Man in The Woods by Scott Spencer Page B

next time you give that dog a big old smooch on the lips,” says Todd Lawson, with whom Paul is walking.
    Lawson, like many in Leyden, is hard to place occupationally, or socioeconomically. He is loosely but not profitably related to various local big shots, politicians, ministers, and the owners of riverfront estates, but whatever local pedigree he may claim, none of it is of much material use. Right now, Lawson has five jobs, which altogether generate enough income to support his modest, solitary life, including spending the coldest part of the New York winter in Mexico, which might strike some as a luxury for a man who is often in arrears on his rent, but the urge to head south for the winter is a trait Lawson has inherited from his flush forebears. The original makers of the family’s fortune were industrious, driven men, but there followed generations of idlers, ending with Lawson’s father, Harley, who worked two days a week at a brokerage off Maiden Lane managing to lose so much money that his family was grateful he didn’t work full-time.
    Idleness is not an option for Todd. Part of his income comes from Marlowe College, whose tennis team he coaches. He also works at a horse farm on the edge of Leyden, where he gives riding lessons. He makes two hundred dollars a month touring visitors through one of the most spectacular of the river estates, a Victorian monstrosity painted black and gray, whose exterior has been used by the makers of several horror films, and whose interior, full of dark wood and clashing wallpapers and overall sense of foreboding, leaves most visitors feeling quite content not to have been born into nineteenth-century wealth. He also makes deliveries for Of the Manor, his brother’s antiques store, and he has yet another source of occasional income, which is choosing the wines for three local restaurants owned by a woman named Indigo Blue, who is drawn to Lawson but reluctant to get involved with him, and for whom keeping him around as a part-time employee is an ideal solution.
    Paul and Lawson are walking on posted land. They come to a small cluster of fallen hemlocks and then to a couple of large granite boulders, with open seams of glistening mica running through them. Lawson has picked up a long, bare branch and is using it as a walking stick.
    “It’s as tall as you,” Paul says.
    “You know,” says Lawson, “Daniel Boone was about an inch taller than his gun and it weighed almost ten pounds, plus the buffalo horn full of powder and a bag full of shot. It must have really gotten old after a while, carrying all that. I think that’s why he was so fond of buffalo jerky and johnnycakes. They weighed next to nothing and he was always looking to lessen his load.”
    It is their habit, Paul’s and Lawson’s, to speak of Daniel Boone when they meet for their walks in the woods. They have been conducting this informal seminar for over a year, but today Paul is finding it difficult to enter into the spirit of it. Waking this morning and remembering he was going to see Lawson, he felt, and still feels, that here is a chance for him to spend time with someone he can show his worst side, or if not the whole freak show, with all the human monsters in their unkempt cages, then at least he can momentarily pull the curtain to one side, giving Todd a glimpse. No, he does not think he will ever tell Todd about what happened in those Westchester woods, but there might be words he can say that will relieve the silent fever.
    They hear a distant rustling. Shep lifts his head, tenses, and Lawson whirls toward the sound, holding his walking stick like a rifle.
    “Deer,” Paul says.
    “Boone was a good shot, but you had to be,” Lawson says. “If you missed it took almost a minute to get your musket ready for a second shot. And by that time it was often too late.”
    Paul stops, listens to the invisible birds cawing and squawking in the treetops. These are the hardy ones, willing to brave the