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You had to make rules for yourself, and you had to follow them, or you really were lost.
He longed to stab and hack his way out of a desperate situation: to hold off bullies, or wolves, or maybe a mountain lion.
“Oh, Dennis. I never said you wanted her. You wanted this. You wanted to smash your marriage and your job and your life, all of it, into a thousand shiny little pieces.”
“Why do little kids break windows?” his soon-to-be ex-wife asked. “Children love the sound of smashing glass. Firebugs love a book of matches.”
A qualm rested in him like the slightest touch of nausea, waiting to bloom into sickness. What had the drifter said? That’s probably why it’s moving. The knife wounded it so it couldn’t go anywhere. Now it’s getting better.
You know why it looks that way, don’t you? Dennis Lange asked himself. It’s not just age. That tree was fertilized with poison. The choir director was poison.
He wondered if trees rejoiced at the coming of the spring. He wondered if it was a joy to bud.
