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

of lapstrake construction to stave off the wind, Merle covered with a deep red stain. The pitched roof was of new, unstained, cedar shingles the color of golden palomino that would silver out by spring.
    Clearly, the structure deserved admiration, and got it, especially from the denizens of the trailerpark, for the contrast between Merle’s bob-house and the cubes they all lived in was notable. As November wore on and Merle completed refurbishing the bob-house, people from the park daily came by and stood and studied it for a while, saying things and probably feelings things they had not said or felt before. Until Merle won the lottery, the people had more or less ignored the old man and his bob-house, but when they started coming around to congratulate him and ask for loans, they noticed the tiny, reddish cabin sitting on its runners a few feet off the lake, noticed it in a way they never had before, for they usually found him working there, and their attention got drawn to his work, and also they were curious as to how he was spending his money, so as to determine whether there would be any left for them. And when they saw the bob-house, really took a close look at its precision and logic and the utter usefulness of every detail, they were often moved in strange ways. It was as if they were deserted on an island together and suddenly had come upon a man among them who was building a seaworthy boat, and it was a boat that could carry no more than a single person off the island. They were moved by the sight of Merle’s bob-house, moved to hate the sight of their own rusting, tin-and-plastic trailers, the cheap, manufactured clutter of their shelters, and this unexpectedly disturbed them. The disturbance moved them, unfortunately, to envy Merle’s bob-house.
    “How come you making it so fancy?” Terry Constant sneered.
    Merle looked up from the floor where he was screwing down the new two-by-eight-inch plank flooring and saw the black man silhouetted darkly against a milk-white sky so that his features couldn’t be seen. He wore an orange parka and Navy watch cap and was chewing a toothpick. Merle said nothing and went back to work.
    “You win the numbers, like they said?”
    “Yup.”
    “That’s how come you’re making it so fancy, then.”
    “…”
    “Luxury!”
    “…”
    “Who’s gonna see it, a little fish house? I coulda slapped this thing together in half the time for half the cost outa plywood.”
    “…”
    “This thing’ll last longer’n you will. You realize that? You’ll be dead a hundred years, and this thing’ll still be sitting here by the lake.”
    Merle picked up a new plank and with a stubby plane shaved blond, sweet-smelling curls off the wood. He lay the board against the first, cast his gaze down its length, retrieved it, and gave it another half dozen smooth strokes of the plane, until finally the plank fit snugly, perfectly, into place.
    “Well, it looks good, anyhow,” Terry said. He shifted his toothpick and, placing one foot onto the high sill, dropped his right forearm onto his thigh and leaned forward and into the close, dim, resin-smelling interior of the bob-house. “Say, Merle, I was wondering, see, I’m outa work. Marcelle’s all done winterizing the park, so she don’t need me anymore until spring or unless the pipes burst or something, and there ain’t no work in this damn town in winter, especially for a black man. So I was wondering if you could help me out a little, till I could get some more work.”
    “Sure.”
    “I was thinking of maybe heading south this winter, getting some work in Florida. I got a cousin in Tampa, but it’ll take some bucks to do it. You know, for bus fare and after I get there, till I get a job.”
    “What about your sister?” Merle asked without looking up. “She’d be pretty much alone here without you. Being colored and all. Come spring, you could get work again, maybe for the highway department or something. You don’t want to