The Cage Keeper: And Other Stories
Andre Dubus III
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Passion and betrayal, violent desperation, ambivalent love that hinges on hatred, and the quest for acceptance by those who stand on the edge of society-these are the hard-hitting themes of a stunningly crafted first collection of stories by the bestselling author of House of Sand and Fog.
A vigilant young man working in a halfway house finds himself unable to defend against the rage of one of the inmates in the title story. In "White Trees, Hammer Moon," a man soon to leave home for prison finds himself as unprepared for a family camping trip in the mountains of New Hampshire as he has been for most things in his life. And in the award-winning "Forky," an ex-con is haunted by the punishment he receives just as he is being released into the world. With an incisive ability to inhabit the lives of his characters, Dubus travels deep into the heart of the elusive American dream.
the streets, looking out at the city moving by, at all the people dressed in nice clothes standing on the street corners, at the drunk old men curled up against the buildings, their clothes dirtier than the sidewalk, at the old ladies with wrinkled faces that sag into their mouths because they haven’t got any teeth, living out of shopping carts filled with old clothes and bags of trash, at the cars that move so close I always think they’re going to get sucked under our wheels. Then I would be on
does, but a tad more, ’til she thinks you are her and she is you and separated neither one of you will make it. It might take days. Weeks. But she owes you that, right? This is Alene. So you lay your arms over your chest. Good, movement. You cross your ankles and you know your legs still work. No real damage. And just as the word damage passes through your brain, your stomach muscles twist up and you turn on your side so your puke doesn’t bubble out over your face. It’s all sour mash, and it’s
out in front of him. He drank from his beer and looked straight ahead at the narrow gray asphalt moving away from him, rolling out from under the truck like a hard carpet Billy Wayne’s Ford was laying. He let his head roll back against the glass and heard Billy Wayne inside, the loud wet-mouthed chatter that came from him whenever he was drunk around Red Willie, drunk and thinking about loggerhead turtles. “I’ll tell ya somethin’, Red, you coulda saddled up that damn loggerhead and used her to
grunt. “That’s better, Al. Yes, it is.” He lowers the knife and I feel it press against my side on the outside of my jacket. He reaches behind him between the seat and the door and pulls a bottle from the back. It’s brown and shaped funny. He takes a sip then points straight ahead with a thick crooked finger. “You just take another slow and careful right turn when you get to the corner before the bank. Take that right and then get on 119 to Niwot. And Al, do not fuck with me. I am in complete
walk barefoot through the beer cans, his gaff over one shoulder, a portion of turtle meat wrapped in a piece of burlap under his arm; then they would be at his grandparents’ place and Billy would squeeze his shoulder, would say, “G’night, Cap. My love to your gran’maw.” He would close the door softly then take his share of turtle meat inside and put it someplace cold, would wash up, then climb into the top bunk and lie still in the cool wind of the electric fan, would breathe deep through his