thinking about that dog with it’s leg shot off. Kept thinking how much of an embarrassment I’ve become to Maddy. She’ll be lucky to have any police career at all if we get ourselves in any more legal trouble. Was imagining all night Phebe and Stash Skimington sitting in the Walden Diner telling each other funny stories about me while they wolfed down strawberry pancakes and played footsy under the table. Yeah, I had a whole lot of different crazy things running through my head. They all seemed to repeat over and over again in a loop like an 8-track tape. Actually started to wonder if Phebe was right with her thought to seek custody of Mookie. Not to say we did such a spectacular job raising Rocky, but which family really gives Mookie his best chance at success in life? I don’t think there’s really any comparison. Not that Betty and Fauntleroy are bad people, but Betty’s health keeps failing, and when was the last time anything good happened on Lander Street in the City of Newburgh? Actually started to think maybe that’s what Phebe and I need--- a purpose again---something to devote ourselves to again, like raising a child together. But then maybe the burdens of parenting in later years would just end up making things worse between us. Another worry that keeps creeping into my mind is what’s going to happen to Hiram Palfrey’s farm now that it‘s on the verge of being seized. Had this thought I needed to talk to Porch Rot about getting his son Phil’s body dug out of the well and giving him a proper resting place before it‘s too late. I keep thinking once Hiram’s farm is flipped to developers and the dozers start ripping the ground apart, that filled-in well won’t be much of a resting place at all. I think Phil needs to come out of that spot one way or another. I just need to work up the nerve to go talk to Hiram, tell him he should do something before it’s too late. Or let me do something even. Hell, I’ll dig him out at this point. I don’t care. I live for trouble.

02/27/01

Well, I didn’t make it in to see Cupid Boy until late in the day. I had to call him and tell him I was being detained by police. Here’s how I would write my part of the transcript from their visit to the farm:

I found the dog injured right over there. . .

No, I’m not exactly sure what happened to him. . .

Yeah, I guess the injury could have been from a gunshot. . .

Hell, no! I didn’t shoot it!

Yes, you’re right, I don’t have livestock to protect anymore.

Yes, you’re right, there’s no reason for me to shoot a dog.

Aside from my own, yeah, I love dogs.

Of course that’s sarcasm.

You don’t have to tell me convicted felons can’t have guns. I know that!

I’m telling you, I don’t know exactly what happened to him!

Whattah yah mean: ‘what does that mean when you say exactly?’

I’m not trying to be disrespectful. Where you gettin that from?

I can’t ask a police officer a question?

That’s not being disrespectful. That’s exercising my civic---

No, I don’t think that would be a good idea to go down to the station.

No, I haven’t been drinking this morning.

No, I haven’t been doing that either.

Look, I haven’t done anything wrong here! I found an injured dog and brought it to it’s owner---

I know I was 1,000 feet from the residence. I was saving someone’s pet that was bleeding to death! You want to send me to jail for that, you go ahead. I’ll take my chances with the jury.

How is that having an attitude problem?

I don’t know for certain who shot it, OK. I certainly didn’t shoot it. Because I don’t own guns anymore. Impossible!

What do you mean when I use words like ‘impossible’ you get even more suspicious?

Why would I try to save a dog I was shooting for sport? That theory is asinine.

It was about then that Tommy New Yawka strolled over from the Colonial and confessed to taking an overly-hasty, out-of-season shot at what he thought was a coyote. The cops didn’t want to believe him though. They tried to say Tommy was just taking the fall for me as a good neighbor because Tommy knew I might face jail.

Both Tommy and I gave sworn statements as to what happened. I’m not sure what will happen next. We were told the matter was still under investigation. Maybe it’ll be me who gets arrested. Maybe it’ll be Tommy. Maybe it’ll be both of us. Cupid Boy says a violation of probation could be filed based on my admission that I neared too close to that punk kid’s house, the one that I caught spray painting graffiti on my silo that I beat the shit out of.

Damn I really hate the fucking suburbs!

02/26/01

I was getting ready to report to probation this morning when I heard a gun shot at Tommy New Yawka’s house. I went right over there to see what was going on. Tommy said he clipped a coyote. He said his oldest son spotted it in the yard and he had all he could do to run to get the gun, load it, and squeeze off a round. I found the blood trail. It was running down on my place toward Purgatory Swamp. Tommy followed close behind clutching the 30-30. Liam---he’s about 11--- was following close behind him, excited as all can be. Turns out the coyote had a collar on. It was one of those Alaskan sled dogs people have nowadays, looks a lot like a wolf, but certainly much too big to be a coyote. I don’t know what Tommy was thinking, if he was at all. You don’t want to think of Tommy as a City Idiot, but there’s nothing else you can say in this situation. The dog’s front left leg was shot off. Tommy asks me if I’d put the dog out of its misery for him. I say I didn’t think the wound was fatal. I say he could be taken to the vet to be patched up. Liam was pretty distraught when he realized this was someone‘s pet. Tommy was looking all pale. The dog stopped resisting me after I talked to it for a few minutes. I used some old baling twine I had in my barn coat to put on a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. The owners address was on a tag on the collar, in the same neighborhood as that kid I‘m supposed to stay away from, where my beagle was porking that fluff dog the other week. I put the sled dog in the back of my truck and took it home. The guy who owned it looked like he wanted to shoot one of my legs off.

What happened to him? Did he get hit on the road? The guy asks.

It wasn’t me! I can only bring myself to say.

Meanwhile I’m late for probation. A gun that belongs to me was used to shoot a dog. I have blood all over me and the truck. I’m well within a thousand feet of that punk kid’s house, violating the order of protection. I’m thinking to myself I either have to tell Cupid Boy the whole story, or I have to say nothing at all.

That was no easy decision to make, believe me.

02/25/01

Percy and I found Swami Hard Salami yesterday surveying the grounds of his latest real estate purchase in Newburgh, this Victorian mansion on Montgomery Street overlooking the Hudson. Swami’s hoping to put in 4 apartments. With Hill Country Cornelia’s carpentry help of course. Place looks pretty stately from a distance, but once you get up close you can see the ravages of time. I told Cornelia she can come back and farm for me anytime, joked I wouldn’t work her anywhere near as hard Swami has been working her. Cornelia acknowledged she sure missed being on the land, said she sure wished she had a place to grow a garden.

Swami hears all this talk and gets nervous, his fancy talk mode kicks in. He says to Cornelia, there’s enough yard here, I will let you grow a garden here if you’d like. I assure you, you will be rewarded for your steadfast service with your own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden!

So we all stroll alongside Swami across the side yard as he continues to placate Cornelia with visions of her own lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden and I noticed this slightly sunken-in place in the yard, the area of a few square feet.

That’s where the shitter was, I say, bet you there’s a bunch old bottles from the 1800’s down there worth a pretty penny.

I don’t know why Swami was so confused but he says: So you’re saying, they put these bottles worth money into the shit?

I had to spell it out to Swami I was talking about bottles that were worth next to nothing when they were thrown away---I’ve heard it said the ones found in old outhouse shafts are usually liquor bottles husbands tried to keep from their wives knowledge--- but would now be worth a lot to collectors because they‘ve become so rare. I explained because outhouse bottles were buried in wet shit they usually remain intact and well preserved. Now it would just be a matter of digging down and getting them out.

Percy is all ecstatic. I‘m not sure how the digging through ancient human feces part fails to temper his enthusiasm, but he exclaims: digging out this outhouse shaft for old bottles would be the perfect activity for the Mythopoetic men’s group! Wouldn’t you say, Doctor?

I guess maybe that’s the lush riparian oasis of the proportion of Eden being talked about ---the shithouse shaft. Let’s have at it, men!

Anyway, Phebe tells me today if she goes through with hiring an attorney to fight for custody of Mookie, I better plan to move back into the house and make a good show of it. God forbid the judge ever finds out we don’t always get along so well.

Rocky’s attorney has got us worried about prospects now. He says the fact that Rocky admits to stomping his attacker’s head and neck after the guy had been knocked down won‘t bode well for him. I told Phebe if anything, we should be worried about a new attorney for Rocky before we start worrying about going to trial in a custody case, but of course she says she couldn‘t disagree with me more.

If I talk to a new attorney, it won’t be about your son or grandson, believe me, she says.

Home sweet fucking trailer.

02/24/01

Phebe complained Betty was calling too much wanting to see the baby. She told me I ought to take Mookie out to see her today. She said maybe Betty would stop pestering us if she had a visit with the baby. So I called up Percy and he agreed to take a ride over to Newburgh with me and Mookie. Percy said he wanted to go out to Newburgh anyway, see if Swami Hard Salami might change some of his dosages. Got to see Hill Country Cornelia as it turned out. Betty was back on her feet and looked plenty alert and energetic. I couldn’t see what would stop her from taking the baby back. So I just gave Mookie back to her. Phebe was enraged later when she found out what I did. This was not at all what she had in mind. She couldn’t believe I would think to do what I did. The lady looked all better to me. I’m still not sure what Phebe’s point is.

I’m back living in the trailer after that scene.

So much for the good life in the manor house. It was fun while it lasted.

Good fucking gracious.